One

Manhattan, 1925

The champagne was flowing in the Nightingale, poured out for the dancers who crowded around the bar.

Don't tell,they agreed, toasting each other with sultry voices and bold laughter. Don't tell. You never saw me here.

You couldn't see the stars if you went outside. The city lights were too bright, the dingy clouds too thick. But inside, champagne stars fizzed in cut-crystal glasses, dancing like the couples who found their way through the back alleys and down the stairs each night.

I'll dance 'til last call,they whispered at the door, all hoping to escape something. The monotony of wealth. The needs of a lover. The demands of family and work and sometimes just scraping by. The drudgery of a city where you would never see the stars at night.

Vivian Kelly knew what it was like to wish for those stars. She had learned not to look up, to find her freedom in the rhythm of the music, in champagne bubbles and dances with strangers, in the secrets they kept for each other. She could tell, just by looking, who was there on a whim or a dare, money flashing bright as the spangles on a dress, cares light as a whisper of silk. They kept the liquor flowing, the dance floor busy, the laughter loud.

And she could tell who was there for the same reasons she was. The ones whose shoulders relaxed as they came down the stairs, who slipped into their true selves like coming home. The ones who knew that freedom came with a price, that freedom wasn't safe, and still decided it was worth the cost.

Don't tell,they agreed when they heard what they weren't supposed to know.

Don't tell,they whispered when they saw someone they shouldn't.

Don't tell,they begged. Oh, please, don't tell.

You never saw me here.