However convincing my justifications were, I was stealing from our House. No stealing was the very first rule First taught me. I wasn’t about to put the money back, as hot as it felt in my hands. I sunk my arm deeper between the mattress and the box spring. What I found hidden there wasn’t money.

  “Do you love me, First?” That’s how I greeted her when she pulled back the lace curtain to find me waiting in the bedroom.

  “’Course I do,” she said without pause.

  “Because you never tell me you do.”

  “Little, I loved you before you was even a Glory, when you was still sickly from the city,” she said. She stepped into our room. I had remade the bed, not as perfectly as she had, and I caught her noticing something, a lopsided hospital corner, a wrinkle in the spread. I pressed her to talk on about love. “Think ’bout how I didn’t want you to do your Dark Days? Well, that was me lovin’ you. All the times I spend a bit extra on you, a bit more than Arsen likes me to. That’s me lovin’ you. And keepin’ phantom hand a secret—that’s love.”

  I cuddled into her. Her body was always a sanctuary.

  “I can tell you anything, right?”

  “You done somethin’, Little?”

  “I found something.” I unlocked myself from her hug and slid my hand under her pillow, where I had temporarily hidden the photograph: a twin to the only family portrait in the Wifey Wing. The one that hung lower than my eye level in our sitting room, below the portraits of wild birds and Saint Theresa and other people we’d never met. The headless woman portrait.

  The mother in this photo, however, had a face. Venus of Urbino. Desdemona. Salome. I’d never seen anyone (who wasn’t a Glory) as beautiful. Not even the famous actresses in the triplets’ magazines. It was her eyes—they stared at me as if daring me to love and ache and hope as vehemently as she. That woman’s eyes gave me the courage to reveal the photo then, in which baby First nestled in her strong arms, looking up at her mother, learning.

  First looked frozen with anger. “You should never poke around through my things,” she said. She plunked herself down on Second’s bed. The stuffed bear I had robbed toppled to the floor. I caught myself glimpsing at him for more money. “Does anyone else know?” First asked.

  “Like I’d rat on you. We keep each other’s secrets, in the vault.”

  “What you goin’ to do with it?”

  “The way I see it, memories are a gift,” I said, beginning the speech I’d prepared for our next meeting. It was pretty motivational, I thought. “Not everyone is lucky enough to have memory. And those who do shouldn’t waste it. We wouldn’t throw away a gift from a live one. If we don’t really like silver earrings or the smell of lilies, we still keep them. Well, memories are gifts, too. Even if we didn’t expect to receive them. Even if we might think they are not that valuable at first, they are valuable, because they are gifts that come from inside us. One-of-a-kind and custom-made just for us. We should be able to flaunt them like any other gift. Not hide them under our mattresses like we’re ashamed.”

  I told her about the Cherished Memory Club, about our visions and our games and the frenzied full-body recollections we’d often experience. The club would be the next best thing, I promised her, better than makeover day at the Spa Rosa or the Mayflower’s pancake brunch. Best of all, we could be together. “The club is where people like us—rememberers—go so they don’t have to be alone anymore.”

  First flopped back on Second’s bed, reclining in what I hoped was relief. “Tell me exactly what you do at these meetin’s,” she said, gazing up at the ceiling.

  “Mostly talk, about our pre-Sub Rosa memories. They’re not always so clear, but we go ahead with the remembering anyway. Sometimes we like to fill in the missing parts for each other. Just make it up like a game. Last time we invented a whole family tree for … someone.” It sounded foolish and trite as I said it. I wished I had the right words, but the more I spoke the more I came across like a juvenile bimbo describing a sale at the mall. I expected First to balk. She closed her eyes and folded her hands across her chest. I considered crawling onto the little bed beside her.

