Tina Connolly - Copperhead

The door opened with an audible creak just as she got her elbows through the window and pushed herself through the last little bit. Helen desperately wanted to know who was coming in, but she even more desperately did not want to get caught. This was all Jane’s problem. Jane could worry about who was doing what. Helen could step down and return to her original plan of merely running interference for Jane on The Hundred, sending women her way. Away from danger and decisions.

Helen slid to the trash containers and then to the ground, tumbling onto the muddy cobblestones. She kept going till she was standing again, trying not to mind her poor ruined skirt. The cut on her palm felt as though it had opened up from the strain; she peeled that lilac glove carefully free of the bandage and stuffed it in her pocket before it could be ruined. Her good hand closed on Jane’s arm, Jane who was staring up at the sky with a vaguely curious expression, completely ignoring the goose bumps raising all the hairs on her arm from the November wind.

Helen took off her coat and laid it over her sister’s shoulders. “Let’s get out of here,” Helen said. “Frye will know what to do.”

Frye’s door was opened by the gorgeous woman in orange from the party, Alberta—though tonight she was wearing bright yellow, with a drift of poppies floating down from one shoulder. Her black hair was twisted up on her head and decorated with another gauzy poppy. Perhaps she had just come from a gig with Sturm und Drang . “Come for a nightcap?” Alberta said. “Frye’s still at her show, but you can join the party.”

“Wasn’t there a party last night?” said Helen. She tugged at her split skirt seam, vainly pushing the edges back together.

“Oh, that party,” said Alberta. “Sure. But a few folks dropped by tonight after early gigs finished. Some people never really go home. Frye’s too kind to boot them out.”

Alberta turned and led the way down the hall, gold T-straps clicking on the floor. Helen twisted back to point out the show posters and memorabilia to Jane, but Jane was drifting blankly along. “Do they just stay for weeks?” Helen said. The thought of jumping ship on her life came back again. She could crash on Frye’s floor like the other bohemians. Perhaps she would have to learn how to go onstage. She rather liked the idea of having a hundred people watch her sing a torch song while twenty backup men danced in top hats behind her. Except she couldn’t sing. Still, why should that matter in a daydream?

“Sometimes they’re here awhile,” agreed Alberta. “Folks between gigs, in the off-seasons. Waiting for that next big role. Course, sometimes she gets tired of us, all at once, and kicks everyone out for a week and hibernates. But right now we’re in the other part of the cycle.”

Alberta led them up the circular staircase to the second floor. It was not the wild party of the night before, but there were a handful of people crowded around a low table at the landing, playing some sort of game that involved much jumping up and reciting, or bursting into song. Rook was not among them.

Helen turned to Alberta. “Honestly I was wondering if we could stay over,” she said. “Jane needs to sleep, and she can’t go back to my house. But Frye’s not here to ask, and also I wanted her advice.…”

Alberta shrugged, the organza poppies rippling on her dress. “Frye would tell you to stay if she were here,” she said. “She always does. My sax and I have the spare room, but the attic has several cots, if you don’t mind that some actor might stumble up and crash there, too.”

“That’s fine,” said Helen, who was more concerned with getting Jane to rest than complete propriety. She looked back at Jane, who was watching the wallpaper with a good deal of interest. How could she hand her problems off, if no one was able to take them on? “Actually I will take that nightcap,” Helen said.

“I believe there are martinis in the pitcher,” said Alberta, pointing at the side table. “Door to the attic through there, lamp to the right at the top. Sheets and towels in the trunk.” She folded her arms, watching Helen with her perfect face. Helen dearly wanted to ask if her words from the night before had had an effect, but she knew perfectly well that if she asked point-blank Alberta would tell her no, and retreat. So Helen merely nodded, and poured a martini for herself and a tumbler of water for Jane, and pushed Jane before her up the steep narrow stairs to the attic.

A chill crept up her spine as she went up the stairs, but she told herself firmly to stop it. This was not the Grimsbys’ attic. She found the oil lamp where Alberta had indicated, turned the key, and then found with relief that this attic didn’t remind her of the Grimsbys’ in the slightest. It had a lot of stuff, true—didn’t all attics?—but there the resemblance ended. This attic was a long rectangle with steeply sloped rafters—you could really only stand up in the middle. And the stuff here was more theatre things—costumes, mostly—hanging on loops of wire nailed to the rafters. Dresses, slacks, blouses, feathered hats and boas, all different styles and decades, separated one cot from the next and afforded a bit of privacy. Trunks and hat boxes were wedged between the cots, but a big black trunk nearest the door had LINENS painted on it in theatrical red and gold. Helen went quietly down the narrow aisle to make sure they were alone, then took Jane and sat her down on the very last cot, where Jane would have to pass her if she tried to go wandering in the night.

“First some water,” Helen said, and handed the water glass to her sister, setting her own glass down on a trunk by the cot. Jane obediently downed the whole glass. “Now a swallow of this will help you sleep,” Helen said, and handed Jane her martini. Jane began to drink it, too, as though it were water, and Helen cried, “Stop, stop,” and snatched the glass away again. “That should knock you out,” she said. “Maybe you’ll sleep it off.”

“Sleep it off,” Jane said dreamily as Helen made up the cot and tucked her into it. She closed her eyes and rolled over.

Helen began making up her own cot, pondering what to do next. She had found Jane, but now what? Jane could not fix The Hundred in this state—nor could she restore poor Millicent Grimsby, even if they knew where to find her. Jane could not even simply be Jane. Helen would have to figure out how to restore her sister to herself, if a good night’s sleep didn’t do the trick. She peeked around the row of costumes. Jane appeared to be sound asleep.

Helen eased off her heels and sank to the cot. She carefully pried up the bandage on her palm to check the cut. It seemed to be doing well enough, though she thought she should see if Frye had some fresh gauze and tape. It was a shame that she’d done all that warehouse-climbing in that skirt—the seam was ripped open, her shirt was smudged, and mud had smeared across her side and rear. The seam she could fix, but the skirt would need careful soaking and reshaping. Yet that was all she had to wear tomorrow, unless Frye’s generosity extended to letting Helen borrow one of the dresses up here. Curious despite the problems pressing on her shoulders, Helen looked through the clothes that separated her cot from Jane’s, automatically cataloging what period each dress was, and what sort of person would wear it. Lavender sachets hung thickly between the dresses, perfuming the room whenever she touched them. There were plenty of regular Frye clothes in the mix as well—caftans and slacks, neither of which she was sure she wanted to try, even if they would fit. Frye was much taller and more broad-shouldered than Helen. Still, that peacock blue knit dress there could be cinched with the belt she had on and look rather nice. With a few more minutes and a needle she could put a couple of darts in, raise the hem, and have something rather chic.…