Chapter 4
I gazed up at the Metropolitan Opera House, magnificent against the night sky, its grand facade now illuminated by the harsh brilliance of electric bulbs where once the softer flicker of gaslamps had danced across the marble.
Smoothing the ruffled cuffs at my wrists, I felt the heavy silk of my peacock-blue gown brush against my ankles.
Beside me, Ruth and Rebecca waited in their stark white habits, the simplicity of their garments a visible testament that they answered to something far beyond the frivolities that filled this gilded hall.
The dichotomy of our appearances suited me: I had long ago perfected the role of society maiden, while they wore the truth of their commitment for all to see.
Together, we ascended the marble steps toward the grand entrance.
As the doormen’s white-gloved hands reached for the brass handles, I leaned closer to my companions, my voice barely a breath. “The true performance tonight isn’t on that stage,” I whispered, “but in how you conduct yourselves among so many beating hearts. Every moment is both prayer and practice.”
Ruth’s eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. “I won’t disappoint you.” Her voice carried the faintest tremor of anticipation.
Rebecca merely nodded. Over the last decade, Rebecca and Ruth had progressed remarkably. I couldn’t remember the last time they’d lost control, but then again, it wasn’t often we attended events that for our kind more closely resembled a meat market than the theater.
The opulence of the lobby was impressive—polished marble floors reflecting the crystal chandeliers that hung like frozen waterfalls from the vaulted ceiling.
Gaslight still illuminated much of the interior, creating a warm, golden atmosphere that electric bulbs could not yet replicate.
The air was thick with perfume—French lilacs, Bulgarian roses, jasmine from distant India—all barely masking the underlying scent of humanity that called to our baser instincts.
I felt Ruth stiffen beside me as a particularly well-fed gentleman brushed past, the robust thrum of his heartbeat pulsing in our ears.
I placed a gentle hand on her arm, a reminder of our purpose, and felt the tension gradually release beneath my fingers.
Rebecca, meanwhile, had begun to silently mouth what I recognized as the Prayer of St. Francis—Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
We found our seats in a private box overlooking the stage—an extravagance I justified as necessary distance from the crush of humanity below.
The theater filled steadily, a sea of silk and satin, top hats and tiaras, each person a beacon of life and warmth to our preternaturally sensitive senses.
The throbbing of so many hearts blurred into a single, persistent hum.
The lights dimmed, and the orchestra began the opening notes of Puccini’s “Suor Angelica.” The story of a nun seeking redemption seemed fitting for our unusual trio.
As Sister Angelica’s tale unfolded on stage, I studied my companions in the half-light.
Ruth leaned forward, her pupils slightly dilated, her breathing deliberately measured as she absorbed both the music and the proximity of so many humans.
Rebecca sat rigidly upright, her knuckles white around her rosary beads.
The soprano’s voice soared through the cavernous space, Mimì‘s delicate aria filling every corner with fragile beauty.
As she sang of simple pleasures—the first sunshine of April, the scent of roses—I found my thoughts drifting to my time with the Order.
How utterly convinced I had been that my actions served a higher purpose, that my murders were sanctified by divine will.
Like Rodolfo clinging to illusions of artistic nobility while freezing in his garret, I had wrapped myself in righteousness while starving for truth.
Yet here we sat, neither fully damned nor fully saved, like Bohemians existing on society’s margins.
The music swelled around us as Mim“‘s life ebbed away; her love story cut short by consumption’s merciless grip. My throat tightened with emotion I could no longer physically express through tears, recognizing in her mortal frailty something precious I had lost forever. Recognizing all the people I’d known and lost during my former existence to the same condition.
When the final, transcendent notes faded, and the audience erupted in applause, I noticed a single blood-tinged tear tracking down Ruth’s cheek. She wiped it away quickly, before any human eyes could notice.
“It was beautiful,” she whispered.
“Are you well?” I asked quietly, concerned that the emotional response might trigger a more dangerous hunger.
She nodded. “The music... it reached something in me I thought had died with my humanity.”
Rebecca remained silent, but I noted her grip on her rosary beads had loosened slightly.