  “Do they make you feel good? These meetin’s?” I couldn’t tell if it was one of those moments where First asks me if I liked something as a way of declaring that she didn’t. I stalled on answering her question. The Cherished Memory Club wasn’t just about feeling good or not; it wasn’t as simple as that. “Because this photo—” First sat up and reached for the photo. I passed it to her, hesitantly, slightly fearful that she’d do something rash like rip it up. “This photo makes me feel good. That stuff you was sayin’ ’bout playin’ games. I do that. I make up all the things the woman in this photo might say to me. She always says nice things, comforting things. It’s not always easy for us Firsts, you know. Being the mommy. Who mothers me? That why I saved it for all these years. It’s a little something for me, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “You should bring it to our next meeting,” I told her, encouragingly. Again, First paused for what seemed far too long for it to be good. If the woman in the photograph could speak, I was sure she would have told First to go for it.

  “Too bad you didn’t start your club sooner,” First said, finally. “That is why I think Second didn’t last so long here. She had nothing from the past. Deep down inside I believe we need it. Arsen, of all the people, shoulda understood. Nope, he brought her here with only the clothes on her back. And even them got lost in the Dark. I bet she would have joined your club.”

  “You miss Second?” I asked, steering the conversation toward Isabella. I needed to bring her up sooner than later.

  First stared at the pile of stuffed animals on the floor around us, noticing the mess I’d made of them. “I worry ’bout her in the city. And I don’t want the others thinkin’ we’re an unhappy family,” First sighed. “Sometimes I think she’s asleep right here. I guess that’s my way of missin’ her.”

  “Maybe this bed was made for somebody else,” I said.

  “What you up to, Little?”

  “Maybe there is some other girl that should have been in our House all along. I know a way that we can show them,” I told her. “We can show them all that we’re the best house in Sub Rosa. Let me tell you my plan.”

  As I spoke at length, First’s mount fell open and stayed open. But I needed to spill it all out. My body felt effervescent with each disclosure: Isabella’s newspaper clipping at the Night Watchman’s garage, my second meeting with Jellyfish, the cab rides home from the Widower’s house, Portia’s cherished memory journal, the dreaded morning glory vine … the stolen money. That’s when my tongue got tied, when I admitted to stealing money from the Wifey Wing. The stash I had collected for Isabella’s dowry was tucked in my wardrobe drawer. I considered lying, telling First that I had already deposited it in the Dark. I couldn’t cough up a lie after all the truths I’d told. But when my lengthy speech was through, it wasn’t the money that First was concerned about.

  “You never told me you seen Jellyfish again!”

  “I ended that blackout, didn’t I,” I said. “That’s all the Glories cared about, even you.” First looked as if she was going to argue with me. “It’s not like you asked me, First,” I told her. “Think back to the blackout— did you really want to know?”

  “S’pose not,” she said. “But I’ll hear ’bout her now, please.”

  “Well, it’s just like I described it,” I said, taking a deep breath. “She met me at the water fountain. When I first saw her I got really happy, or something, like everything would be all right with her there. But then she grabbed onto me, so tight it hurt my wrist. And the next thing I knew I was falling through space. Then, my grandma, right? That’s the part I always think about. The crepe-like skin on her hands, her perfect roller-set hair, and her voice. ‘Hello,’ she said. I’m sure she said ‘hello.’”

  “Sounds like she knew you were there, Little.”

  “Yes, I guess so,” I said quietly, as it seemed like too much to admit. “First, it really felt like I was there, in grandma’s house, and that she somehow felt me there, too.”

  “I was on to you, Little. Same time you started goin’ with that orphan girl, I couldn’t help but notice your purse was emptied out. Now that you’ve pieced it all together for me, I can’t say I blame you. I would trade every dollar in this house for a hello,” First said, suddenly standing. She showed me her photo again, proudly. Pointed to her mother’s lovely, bold face. “I’d clean the Wifey Wing out to hear this woman say a single word to me.”

  XXVII

  Della O’Kande left her shoes at Dearest’s door. They sat like black patent leather guard dogs, keeping watch so no one snuck up behind us. One tipped over as Dearest passed by, and it squashed a cluster of goldenrod. I expected Dearest to squeal over her trampled plant, but the flowers sprung upright again, like they’d never been bent. Dearest froze with First’s shoe in her hand, realizing that she held one of Goddesszilla’s eight-inch platform heels. She nervously placed it down again as if laying down a live bomb.

