by Lydia Kang
“Absolutely not. I need Jacob.” What Cora didn’t say was that though Jacob and Cora might never live in the same room at the same time, they couldn’t seem to exist without the other. She’d spent so many formative years as Jacob. It was only when she turned fourteen, her feminine body arriving with quiet inevitability, that Charlotte had moved them to the island of Manhattan. It had been time to school Cora in how to be a lady. She’d loathed leaving Jacob behind—it was like trying to convince herself she no longer needed her leg or her arm. And so, her first act as a resurrectionist had been to exhume her former self, in the form of a twin brother. She touched the bruises on her knuckles. They were his. Hers. Theirs.
Leah and Alexander were still watching her. She smiled brightly and said, “Jacob has brought us more income than I could alone. He’s the only reason we can afford to live here on Irving Place. It’s that simple. So, no, I’m not saying goodbye to Jacob. And I need the safety he affords me.” Here, Cora placed a hand over her second heart.
“Surely no one knows,” Leah said. “After all this time.” She scratched her nose—a nervous tic.
Alexander grunted. “If only that were true. Dr. Grier kept talking about Cora, until the day he died. The two-hearted girl with Chinese heritage.”
“You see?” Cora said to Leah.
Leah cursed under her breath, and Alexander gave her a severe look that made her get up and leave the room.
“So,” Cora said. “The new Grand Anatomical Museum. I’ve been there twice and have not yet met the curator.”
“I don’t like where this is going,” Alexander said, returning to his paper.
“And I need to meet him.”
“I see.”
“And you have. You’ve had commissions.”
“Cora, I’d rather take a manure bath than let you meet him. Frederick Duncan treats women worse than his dogs, and those he’s subjected to vivisections. He’s awful.”
I’d rather meet him than see Flint again, Cora thought. Anyone but Flint. She flexed her bruised fist behind her back.
“Oh, Alexander. But many of the exhibits and lectures at his museum are educational, are they not? If they wish to compete with the other anatomical museums, they’ll need material. I’ll be discreet. I always have, and it’s worked. They’re open this afternoon. Be my escort?”
Leah walked back in, clearly having overheard everything. “You’ll need supplies. A blade. At least two, I’d say, from the rumors flying about. I’ve heard that Duncan’s a right scoundrel.”
In one smooth motion, Cora stood. Her gown was frilled and laced about the hem, tucked beneath the waist, the bodice sleek and tight. Her corset fit perfectly, bosom peeping from beneath the gauzy triangle draped over her shoulders. “I’m sure Duncan will think I’m well supplied as is, but very well, Leah.”
At Leah’s wide eyes and Alexander’s frown, Cora stifled a laugh, then went skipping upstairs to add some stone-sharpened accoutrements to her toilette. A day without seeing Theodore Flint would be good, and a day’s work to keep her business going? Even better.
Cora and Alexander took an omnibus the twenty or so streets downtown from Union Square. The four-horse-drawn vehicle was crammed with people, the side garishly painted with its name, “The Thomas Jefferson.” They paid their fare to the driver, who yelled at everyone at once, “Get on, yeh hoody-doody! Hop the twig, make room!”—omnibus drivers were the angriest men on the entire island—and then they squeezed onto red velvet seats in the back. The cushions were well past luxuriousness, stained and crushed from the thousands of previous passengers.
“One day, they’ll make a train that’s up on legs, like a bridge across the whole island,” Alexander noted. “I heard some men speaking of it. An elevated train. Or even one that goes underground.”
“What an absurd notion,” Cora said, wedged between Alexander and a plump lady. Cora perked up as soon as the horse-drawn vehicle stopped at the corner of Anthony and Broadway.
Alexander placed Cora’s hand over his arm as they walked down the street, staying far from the piles of horse manure on either side. The cacophony of the omnibus drivers, the hundreds of hooves on the circular cobblestones, and the iron-clad wagon wheels was almost soothing. This was the heartbeat of the city, the common music that assailed any newcomer stepping off a steam boiler in port.