After the final curtain, we made our way to the grand foyer where crystal glasses clinked and society voices created a pleasant hum of conversation.
I guided Ruth and Rebecca through the crowd, introducing them as sisters from the Convent of the Good Shepherd who worked with disadvantaged women and girls.
“The Sisters provide shelter and training to young women who might otherwise fall into... regrettable circumstances,” I explained to Mrs. Vanderbilt, whose diamond necklace alone could have funded our convent for a year.
“How charitable,” she replied with practiced interest. “Though one wonders if such efforts merely encourage moral laxity.”
Rebecca spoke suddenly, her voice carrying a quiet authority that surprised me. “We believe in redemption through structure and purpose. Many of these young women lacked only opportunity, not moral fiber.”
Mrs. Vanderbilt’s eyebrows rose slightly, but she nodded before drifting away to more comfortable conversation partners.
“Well said,” I murmured to Rebecca, who acknowledged the praise with the barest hint of a smile.
I guided us toward a group of Italian-American businessmen whose animated conversation paused as we approached. I recognized one as Giovanni Paterno, whose shipping business had flourished despite growing anti-Italian sentiment.
“Mrs. Bladewell,” he greeted me with a slight bow. “A pleasure to see you again. And in such dedicated company. It’s been what, six years since we last met, and you look as youthful as ever.”
“Mr. Paterno,” I replied, stifling a chuckle at his comment.
Perpetual youth—both a blessing and a curse.
Many think they’d love to retain their complexion definitely, but even though only six years had passed—not enough to rouse suspicion—it was a reminder that I’d always be the young maiden, the pretty girl, never the respected elder woman I hoped to become.
“May I introduce Sisters Ruth and Rebecca from the Convent of the Good Shepherd? They provide essential services to immigrant women and children, including many from the Italian community.”
His expression softened immediately. “My mother arrived at Ellis Island with nothing but the clothes on her back and my infant sister in her arms. If not for the kindness of the Sisters of Charity, I cannot imagine what might have become of them.”
Ruth stepped forward, her earlier excitement now channeled into purposeful engagement. “The challenges facing new arrivals grow more difficult daily, especially with the current prejudices inflamed by the war. Our resources are stretched thin.”
“Yet your work continues,” observed Mr. Paterno, studying Ruth with thoughtful eyes.
“It must,” she replied simply. “Faith demands action, not merely sentiment.”
The conversation flowed easily after that, with the businessmen asking pointed questions about our specific needs.
I watched with quiet pride as Ruth and Rebecca navigated the delicate dance of soliciting support without revealing too much of our true circumstances.
By evening’s end, Mr. Paterno had promised a substantial donation, and two others had agreed to visit the convent to discuss ongoing patronage.
As we descended the grand staircase toward the exit, I noted with satisfaction that both Ruth and Rebecca had maintained perfect control throughout the evening. Even in this crush of humanity, with blood pulsing all around us, they had held fast to their hard-won discipline.
“You both performed admirably,” I told them as our hired carriage arrived. “Not merely in securing support, but in mastering yourselves.”
Rebecca inclined her head slightly. “The challenge was... instructive.”
“It was exhilarating,” Ruth countered, a flush of excitement still evident in her voice. “To be among them, to speak with them as though we were still mortal, still respectable—I never imagined it possible.”
I smiled, pleased with their different yet equally valuable insights. “This is merely the beginning. Each such venture strengthens not only our resources but our conviction that we belong, that our condition does not excommunicate us from the human race.”
As the carriage door opened before us, I caught a flicker of movement across the street—a figure withdrawing into the shadows as my gaze turned in that direction.
My smile faded. Perhaps we had gained more than financial support this evening.
Perhaps we had also confirmed the suspicions of those who watched from the darkness.
“You two return to the convent,” I said suddenly, helping them into the carriage. “I have one more matter to attend to before I return.”
“Sister Alice—“ Ruth began, concern in her voice.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “The night is still young, and I find I need time for reflection after such stimulation.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. But as the carriage pulled away, I turned toward the darker streets of Manhattan, my senses alert for whoever—or whatever—had been observing us from a distance.