have no wish to keep the memento and likely had forgotten she owned it.
All that Rosemary said was true; Aunt Genevieve verified it in cutting, concise words. Equally distressing, her aunt informed Angel that she owed it to her to marry the man of her choosing, and her aunt’s choice made Angel shiver with revulsion: Benjamin Crane, one of the meanest, oldest, and richest misers in all of Lanville, who’d often leered at Angel. According to her aunt, Angel, being nameless, would never make a better match or find another man who’d want her, and Angel should consider it an honor to be presented with such an “auspicious opportunity.” Auspicious for her aunt, maybe, but not for Angel. Her aunt went on to say that the Depression had hit all of them hard, but she’d provided for Angel, who should consider herself fortunate not to have been kicked out on the street to fend for herself.
Except for her companionship with the friendly cook, Nettie, Angel almost wished her aunt had kicked her out. She certainly wouldn’t marry Mr. Crane, old enough to be her grandfather, and felt a bit like Cinderella escaping her evil stepmother and wicked stepsisters. But no glass slippers existed for her, no magical ball to attend, and certainly no prince. Only the distant memory of a forgotten mother urged her down the silent road, along with the faintest recollection of her sweet scent and the gentle wisps of a song, perhaps an old lullaby, crooned in a voice that soothed Angel. The fleeting memory visited her both awake and asleep, and Angel reasoned any woman with such a voice couldn’t be the vindictive monster her aunt described.
She wasn’t sure how she felt to have a mother people thought of as a traveling carnival oddity, but above all else, she wished to find her. Even the ambiguity of her quest was preferable to the certainty of her future if she stayed in Lanville. Perhaps she might learn what it felt like to be happy like the little girl in the picture.
Her emotions dictated every action; reason had long fled. She refused to think beyond the flicker of hope that her mother might want to know her, that somehow her absence had all been a dreadful mistake.
The streets remained eerily quiet; not even a dog barked. Angel kept close to the elm trees, should the need to duck behind one for cover present itself. The neighbors thought highly of her aunt, who involved herself in charitable endeavors, and would no doubt report Angel’s whereabouts should they peek through their curtains and see her skulking in the night with her luggage.
The windows of the houses remained dark, quiet. Yet her heart raced with each sudden snap and creak, sure she would soon be caught.
How much time elapsed before she reached the train depot, Angel didn’t know. Her feet in her pumps hurt dreadfully, her legs, almost-numb, throbbed, and her stockings did little to keep out the chill night air. A late March wind blew sharp and cold beneath her calf-length skirt, and she pulled her coat closer beneath her chin as she approached the ticket window and took a place in line.
“A one-way ticket to Coventry, Connecticut, please,” she informed the bespectacled man when her turn came, mentioning the town she’d seen on the envelope before Faye grabbed it.
“Certainly, miss. That’ll be three dollars.”
“So much?” she asked, her hopes plummeting. “I’m only going one way.”
“That’ll still be three dollars.”
“Thank you, but… I—I’ve changed my mind.”
Crestfallen, she moved away. The next gentleman in line quickly stepped up and took her place at the window before the idea surfaced to ask the stationmaster where two dollars and twenty-five cents would take her. Eyeing the line that had grown by half, Angel decided to continue down the platform. She should have taken a bus. She’d had no idea traveling by train would cost more than she possessed, the last of her earnings
All that Rosemary said was true; Aunt Genevieve verified it in cutting, concise words. Equally distressing, her aunt informed Angel that she owed it to her to marry the man of her choosing, and her aunt’s choice made Angel shiver with revulsion: Benjamin Crane, one of the meanest, oldest, and richest misers in all of Lanville, who’d often leered at Angel. According to her aunt, Angel, being nameless, would never make a better match or find another man who’d want her, and Angel should consider it an honor to be presented with such an “auspicious opportunity.” Auspicious for her aunt, maybe, but not for Angel. Her aunt went on to say that the Depression had hit all of them hard, but she’d provided for Angel, who should consider herself fortunate not to have been kicked out on the street to fend for herself.
Except for her companionship with the friendly cook, Nettie, Angel almost wished her aunt had kicked her out. She certainly wouldn’t marry Mr. Crane, old enough to be her grandfather, and felt a bit like Cinderella escaping her evil stepmother and wicked stepsisters. But no glass slippers existed for her, no magical ball to attend, and certainly no prince. Only the distant memory of a forgotten mother urged her down the silent road, along with the faintest recollection of her sweet scent and the gentle wisps of a song, perhaps an old lullaby, crooned in a voice that soothed Angel. The fleeting memory visited her both awake and asleep, and Angel reasoned any woman with such a voice couldn’t be the vindictive monster her aunt described.
She wasn’t sure how she felt to have a mother people thought of as a traveling carnival oddity, but above all else, she wished to find her. Even the ambiguity of her quest was preferable to the certainty of her future if she stayed in Lanville. Perhaps she might learn what it felt like to be happy like the little girl in the picture.
Her emotions dictated every action; reason had long fled. She refused to think beyond the flicker of hope that her mother might want to know her, that somehow her absence had all been a dreadful mistake.
The streets remained eerily quiet; not even a dog barked. Angel kept close to the elm trees, should the need to duck behind one for cover present itself. The neighbors thought highly of her aunt, who involved herself in charitable endeavors, and would no doubt report Angel’s whereabouts should they peek through their curtains and see her skulking in the night with her luggage.
The windows of the houses remained dark, quiet. Yet her heart raced with each sudden snap and creak, sure she would soon be caught.
How much time elapsed before she reached the train depot, Angel didn’t know. Her feet in her pumps hurt dreadfully, her legs, almost-numb, throbbed, and her stockings did little to keep out the chill night air. A late March wind blew sharp and cold beneath her calf-length skirt, and she pulled her coat closer beneath her chin as she approached the ticket window and took a place in line.
“A one-way ticket to Coventry, Connecticut, please,” she informed the bespectacled man when her turn came, mentioning the town she’d seen on the envelope before Faye grabbed it.
“Certainly, miss. That’ll be three dollars.”
“So much?” she asked, her hopes plummeting. “I’m only going one way.”
“That’ll still be three dollars.”
“Thank you, but… I—I’ve changed my mind.”
Crestfallen, she moved away. The next gentleman in line quickly stepped up and took her place at the window before the idea surfaced to ask the stationmaster where two dollars and twenty-five cents would take her. Eyeing the line that had grown by half, Angel decided to continue down the platform. She should have taken a bus. She’d had no idea traveling by train would cost more than she possessed, the last of her earnings
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