Alexander stared blankly ahead as they walked. He rarely smiled since Charlotte died. Cora suspected at times that his affection toward her—holding her arm, asking about her health—was only a duty he was paying to Charlotte. But Cora was grateful, nevertheless. She never stopped longing for the playful uncle she once knew, the one who built sundials out of paper for her, and made puppets out of ink drawn on his fingertips to keep her laughing endlessly on cold winter days.
To the right, New York Hospital’s grounds were contained by a delicate wrought-iron gate. To her left was the beautiful Broadway Theatre, a flag waving merrily atop. And there on the next street stood the Grand Anatomical Museum, between a milliner’s and a chemist’s shop. Signs were propped outside, and a forlorn-looking boy wearing a sandwich sign advertising today’s exhibits walked up and down the sidewalk. A line of men and women waited to gain entrance.
Cora read the boy’s sign.
THE ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF HUMAN LIFE
MALFORMATIONS AND MONSTROSITIES
INTELLECTUAL AND MORAL CURIOSITIES!
OUR DEITY AT WORK!
ADMISSION PRICE ONLY 20¢
“Twenty cents only?” Cora wondered fleetingly, Would I be worth so little? But she forced the idea away. As usual, she blurred her thoughts over words like monstrosity and malformation, as if they had nothing to do with her. “I suppose they’re trying to steal Barnum’s customers. He’s charging twenty-five,” Cora noted.
“Barnum has more to offer. Bearded ladies, and enormously rotund babies, and Faber’s mechanical talking machine . . . It’s quite the competition.”
Down the street, just past City Hall, Cora could see Barnum’s American Museum—gaudy flags of all nations flying from its rooftop; oval paintings of bizarre animals posted between the rows of windows. General Tom Thumb—a dwarf just over two feet high—had his tiny carriage and tiny horses on display outside the entrance.
Cora reached for coins in her reticule, but Alexander stayed her gloved hand.
“No need. I’ve my studio here now.”
Cora stared at him. “You do? I thought your studio was over on Henry Street.” It had been over a year since she’d visited him there.
“I only use that one for my marble and clay work, or the pieces I send to Philadelphia.” Alexander smiled sadly. “Though that work is slow going. These days, the rich want oil paintings, not sculpture. And Duncan has been purchasing much of my wax work, so he demanded I move my work and living situation here so he can dictate his tastes more precisely. I hate to admit it, but he’ll likely work with you too. He’s always looking for new special exhibitions.”
“And I am always looking for a new buyer.”
She stopped abruptly, not wanting to mention Theodore Flint’s name. His behavior last night proved he was there to steal her entire business, not just become a buyer. Yet she oddly felt shy about mentioning him to Alexander.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Alexander asked, touching the hand that lay on his forearm.
“Quite. I don’t enjoy a long queue. Let’s go in.”
Alexander murmured to the man selling tickets, who recognized him and tipped his hat. Inside, two long galleries extended far back into the building. Signs read, “The Human System” and “Health and Disease.” A staircase led to more displays of the animal world—birds and beasts, taxidermied, painted, and preserved. Stuffed porcupines and disembodied bear paws sat next to shark jaws and endless bottles of wrinkled rodents. Two-headed snakes coiled in jars, gaping askew in the only way they could.
“This way,” Alexander said, leading her toward the back of one of the galleries.
&
nbsp; “Are we going to your studio?” she asked.
“No, I’m looking for . . . Ah, here he is.”
In the distance, they could see a gentleman—well dressed, in a silk embroidered coat and narrow-striped pants with golden buttons sewn up both sides. He wore a beautiful black top hat and carried a gold-topped cane. A lavish, heavy fob sparkled from his waistcoat. He was of average height, average build, with manicured sideburns. His age was hard to determine—as if he had the feminine habit of bathing his face in goat’s milk every night. Older eyes in a young face, which was somewhat disturbing.
Still, this was the gentleman on whose account Leah thought she needed two knives to protect herself? What an idea. Jacob could smash his face in the mud in less than ten seconds.
But between Cora and the curator was an impediment. Two physicians, Drs. Tilton and Goossens, were in the midst of a heated discussion with a rather short woman, dressed neck to floor in sooty, smothering black wool, dark hair swept to the sides so that it covered her ears. The doctors caught Cora’s eye, looking almost desperate for her to interrupt. Both physicians had helped her find unusual bodies to sell to the College of Physicians and Surgeons.
