Fiction

I hurried down the uneven cobblestone streets, the bitter November chill seeping through my thick petticoats and into my bones. They creaked and groaned with each step, begging me to sit and rest instead of trek endlessly across London. Adjusting the leather satchel on my shoulder, I squinted at a street sign, my eyes straining against the thick smog. As I tried to make out the faded lettering on the sign, my boot caught on a loose cobblestone. I let out a cry of pain and tumbled to the ground, rough stones mercilessly tearing into my calloused hands. 

“Y’need any help there, miss?” a uniformed man called. I turned to look at him, muscles stiffening at his silver constable badge and pistol. 

“No, thank you, sir. I’ve got it,” I murmured, keeping my eyes on the ground. I gathered the piles of fabric that had spilled out of my open satchel and onto the street, silently bemoaning the dirt caught between fibers of cotton and linen. I would have to wash those at Ainsley’s house. I felt a shadow cross over my face and looked up to see the officer’s lanky frame towering over me. 

“Do you have a minute, miss? I’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” he asked, though his tone implied it was a demand rather than a request. I nodded, eyeing his gun warily. “You heard anything about those bloody suffragettes and their protests? They’ve been wreaking havoc all over the city and the police are tryin’ to track ‘em down for good.”

“No, sir, I haven’t heard anything about them,” I assured, staring intently at my scuffed shoes. 

“A'ight then. Thanks for your time.” The constable tipped his hat to me. “And you stay safe out there, miss. It’s a dangerous time, god help us all,” he called over his shoulder, disappearing down the misty London streets.

I quickly continued down the road, hoping to arrive at Ainsley’s flat before nightfall. We hadn’t seen each other since she moved out six months ago, and I couldn’t help but worry about her. We had been through too much together to be separated, but she needed money and could only find a good secretary position in Bloomsbury.

When I approached the tall oak door of her apartment, I paused, gazing at the countless homeless families begging on the streets, pleading with wealthier passersby to spare a coin or a piece of bread. I remembered a time when I lived just like them, huddling next to Ainsley every night to keep from freezing to death. I had no job back then, and no one would hire a penniless teenage girl who would most likely die within a week of being hired. But Ainsley and I made it work. 

My focus snapped back to the present.  Now was not the time to dwell on the past. I was a successful seamstress now, living in a real house with enough money to eat every day. You could ask for little more in this day and age. Shivering slightly, I gripped the iron railing, climbed up the steps, and reached to open the door, only to find it ajar. That seemed like Ainsley. She was never one to shut people out, always offering her food and home to people in need.

“Hello?” I called, peering into the gloom. “Ainsley, are you there?” Silence. I stepped into the dingy flat and flicked on a small electric lamp. The room was sparsely furnished and small, with one grimy window facing the street. Ainsley’s fingerprints were everywhere, from the dried flowers hanging from the ceiling to the gauzy white curtains nailed above the window. I walked toward a mahogany desk, taking in the stacks of leather-bound books and scraps of worn paper scattered on its polished surface. Titles like Jane Eyre, The Awakening, and The Yellow Wallpaper were dog-eared and bookmarked, and a shiny black ribbon lay abandoned on a copy of Macbeth. A loaf of bread sat on the table, its once golden crust replaced by a moldy shell. It looked like the flat had been abandoned long ago without much planning beforehand. My pulse quickened and I began to worry. Where had Ainsley gone?

She’s my baby sister, my flesh and blood. She wouldn’t have left without telling me, right? And from the look of her room, she hadn’t planned to leave. Could she be in trouble? My mind raced from possibility to possibility, horrifying scenes flitting past my eyes faster than I could fully comprehend them.

A flash of white on Ainsley’s bed caught my eye, and I reached for a folded scrap of paper on her pillow. I frantically unfolded it, quickly reading Ainsley’s lopsided script.

Imogen, November 8th, 1915

I’ve had to leave London for my safety. They’re after me, and soon they’ll come after you too. I hoped it wouldn’t end this way, but alas, I’d rather be a rebel than a slave. I can only leave you the knowledge of the ones before us. Uncover their wisdom, Immie. 

Love always,

Ainsley

I sat on the edge of the bed, Ainsley’s note fluttering out of my limp hand to rest on the scuffed floorboards. So she was in danger. And soon, I would be too. But from what? I couldn’t lose her, too. I just couldn’t bear it.

I desperately clutched the linen blankets in my fist, hoping in vain that the textured fabric would soothe the anxiety from my mind. It didn’t. I sank off the bed and onto the rough wooden floorboards, chest heaving with ragged breaths. I couldn’t lose Ainsley, too. Not after everything we’d been through together. 

The note crinkled beneath my skirts as I shifted and pulled it out from under the thick fabric. Gently smoothing the creases from the worn paper, I carefully examined the flowing script. Every letter had delicate lines and flourishes, making the humble ink and paper seem regal and elegant. That was Ainsley’s way. Making simple things seem luxurious. 

Flipping over the note, I saw a column of characters I hadn’t noticed before. They were numbers, each in sets of three divided by a hastily scrawled dash. There were twenty-three sets, each with a unique combination. A code. Ainsley and I had written coded messages to each other when we were young, using the glamorous mystery of ciphers to distract us from the harsh realities of the London streets. She and I would scratch messages into the walls and write on stolen newspaper scraps in invisible ink to communicate, delighting in our private rebellion against the expectations for girls our age. Little did I know Ainsley would rebel publicly, trying to bring our little changes to the world.

I recognized this particular cipher as a book cipher correlating to page, line, and letter number in a specific book. The question was, what book? I flipped the paper over again and scanned the haphazard scrawl for hidden details. My eyes quickly scanned the page before landing on a line in the middle: “I’d rather be a rebel than a slave”. 

