Chapter 1

Monticello, Iowa

Spring 1903

Mama always said eavesdropping was the surest way to stir up trouble and make enemies out of perfectly good neighbors. For

the first twenty-three years of Sadie West's life, she'd adhered to her mother's counsel and turned away from any gossip within

earshot. But when she left home and found employment at the Hoag feather duster factory as a sorter, the only way to pass

the time was to lean closer to the chin-waggers and glean what she could from their conversations. Under the circumstances,

she rationalized that even her pious mother would understand.

Her father's riding accident had forced her to leave the farm a month ago and come to the city for work. In that time Sadie had overheard conversations about courtships gone awry for scandalous reasons, bar fights that required police intervention, and upcoming socials that made her long for Marvin Bennett's company. The chatter kept her mind occupied as she tossed feathers into their designated bins. It was mindless work that left her legs aching and her body covered in a fine layer of turkey dander. Hardly a romantic job.

But the bits and pieces of Monti gossip made the long days pass quicker, keeping her imagination fed and giving her titillating

tidbits to work into her letters to her younger sisters, who remained at home doing what they could to plow the fields without

the help of their bedridden pa. The thought of her family's situation made her shiver, but she shoved down the worries that

threatened to surface. Circumstances were bleak, but things would become only more dire if she gave in to the heavy feelings.

"I thought Otis Taylor would have come back by now," Alta, a sorter stationed to Sadie's immediate right, said to Sylvia at

the end of the line. Sadie's ears perked up at the mention of the elusive gentleman. His name and story intrigued her and

had provided hours of entertainment as she took the fragments she knew about him and filled in the rest however she felt inclined.

Otis Taylor, the handsome son of Monti elite, who'd left due to his musical genius a decade ago, was now expected to return.

And the women of the town could not wait to bat their eyes and compete for his attention.

She looked at the mountain of feathers before her and buried a smile that crept to her lips. Someday she, too, would go back

home and rush into the arms of her loved ones. She'd tell her sisters every detail of her time away and make it all sound

thrilling. And someday, Lord willing, she would see Marvin strolling up her long walkway, back from school and finally ready

to proclaim himself smitten. Gone would be his tentative smile; he'd grin at her and take her in his arms. She shook her head,

chiding herself for allowing her musings to have too much rein.

"I heard he's too busy performing." Sylvia's lips stuck out in a pout as she continued her conversation with Alta. "It's not fair. The rest of the world gets to hear Otis play, and we don't. It'd be so exciting if he came home. And he must—the house is his now."

Sadie inched closer, preferring talk of Otis, who was as good as fictional to her, over the heavier thoughts that weighed

on her mind. Old worries over her father's abysmally slow recovery and her family's desperate financial situation, as well

as new worries about her room and board, were ever pressing. But she had a job, and although her sacrifice had not solved

all her problems, she'd managed to keep the bank at bay for this long already—that was something to be proud of. She stood

a little taller. She'd sort feathers forever if that was what her situation required.

The Hoag duster factory had once been a broom factory. But as the story went, or perhaps it was the truth, the senior Mr.Hoag

was approached one day by a man with turkey feathers. He insisted on a broom made of the plumage, but their stiff, brittle

nature was not conducive to broom making. Rather than abandon the idea entirely, Mr.Hoag removed the pith from the feathers

and attached them to a shorter handle, creating a novel duster that was soon in high demand. Such high demand that when Sadie's

father's horse lost its footing and fell on him, breaking bones in his back and legs that forced the never-idle man into bed

with a dismal prognosis, she'd easily been able to find a job at the factory. She'd left home in a hurry, promising the predatorial

bank that she'd send money and that they had no reason to call in the family's debt. Her sisters had also rallied, promising

to turn the soil over themselves and plant as many fields as they could. Though all their efforts might prove futile, they

were fighters, and Sadie would keep fighting.

She grabbed a handful of feathers and began tossing them in with renewed gusto. Her sisters had often called her the General because of her tendency to take charge. As General, she'd persevere, even if doing so meant long days of tedious work and, she cringed, even longer nights spent in squalor.

When the current owner of the duster factory, Mr.Elmer Hoag, asked Sylvia to go to a different station and help remove pith,

the conversation that had kept Sadie's imagination engaged died, replaced by only the whir of the lathe turning handles. Sadie

sucked in her bottom lip, debating striking up her own conversation with Alta.

She cleared her throat. "I've been meaning to ask, have you always lived in Monticello?"

Alta pursed her lips before answering. "I was born in Des Moines. I came to Monti when I was seven."

"Must be nice knowing everyone," she muttered. The pinched expression on Alta's face had her regretting that she'd said anything.

Alta didn't want to be her friend—that much was obvious. She'd been short with Sadie from the start, always sharing sideways

glances with the other sorters and making snide comments about Sadie's clothes being out of fashion.

Alta's hands stilled. She turned and faced Sadie, a too-sweet smile on her face. "I know you're new here, and I can tell you

really want to fit in—"

"I wasn't trying—"

"No need to explain yourself. I'll give you some advice. In the city people bathe often. We pride ourselves on our appearance.

Your frame isn't so bad; you're dainty and you've a long neck." Sadie tried not to shy away from Alta's appraisal. "Cleaned

up, you wouldn't be stunning, but you'd be tolerable. If you want to be noticed here, you've really got to try harder. The

turkey dander is an inch thick on you. It's appalling. And it makes you look terribly out of place."