  “Them orange flowers are very pretty,” First commented. “Pretty and hardy. Just the way beauty should be.” First sat on the floor, cross-legged. I’d only seen her sit like that when she was still in her bathrobe and had a book in her lap. She propped her elbow on the lip of a large terra cotta urn, trying to look casual. I appreciated her effort. However, the jasmine plant inside the urn moved over for her. So did Portia, Dearest, and Isabella. They leaned way back in their seats, posed between formal and intimidated—a First had come to join our club.

  First held the photo of her mother: her passport in. She didn’t offer up any memories. Instead, she let the photo be passed around the room. Each of us made comments about what we saw. Isabella had the photo first. She was a bit shy and only smiled down at it and whispered, “How lovely.”

  “Those eyes!” Portia said. “It’s like she’s reading my mind with her eyes. She’s more beautiful than any of us.” First nodded at each of us as we spoke, as if we were her students answering questions correctly.

  “I hid this photograph for so long that I stopped thinkin’ anything ’bout it, ’cept that it was a secret, you know. That is was somethin’ I really wasn’t s’posed to have,” was all she said about it. But as the photo was passed back to her, I saw her eyes gloss over. She looked away for a moment, and Portia, Isabella, and Dearest shot quick glances at each other. Was First going to cry? No one had cried at the Cherished Memory Club yet. Then First drew in such a deep breath that her face pointed toward the ceiling. When she finally exhaled, her body relaxed so much that her back was curled forward, slouching. She reached her arms behind her and rubbed her own shoulders, shifting somewhat uncomfortably. I wondered how memory would affect her towering form.

  Colour dabbled Isabella’s once bone-white skin now; her cheeks were brushed in bronze. At the meeting she unbuttoned her stiff black lace blouse; sun freckles spotted her chest and neck, even though she’d been kept inside the Mansion and out of the sun for days. If she had loosened her tortuously tight bun, her hair would surely have been curly. She was becoming the Brianna she told us about: tan-skinned and moppy-maned and vibrant. But there were circles under her eyes. She was tired. We all were. That Saturday morning we met at five a.m. Sub Rosa slept while we remembered. “I couldn’t miss a meeting,” said Isabella. “Diamond locked me in my room, and I just about gave up. But then I remembered how I used to sneak out of the orphanage. I left a bundle under my bedroll to look like I was still in bed. I even stuffed my slippers and let them peep out the end of the quilt, like my feet were sticking out. Then I snuck out the window.”

  “How’d you get down from your window?” asked Dearest.

  “Little arranged a rope,” First exclaimed. “She has her ways, you know. She’s got big plans for Isabella, don’t you, Little?”

  I moved closer to Isabella. “What is this look you’re giving me?” she asked as I sat down beside her.

  “First and I talked a lot about it, and we want to bring you over to the House of Arsen. You deserve better than being an orphan. And, really, the only thing keeping you there is your dowry.”

  “A stingy bit of money,” said First. The topic of dowries was still a sore spot for her.

  Dearest cupped her hands over her ears before we managed to say too much. “I don’t wanna know. I don’t wanna know.”

  Portia gave her a warning nudge. “This is important, Dearest.” Dearest pressed her hands to her ears harder and started humming frantically. Portia wrestled with her, half-playful, half-forceful. I readied myself to break it up. “What if it was you, Dearest?” Portia shouted. “What if all your pretty pink clothes were gone and all you had to wear was stiff black lace, hmm? What if you had to give up your plants and go work in the Dowager’s crappy garden? Wouldn’t you want someone to rescue you?” Dearest stopped struggling and Portia let go of her arms. “I say, right on, Little. You show that Dowager what family is all about.”

  “Thanks, Portia,” I said, a little taken aback by her call to arms.

  “I’d do it for my sisters,” said Portia.

  “Likka and Myra?” asked Dearest.

  “Well, yes, them. But I meant my real sisters. Did you know I had sisters? As soon as I can remember their names, I’m going to ask Klime to find them and bring them to the Rosa.” Portia pressed her thumb to her forehead as though she might jimmy her sisters’ names out of her brain. The rest of us watched her, silent and anxious. No Glory had ever thought to recruit someone from the city before, not someone they knew.

