The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart by Leanna Renee Hieber Page A

eyes,” my father said gently, touching one of the dark hearts of the black-eyed Susans, “yet with such bright and golden light around her.” He ran a finger along the bright yellow-golden petals.
    I’d heard this, or some variant of it, a hundred times. I’ll never tire of it. Father said these words like it was the first time he’d ever said them. A private liturgy, a poetic ritual on behalf of a woman he loved more than I could have understood as a child. But I was beginning to understand now.
    We wound our way through lanes marked with the names of trees, past great monuments and small, some nestled cozily into the ground, others towering obelisks pointing to the sky. And angels. Beautiful angels. Looking up and seeing angels: that was another formative memory.
    Around a gentle bend we found the Stewart plot, a rectangular space allotted with granite stones yet to be carved, space enough for Father and me. Only one name was there: HELEN, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER.
    I was always the one to lay the flowers. We used to do this weekly when I was home, but we had fallen away from it since I was done with school. I resolved not to neglect her so again.
    Father wandered off. There were times when he didn’t quite know what to do with me, but more often than not, he sensed my mood and when I wanted privacy. Our time spent in silence for so many years had developed its own language.
    I spent countless moments just looking at her name and the inscription, as I’d done a thousand times. As if that stone was a Rosetta Stone to her life and death and could explain why she was taken from me so soon.
    As usual, I begged for a sign. I begged for her to speak to me, for her spirit to kiss my forehead. But nothing.
    “Mother, if you brought me into the strange life I’m now leading, or at least if you condone it, please don’t stay silent when I need you.”
    The rustle of the trees was the only answer. The sun was setting. My father had his moment at the graveside, and once I linked my arm into his, it was time to go.
    “It’s good,” I said quietly, “to resume our routine.”
    Father nodded. “But things will change. You’re changing. I’m changing.”
    It was true. There was no denying that eventually our family dynamic would change. If Mrs. Northe became my new mother. If Jonathon actually did ask for my hand…But Father didn’t say anything further. And I was glad. One upheaval at a time.
    After a small dinner of soup and bread, I excused myself to my room.
    “I’ve got to get my beauty sleep,” I said with a smile to Father and Bessie.
    “Oh? And why is that?” Bessie queried.
    “Because tomorrow Mrs. Northe puts me in a fine dress, and I go to the theater .”

Chapter 9
     
    Booth’s Theater at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street was grand as one would expect. It had been the prominent theater since it opened eleven years prior. With a granite exterior in the Renaissance style, it seated nearly two thousand people.
    Tall posters outside the grand entrance shouted ACROSS THE VEIL! The poster featured an imperious, dramatic, shadowed figure, a raven upon his shoulder, eyes blazing and the outlines of women swooning around his feet as his cloak billowed against a dark and stormy night. I was impressed that Veil commanded a theater that had housed the foremost theatrical talent of our day, albeit for a brief run.
    Golden filigree and sculpting adorned each box and level, while glittering chandeliers and sconces reflected the gaslight and cast only flattering shadows about the house. The rolling murmur of the crowd was like a lulling tide. The rustling of fine fabrics and gossiping whispers hidden behind lace and feather fans reminded me that this was a place where society was made and broken, much like a ball, where everyone was displayed. Particularly us.
    I should have known Mrs. Northe would have a prominent box, and that gazes would inevitably turn our way when our usher opened the box door, pulled back