Sadie ducked her head and focused on the banded feathers in her hands. Did Cinderella ever want to cry out that it wasn't her fault she was covered in soot? Sadie certainly wanted to lash out at Alta and tell her how she'd been kicked out of Mrs. Smith's house because a new boarder could pay more than she'd been able to offer. She wanted to scream and tell her that if she went to the boardinghouse, she would not have enough money to make the monthly payment to the bank, and her family could lose everything. Nor was going home an option—they needed her meager wages.

Angry words rose in her throat, but she swallowed them in one uncomfortable gulp. No one could know that she'd taken up residence

in an abandoned building. If her family found out, they would worry and call her home, but then they'd be in worse straits

and could all end up without a place to live. Only harm would come from telling, and so she offered no defense.

"You're right," Sadie said, managing to keep her voice steady. "I've been preoccupied. Thank you for the advice."

She made no further attempts at conversation with Alta. With only the voice in her own head for company, the hands on the

clock moved slowly. At last the bell rang and she was able to slink away from the bustling feather duster factory, back to

the ruins she currently called home.

***

Dear Sisters,

She wrote huddled against the wall in the dusty, abandoned factory, her thin coat pulled tightly around her shoulders in a weak attempt to ward off the evening chill. Molly, Violette, and Flora expected her to write, and normally she treasured the opportunity to share her news and offer what encouragement she could. It helped her feel close to them despite the physical distance. Today she felt less inclined to write, but their neighbor and friend Peter Tippins, who delivered goods between the rural community and the city, would be waiting tomorrow for her letter. If she didn't write, her family would worry. If she wrote the truth about her circumstances, they would also worry.

She tilted her head to the side and looked out the broken window at the hazy sky that was just beginning to shift from day

to night. Dallying would not do. When the sunlight faded, all would be dark.

I'm now residing in a room much larger than I need. It's not grand, but it is big, and when the rain pours I am dry. It's

a good place to sit and think and dream of what life will be like when all of this is over.

She'd written regularly for years, happy stories with beautiful endings, and stopped only when Marvin went off to college,

leaving her with nothing but a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The urge to write hadn't come back, not even when

she convinced herself that Marvin did care and that he'd simply wanted to wait to make his feelings known until they could

act on their love. She would have to be creative now, because the truth of her circumstances was more than her sisters could

bear. A little fiction, a little embellishment, and one could almost believe this hovel was a castle and the future was full

of promise.

Movement in the corner of the abandoned factory caught her eye. A fat rat scurried across the floor. She pulled her legs in

close to her chest and forced herself to think only of the words on the page.

Sadie wrote until the night sky grew too dark to see by, telling her sisters what she could while leaving out the truth about the draft, the broken glass, and her heavy heart. These she would bear alone.

Dust and spiders filled her new home, causing her to sneeze, and during the darkest hours of the night, she often heard the

hoot of the owls or the yap of a distant coyote. In the far corner, where the draft was less noticeable, she curled on her

side. With her eyes closed, the strange sounds were louder. The wind whirred and whistled.

Once when she was a child, Pa had taken her roller-skating. He'd seen the desire in her eyes, and though they never had extra

money, he paid to rent skates and smiled as she toddled around on unsteady legs. Ever since, she'd longed to go back and feel

the excitement of the crowd. The whir of the wind brought the memory back, and soon she felt her breathing come softer and

easier. She had lived many beautiful days, and with the memory fresh in her heart, she could believe there were more to come.

***

A sliver of moon, with a smattering of clouds dancing in front of it, offered a bit of light to the otherwise murky night.

Otis glared. A moonless sky would have been better. He'd planned his late-night return with care, but he had no way of dimming

the moon's light.

His long and tiresome journey ended in front of the mansion of his boyhood. There it was, looming before him, as large as he remembered. Stiff and gabled, with tall chimneys, sculptures, and fountains. A masterpiece, declaring to the world: "The Taylors live here!" Or at least they had. He was the last Taylor left, and he did not intend to live here. He was merely coming back so he could sell the place and be done with it forever. His father was dead. His brother was

dead. He was free to rid himself of it all.

"Shall I put your luggage inside?" the driver asked.

"On the veranda will do." He wanted the man gone so he could face the memories alone, free from spectating eyes. Feelings

long suppressed were already fighting inside, pressing against his chest, determined to surface after so many years dormant.

He patted his dog, Wolf, pretending to comfort the animal, when in fact he was the one seeking reassurance. "It's late. I'm

sure you have places to be."

"I am eager to get home and to my wife." In a hurried voice, the man added, "But I won't be telling her you are returned."

"See to it you don't." Otis had paid the man a sizable sum to keep his return quiet.

"I ain't no flap jaw."

"Good." Otis tugged at his hat, lowering it farther on his head. He didn't like the prospect of becoming the subject of gossip,

and he certainly didn't want callers. "I have matters to settle and wish to do so in private."

"You told me." The man looked skeptical but didn't argue. He picked up Otis's luggage and carried it to the veranda. Otis's

belongings were sparse. It took little time to unload everything.

"Do you need anything else, sir?"

Otis shook his head. "No, go on home—you've been paid."

"Good night to you, Mr.Taylor."

Otis flinched. The title was his father's, not his. His hands tingled as he waited for the snap of the reins, the creak of

the carriage, and the sound of wheels growing faint in the distance to confirm he was alone. Just him and Wolf and the walls

of ivy.

Alone.

He stood as stiff as the statues in the yard, free to face the house and its ill-begotten memories. He'd been a boy here—there had even been a time when he had been happy in this mansion. Days of racing his brother, Reginald, across the yard, playing marbles, and dreaming of a future in this very town. It had all been short-lived. Those blissful memories now buried beneath the thick and heavy happenings that followed.

He sighed. Reginald was gone. As were his parents. And now he was here, no longer a boy but a man. How strange a twist it

was, to be returned, but only because he was the last.