Beth gave a low whistle. “Lucky. My five ladies from Minnesota wanted to stay at the Stock Pavilion for two hours before they let me show them around the Agriculture and Dairy Buildings. I’ll have to wash my hair twice to get the smell out.” She brushed a piece of hay from her sleeve. “Anyway, don’t worry about Rose running behind today. It happens.” Her brown eyes were soft, but her opinions remained as plain as the tip of her nose.
Sylvie prayed her friend was right, even as she scolded herself for being ill at ease. Still, she looked for Rose’s figure and golden hair.
Lake Michigan lapped against the back of the Peristyle. Before her lay the marble-edged Grand Basin, surrounded by the principal exhibit buildings that bordered the Court of Honor: Manufactures and Liberal Arts, Electricity, Mines and Mining, Machinery, and Agriculture. The gold dome of the Administration Building reflected the sun at the opposite end of the Basin. Each of the colossal, classically styled buildings was designed to dazzle, all of them resembling white marble.
But not everything at the Fair was what it seemed. Just as nearly every structure here was made of a temporary substance easily deconstructed, every well-dressed man was not necessarily as well-behaved as he appeared.
“Come on,” she said, nudging Beth. “Let’s rest our feet while we wait.”
Repinning her hat in place, Beth followed Sylvie down the steps and into the glaring sun. They sat on a bench beside the Basin where they could see the Roman Corinthian–style Music Hall and the matching Casino, which hosted no gambling or gaming, but only a restaurant, cloakrooms, toilet facilities, and other public comforts. From its roof, American flags snapped in the wind. People passing by in their Sunday best were dwarfed by both buildings, and they weren’t even the largest on the grounds.
“Honestly, what’s the worst that could happen?” Beth asked. “There are twelve hundred Columbian Guards stationed at the Fair.”
Sylvie didn’t want to think about the worst that could happen, let alone list the possibilities aloud. There had been a fatal accident at the Ice Railway last month, and a deadly fire at the Cold Storage Building. People stepped in front of speeding cable cars. Girls disappeared. Not my girl, Lord. Please not mine.
Mastering her imagination, Sylvie limited her reply to Beth’s comment. “The Fair covers six hundred acres, and that doesn’t even include the Midway. That’s only two guards per acre, for pity’s sake.” She didn’t spot any of them now.
“Do you want me to wait with you?” But Beth was already standing.
“No need.” Sylvie waved a fly away. “I don’t want to keep you.”
“Come to the suffrage meeting with me. It’ll do you good to set your mind on more important things. Wherever Rose is, she knows how to get home.”
“Next time,” Sylvie said.
Beth shook her head and took her leave.
Rising, Sylvie walked around the edge of the Basin, weaving a path between other visitors. The Statue of the Republic reared up out of the Basin on its pedestal, nearly blinding in its gold-leaf brilliance. Passing under a massive arch, she entered Music Hall and closed her parasol. Rose had probably slipped inside unnoticed, and Sylvie had worried for nothing.
Forgoing the grand auditorium, her heels tapped briskly up the stairs and down the hall toward the practice rooms, following the sound of strings to an open door.
The small space was alive with music. Kristof’s tuxedo jacket was folded over the back of a chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms finely honed from a lifetime of playing the violin. A black bow tie flared at his collar. He exuded precision, control, command.
“She hasn’t been here,” Sylvie said.
Kristof’s bow lifted as he faced her. The last note bounced off the wall and fell. “Not yet. If she doesn’t come soon, we’ll have to reschedule the lesson.” A hint of impatience threaded his tone. He wasn’t really angry, Sylvie knew. He was punctual and expected everyone else to be the same.
“If she doesn’t come soon, the lesson will be the least of my worries.” Sylvie snapped open a paper fan painted with the Court of Honor.
Brows lowering, his expression shifted from a violinist strung tight to that of a compassionate friend, which was what the confirmed bachelor had become to her over the last two years. Reserved, yes, and somewhat preoccupied, but he was reliable and metronome-steady. He was safe.
“Please, sit.” He laid down his instrument, then pulled out the piano bench for her. “What’s going on?”
She remained standing.
Sunlight shone on his dark brown hair, glinting on grey threads at his temples. “Is she on her own?”
“She was meeting Hazel and some of Hazel’s friends—all responsible and a little older than Rose. It’s likely they lost track of time.” Yet she could not keep the concern from her voice.
Kristof walked to the window facing Lake Michigan. Sylvie joined him. Endless blue water extended to the horizon. Boats and watercraft of all kinds dotted the lake. Benches bolted onto a Movable Sidewalk carried fairgoers out along the Casino Pier nearly half a mile into the lake before bringing them back again. Rose had far too much energy to sit for a ride that moved so slowly.
After rolling down his sleeves, Kristof buttoned the cuffs. “She could have misjudged the amount of time it takes to get from one part of the Fair to another.”
Before she could reply, hurried footfalls sounded in the hallway. Sylvie stepped outside the practice room to find Rose heading toward her, violin case swinging from her hand. Relief surged, then ebbed away. A snap of irritation followed.
“Where have you been?”
Rose brushed past her and into the practice room. She smelled of a man’s cologne.
Sylvie stared after her, unable to reconcile this. “Rozalia. Why—”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. “Mr. Bartok, do you have time to listen to my pieces, or must you go down to the stage?”
Kristof looked from Rose to Sylvie. “Sylvie would like a brief explanation first. I can step outside if you like, and then yes, I have a few minutes to spare, but not many.”
“No need for you to leave. It’s simple.” After removing her gloves, Rose opened her violin case, tightened her bow, and began rubbing a block of rosin along the horsehairs. “I went to a lecture at the Palace of Fine Arts. They’re inaugurating the Polish art section today, and I couldn’t have left early without being rude. Since the Art Palace is clear at the northern end of the fairgrounds, I thought I’d take the electric elevated train to get here—and I did—but I just missed the one I wanted and had to wait for the next. Then there was a huge line at the cloakroom in the Casino where I’d checked my violin. I couldn’t very well come here without it, could I?” She set the violin to her shoulder. “I told you it was simple. I’m sorry you didn’t trust me.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you . . .” Sylvie said.
Rose cut her off, sawing away on her D string, twisting a tuning knob until the tone rang true. “You don’t trust anyone.”
Sylvie made no response, nor did she register Kristof’s reply, other than that it was in her defense. She couldn’t stop staring at a thumb-sized bruise on the inside of Rose’s left wrist.