Bellevue Hospital loomed as inviting as a prison beside the East River, its bulky gray outline blending with the gloomy winter sky. Just beyond its shadow across Twenty-Sixth Street, stood a far handsomer building with a multitude of windows and white stone trim. No. 426—headquarters of the nursing school. Una climbed the short flight of steps to the entry, tugging down her shirtsleeves before knocking. The dress, another borrowed from Claire, fit so snugly through the waist that her lungs could only partially expand. The hem rose dangerously close to her ankles, and the sleeves barely reached her wrists. But it was the nicest dress Claire would permit her to wear and far more suitable than Una’s own dress.

The door opened, and a woman not much older than Una peered out. She wore a simply cut dress of blue wool and matching cap. Her honey-brown hair was trained into a tight, low-lying bun. She might have been beautiful were it not for the coldness of her eyes and the sharp, unsmiling line of her mouth.

“Miss Kelly, I presume,” she said in a flat, almost bored-sounding voice.

As with all the other pieces of the story Una had invented, she thought it best to stick to the truth when she could. Including using her real name. Besides, one could hardly spit in New York City without striking a Kelly, the name was so common. (But beware, a Kelly was likely to spit back.) And she’d never given any variation even close to it to the police.

“Yes, I’m here to interview for the nurse training program.”

The woman looked Una up and down the way Marm Blei inspected a piece of jewelry she thought might be fake, then stepped aside for Una to enter. “Two more minutes, and you would have been late.” She sounded almost disappointed that Una had not been late, as if then she wouldn’t have had to go to the trouble of opening the door. “Punctuality is an essential trait for a nurse trainee.”

I’ll show you a punctual kick in the ass, Una thought, but said instead, “Thank you. I’ll remember that.”

She followed the woman through the foyer and down a wide hallway. A plush Oriental rug covered the polished floorboards, and watercolor prints of country landscapes hung on the walls.

“I am Miss Hatfield, one of the head nurses at the school,” the woman said, leading Una into a large room lined with bookshelves. “We’ll conduct the interview here in the library. Superintendent Perkins and Mrs. Hobson from the Board of Managers will join us presently.”

She gestured to a set of four wingback chairs arranged around a small table where a tea service had been laid out. Una sat in the chair closest to the door. You never knew when you might need to make a quick exit. Leaning back, she sunk into its plush cushions. Her fingers trailed over the soft velvet, and she smiled, imagining herself lounging here in the warm quiet, day after day, while the police searched for her in the slums. It was a more perfect hidey-hole than she’d hoped.

Miss Hatfield sat opposite her, perching on the edge of the chair like a nun at mass, back straight and arms tucked to her sides. She had the expression of a nun too, severe and disapproving. Una immediately straightened. She crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap the way her mother had taught her as a girl. Clearly, the interview had already begun, and she wasn’t earning good marks.

“It’s a lovely library,” Una said, after a prickly stretch of silence. Freshly cut flowers—a luxury in winter—decorated a nearby table, perfuming the air. Large windows framed in billowing curtains lighted the room. Marble busts stared from atop the bookshelves.

“A woman like yourself, who’s had only a quotidian education, can be assured of spending a great deal of time here. If she’s accepted, that is.”

Quotidian education! Una had been quite proud of the school record she and Barney cooked up. “I assure you, the classes at St. Agnes’s were most rigorous.”

Miss Hatfield pursed her lips, and looked out the window. “Yes, I’m sure you thought so.”

Una hid her clenched teeth behind a smile. Had she met such an insufferable woman back in the slums, she would have cleaned out her pockets then strode away, splashing her skirts with mud. But they were not in the slums, and Una needed this position desperately. So she smiled on and said in her sweetest voice, “Where did you do your studies?”

“The Keenbridge Academy followed by two years at Vassar.”

Una had never heard of either of these schools, but Miss Hatfield spoke as if God himself had been a pupil there. Thankfully Una didn’t have to feign more than a moment’s veneration before two other women entered the library. One was dressed in cascades of silk velvet, the kind imported from Venice Marm Blei could sell for twelve dollars a yard. She had a plump face, lined but still pretty, and the careless grace of a blue blood. The other woman had a quieter demeanor, perhaps owing to her age. (Una guessed her at least fifty.) Her dress, like that of Miss Hatfield, was simple in cut and impeccably pressed. Her gray eyes flickered with the shrewdness of a safecracker casing a bank, but there was a warmth in them too that caught Una off guard.

The women joined Una and Miss Hatfield around the tea table, introducing themselves as they sat. The silk-wrapped woman was Mrs. Hobson, a founding member of the school’s Board of Managers. The circumspect woman was Miss Perkins, the school’s superintendent. It was she, Una knew from the article, who would ultimately rule on Una’s suitability.

Mrs. Hobson poured the tea, then asked Una a few basic questions about her upbringing—where she’d been born and raised, what her family life and education had been like, what sort of hobbies she practiced. Una had spent days rehearsing her story, and it rolled easily from her tongue. In keeping with rule number twelve, Una had kept the lie simple, cleaving as much to her real life as possible. The fewer the falsehoods, the easier they’d be to remember. She had indeed attended Catholic day school—though here in New York, not in Maine. And for only five years, not twelve. There had been a Father Connally too, but he was long dead and would sooner have become an Orangeman than write Una a letter of reference.

