The Mechanical Theater by Brooke Johnson Read Free Book Online Page B

quietly, her voice shaking. “I just—­He—­”
    “I walked her home,” said Solomon. “To make sure she made it all right.”
    Damien scoffed. “Why bother? Nothing would happen on those streets she doesn’t give out anyway. You know what she is, don’t you?” he sneered, glancing down at her. “The little harlot of Le Theatre Mecanique.”
    “Stop it,” she whispered. “Just stop it.” She raised her chin and stared at Damien, her eyes bright. Dark splotches spread across her face, and she shook her head, loose curls falling around her flushed cheeks. “I would never—­” She exhaled sharply and squeezed her eyes shut, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I—­”
    “You what?” Damien narrowed his eyes. “Don’t pretend to have dignity, Dahlia.”
    Her lip trembled, tears shining in her downcast eyes. “Why must you be so cruel?”
    He raised an eyebrow. “Now I’m cruel, am I? Don’t forget what I’ve done for you.” He grabbed her arm, and she resisted for a second before letting him tug her toward the lift.
    The hairs on the back of Solomon’s neck bristled, and heat flushed through his tense muscles. “Dah—­” He pressed his lips together. “Miss Appleton, if you want me to—­”
    She shook her head without looking at him. “Just go home, Mr. Wade.”
    Damien jerked her into the lift and banged the gates shut. He slammed the lift control lever forward and the platform juddered upward out of sight, leaving Solomon alone in the entry hall. He clenched his fists. Part of him wished he knew what floor Dahlia lived on—­and what room—­so that he could help her. Standing in the middle of the Tuesenberry lobby, he was useless. But another part of him said to leave it be. It wasn’t his business.
    He turned his back to the lift, and the muscles in his jaw twitched.
    The problem was, he wanted it to be his business.
    S olomon leaned against the door to the spare bedroom and stared at Emily’s sleeping form. Her breath rattled and wheezed in her chest, interrupted by faint coughs.
    “How is she?” he asked.
    His sister Petra withdrew a damp cloth from Emily’s forehead and curled her fingers around the rag in her lap. “Worse,” she said with a sigh. Streaks of grease marred her cheeks—­another long night with her engineering work. Her amber-­gold eyes were bright with the beginnings of tears, but her cheeks were dry. “I sent word to Emmerich in Paris today.”
    Solomon straightened. “Do you think he could send us the money we need?”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know if he can do anything but—­” She glanced at Emily and sighed. “The truth is, we need money, and I don’t know who else to turn to.” She tightened her fingers around the damp rag in her lap. “I hate to ask him. It’s not his responsibility to take care of this family. That’s my duty.” She glanced up at Solomon. “ Our duty.”
    “I’m doing what I can, Petra.”
    “I know you are. I am too, but even with your two jobs and the little bit of money I’m able to bring home, it’s not enough. She needs better medicine, proper care. If Emmerich could send us even a small bit of money, we could give her that.”
    Solomon crossed the room and placed his hand on Petra’s shoulder, but she brushed him away and dipped the rag into a bowl of cool water on the floor. She wrung the excess from the cloth and then pressed the rag to Emily’s forehead. The small girl shivered at Petra’s touch and coughed again.
    “Is her new medicine having any effect?” he asked.
    She shook her head. “Not yet.”
    Emily sprang from her pillow and retched. Solomon snatched a tin from the bedside table and shoved it into her lap. Coughs wracked through her fragile body, and she spit blue-­tinged mucus onto the aluminum tray. Petra stood and gently rubbed Emily’s back. She coughed once more and collapsed back onto the bed. Solomon removed the tray from her lap, and Petra wiped her lips with a dry towel