Twenty-Two“Not again,” Bridget said later that night of the banging overhead. She’d folded the purple fabric, placed it back in the basket, and cleared the floor of every pin she could find. Now she sat at one of the worktables, copying the parts of the eye from her textbook into her notebook while Lily, swathed in her forever black, sat slumped in the rocker.
Only an hour earlier, Bridget had excused herself from Plum Cake, saying she was going to spend a few minutes with Lily. Unlike the madam’s incessant talking, Lily often slept, and reading in a room with radiators made Bridget feel almost hopeful.
The pounding came again, harder, more impatient. Bridget put down her pen, settled against the back of her chair, hoping the noise would stop. She’d already spent three stints at the Trut