It was the slogan of some new activist group in the city. Many women’s suffrage groups used that catchphrase during their rallies to encourage people to stand up for their rights. Maybe Ainsley had been involved with a radical women’s rights group and got in trouble with the law, forcing her to flee for her safety. The next line of the note also caught my attention: “I can only leave you the knowledge of the ones before us.” The women who came before us. The ones who left us their knowledge.

My heart began to race as I darted to Ainsley’s desk, running my hands over the covers of her leather-bound books—every single one written about a woman or by a woman. I grabbed a stubby pencil and a scrap of paper and flipped through a copy of Jane Eyre, Ainsley’s favourite. But a few letters in and I had nothing but gibberish. I huffed and crumpled the paper, picking up the next book in the stack, this with a thin, black ribbon tucked between the worn pages. The Awakening, by Kate Chopin. I flipped frantically through the pages, finding each letter corresponding to the code I’d found on Ainsley’s note. Soon, I had a message scratched down on my crumpled sheet. 820 King Street, Bloomsbury. The radical activist capital of London.

My mind reeled with this new information. It seemed that Ainsley wasn’t who I thought she was, and she may have even been involved in something dangerous. I sucked in a deep breath and brushed off my skirts. It was time to go find her then, whoever she may be.

I took a deep breath as I grasped the cold door knocker. Glancing at the numbers hastily painted on the door, I confirmed this was the correct address. 820 King Street. The address had taken me into the heart of Bloomsbury, the reform capital of London. Posters for women’s suffrage rallies and boycotts littered the streets, wrinkled and dirty from their days spent being trodden upon by wealthy aristocrats. 820 was a dress shop with huge windows displaying elaborate gowns made of chiffon and velvet. Much fancier than anything Ainsley could afford. 

This was my last chance to turn back. My chest tightened as my confidence wavered. What was I getting myself into? Did Ainsley really want me to follow this clue? Could I be embarking on a journey riddled with danger and peril? I steeled my nerves and threw open the door before I could talk myself out of it. I needed to find Ainsley, no matter the cost.

A small bell jingled above me as I ventured into the luxurious shop. The inside was even more decadent than the outside, with stunning ball gowns and wedding gowns hung on metal clothing racks. It was a seamstress’ heaven.

“Can I help you?” inquired a tall woman as she emerged from behind a rack of evening gowns.

I jumped, startled at her sudden appearance. “No, I mean, yes,” I stuttered, fumbling over my words. “I’m looking for Ainsley Grey, my sister. She left me this address.” The woman’s eyes narrowed.

“She did?” she asked, her brows knitting together on her forehead. “She’s a cocky little one, isn’t she.” 

“I beg your pardon?” I asked, taken aback at her response.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Just the rumbling of an old woman. Your sister isn’t here and I haven’t seen her in a while. I’m Bianca, a…friend of Ainsley’s.”

“She didn’t tell you anything about where she was going or why she left?” I asked, trying fruitlessly to keep the despair from creeping into my voice.

Bianca’s eyes hardened slightly, and though her body remained deathly still, the twitch in her jaw betrayed her deception.

“Bianca, please,” I pleaded. “I need to know where she went! She’s trying to lead me to you, and I don’t know why, but I need to honor her wishes. They might even be her last, and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try to follow them. Please, whatever you know, just tell me.”

Bianca looked me squarely in the eye, turning my words over in her mind. After what seemed like hours, she spun on her heel and marched towards a rack of fabrics, rolling the metal contraption away to reveal a scuffed wooden wall.

“Follow me,” Bianca ordered, graceful fingers releasing a hidden catch in the wall. A small door swung seamlessly open from the worn wood, revealing a dark corridor lit only by rusted sconces hanging precariously from the walls. We emerged from the passage into a vast room with a crystal chandelier. Inside was a maze of desks, some pushed together to form larger tables. Women of all ages milled about, talking and laughing loudly amongst one another. At once, I could feel the warmth of their camaraderie, and a place deep within me yearned to be a part of it. 

Bianca smiled at me and gestured to the room. “Welcome to the Society of the Silenced. Or SOS as some of the girls call it. This is the Great Room, where we do most of our work, but there are some private offices down that passage for higher-ups in the organization.” She gestured vaguely to the right and I stared in shock, unsure how to respond.

“Are you some kind of cult or something?” I asked before I could think better of it. 

She laughed. “We’re a small women’s rights organization like the Suffragettes or the London Society for Women’s Suffrage.”

“So you’re radicals? Like the ones who hold rallies on streetcorners?”

“To some, yes, we’re radicals. But all we really want is to have a say in electing our leaders. I founded this organization because I couldn’t vote for my husband when he ran for parliament, and why shouldn’t I be able to vote? I’m just as intelligent as the men in this city, if not more. Why shouldn’t my voice be heard? We’re never going to get what we want if we don’t rock the boat a little,” she said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Come, there are some people I want you to meet.”

She led me through the Great Room to a cluster of desks along the far wall. Two girls leaned over a small flyer, their brows furrowed in concentration.

“It’s not reading right to me,” muttered the one, brushing her ebony hair behind her ear.

“What do you mean it’s not reading right? It says, ‘We’re not law-breakers, we’re trying to become law-makers’. That’s as catchy as they come,” the second girl insisted, tossing her hands up in frustration.

Bianca cleared her throat and the pair looked up from their work, eyes flickering from Bianca to me. “Girls, this is Imogen Grey. She’s here to talk about her sister.” They exchanged a worried glance as they rose from their chairs, setting aside their controversial flier. “Imogen, this is Odette Knowles and Jolie Cunningham. They both worked closely with Ainsley.” Bianca gestured to each of them in turn, nodding for them to shake my hand.