When her own life strayed from the idyllic and genteel, Una borrowed from her mother’s. Granddad Callaghan had been a glass merchant. A far more estimable profession than her father’s sometimes occupation of day worker and all the time occupation of drunk. She did mention his service in the war, though, which garnered an approving nod from Mrs. Hobson and Superintendent Perkins. Miss Hatfield only yawned.

Una could tell from their open posture and intent expressions that they bought her story. Even Miss Hatfield, though she clearly wasn’t impressed. Now was the time to press home her advantage. “My mother, a woman of tireless charity, was killed in a house fire when I was nine. By the time the

firemen arrived, there was nothing they could do.” She paused and turned toward the window, blinking several times before continuing. “I knew after that I wanted to help people. To allay the suffering of those in need. When I read about your training school, I knew nursing was the perfect means to accomplish that and . . .” She turned back to the women, her eyes suitably misty. “And honor my mother’s memory.”

Mrs. Hobson dabbed a tear with her napkin. Miss Hatfield shifted in her chair, for once skittish of Una’s gaze. That would teach her for being so haughty. Miss Perkins’s expression, however, was harder to read. She set down her teacup, waving off Mrs. Hobson’s offer to pour her more.

“Miss Kelly, while I applaud your noble intentions, you must understand that nursing is a demanding profession. It requires more than goodwill. A nurse must be industrious, disciplined, intelligent. No matter the circumstances, she must perform her duties with calmness, exactitude, and efficiency. Quick observation and a stout constitution are essential. Do you believe you possess such qualities?”

“Most assuredly.”

Miss Perkins pursed her lips as if she wasn’t sure. She sat back in her chair and continued to study Una. “We’ve had nearly a thousand applicants this year. Only a handful will be selected. Of those, a third are likely to be dismissed during their first month as probationers.”

Una felt the trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades. Her teacup clanked loudly against its saucer when she set it down. She’d not realized so many women had applied.

“Many applicants we can dismiss out of hand,” Miss Perkins continued, “by virtue of incapacity, physical weakness, or belonging to the ignorant, uneducated classes.”

“Bad breeding,” Miss Hatfield added, looking squarely at Una. “Then there’s the question of character,” Miss Perkins said.

Una’s mouth was dry, but she didn’t trust herself not to spill her tea or break the dainty cup if she took it in hand again.

“There is, perhaps, no calling in life which demands a more constant exercise of Christian virtue than nursing the sick,” Mrs. Hobson said. “You said you’re religious, Miss Kelly?”

Una nodded.

“Catholic, I infer from your school record and references,” Miss Hatfield said with the same thinly veiled disdain she’d had upon greeting Una at the

door.

“Yes.”

Miss Hatfield glanced at the other women as if to be sure they’d heard Una’s damning response.

“I thought . . . The advertisement I read said Christians of all sects were welcome to apply.”

“Indeed they are,” Mrs. Hobson said with an uneasy smile. “Though we haven’t had any Catholic trainees before.”

Una silently cursed herself for being so foolish. Odious as the thought was, she should have added Protestant to her list of lies.

“Of course, the doors of Bellevue are open to anyone, no matter how mean or poor,” Miss Hatfield said. “So many of our patients share your faith. But I do wonder how you’ll get on with the staff and other trainees.”

Beneath her too-short sleeves, the hairs on Una’s arms bristled. Her pulse thudded loudly in her ears. Nevertheless she managed a smile. “I’ve been fortunate in my life to have friends and acquaintances of many creeds and should hope to here as well. After all, did Jesus not befriend the Gentile as well as the Jew?”

Mrs. Hobson patted Una’s knee. “Well said, my dear. We certainly shan’t hold your faith against you.”

But a glance at Miss Hatfield, whose smug expression had soured, and Una wasn’t so sure. She turned to the superintendent. Surely it was Miss Perkins who had the final say in her acceptance. The woman sat forward again in her chair, arms uncrossed and hands loosely clasped. All good signs. But her body angled slightly away from Una, and she hadn’t once smiled. Her eyes were bank vaults even the best thief couldn’t crack.

Una’s pulse hadn’t quieted. If anything, with each passing second, it thudded louder until she could scarcely hear her own breath. What would she do if they rejected her application? Already Claire was itching to turn her out. Her chances of making it out of New York now ran even with that of winding up on Blackwell’s Island. Only a sucker would bother with odds like that.

“I understand you have many more applicants than you can accept,” Una said, struggling to keep her voice light and even. “And some of them, many perhaps, have more illustrious qualifications than I do. But I assure you, none of them want to join your school as earnestly.”

Several moments passed, and none of the women spoke. The thudding in Una’s ears slowed to a murmur. What more could she do besides throw herself to the ground and beg? Una had never begged. Not a day in her life. Not even when she’d first left home and hadn’t a single cent or scrap of food. But she would have begged now if she thought it would help.

“I like your spirit, Miss Kelly,” Superintendent Perkins said at last. “Every nurse needs a bit of pluck. But understand this: the Bellevue training program is an exacting undertaking. The hours of study and practice are long. Insubordination or disobedience will result in immediate expulsion. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Una said without hesitation. She held her breath as Miss Perkins glanced at the other women. Mrs. Hobson nodded. Miss Hatfield sighed and shrugged.

The hint of a smile crossed Miss Perkins’s lips. “Welcome to the Bellevue Hospital Training School for Nurses.”