Una felt like a rat, nesting in her cousin’s cellar amid the sacks of potatoes and onions, creeping around the upper levels of the house only when Randolph was away. But it was far better than prison.

Claire made no secret of her disdain for the situation. When Una emerged from the cellar, she followed her around like an overattentive shop clerk. Not solicitous, but suspicious. She doled out cooking scraps and the cold, leftover bits of meals with the same pious repugnance Una had met with at the Five Points Mission as a girl. No amount of hot soup was worth that kind of treatment, and she’d left the Mission after one night. She’d leave here too, just as soon as she could figure out her next move.

Three days after her arrival, Una lay awake on her makeshift bed of rags and old flour sacks. The quiet above told her it was not yet dawn. Usually Randolph’s blundering footfalls woke Una as he dressed and readied for work. But today it had been the thunder of coal tumbling down the chute. Coal dust bloomed in the air as it struck the cellar floor. She could smell it more than see it and felt it settle on her skin.

Unable to fall back asleep after such a clamor, Una lit a candle and tugged on her coat for added warmth against the dank—and now dusty— air. As she rolled from one side to the other, trying to get comfortable, the items in her pockets crunched beneath her weight. She pulled them out and set them on the floor beside her. Barney’s silver pin was bent and nicked from her long and tedious battle with the lock of her handcuffs. Even if she dared bring it to a fence—which she most certainly didn’t—it wouldn’t be worth more than a dollar.

She’d need far more than that to get out of New York. At least ten dollars for a train ticket and traveling necessities. Even that wouldn’t get her safely beyond the police’s reach. Her insides ached at the thought of leaving the city. The streets were dirty and crowded. The summers were hot and muggy. Winters were bleak and cold. Passersby were just as likely to step on you if you fell as to offer a helping hand. The smell of the place could

make your stomach turn. And Una loved it. Every narrow alley and crumbling tenement. She’d been born in New York. Come of age in New York. Had always believed she would die in New York. But if she didn’t get out, the only part of the city she’d ever see again would be Blackwell’s Island.

She picked up the magazine and unfurled the pages. The lettering on the top page had worn away to an indistinguishable smear of ink, but inside the pages were better preserved. Her eye snagged on an article titled “A New Profession for Women.” She snickered and thought of the women slaving away in the corset and button factories. Those who sewed shirts by candlelight in their homes for pennies a week. The maids and other domestics laboring night and day in the mansions on Millionaire’s Row. If that was the type of profession the author was talking about, Una would stick to thieving, thank you very much.

But curiosity got the better of her, and she read on.

For many years Bellevue Hospital, the chief free public institution of the kind in New York, has been famous for the high medical and surgical skill, its faculty embracing many leading members of the profession in the city. For many years to come it is likely to be popularly associated with another high development of the curative arts—the results of founding in 1873 the Bellevue Training School for Nurses, and a new profession for women in America.

Nursing? The idea called to mind grim-faced women who scolded and neglected the invalids in their care, stealing their drafts and tonics until the nurse herself was pleasantly drunk and utterly useless. Una had encountered plenty of such women in her younger days visiting the bleak hospital wards when her father’s war wound was acting up or he’d imbibed too much whiskey. But that was not the type of women the article was describing. Intrigued, Una read to the end.

Apparently some well-to-do women in New York had gotten it in their heads that the hospitals needed reforming, and what better place to start

than with the careless and disorderly nurses. They decided to start a training school and contacted some famous nurse in England about how to do it. Under her guidance, and with a large endowment from the wife of a railroad mogul, the Bellevue Hospital Training School for Nurses was born. Trainees underwent a two-year program during which time they received free room and board and a modest monthly stipend. When they graduated, they found ready work in hospitals and private homes across the country.

Una sat up and grabbed a piece of licorice root from a sack on a nearby shelf. Claire had expressly forbidden her from rummaging through the food stores, but chewing helped Una think. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to leave New York after all. Good old rule number eleven: The best place to hide is in plain sight.