The ebony-haired girl, Odette, stepped forward, and though her face was cordial, her stormy grey eyes held a challenge. “We’re sorry about Ainsley. We promise it’s for her own good she left.”

“She was working as a secretary in some police building,” said Jolie, her whispery voice matching her delicate appearance. “She had some kind of evidence that they were tryin’ to get rid of all the Suffragette societies for good if you know what I mean.” 

My eyes widened as her meaning dawned on me. “They were going to kill you off,” I murmured. That’s why the officer stopped me last night when I was on my way to Ainsley’s apartment. They were going to track down and eliminate all of the women’s suffrage societies for good.

Jolie nodded and continued. “Some of the more radical groups have gotten a bit out of hand recently. Y’know, with bombings and riots and stuff. The cops put the program in place without the gov’ment’s approval, and they were keeping the records hidden to make sure nobody found out. When the policemen figured out she was on to them, Ainsley had to get out of there pretty quickly.”

“We’re not quite sure where she went exactly, but we know she’ll return as soon as it’s safe. Ainsley was always a sharp one,” Bianca added.

“Are you not looking for her then?” I asked, anger rising in my stomach. Bianca cast a warning glance at Odette and Jolie, who quickly scampered to another desk. Bianca reached to touch my arm, but I pulled back. “You’re not, aren’t you?” 

“Imogen--”

“No! Don’t you bring me down here and tell me my sister was involved in something dangerous, and you’re not even trying to find her! That’s crap. That’s crap and you know it.” 

“It’s too dangerous, Imogen. If the police found out you were looking for her, they’d follow you. They would confiscate Ainsley’s evidence and get rid of you both. It would expose SOS and put a target on our backs for elimination.” Bianca dragged a calloused hand down her face. “No, it’s just too risky.”

“Well, I’m going,” I declared defiantly. “I’m not just going to sit back and hope everything turns out okay. And if you don’t like that, fine.” I turned on my heel and started to walk away.

“Wait!” Bianca called. I glared in response. “If you’re going to go, take Odette and Jolie with you. They at least know how to cover their tracks and keep SOS hidden. But I’m warning you, if you expose our organization, we will have no choice but to take you out of the picture. Understand?”

My heart sank, and an icy chill crept down my spine. This was no game. If I failed, it would be my head on the chopping block.

“I understand.”

“Good,” she retorted. I fixed her with a hard stare, daring her to oppose me.

“This was Ainsley’s,” Bianca said, nodding curtly at the desk. “If she left anything else to lead you to her, it’d be here.” I nodded, moving cautiously towards the desk. It was sparsely furnished and unnaturally tidy, the polished surface gleaming from a recent cleaning. Ainsley never cleaned her desk. Or her room. Or anything really.

I turned to Jolie, who hovered behind Odette’s shoulder. Her ice-blue eyes were wide and watery, and though she couldn’t be younger than fifteen, she had a glow of untainted youth about her. “Are you sure this is Ainsley’s desk? It looks too neat,” I asked. “At home, Ainsley’s desk was always covered with half-finished projects and smears of spilled ink!” I smiled at the memory as I opened the top drawer. It too was painstakingly organized, with papers, pens, and ink arranged deliberately within the small space.

“This is it. She and I shared, and I couldn’t stand the mess,” Odette laughed, strolling casually toward us. “We argued about it so much that we had to split up the drawers, I got the top two and she got the center and bottom ones.” She fell silent, mind wandering through a maze of old memories.

“Well,” added Bianca, “I’ll leave you girls to it. You have a lot of work to do and I’m needed elsewhere.” She strode confidently down the hallway to our left, each step punctuated by the resonant click of her boots.

I paused, gazing at the desk’s rough-hewn wood. I could imagine Ainsley here, bickering with Odette about the desk or working by lamplight through the darkest hours of the night. Her presence lingered so tangibly that I felt my eyes begin to well up. But there wasn’t any time to mourn her loss. I had to focus on getting her back.

I began to rifle through the desk’s contents with Odette and Jolie, carefully scrutinizing each item for hidden clues or codes. Stacking items as we went, we soon had tall piles of newspapers, rally posters, and fabric scraps arranged on the dusty floor, each item thoroughly examined and deemed worthless. I tossed aside a broken monocle from the bottom of the center drawer before pulling open the final compartment. It was mostly empty aside from a few crumpled sheets of paper, but as I reached deeper, my fingers brushed something else. A ribbon. Stuffed in the corner of the drawer was a roll of paper tied with a black ribbon A single red rose was tucked into it, the dried petals disintegrating at my touch.

“I think I found something,” I said, squinting at the oddly decorated paper. Odette took it from my hands and examined the bundle closely, her grey eyes stony with concentration. 

“The ribbon is the symbol of SOS. We all wear them in our hair or around our wrists to show our support, but we use the same ribbons for just about everything.” I sighed, another lead discarded. “Wait,” Odette interrupted, “Roses symbolize secrecy.” She plucked the rose from the ribbon and cradled it in her hand. “SOS uses flower codes to communicate when we’re in the field. She’s telling us we’re close.”

I unfurled the rolled paper slowly, careful not to tear it. It was old, worn by stains and water damage from years of use. It smelled vaguely of citrus, like someone had been eating while looking at it many moons ago. The ink on the front was beginning to fade, but the silhouette was clear. 

“A map,” whispered Jolie, clutching my arm excitedly. We poured over it, searching every swirl and loop for coded messages or marked locations, but there was nothing. Not a single ink blot out of place. 

“I guess it was nothing,” I lamented, tossing the paper aside. 

“Look!” Jolie exclaimed, snatching the map from the ground. She pointed to a small scrawl in the corner of the document.

