“Extry! Extry!”

Charcoal lifted her head. An extra. They were pretty rare, especially during the slow fall months. She wondered what he was selling. In a few moments, he yelled out the headlines.

“Staten Ferry flooded!” he screamed above the crowds. Charcoal smiled slightly. There weren’t any people interested. She shoved her hands in her pockets, feeling the ever-present sticks of black charcoal, and something that hadn’t been in her pocket for ages. A penny. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had money to spend. Someone was selling apples, two for a penny. She felt the rumble in her stomach and walked to the cart. The newsie yelled his headlines again. Charcoal looked at the paper wistfully, noticing a large blank place on the back. She grinned, and strolled over to the newsie.

“One please,” she said, handing him the penny. He looked at it, not giving her anything. “Well? My paper?”

“Extras is 2 cents,” the boy said bravely. Charcoal rolled her eyes.

“I know the newsies slogan: ‘Carryin’ da banner at a penny a pape.’ You’re not fooling anyone,” Charcoal said, her hand outstretched for the paper. The boy still seemed certain he could get another penny out of her and shook his head. “Look kid, I don’t have another penny, so you can edder gimme my paper, or gimme my penny.” The boy hesitated, debating whether or not he should hand over the paper.

“Let ‘er have it, Snipes. You won’t get anything more,” a girl said. Charcoal watched her approach and snatch a paper from under the boy’s arm. She handed it to Charcoal, smiling. “Sorry ‘bout the little entrepreneur,” she apologized. Charcoal shrugged, her hands itching to draw something. The girl looked ready to introduce herself and start on a conversation.

“I gotta go,” Charcoal said quickly. The girl curled her lip in surprise. Charcoal pushed the paper into her pocket and ran down the street. She reached out for a street pole and swung herself into Walker Park. The discomfort from talking to the girl had melted away; all she could think about was what to draw. She scanned for a vacant bench. There was one directly across from a child playing with a flock of pigeons. Charcoal grinned at her luck. So long as the little boy didn’t run away when she was half done, he would make a perfect subject.

She plopped down on the bench, taking out a thin stick of charcoal that she had sharpened to a point. Flipping through the paper, she looked for a page that was all small text. She would save the blank page for something special. Until then, the text pages worked nearly as well. All she needed to do now was vent out the drawing impulses that had been building up inside.

Half an hour later found her finishing off the wing of a pigeon. She held the paper back to examine her work. ‘Not bad,’ she decided. ‘Definitely not my best, but good for the moment.’ She stood up, stretched, and thanked the little boy, who had no idea why he was being thanked, and continued out of the park.

She didn’t know how long she had been gone, but it felt like a long time. A look at the big clock over a bank confirmed her worst fears: she was now nearly twenty minutes late and in danger of losing her job. She groaned inwardly, knowing it would take her another ten minutes just to get there. Charcoal shoved the paper back into her pocket as she took off running again. She sped past corners, not pausing to take a breath until she was at the front door of her place of employment.

“You’re late Camille,” she heard.

“I’m very sorry miss,” Charcoal apologized, making her way to her room.

“Did you get what I needed?”

“They didn’t have it,” Charcoal lied. “So I checked out a few more stores, but they didn’t have it either.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Charcoal remained silent as she moved around her small room. She pulled out the picture, slightly crumpled, but still good, and added a few more lines.

“Are you drawing in there?” came the inevitable question.

“No miss,” Charcoal lied again, smoothing out the little boy’s shadow. She really needed to get a stump, but meanwhile, her fingers worked well enough.

She wasn’t stupid; she knew if the wife of the late William Rockwelth knew that she, Charcoal, was drawing, there would be another girl fired and left out on the street. For whatever reason, the woman despised art of any form. There were no pictures hanging in the long hallways of her Manhattan mansion, or still remaining in the Massachusetts beach cottage they had left last month. It was just her luck that Charcoal served as a maid to the least aesthetic woman in New York.

“Camille,” Mrs. Rockwelth called. Charcoal pushed her drawing underneath the corsets in her bottom drawer, and stepped out into the hallway. “You must accompany Margarita to James J. Walker Park--Mr. Fader wishes to take a stroll with her.” Charcoal nodded. Margarita was the beautiful daughter of the Rockwelths. Bachelors all over the country wanted to marry her because she was rich and pretty, two things that got you far. Charcoal hated her.

“Mama, the blue or the yellow--I can’t decide,” Margarita called from her bedroom. Charcoal held a sigh. The girl wasn’t even dressed yet. It would be ages before Margarita would decide what dress to wear, which would leave them late to meet Mr. Fader. Charcoal would, no doubt, be blamed.

“Blue, darling,” Mrs. Rockwelth advised. “It will match your eyes.” Charcoal heard the usual sounds of Margarita getting dressed, and although she moved much faster than usual, it still wasn’t near to fast enough. As the minutes ticked by, Charcoal resolved to make herself useful. She picked up a duster and began going over the tables and lamps.

“What do I pay you?” Mrs. Rockwelth asked suddenly. Charcoal stopped, the duster in the air.

“Nothing, miss,” she replied. “You gave me work in exchange for a roof over my head and a day’s rations.” She dusted the clock on the mahogany table next to Mrs. Rockwelth. Without warning, the woman lurched out to grab her wrist.

“A day’s rations?” she asked. Charcoal nodded. “But you’re all skin and bones, girl.”

“…You told Cook to give me rations befitting of an eight-year-old girl,” Charcoal mumbled. Despite her beautiful daughter, Mrs. Rockwelth was an ugly old woman. Charcoal tried not to stare at the thin mustache that resided over Mrs. Rockwelth’s upper lip.