* * *

By that evening, Una had completely reworked her plan. Instead of fleeing to Boston or Philadelphia or however far she could manage to travel, she would stay in New York disguised as a trainee at Bellevue’s nursing school. The police would never think to look for her there. The case against her would eventually grow cold and be forgotten. As long as she steered clear of Marm Blei and her underlings, Una could return to her old life. Except now she’d have an even better con than before. No more waiting around crowded train platforms for a mark. People would actually invite her into their homes, thinking she could care for their ailing loved ones, when all the while, she’d be plotting the perfect heist. Of course she’d need to be smart about it, or word would get around about the thieving nurse. But patience, care, and misdirection were among her better skills.

Only one problem stood in her way: gaining admission to the school. According to the article, the qualifications were exceedingly strict. Ideal applicants were twenty-one to thirty-five years in age, single, literate, and religious. Una handily met these requirements. True, she hadn’t been to mass in more months than she could count, but when her mother had been alive, they’d never missed a Sunday. Add in all the holy days and St. Patrick’s feast day, and it was enough to make up for her recent truancy. She was also of a strong constitution, industrious, and without physical defects. Obedience had never been her strong suit, but she could manage that as well. The other qualifications, however, would take more cunning to fake.

She’d need to forge transcripts showing she had received a good education as well as letters of reference to prove she was of “conscientious and sympathetic” character.

She’d spend the better part of the day pacing the cellar and chewing through most of Claire’s licorice root before she devised a way to secure such documents. Were she not hiding from the police and blackballed from Marm Blei’s crew, getting forgeries would be easy. Marm Blei knew three or four men skilled in that trade. But those connections were lost to Una now. She’d have to rely on her own connections: Claire, who could probably be pressed to write a fake reference if it meant getting Una out of her cellar, and one other person whom Una remembered only after grabbing the silver tie pin to clean beneath her nails. Barney.

* * *

Getting across town to Newspaper Row proved no easy feat. It took two days of pestering before Claire agreed to lend Una a dress and twenty cents for the el. But even in a fresh, respectable gown, her hair washed and modestly styled, Una felt conspicuous. After nearly a week of cellar dwelling, her senses were raw and excitable. She flinched at the bright sunlight and spooked at the street car’s clanging bell. A dozen times she squelched the urge to look behind her or hasten her step. You’re just another lady out for a stroll, Una reminded herself. The more she believed it, the more others would too.

But however much Una might blend in among the ladies promenading about town, she was still wanted for murder. One misstep or unlucky encounter, and she’d be back in handcuffs. The sooner she could return to the safety of Claire’s cellar, the better. She’d mapped out in her mind the quickest route to Barney’s office and left Claire’s house at noon when the coppers would be busy scrounging for a midday meal. If things went well with Barney, she’d be traveling back to Claire’s, forged papers in hand, at the start of the evening rush. A crowd always made it easier to blend in. There was, of course, the issue of Randolph, but Claire assured her that today, like every Tuesday, he’d stop by a bar on Forty-Ninth Street on his way home to attend the ward Democrats meeting. That gave Una a few- hour cushion to get back to the cellar before he arrived.

She made it to the el station without incident, paid the fare, and climbed the iron steps to the platform. When the train arrived, she found a seat beside a man reading the newspaper. He paid her no mind as she sat down, making no effort to contain his sprawling knees and elbows. The perfect mark, Una thought. It would be so easy to slip her hand into his coat pocket and pilfer whatever treasures were inside. Her body’s response to the delicious idea was second nature: pulse quickening, muscles tightening, senses sharpening. She’d missed this sensation more than the liquor and cigarettes and gambling of her old life. But she kept her hands clasped in her lap. Too risky.

Instead, she wandered her gaze about the car, out the filmy window, then back to the man. A headline at the bottom of his newspaper caught her eye. The thrill she’d felt only moments before vanished. Her hands went cold, and her feet rooted to the tremulous floor. CONWOMAN ARRESTED IN CONNECTION TO SIXTH WARD MURDER SLIPS POLICE, it read.

Una leaned as close as she dared toward the man to read the article. Before she got halfway through, the man flipped to the next page. She’d seen enough, though, to make her skin feel two sizes too small. Violent and cunning, the article had said of her. It listed four of her past aliases, including the one attached to her picture in the rogues’ gallery at headquarters. Had Officer Simms perused the wall of photographs and made the connection? That foul-breathed detective? Or had one of Marm Blei’s associates tipped them off? Either way, the open streets of New York suddenly felt a lot more dangerous.