Odette rolled her eyes. “That’s too small to see, Jo. I don’t know how we can figure out what it says.” I grinned, reaching into the stack of discarded items to find the old monocle. Its lens was cracked and the frame rusted, but it would do. Squinting through the glass at the minuscule print, I found a small phrase written in Ainsley’s haphazard script.

“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,” I read. “Hebrews 11:1.” I sat back on my heels, pulling my worn dress over my knees.

“Great, another clue,” Jolie grumbled. “Why can’t she just say, ‘I’m hiding at a convent in Liverpool, don’t bother finding me, I’ll come back when I’m ready.’” 

“Ainsley always did have a flair for the dramatic,” I mused, smiling at the thought of Ainsley in a convent. She’d get excommunicated within a week!

A breeze drifted through the corridor and that sharp lemon scent I smelled earlier wafted up from the paper. “Lemon,” I whispered, something about the scene tugging at the furthest reaches of my mind. Jolie and I locked eyes and hers began to widen.

“Invisible ink!” she exclaimed, throwing her skinny arms around me. “The evidence of things unseen!.” 

I grinned, handing her the map. “You’re a genius, Jo! All we have to do is light a candle and the heat will show us her message!” I cried, adrenaline coursing through my veins. It had been a long time since I’d felt this exhilarated. Odette raced to another desk and returned with a candle, the weak flame dancing in anticipation. She raised it to the map, careful not to scorch the delicate paper, and passed the flame past each building marked in faded ink. As she brought the candle along the base of the map, a small, mustard-coloured mark caught my eye.

“Wait, go back towards the library,” I commanded. Odette obliged, holding the flame to the tiny sketch of the library. In the light of the candle we could see a circle around the building along with a small note scrawled below it: See you soon! Love, Ainsley.

We hurried up the marble steps of St. Joseph’s Library with fervor, bouncing with the anticipation of finding Ainsley. Surely she was here. After all of that work she put us through to get here, she better be. Striding confidently into the foyer, we passed the circulation desk. A grizzled old man, maybe in his sixties, occupied it, with round spectacles and glazed eyes that looked half-closed.

I turned to Odette. “So where could she be hiding?” I whispered, trying to keep my voice low. The tall, domed ceilings would echo, and I didn’t want to reveal our secret.

“She’s probably in the archive rooms below the library. Only the curator goes down there, and she could easily remain undetected for weeks.” I nodded. 

“Excuse me. Madames!” called the man from the circulation desk, his gravelly voice rumbling across the room. “You ladies can’t go that way! The women’s reading room is to the left.” I turned to Odette and Jolie, unsure of how to respond. 

Odette rolled her eyes before turning to face him and plastered on a sweet, submissive smile. “Oh! I’m sorry sir, we just got a little mixed up is all. Could you be so kind as to direct us there?” She locked eyes with him, shifting her entire posture. The sharp, witty, confident Odette I knew melted away, leaving a delicate, ladylike figure in her place. I gawked at the transformation. How could she alter her demeanor so completely in so little time? It was remarkable.

“Sure ma’am, I’d be happy to do that for you! Right this way.” I fell into step with Odette and shot her a questioning look.

“If they think you’re a doe-eyed pushover, they’ll underestimate you. And that’s our only asset right now,” she mumbled under her breath, maintaining her cordial expression despite her seditious words.

We followed the old man through the ornate hallways and into a small reading room filled with plush furniture. It was empty aside for the three of us and quiet as a morgue. We nodded our thanks to him before entering the barren space.

Jolie shook her head. “How are we going to find her if we’re stuck here?” She plopped down on a small sofa and sighed. 

“Maybe she isn’t hiding in the archives after all,” I mused. “Ainsley would have been regulated to the women’s room, too. If she’s anywhere in this library, it’s got to be here.”

“Let's split up,” suggested Odette. “That way we can cover more ground.” I nodded, and the three of us dispersed to examine the room. It was small, with no windows to the outside. There were only four wooden bookshelves, despite being a reading room, and most books on the shelves were cookbooks or lifestyle publications. Nothing of value or substance. Of course, this was the women’s reading room. If you give women access to knowledge, they’ll be discontent with their domestic lives and fight for something different.

I meandered through the room, examining the shelves for carvings or false backs. I ran my fingers along the curved edge of a bookshelf, letting my fingertips scatter the dust clumps forming in between the rough wooden fibers. There was a palpable history here in this room. Despite being restricted to the smallest part of the library, women had come here to seek the smallest scraps of knowledge and claim a future for themselves outside of what the world told them was available.

A flash of black on the shelf caught my eye, and I reached out to find a thin, black ribbon dangling from a book. The Yellow Wallpaper, by Charlotte Perkins Gillman. What was that doing here? It was a modern feminist manifesto. The library wouldn’t have allowed something so controversial to be so readily accessible.

“Jolie! Odette! I think I found it,” I said, pulling the ribbon between my fingers. The silky strand was smooth against my skin, slipping around my fingers like a snake. Cunning and lethal.

“What is it?” Jolie asked, gliding smoothly to my place by the bookshelf.

I held up the ribbon. “I found this tucked into a book.” I pulled The Yellow Wallpaper off the shelf and handed it to Jolie. She brushed a speck of dust off the cover before opening the book, flipping casually through the tattered pages. 

“Nothing tucked into the pages,” she remarked, shutting it with a thud.

“What about the binding?” Odette suggested, materializing from behind an armchair. “Is it loose in any places?” I ran my hand along the binding until my fingers grazed a small incision in the leather. I glanced at Odette and nodded, handing her the book to scrutinize. She peeled away the leather, revealing a slip of yellowed parchment.

“What does it say?” I begged, desperation seeping into my voice.