She whispered to Alexander, and he let go of her arm. The woman in the black dress stepped away from the physicians just as Cora arrived.
“Good day to you both,” the lady said in a decidedly British accent.
Turning, the woman glanced at Cora. Her dark eyes sparkled, as if she’d formed an opinion of Cora in that single glance. For good or bad, it was hard to tell. But oddly, her left eye didn’t move. It was glass.
“And who are you?” the lady asked.
How rude not to wait to be introduced! Cora was dumbstruck, and Dr. Tilton intervened to hurry the woman on her way.
“Very well, good to meet you again, Miss Blackwell.”
“Dr. Blackwell,” she corrected him.
“Yes, yes. Very well. It was good to make your acquaintance.”
“Indeed. I shall look into the Tompkins Square Dispensary and see if they have work for me there.” With a swirl of skirts, she left the room.
“The beautiful Miss Lee!” Dr. Tilton said, clearly happier to see her than Dr. Blackwell had been. He bowed and kissed Cora’s hand. “And how are you?”
“Well, and looking for more work,” Cora said, smiling fondly. The doctors both puffed out their chests, like mallard drakes. “My goodness, Dr. Tilton. Did I hear that lady correctly—she is a doctor?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Well, that is extraordinary. Is it true?”
“Apparently. She has just gotten her degree from Geneva Medical College. I can’t imagine why the school would admit a woman. She now seeks a position in New York. Extraordinary.”
Considering the look of disgust on Tilton’s face, he didn’t mean extraordinary in any positive sense whatsoever.
“And how are your patients?” Cora asked. In her mind, she ticked off the names of the patients she followed with both doctors—she kept a list in a ledger hidden in her room. No one saw it, save herself and Leah.
“No news,” Dr. Tilton said, but Dr. Goossens raised his eyebrows.
“Here’s a to-do, Miss Lee. Do you remember Miss Ruby Benningfield?”
“Ah yes, the lady with the tail.”
It was true. She had been born with a tail, nearly four inches long—hairless and furless, boneless and soft as the skin between thumb and forefinger. Only her parents and Dr. Tilton knew of it. Her parents feared surgery at such a young age, but the lady was looking to have it removed before she entered society in earnest at the age of seventeen. Still, Cora did not think she would see her end up in a cemetery anytime soon—Ruby was too healthy, apart from the tail. Only a random act of bad luck would kill her early.
“How is she?” Cora asked.
“She’s gone.”
Cora inhaled in surprise. “Excuse me? What do you mean, gone?”
“She had gone to Stewart’s to buy some silks, and as she left, she just vanished. Her companion said they were steps away from entering their carriage, and suddenly she wasn’t there.”
“How strange. Are the police involved?”
“They are. But you know those copper stars. They hardly know where to start. Her family fears that she is dead.” Dr. Goossens paused and thought for a moment. “In the meantime, I have an update on one of our curiosities. The older lady with a beautiful mass in her neck?”
“Ah. Ida Difford,” Cora said. The poor lady had been coughing up hair, of all things. Trichoptysis. Dr. Goossens had noted that he could feel teeth growing there. Cora had heard of such cases. Tumors with hair and teeth, eroding into the lungs.
“The patient’s tumor is growing. We’ll have to try to remove it soon.”
“Thank you. Let me know if there is more news.”
“My pleasure, Miss Lee,” Dr. Goossens said.
Dr. Tilton bowed. “The education of our young doctors ought not to be such a behind-the-scenes affair, but so it must be. Medical students are best kept to studying their books and cadavers rather than spending time digging them up. It’s not a gentleman’s business to raise the dead.”
It was Cora’s, of course. And speaking of business . . .
She looked past the two doctors to see the curator walking away in the company of a gentleman. She motioned to Alexander, who extricated himself from a group of visitors discussing a wax figure of a foot he’d sculpted.
