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After showing him the carte de visite of General Tom Thumb, eventually I had persuaded Colonel Wood to have my photograph taken (by stressing the lucrative nature of such an enterprise; he sold the cartes de visites for twenty-five cents each, and kept all the profit himself). And over time, these postcards reached people who might otherwise have never visited a floating palace; they reached good people, respectable people. People who clamored only to see me—not anyone else.

The postcards had not, thus far, reached Mr. Barnum, as I had hoped; my fame may have been growing, but only along the Mississippi.

“Get in here, Vinnie,” Colonel Wood grumbled to me one morning as I was making my way to the dining room. As usual, Sylvia was with me; she stopped, gazing down at me with a questioning look. I nodded for her to go ahead, watching as she lumbered down the hall, her shoulders rounded so that her head did not hit the ceiling, and then followed the Colonel into his office. He shut the door; it latched with a terrifying thud, and I realized, a sharp razor of panic cutting itself through my still-sleepy consciousness, that I could not reach the handle myself. I was as good as trapped.

But no, I told myself sternly. It was broad daylight, he appeared sober, and outside I could hear deckhands and members of the troupe bustling about, engaged in their usual morning activity.

“Sit,” Colonel Wood barked.

With some effort, I struggled into the only chair available to me, while he took his seat behind his cluttered desk. He did not offer to place a cushion upon my seat, so that I might be on his level; on the contrary, he grinned down at me with ill-concealed delight, while I sat so low I could barely see over the stacks of paper on his desk.

I hid my anger, as I was teaching myself to do, behind an excess of manners. “Yes, Colonel Wood? I’m eager to hear what you wish to discuss.”

“Always so damn polite,” he muttered. “That tiny mouth always pursed so prim and proper. Think you’re above us all out here—you know the rest of the company talks about your airs, don’t you?”

This was not the first time he had tried to insinuate himself between my friends and me; I knew enough not to rise to the bait. “Thank you for complimenting me on my manners,” I responded with a polite smile. “It is much appreciated.”

“Hmmph. Well, keep talking like that, Miss Dainty Dwarf. Because you’re going to start doing extra duty. I’ve had some requests for private audiences for you, from some pretty important folks, and they’re willing to pay double the regular price.”

“Private audience? What do you mean?”

“Some hoity-toity types, who claim they’re above stepping foot on my boat, want to meet you. Privately, they say. Not onstage.”

“But where?” I couldn’t conceive of such an idea. I was finally accustomed to being on display in the galley before and after performances; I could not say I looked forward to it, but I had learned how to put the onlookers—and myself—at ease. I could not completely avoid being scooped up as if I were a mere child; there were those who would persist in doing so, no matter how much I protested. I had discovered, though, that if I spoke first, about the most normal of topics—the weather, the political situation, the latest fashions—fewer people were inclined to do so.

But always I was surrounded by others—Sylvia, the Tattooed Man, the Bearded Lady who had recently joined our troupe, Billy Birch and his men. The notion of being entirely alone with strangers was vaguely troubling to me.

“I’m going to have to secure some sort of private parlor in hotels, I guess. Most of these towns have one, and I’m sure some arrangement can be made so I won’t have to pay—free advertising, something. Up in Galena, there’s a Mr. Grant who would like to meet you, so that’ll be the first one.”

“Alone? This Mr. Grant—he’ll be alone?” Uneasiness filled my breast; I shifted in my chair, which was much too big for me. It served only to sharpen my acute awareness