She couldn’t have been more than seventeen. She was plus-size, her faded blue dress straining at seams that had already surrendered once and been resewn in desperation. Dark curls escaped from a worn bonnet. She clutched a battered carpetbag in one hand and a sealed envelope in the other.
For a moment, the street went quiet.
Then laughter cracked it open.
“Is that his bride?” a man called, loud enough to be proud of his cruelty.
“Looks like he ordered two women and got a bargain!” another jeered.
One of the boys did a wobbling imitation, arms flapping, and the group erupted like they’d been waiting their whole lives for permission to be ugly.
The girl’s face flushed a deep, painful red. She looked around, eyes darting like a trapped deer, then fixed on Elias as if his coat and posture were the only sign that reality hadn’t gone completely mad.
“Mr. Mercer?” Her voice shook, thin as a thread in wind.
Elias swallowed. He felt disappointment flare and then shame for the disappointment, and then anger at himself for having any room in his heart for anything but decency.
“Yes,” he said, and forced the word out like a door stuck on swollen wood. “Miss…?”