  “That’s not what the Club is for,” Dearest said. “It’s called the Cherished Memory Club for a reason. I’m here to have happy, cherished memories, not to change Sub Rosa. Not cause a mutiny. ”

  “Mutiny,” said First. “That’s quite the grownup word you’re using. You really have been playin’ with the big girls.” Dearest blinked at her. “Say, now that we’re talkin’ grownup, let me ask you where you got them seeds for your garden, Dearest? There’s no greenhouse on Sub Rosa. The Smoke Shoppe only carries fresh roses. Your seeds come from the city. You do such a good job pretendin’ they all sprung up by accident. Or like some one-time live one gave them to you, claimin’ they were magic beans. However, you get them from Mr Anderson, who owns Anderson’s Nursery. I know this for certain because he also visits the Wifey Wing. Seems strange that your regular would also have a fondness for me, us being such opposites. But don’t worry none, you’re his favourite. He talks all about you and that green thumb of yours. You must grow every kind of plant you can buy in that city nursery. How do you know these city plants won’t cause some kinda reaction on Sub Rosa? There is always a reaction when you introduce a new species to a place. Some kinda mu-tin-y?”

  Isabella sneezed. I plucked a tiny white flower from the jasmine plant, rolled it between my forefinger and thumb and brought my fingertips to my nostrils, smiling. Dearest was scared; she shuffled around the room as if trying to hide the landscape of plants behind her back. “She’s not going to tell on you, Dearest,” I assured her.

  “No, I’m not gonna tell,” First confirmed. “I’m just sayin’ look around you. Look at the five of us meetin’ before sunup on a Saturday. Change is happenin’, as sure as the city seed you planted in Sub Rosa soil is growin’.”

  “Besides, if an orphan pays her dowry off, she’s then entitled to leave the Mansion and go back to her rightful House,” I said. Isabella began sinking into Dearest’s sofa like a stone.

  “Oh, you’re buying Isabella? It’s that easy?” asked Dearest, her voiced still a panicked whine.

  Portia shook her head. “I hate to break it to you, but you can’t just buy an orphan. She’ll have to go back to the Dark for her dowry.”

  “I’ll never be able to,” Isabella said from her fetal position. “I’m not like you, Little.”

  “That’s why we’re going with you.” I patted her hunched shoulder. “There’s no rules about us coming with you.”

  “The Dowager probably never made that rule ’cause it don’t occur to her that us Glories will band together. She thinks we’re out for nothin’ but ourselves,” said First.

  “Because she’s a fucking bitch,” Isabella said. Everyone in the room gasped in unison. “Well, she is,” Isabella added.

  “We’re going to get you out of there,” First told her.

  “Hold on,” Portia blurted. “What do you mean ‘we’? What is all this ‘we’ talk?”

  “We’re going as a family,” said First. “Isabella, Little, and me.” It was First’s idea. Once she got the notion that Jellyfish might show her her mother the same way she showed me my grandmother, she made up her mind about the Dark. I let First hope for what she wanted to hope for. She seemed so determined. I watched her inch up to Isabella to pat her knee. Their first touch. Isabella kicked involuntarily, like she had been tapped with a doctor’s mallet.

  “I was the very first Glory to make the trip, back when I made my dowry, and I survived just fine,” First told her. “And Little’s got her magic touch to help feel her way around, and she’s been to the Dark twice now. Both times she came back with more smarts and strength than when she went in. All her city memories started in the Dark. She reckons that’s where the memories are kept. So we’re happy to go with you. We’ll make it an adventure.”

  “Thank you,” Isabella managed. “No one has ever done anything …” She trailed off—maybe to reflect on Jenny or the nun who had spent years searching for her.

  “I’m going, too, then,” said Portia, clearing her throat. She wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I never do anything. Seriously, if I bead one more necklace or glitter-glue one more gift box, I am going to puke. I want to be famous. And Little, what if you’re right about the second trip to the Dark bringing the memories back? You’ve already got more than me, and better ones. After these meetings you all leave here laughing and kissing, and I end up with my dead mother stuck in my head for hours, days even.” Dearest groaned at the mention of death. “You should go too, Dearest, maybe you’d grow up a little.”