Odette unfolded the slip and read, “21 Davenport Lane, St. Albans.” Jolie held her hand out to examine the paper, eyeing the script skeptically.

“Ainsley’s handwriting,” she concluded, folding the note. “St. Albans is a little town about a night’s train ride away. If we hurry, we can catch the six o’clock train at Sherritan Abbey Station and arrive by morning.”

“Alright then,” I declared. “Looks like we’re going to St. Albans.”

I leaned my head against the maple paneling of the train car, watching the city blur through the window. The once vibrant and bustling buildings faded into a vague smear of grey, like a smudge of paint on canvas. I looked down at the plush train seat at Jolie, now fast asleep. Her pale face glowed in the dim light of the car like an angel gracing the planet with her presence.

I eyed Odette across the car as she took inventory of her bag, examining our remaining food, water, and finances. Suddenly, I was intrigued by this sister I knew nothing about. Someone I felt I could trust with my life but knew so little about. “Why did you decide to join SOS?” I blurted, unsure of how the words escaped my closely guarded mouth.

Odette breathed deeply and settled into her seat, her face pensive. “I joined a few years ago. A friend of mine convinced me after she joined, and that was pretty much that. I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, and I fell in love with the cause, y’know? With fighting for what’s right and not letting anyone walk all over you.” 

I nodded. “Was that when you met Ainsley?”

“Ainsley joined long before me. She was actually the one to show me around SOS and teach me all the procedures.” Odette smiled at the memory. “She was so different from anyone I had ever met before. Confident. Bold. Unapologetically herself.”

“Made you want to climb mountains and fly planes and be someone better than who you were.” 

“Yeah, exactly like that.” We both fell silent, minds consumed by thoughts of Ainsley.

“I’m nothing like her,” I lamented. I avoided Odette's eyes and instead focused on the garishly patterned carpet. The haphazard loops and swirls were almost psychedelic, searing a sharp knot of pain into my skull.

“What do you mean?” Odette asked quietly.

I sighed deeply before continuing. “Where Ainsley is confident and strong, I’m timid and weak. I’m not really sure who I am and where I fit in this world, but I know when I find out I’ll be too scared to take the leap of faith.” I shook my head. “I just can’t lose her. She’s my everything.”

Odette smiled wryly. “What do you mean? You were bold enough to come to SOS and stand up to Bianca when she told you to stop looking for Ainsley. That’s a pretty big risk.”

“I guess so…” I conceded. Maybe I wasn’t as hopeless as I thought. “I’m really worried about her, Odette. She’s so reckless, I don't think she knows what she’s gotten herself into.”

“Ainsley’s smart. She’ll lay low until she knows it’s safe. Trust me, she’s rescued Jolie and me from countless scrapes over the years,” Odette joked.

“When did you guys meet Jolie? She seems so young to be part of an organization like SOS.” I cast a fleeting glance at Jolie, who was now snoring softly into her plush seat cushion.

“Jolie joined around the same time as me. That’s how we met. She ran away from home after her Uncle started hitting her. He got custody when her parents died I think. Bianca found her living on the streets and took her in, just like that.” I looked again at Jolie, still lost in a deep slumber. For the first time, I saw the thin crease between her eyebrows, carved by years of wondering where her next meal would come from or the next hit would land. And yet despite the horrors she’d endured, she still saw the best in those around her, even when they let her down.

“It was kind of Bianca to take her in,” I remarked, thinking of the responsibility she must feel for the pixielike girl in front of me. I had only known her for a day, and I already felt the weight of her safety on my shoulders. 

Odette wrinkled her nose and looked away. “I guess,” she conceded, though I could tell there was more to her answer than she said.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “She rubs me the wrong way, I guess. I just don’t think she’s as much of a saint as everybody says. I mean, yeah Jolie needed a place to go, but a women’s suffrage organization? That’s too dangerous to pull a kid into just like that. Bianca just cares more about the cause than the actual people.” I nodded. Sometimes the people we trust most aren’t who we think they are. Just look at me and Ainsley. I thought I knew her better than anyone in the world, and now I was on a wild goose chase across London trying to save her from a murderous police unit trying to wipe out the women’s suffrage movement. Maybe Bianca wasn’t what she seemed either. 

“Do you think she could be working against us somehow?” I wondered. She clearly hadn’t wanted me to look for Ainsley. Maybe she got rid of Ainsley herself and turned the evidence over to the police department.

“Maybe,” Odette mused, “I guess you never really know where someone’s true loyalties lie until they’re forced to choose.” I nodded and leaned back against the seat.

My eyes began to droop as a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over my body. The long day of sleuthing had caught up with me, and I was in desperate need of some rest. 

The next morning we disembarked the train and into a busy station. Hoards of people mindlessly drifted in and out of the terminals, some carrying heavy luggage or herding a group of rambunctious children. I thought I caught a glimpse of Bianca’s towering frame in the fray, but the figure was gone in the blink of an eye.

“Stay close,” I called to Jolie above the din. “I don’t want us to get separated.” 

I unfurled the scrap of paper we had found in the Charlotte Perkins Gillman book and ran a finger along the curved script. 21 Davenport Lane. I approached a man in a crisp suit, hoping to get directions to the address.

“Excuse me! Sir?” He turned to look at me, his coal-black eyes glinting angrily.

“What do ya want, girl,” he growled. “I don’t got all day.”

“Could you tell me where to find this address?” I asked, gesturing to the scrap of paper in my hands.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Straight down the road and to the left.”

“Thank you!” I called, turning to Odette and Jolie. 

“Women,” the man muttered under his breath as he turned to leave. “Can’t do a thing by themselves.” I shared an indignant look with Jolie. We trudged down the main road to the jailhouse, turning left onto Davenport Lane.

