1870, Philadelphia, USA.
Martha Whitcomb, the wild child of Philadelphia society, is now a grown woman, independent in wealth and in personality. At twenty-three, still unmarried and childless, she is exposed to constant rumors and ridicule, crushed...
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"Evening, Sadie," Martha greeted as the woman walked into the Dragonfly, happy for the break from listening to the nearby poker game. It was a slow night and it was late, leaving her with very few distractions. Most of the activity in the saloon had died down hours before as men staggered to their various rooms to sleep off the drink.
She had been enjoying her conversation with Alejandro, but that had also died down—nearly literally so, as the man was now sleeping on the bar, his face buried in his crossed arms and his hat long-since tipped onto the bar. Martha had debated experimenting with how many empty glasses and bowls of pretzels she could balance on his head and shoulders as he slept, but had decided to leave him be.
"They're still at it, huh?" Sadie remarked, gesturing with her head in the direction of the table where Gatling sat with Frank and a few of Frank's friends. "My condolences."
"Mm," Martha agreed. "Gatling is running hot, so he's not about to leave anytime soon, and Frank insists on winning back his money, but that was an hour ago."
Sadie scoffed, glancing over at Gatling. "That man is off in the stars," she commented, and Martha frowned, not understanding. "By the look of him, I'd wager he spent some time in the Dragon Den tonight." She sighed. "That doggery run by those Chinamen on Flint Street—it's where the lads go to get hop."
"Oh," Martha commented, finally understanding. "I wasn't aware..." she began, but trailed off with a shrug. Of course she was unaware—opium dens were one of those things only known to those who already knew how to find them.
"He takes it for pain," Sadie explained casually, dropping onto a barstool and staring absently at the shelves of liquor behind Martha, only half-invested in the conversation. "Says he can't abide the taste of laudanum but smoking does the trick fine."
"Mm," Martha acknowledged, having little opinion on the matter. There was something far more pressing to her, besides. "Are you alright?" she asked, leaning against the bar and lowering her voice. Not that it mattered—the gamblers were unaware of much going on outside their bubble, and Alejandro was unlikely to eavesdrop from his dream world.
"Mhm," Sadie murmured. She was certainly not old, but on nights such as these, she looked far beyond her years. There were deep lines of worry etched like marble upon her face, and she looked as though her body weighed enough that every gesture was a tribulation. "Fine."
"Would you like a drink?" Martha asked next, and Sadie slowly shook her head.
"Can't afford it," she said, and now she wore a new expression, one Martha was unused to seeing in this tough lady. She looked as though she might burst into tears.
"That wasn't the question," Martha said, already turning to retrieve a glass. Sadie said nothing, and Martha poured a generous amount of whiskey from the nearby bottle, setting it on the bar. She waited, watching Sadie stare at the glass as though attempting to work out a complex equation in her mind.
