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“So why did you ask me here?” Mr. Barnum finally said, pulling his spectacles out of his pocket, putting them on, as he always did when he was preparing to talk business. “I heard—well, dash it, Vinnie, I heard that Charles left you in the lurch and that you’re practically destitute. Is that true?”

I hesitated; it felt disloyal to talk about Charles in this way so soon after his death. But finally I nodded. “It’s not so bad, though, as you see. I have a home, a roof over my head.”

“Not fitting for you,” he answered, shaking his head. “I know your family is dear, but Vinnie, you can’t be happy living here, can you?”

“No, but that’s not why—oh, I don’t know. Yes, that’s it—that’s why I asked you here, to see what you advise for the future. For you always know what to do.”

“Oh.” Now his eyes hardened. “That’s the only reason you asked, then? Because you needed something? I should have known. That’s the only reason anyone ever calls for Mr. Barnum.”

I looked away. I did not know how to apologize to anyone, let alone him. I was quite sure he didn’t, either. The room was so silent, of a sudden, only the sound of his breathing, my sigh; his foot jostling, my skirt rustling. Our hearts, too rusty, both of them, from disuse—but suddenly now I could hear them both pounding, roaring in my ears.

Or was it just mine, alone?

“Minnie,” I finally said in a whisper, not looking at him. “Minnie.”

“I know,” he replied, so gently. I was reminded of his gentleness at other times in my life: when he found out about Colonel Wood, for instance. When he heard of Minnie’s plans to name her child after Pauline.

When he said my name, as I left him outside on the lawn, before Minnie died.

“We both—that is, I don’t blame you, anymore. We both were equally responsible, for it all—the baby hoax, taking Minnie out, away from here. I wanted her with me, just as much as you wanted her in the troupe. I could have said no—I knew that, for you always listened to me. But I didn’t. I can’t blame you anymore.”

“You shouldn’t blame anyone. Vinnie, I’ve never in my life apologized for anything—not for Joice Heth, not for taking one nickel from the public, not even for the Feejee mermaid. I never made a person do anything he didn’t want to. I’m not going to start apologizing now, either. But I am—I do regret—the thing is, Vinnie, dash it, Minnie was happy, you know! She could find the beauty in quiet things in a way I never could, and she should be envied for that, not mourned. She was happier than you and I will ever be and ever were, God bless her soul. We just don’t have it in us to be content like that—but your sister did.” He was excited now; he had inched his chair closer and closer to mine, until, before either of us could fully register it, we were sitting knee to knee.

I looked away, still loyal to Minnie’s memory; it was hard to forgive him. It was harder still to forgive myself. I missed her so much, missed her joy, her trust, her touch—

Suddenly I felt my hands being picked up and clasped with warmth and understanding. I couldn’t help it; a quick sob escaped my burdened heart and a tear rolled down my cheek. I tried to brush it away, but my hands were held captive.

“She did find beauty here, in this home, and she always tried to open my eyes to it,” I whispered. “But I can’t be content with it, even now, because you were right. Being content with home would mean being content with myself, just as I am, and I’ve never been able to be that. Yet I’ve lived such a little life, compared to my sister.”

“Who said such a thing? I’ll thrash ’im within an inch of his life!”

“Nobody—just me.”

“Well, I’ll thrash you, then!”

I looked up and smiled. “No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” he said agreeably. Still holding my hands, he gave them a stern little shake. “But I won’t hear such talk. Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump Stratton—even that name isn’t as big as you are! You’ve traveled the world, met everyone worth knowing! Whatever I said—and who can remember, anymore?—the plain