“23, 22, here we go, 21,” Jolie mumbled, stopping at a small building with a white fence. 

“It’s a post office,” I observed as we walked through the doorway, a small bell clanging loudly above our heads.

“Hello?” a man’s voice echoed from behind the counter. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, we’re looking to collect some mail for an Imogen Grey?” I said, surveying the room for the source of the voice.

“Oh sure, a lady dropped somethin’ off a few days ago,” the man’s head popped up from behind the desk, sending a stack of letters fluttering to the ground. “Oh fiddlesticks!” he grumbled, bending down to pick them up. I knelt to help him, stacking each envelope carefully on the counter.

“Sorry about the mess, miss! It’s been a whirlwind of a day what with the cops storming through and everything. Did you hear they’re gonna get rid of all the suffragettes? I mean, they definitely had it coming, but still. It’s a troubled time, miss. A troubled time.” I exchanged a look with Odette, her eyes clouded with an emotion I couldn’t read. The operation was already in motion, and it seemed like our time was running out.

“Here it is!” the man shouted, holding a letter above his bald head in triumph. “For Miss Imogen Grey.” I tentatively lifted it from his palm and tore open the envelope, pulling out a sheet of cream-coloured paper.

“It’s a poem,” I said, and Odette and Jolie peered over my shoulder at it. 

“All my time has now run out

A time to whisper, not to shout.

In hallowed halls, I hide my name,

Cloaked in white — this is no game.

Behind a mask of prayer, I hide,

But a rebel’s heart I hold inside.

Behold a servant, meek and mild,

But force of habit keeps me wild

The cross I bear is hard to carry

Find haven where they call me Mary,” I read. 

Odette’s nose wrinkled like she’d smelled something foul. “I know Ainsley isn’t a poet, but that’s pretty bad.” I pressed a hand to my mouth to suppress a giggle. It really was horrible. The small office fell silent aside from the occasional rumblings of the little man, who was now standing on a wobbly stool and reaching for a high shelf.

“The first lines reference her going into hiding, and the next line where she is now…” I mused, leaning against the dirty windowpane. “But what about the rest?” 

“Hallowed halls has to be someplace special, right?” Jolie said. “But why is she wearing white?”

“A mask of prayer… what about a church? I remember seeing one back by the train station!” I exclaimed. 

“A convent,” Odette declared, and I nodded my agreement.

“And her alias is Mary,” Jolie finished. We looked at one another triumphantly and filed out of the post office and into the dusty street. 

“Good luck ladies!” the eccentric postmaster called from his desk.

We wandered the town for a while before we finally came to the convent. It was a towering structure with gothic arches and grand stained glass windows. The brick was old and worn, weathered from years of wind and rain battering its ancient surface.

“Well, I’ll be,” Jolie whistled. “She really did end up at a convent.” I laughed before climbing the stairs to the double doors.

“Let’s go get our girl.”

I stepped into the grand foyer and approached a nun carrying a stack of fresh linens. “Sister, could we ask where a woman named Mary is staying? She’s got red hair and should have arrived a few days ago,” I asked.

The nun smiled gently. “Mary’s our cook. She lives in a cottage behind the garden per her request. If you go down the hall and take the back door outside, you’ll find it.”

“Thank you so much!” I called over my shoulder. We walked into the harsh sunlight towards the cottage, stopping at the wooden door.

“Do you want us to go in with you?” Jolie asked, putting a reassuring hand on my arm.

I stared at the warped cottage door, imagining Ainsley on the other side. “I think I need to do this alone,” I said. I gripped the iron door handle and breathed, hoping to steady my rattling nerves. This was it. I pushed open the door and gasped. Standing at the fireplace in a stain-spattered apron was my sister. 

Her auburn hair was twisted into a messy bun, and her wild curls hung loosely around her face. She turned at the sound of the door, bruising a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her emerald eyes widened when she saw me, and she knocked the bowl hanging over the stove off its hook, spattering the floorboards with a pale brown broth. She ran into my arms and enveloped me in a warm embrace.

“Took you long enough,” Ainsley murmured into my shoulder. Hot tears ran down my cheeks and onto my shirt, but I didn’t care. I finally had Ainsley back. Nothing could spoil this moment. I sat back on my heels and wiped the tears from my cheeks.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about SOS! I mean, you were involved in something huge and world-changing and I thought you were just some secretary.” Ainsley laughed, the sound echoing in the small space.

“I wanted to tell you, I did! But I wasn’t sure how you’d take it, you know? You’re so worried about my safety all the time, I was worried you’d beg me to leave. And I can never say no to you, it’s actually one of my greatest weaknesses,” she grinned. Her voice was just as I remembered it. High and clear and strong, I wrapped my arms around her shoulders.

“I’m just so glad you’re okay.” I pulled back, straightening the ribbon tied to her lapel. The door creaked once more and Odette and Jolie entered, eyes alight with joy.

“Ainsley! You’re alive!” Jolie cried, running into Ainsley’s arms. “We missed you so much!”

“I missed you too Jo,” Ainsley agreed, taking Jolie’s hands in her own.

Odette’s grey eyes surveyed the small space. “Do you still have the evidence Ains?” she inquired. Ainsley stood and walked toward her bed, pulling a small, fabric, bundle from beneath the lumpy mattress.

“Here it is. Everything we need to stop those selfish bastards from taking us down.” She vowed, turning the package over in her hands. “Crazy how much a few papers will piss people off.” Jolie nodded, a single dimple creeping onto her pale cheek. I smiled and glanced toward Odette just in time to see her pull a gun from her satchel.

