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“The—the—they’re cartes de visites,” he finally stammered, pronouncing it car-tays-vizeetz. “I got ’em from a supplier in Paris. Folks here are crazy about ’em, but I’m almost plum out. Say, ladies, I’d take your photographs right here on the spot, free of charge, if you’d let me sell them. Whaddya say?”

Sylvia began to tremble, but I answered firmly, “I’m afraid we couldn’t do that, not now. But perhaps later. Do you have a card?”

“Would you like to buy one of the little General’s? He’s our top seller.” The man gave me a conspiratorial smile as he handed over his card. “I bet you’re sweet on him, ain’t you?”

“Why on earth would you think such a thing?” I asked, insulted by his impertinence, and not inclined to hide it.

“Why, because—well, because. He’s a mighty handsome little man.”

“And I suppose I’m a mighty pretty little lady?”

“Sure! Why, sure you are!”

“And because he’s handsome and I’m pretty, we must make a match?”

“No, because you’re little and he’s little!”

“Really,” I said to Sylvia, who was watching me with her usual admiring, openmouthed smile. “The nerve!”

“Well, anyway,” the young man said with a shrug. “Take it for free. And come back if you change your mind about being photographed.”

“No, really, I couldn’t—”

“I’ll take it.” Sylvia held out her massive gloved hand. “That one.” She pointed to the photograph of General Tom Thumb in Highland dress. The young man placed the carte de visite into her hand with trembling fingers.

“Gosh” was all he could say as we left the store; a crowd of children, who had been pressed, nose first, against the store window while we were inside, scattered like frightened mice before us.

“I never saw anyone so rude,” I muttered as we began to walk back toward the river, the busy hum of activity drawing us like bees to a hive.

“Do you want the picture?” Sylvia asked. I looked up at my friend, in whose shadow I could easily walk; despite the parasols we both carried—each painted with the words Follow Me to the Show!—she shielded me from the peculiarly pale sun I had already learned to associate with the West.

“No, you keep it. But thank you.” I had no interest in General Tom Thumb beyond his association with Mr. Barnum.

As the Banjo, docked in all its desperate jauntiness, came into sight, however, I reconsidered. There it was, the long, flat boat trimmed in peeling shades of red, white, and blue—with a new sign hanging over the ticket office proclaiming, in huge letters, The One, the Only, Floating Palace of Curiosities Including the Only Dwarf Woman This Side of the Alleghenies. There I was, my name not of any value, nor my face, nor my talent—only my size and, of much less importance, my gender.

And here was General Tom Thumb, his photograph being sold for twenty-five cents beside those of Queens and Presidents.

How had this happened? I had not left my family to become the only dwarf woman this side of the Alleghenies, stuck on this miserable boat. I was educated; I was descended from the first Americans; I was gifted with a fine voice, face, and form, not to mention manners and intellect.

As far as I could tell, Charles S. Stratton, General Tom Thumb himself, was not blessed with any of these advantages.

Suddenly I felt a fire burning in my very soul; perhaps it had been tamped down these last few weeks, but it was a fire that had always been there. It had begun as that ember that kept me warm at night while my mother wept for my lonely fate, the same spark that had inflamed me to excel in my job as schoolteacher, even as I knew it was offered out of pity. It was the fire of ambition, and I knew it was the only thing that would save me from spending the rest of my life a sad curiosity—like Sylvia—or from going back to the farm and hiding from the world, like my beloved Minnie. At that moment, I wasn’t sure which of the two fates was the least desirable; I only knew I didn’t want either one.

“I’ll take that after all,” I said to Sylvia, who handed me the photograph of the General. I tucked it carefully into my reticule, then drew up the strings