The el rattled along at an interminably slow pace. Every time it stopped and new riders boarded, Una’s stomach clenched in anticipation of some copper lumbering aboard and recognizing her or some nosy onlooker making the connection between her and the woman in the newspaper. This latter notion was ridiculous, of course. Even if the second half of the article had given a novel-worthy account of her appearance, anyone who read it would be expecting a dirty, bedraggled woman with mean eyes and a shifty countenance.

Una breathed in slow and steady to calm herself. When her stop arrived, she walked with her head high from the car. She’d made a living playing off people’s expectations. Their preconceptions and narrow-minded assumptions. The stakes were higher now, but the game was the same.

Still, her heart didn’t fully settle into its regular rhythm until she was safely ensconced in a simple, straight-back chair beside Barney’s desk. He didn’t have his own office but was one of more than a dozen reporters working in the cramped second-story newsroom. Overhead gas lamps lit the room. The air smelled of paper, cigarette smoke, and burned coffee. A telegraph receiver chirped from one corner over the murmur of voices and clack of typewriter keys. No one had paid much mind to her arrival except Barney, who’d dropped the ham sandwich he’d been eating into his lap when he saw her.

“Una . . . I . . . what are you doing here?” he asked after having ushered her to his desk. “You look . . . different.”

By different, she guessed he meant respectable. A fair enough observation as the last time he’d seen her she’d been disguised as a rag picker. His desk sat in the corner of the crowded room. A draft from the large, double-paned window behind him ruffled the stack of papers beside his typewriter. He still had a smear of mustard and a few crumbs on his trousers. Una leaned forward and brushed the crumbs onto the floor. The tips of his ears reddened.

“I need your help,” she whispered, even though the desks nearest Barney’s were empty, his colleagues likely gone to lunch.

“With what?”

Una hesitated and cast another glance about the room. She trusted Barney, but the less he or anyone knew, the better. Rule number six: Only give away what you absolutely must. “I need a few documents manufactured.”

He frowned. “What kind of documents?”

“Nothing illegal. Not strickly speaking, anyway. Just a school report and letter of reference.”

“For whom?” “Me.”

His expression remained wary. “What sort of undertaking are you about that you need a letter of reference from a bottom-rung reporter like me?”

“Oh, Barney, don’t sell yourself short. Besides, it wouldn’t be from you.” “I don’t understand.”

“The recommendation would be from Father Connally of St. Mary’s Parish in Augusta, Maine, and an exemplary record from St. Agnes’s Girls’ School there.”

“I didn’t know you’re from Maine.” “I’m not.”

“I’m afraid I’m still not understanding. What’s this all about?”

Una sighed. One of the other reporters crossed the room to a nearby cupboard and rifled through the shelves. She waited for him to return to his desk, new typewriter ribbon in hand, before she spoke. “Have you heard of the new training program for nurses at Bellevue Hospital?”

Barney nodded. “I’m applying.”

“You want to become a nurse?” He furrowed his brow as if the idea was hardly fathomable.

Una straightened. “What’s wrong with nursing?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . . the women at the training school are, well, of a particular mold that . . .”

“That what?”

“Er . . . well . . . frankly, that you don’t conform to.” “I can conform to whatever mold I need to.”

“Una, what’s the meaning behind all this? You can’t expect me to believe you’ve had a sudden change of heart and mean to go from a slum dweller and a grifter to a nurse.” He laughed. “Really, have you seen those women? They shuffle about the wards with their dour expressions and neatly pressed uniforms, muttering nothing but ‘Yes, Doctor’ and ‘Right away, Doctor.’ It’s the last place I’d think you’d want to go.”

“That’s exactly why I’m applying. I need someplace”—she dropped her voice again to a whisper—“to lie low for a while. Someplace no one will look for me.”

“Listen, if you’re in trouble, I know a lawyer who could help. A friend from university.”

Una shook her head. “No skinners.”

“Maybe I could help, then. You can come to stay with me and—”

Una took his hands. They were stained with ink and smudged with mustard. “You don’t want a girl like me in your life, Barney. Trust me.”

He looked down at their clasped hands and swallowed. “The papers? Please.”

At last, Barney nodded.

Una squeezed his hands before letting go. “Who knows? There might even be a story in it for you someday.”