“Give me the papers, Ains,” Odette growled, gesturing angrily with the gun. “Now!” Ainsley raised her hands above her head, backing slowly into the bedframe. Jolie’s delicate features were twisted in anguish, the pain of Odette's betrayal contorting her entire face. 

I tightened my fingers into a fist as I watched the standoff continue, nobody willing to take the next step. My whole body felt gripped in a vice of fear. I started to open my mouth, but the words were frozen on my tongue This was my chance. My chance to take charge for once in my life.

“Think about what you’re doing Odette,” I croaked, the words scraping my throat as I forced them out. “This is not a game. People could die if this operation isn’t exposed.”

Odette laughed coldly. “Stop trying to stall. Give me the papers and no one gets hurt.” Ainsley carefully crept toward Odette, holding out the bundle of papers like a shield.

“What about SOS? What about standing up for ourselves and fighting for our rights? Isn’t that at all important to you?” She asked, eyes brimming with tears.

“Stop acting like such a saint, Ains. You know SOS is going to dawdle away time to prevent exposure, and when they finally do turn the evidence over, it’ll be too late.” Odette shrugged. “And the government pays way more for its services.” My mouth dropped open. All this time I thought Odette was looking for Ainsley, not the evidence she collected. I had been duped along with everybody else. 

The cottage door crashed open with a loud bang, and Bianca burst in. 

“Where’s Odette?” she exclaimed, raising a pistol of her own. Odette turned her gun from Jolie to Bianca, fixing her stony eyes on the towering SOS president.

“So you figured it out,” Odette observed, nodding to her former boss. “What a shame you figured it out too late.”

“Put the gun down, Odette,” Bianca ordered, her voice calm and commanding. 

“Not until I’ve gotten what I came for. Ainsley, the papers.” Odette gestured at Bianca with the gun, her finger poised delicately on the trigger. Ainsley walked over to Odette, holding out the parcel. Odette’s hand stretched out, fingers brushing the package’s rough fabric. I glanced at Jolie and watched a flicker of fire flit through her eyes before she lept into the fray, skinny arm outstretched to knock the bundle to the ground. Both pistols fired, bathing the room in a smoky haze. There was a mad dash to get the papers, a tangle of arms and legs straining to reach it first. 

After a moment of indecision, I reached out my hand to snatch it away from Odette, ducking under Ainsley’s shoulder and straining to grasp the corner of the fabric. My fingers wrapped around the edge of the bundle and I whisked it behind my back before anyone could wrest it from my grasp. 

I watched in horror as Ainsley and Odette continued to grapple on the ground, this time, for the gun. Ainsley gripped the barrel of the pistol and pulled, bracing her foot against Odette’s chest to leverage her weight. 

Odette’s hand tightened around the handle of the gun and she raised it to Ainsley’s forehead. Ainsley drew in a sharp breath, every muscle in her body tensing. “It’s over, Ains. If I’m not leaving with the evidence, you’re not leaving with your life,” she spat. Her finger tightened around the trigger, preparing to deliver her final shot.

A spark of terror coursed through my body, lighting my frozen limbs aflame. A guttural cry rose from deep within me, rising above the din as I recklessly careened towards my sister. I stretched my arms wide and tackled her to the ground and out of Odette’s grasp. We tumbled to the ground with a thud, and I heard two more shots fire, the resonant bang reverberating against the thin cottage walls. I whipped my head around to see Jolie hunched over, her chest stained crimson. She looked up at Odette, grief and shock clouding her face as she pressed a hand to her wound. Suppressing a scream, I cast an accusatory look in Odette’s direction, only to see her on her knees as well, a bullet hole in her forehead. Bianca stood behind her, smoking pistol in hand.

Coming to my senses, I rushed to Jolie’s side, carefully lowering her onto the wooden floor. “Easy, Jo. I’ve got you,” I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes. I gathered the fabric of my skirts and pushed down on the wound, hoping to staunch the flow, but the blood just seeped through the thin fabric and onto my hands. Soon Ainsley was at my side, brushing strands of honey blonde hair from Jolie’s forehead.

“Don’t. Let her. Get. The papers.” She croaked, each word forced from her mouth with more blood from her chest.

“We’ve got ‘em, Jo. Odette’s gone now. Just try to rest. We’ll get someone to help you, I promise,” I whispered, stroking her clammy skin. Her pale face had begun to turn grey, all of the vitality siphoned from her body. A sob bubbled up in my throat, threatening to spill over. It was my fault she was dying. I’d knocked Ainsley out of the way, and the bullet meant for her found its way into Jolie’s chest. “I’m sorry Jo, I’m sorry,” I cried, quiet tears dripping from my cheeks.

“Not. Your. Fault. Love you. Like. A sister,” she choked. Her final words of kindness spoken, Jolie Cunningham’s body stilled for the last time. A sob escaped my lips and tears cascaded slowly down my cheeks. I wept for Jolie, taken too soon. I wept for her tragic past and her lost future, but most of all, I wept for her death, killed in cold blood by a traitor.

Ainsley put an arm around my shoulder and Bianca sank to her knees next to us, her face frozen in shock. We held each other as we wept, remembering Jolie’s courage and quiet strength. 

After what seemed like hours, we rose to our feet, wiping the lingering tears from our cheeks.

I drew in a shaky breath and held up the bundle of papers, now adorned with a single smear of blood. “I won’t let you die in vain,” I whispered solemnly, wiping a final tear from my cheek.

Two weeks later I wove through the crowded Great Room of SOS headquarters, dodging desks and girls until I reached Ainsley’s slight form hunched over a typewriter.

“Did you get the buttons I asked for, Immie?” she asked, voice full of authority.

“Nope! But I do have some more ribbons,” I said, handing her the mass of black silk clutched in my sweaty palm. Ainsley rolled her eyes.

