FourteenThe place Tate referred to as the chapel held a row of small windows running just beneath the ceiling along the back wall. Too high to look through. From the outside, they were below ground but window wells afforded some natural light. Nearly a dozen claw-footed bathtubs sat in rows as evenly spaced as planted trees. Sheets of silk hanging over irregularly placed clotheslines reminded Bridget of bunting lining a parade route. The fabrics, though not placed strategically for privacy, shimmered with reflected light thrown from flickering candles. Three burned in front of a statue; three others burned in front of an occupied bathtub.
A woman with flame-red hair, who’d not bothered with a bathing slip, lay back, her breasts as exposed as those in the barroom painting. Another woman—or