After polite goodbyes to the two doctors, they walked quickly to the corner of the gallery, where several wax models of abdominal organs were on display, blooming with shining brown livers and magenta spleens. Just as they reached the curator, the man he was speaking with turned to leave. Cora’s heart thumped hard and seemed to skid to a halt.
It was Theodore Flint.
CHAPTER 5
“What are you doing here?” Flint asked Cora, eyeing Alexander the way one might regard moldy bread. Behind him, Duncan had turned toward the door, but a couple had stopped him in greeting. The lady’s great bosom nearly overflowed her lace bodice, and Duncan fixed on it while he spoke.
“You’re very rude,” Cora said. “Excuse me.” She kept Alexander’s arm under hers and attempted to push past Flint. He hooked her other arm, and now they were an uncomfortable, awkward chain of three, straining under the tension of decorum to split in opposite directions.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Flint asked.
Alexander was enough of a gentleman not to raise his voice, but he took a step closer and put his extra two inches of height to good use. He stared down at Flint. “Release her immediately,” he said, dropping the pitch of his voice. Cora smiled. Alexander was so even tempered, but when his voice went to these purring registers, he sounded absolutely lethal.
“Well! Are we having a row? And over a pretty girl?” Duncan had stepped away from the couple and sidled up to the commotion. He waved his gilt-topped cane toward Flint. “Alexander! Do you know this scamp?”
“I do not,” he murmured.
“She does,” Flint said, nodding to Cora.
She flushed, so much that perspiration prickled under the edges of her wig. This was not how she’d hoped to meet the curator. Usually, she had their attention, their full attention. And while they gazed at her, trying to attribute her odd beauty to a family of consequence, wondering perhaps if she might end up underneath them in bed, their questions swirled. But then Cora would turn the compass needle of the conversation toward a different desire—a body for dissection or display, a special one that only she and her men could procure. Absolute and confidential discretion. Excellent references, if need be. A fair price.
Cora felt her moment of advantage quickly ebbing away under Flint’s bright grin. Alexander broke the silence.
“Mr. Duncan, this is my niece, Cora Lee.”
“It is a good day when a beautiful lady has on her arm a relative, and not a husband.” Duncan smiled—a slow smile that stretched into a full-
fledged arc of ivory teeth. It was such an enormous grin, Cora wondered if he could swallow a rabbit whole. He reached out, and Cora withdrew both her arms from the men beside her. Duncan took her gloved hand. But instead of kissing the glove, his lips found the wedge of skin on her bent wrist. The kiss left a moist mark, and Cora wished she had some Fowler’s arsenic solution to wash it off. “I am Frederick Duncan, the curator of this fine institution.”
“It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve sought an introduction for some time,” Cora said.
“Have you! Am I so lucky? Well, you must come back and enjoy one of our exhibitions. I would be delighted to give you a personal tour.”
Cora tried not to pout. She was no stranger to museums of this sort, or what she’d already provided for most of them. After a public dissection, specimens were often placed in alcohol-filled jars for display. The curved spine and webbed hands she’d found were at the American Museum. But P. T. Barnum preferred living examples. He’d been wooing the conjoined twins of Siam, Chang and Eng, to become an exhibit, like his 576-pound lady, leopard-skin-clad wrestlers, and spinning “Shaking Quakers.” Cora would make better money with an anatomic museum like Duncan’s. And real anatomists would work on the specimens, enlightening the world with the discoveries instead of some of the quack showmen at the smaller museums who only gawked at findings.
“Mr. Duncan, I—”
“And how do you know Mr. Flint?” he asked. “Not a beau, I hope?”
“Not at all, but please allow me to—”
“Excellent, excellent. Flint, next time we do business, you must include introductions to your beautiful acquaintances in the bargain!” An assistant had rushed through a side door and now spoke directly into Duncan’s ear. “I’m afraid I must be off. It was very good to meet the very beautiful Cora May.” His eyes skimmed her from her hat to her hem, then back up, pausing at her bodice. Why was he staring at her rib cage in that way? He blinked, then waved at Alexander. “I must speak to you about your shipment of wax, as well, Alexander. It’s scandalously overpriced. We should not order from them again. Follow me. We’ll discuss it on the way.”