“I still can’t believe you took everything out of my desk. You could have at least put it all back in its place once you found my map!” she reasoned, tossing up a hand in frustration. “I can’t find anything in this chaos!”

“Like you could find things before,” I scoffed. “I swear, you’re the most disorganized person I know.”

Ainsley’s jaw dropped open incredulously, but no words came out. “Fine. Maybe I am,” she conceded. “But you still messed up my desk, and you’re going to pay for it.”

I sunk into a chair next to hers and set my chin on my hand. “Did we get your evidence to that aristocrat?” I asked, turning to face my sister,

She blew a strand of frazzled auburn hair from her face and replied, “Just yesterday. We met with him and explained the whole situation. He took the papers to the queen and got the program canceled.” I sighed in relief. “But we still have work to do. They may not be hunting us down anymore, but they sure aren’t helping our cause either.”

“So we’ll just have to keep fighting then, won’t we,” I concluded, tying a black ribbon around my wrist. “Right Ains?”

Ainsley grinned at me, brushing more stray hairs behind her ear. “Who would have thought one day I’d have you working for a secret women’s suffrage group wanted by the police in seven cities?”

“Not me,” I said.

“And yet,” Ainsley continued, “Here we are.”

I smiled. “Yes, here we are.”

Wait, did I leave the light on? I get out of my car and race to the doorstep. I reach for the doorknob only to find it locked. Rifling through my coat pocket for my key, I expertly balance my backpack on my forearm and take a sip of coffee. No key.

Where is my key? I turn towards my car and walk carefully down the icy steps to the driveway. My tattered Goodwill boots slip on the slick ice, sending my body careening forward. I collide with the steps with a grimace as my belongings rain down onto the pavement. I sigh deeply, brushing a stray hair from my forehead. Everything's harder now that he's gone.

My fingers mindlessly travel across the thin layer of ice coating the pavement, leaving my fingertips white from the bitter cold. It's been seven months and twenty-eight days since he died and I still can't seem to feel right again. Everything I do feels forced like I'm playing the part of the thriving law student instead of actually being her. As I gather my belongings from the ground, I remember something my dad always used to tell me: "Never let life pass you by, Ellie. It can all be over in an instant, and I don't want you to wish you would have lived it differently." 

We didn't know it was his last day when he went. And ever since then, I've been watching the world spin around me while I stand completely still, frozen in the moment they told me he had gone. Maybe one day I can keep going like before. I suck in a steadying breath to keep the tears at bay. Drawing my shoulders back, I slip on the all-too-familiar mask of false congeniality. I forget about the light and the key and walk to my car, the lump in my stomach growing heavier with every step. Just hold on a little bit longer. Just hold on...

I set my worn leather bag down on the scuffed floor. The brass buckle that is supposed to hold it closed hangs crooked and makes a dull clinking sound as the bag falls. As my apartment door creaks shut, I lean my head against the cracked drywall, willing myself not to cry. I brush back the wisps of hair that have escaped my once business-casual bun. My dad used to say that I looked like a frazzled sun with my frizzy curls framing my face. He swore he would be the first to buy my debut novel, making me promise to sign it for him. The weight of the memory settles on my back, curling my shoulders forward in agony. 

Sinking to the floor, I hug my knees to my chest and listen to the sounds of traffic drifting through the open window. Usually, the sounds of city rush hour soothe me. But today, they sound accusatory, as if my failures have been laid out for all of New York to hear. 

This was the seventh publishing company to reject my manuscript. Living off of ramen noodles and cereal for three years, I had spent hours in my dingy apartment, writing and rewriting the novel I had dreamed about since childhood. I’ve always loved to write. When I was a junior in high school, my English teacher told me that if I didn’t pursue writing as a career, she would have to quit because she wasn’t doing her job. I’m sorry to disappoint her. I mean, look at me. Alone in a decrepit apartment with no job, no money, and nothing to my name but a story that will never be read. Anger fills me. I am on my feet, breaths coming quick and fast. 

All my life, those around me have praised my talent and told me to reach for the stars. So I did. I dreamed a big dream. I worked hard, spending all my time in classes and workshops, talking to authors, professors, and anyone who would read my work. And now, forty thousand takeout coffees later, I know that I’m just not good enough. And while everyone tells you to dream big, they never tell you that the bigger the dream, the more parts of you die when it’s snuffed out. 

I make my way to the kitchen, rummaging through drawers until my fingers grasp what I’m looking for. I strike the match and watch the flame dance with anticipation. Pulling on the strap of my bag, I pull out my portfolio and hold the flame to the first page of my novel. It licks the paper eagerly, each word it devours seeming to strengthen it. More pages are fed to the vengeful tongue of flame as tears finally begin to spill down my cheeks. The sorrow cuts like glass, sharp and deep. 

I whisper my goodbye as more pages fall prey to the fire. Delicate paper screams as it curls beneath the heat, its spine of words no longer strong enough to support it. I hold the last page as it burns to ash. The smoldering pieces of my precious novel sit in a small pile on the tile floor. Their remains taunt me. I sit back on my heels and the matchbox slowly slips from my limp fingers. The matches scatter across the pile of ashes, like bones in my graveyard of dreams. 

Maybe it’s better not to dream at all than to lose yourself chasing a fleeting shadow. It will only leave you a bloody carcass, torn apart by a ruthless world. I make my way to the window, gathering the flaking pieces of paper from the floor. I release the ashes on a cold gust of wind and watch as they flutter to the sidewalk below. Taking one last look, I shut the window tightly, drawing the curtains like a burial shroud. No matter how painful it may be, there always comes a time when there are no more options but the most fatal. I breathe deeply and wrap my arms around myself, attempting to soothe the pain from my heart—time to find a new dream.