“Of course I did,” she rasped. “Because you were eight when you came to us. But Cook should have increased your food with your age.” Charcoal remained silent. “I shall have to talk to her. And perhaps I can work out a small pay for you.” She gave Charcoal a thin little smile as she let go of her arm. “You are an asset to this house, my dear. I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

Charcoal was in shock. “Th-thank you, miss,” she stuttered. “I’m very grateful.” She gave a weak smile. She was, in truth, ecstatic about the new offer, but didn’t show it. If she did, someone would try to stamp it out. Charcoal glanced up as Margarita descended the stairs. She was the person that usually did the stamping.

“Mama, we’re late,” she whined. She shot a glare at Charcoal as a white-faced maid handed her a parasol. Charcoal didn’t blame the maid for looking so scared. Margarita wasn’t the most patient of people to work for.

“I know, darling,” Mrs. Rockwelth replied. “Camille will accompany you.” Margarita groaned, but walked out of the house, thrusting the parasol at Charcoal, who quickly opened it and held it over Margarita. They walked in usual silence. Margarita, annoyed as always, barely made a comment to Charcoal. It was as if all servants were vulgar pests one had to put up with. As they neared the park, Charcoal allowed herself a quick grin. Her arms were sore from holding the umbrella, and the sun beating down on her neck didn’t feel too great.

“Pub,” Margarita said to herself. Pub was Mr. Fader’s nickname. No one, not even himself, knew where it came from, but it had stuck, so to everyone that knew him well enough, he was “Pub.”

Charcoal searched the park for him, smiling slightly when she finally saw him. His bright green eyes shone even though he was far away. The sunlight glowed in his slightly ruffled blond hair, making him look even more handsome.

“Margarita, I almost thought you weren’t coming,” he said to her. He lifted her hand to his lips.

“It was all Camille’s fault,” Margarita said brightly.

‘Knew it,’ Charcoal thought to herself. Pub smiled at her.

“Good afternoon, Camille,” he greeted her. Charcoal grinned.

“Good afternoon,” Margarita shot her a warning glare, “Mr. Fader.”

“You certainly are looking quite lovely today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Margarita looked flushed at the attention that Charcoal was getting. She looped her arm around Pub’s and grabbed her parasol. “That will be enough Camille. Meet me back here at 5 o’clock to walk me home.”

“I’ll be happy to accompany you, Margarita,” Pub said quickly, winking at Charcoal. “You needn’t trouble your girl.” Margarita sighed happily.

“Well if you insist,” she said. Pub turned to Charcoal.

“Here,” he said, tossing her a silver dollar, “have a night on the town.” Charcoal smiled her thanks as she watched them walk off. They were heading to the more discrete section of the park. Charcoal knew what they would do back there. Her innocence on the subject had been lost when she was very small.

Pushing the thought of handsome Mr. Fader and Margarita alone to the back of her mind, Charcoal hugged tightly to the dollar. She pushed it into her balled fist, worried that someone might try to steal it.

She jumped onto the trolley that was heading southeast. There was only one place a girl like her would ever want to spend money: SoHo Art Supplies. Charcoal’s stomach fluttered nervously as she entered the store. Temperas for washes, oils for those who knew how to use them, brushes of all sizes and shapes, and of course charcoal, 2 cents a stick. It was as close to paradise as she had ever dared to dream.

She walked along the aisles, not daring to take a deep breath, for fear she would shatter the peace. She rubbed her fingers over the fan brushes, enjoying the ripples. There were brushes with silk hairs and next to them, canvas aching to be painted over. Charcoal felt her heart stretch with pain as she saw the blank sketchbooks. The cheap tracing paper books and those that cost three dollars for 200 “primed watercolor papers” were stretched across a section of the aisle. Most cost at least 75 cents, and she needed to buy the necessary supplies before she indulged herself. She let out a heavy sigh, and walked to the back of the store.

“What’s the difference between vine and stick?” she heard someone ask. They were talking about charcoal. The drawing material, that is. Charcoal walked up the aisle to see the same girl she had met before, and someone else. She hated getting dragged into conversations, so of course she tried to avoid the girls. Charcoal ducked her head down and started sidling back.

“Hey!”

Damn. They saw her. She turned around, pulling on a smile.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said. The girl smiled in agreement.

“We never got to introduce ourselves,” she said. “Name’s Hercules.”

“Charcoal.” They shook. The girl standing behind them glanced at the pile of charcoal, smiling slightly.

“That’s Cap,” Hercules went on, motioning to the one behind her. Charcoal waved at her, and turned her attention back to Hercules.

“You were talking about charcoal.” It was more a statement than a question. Cap nodded.

“A friend of ours is having a birthday tomorrow and we wanted to get her some things to draw with,” Cap explained. “Except she’s the only person we know who has the slightest idea about…this stuff.” Charcoal walked between them, looking over the sticks.

“What does she draw?” Charcoal asked, picking out a few pencils. Cap and Hercules exchanged glances.

“Uh…anything,” Hercules replied after a minute. Charcoal smiled with her back turned to the two.

“Then you should probably get some basic stuff,” she explained, picking out a box of vine. “Here. And you’ll want a few pencils, and a penknife.” Cap reached her hand out to pick up a piece of stick charcoal.

“What about this?” she asked. Charcoal frowned, and added two sticks to the pile of gifts.

“It’s not totally necessary--I almost never use straight stick--but I guess you could get it,” Charcoal said, rubbing her finger over the square, blocky charcoal and examining the dark smudge. “Pencil is really the best…and the most expensive. But it’s well worth it.” The two girls looked bewildered, and Charcoal sighed. “Pencil charcoal.” She pointed to the box of pencils that instead of holding graphite, held black charcoal. “Stick.” The girls followed her finger to see the heavy compressed sticks. “Vine.” She stopped at the pile of thin, light sticks.

“What’s that?” Hercules asked. She motioned to a tiny sack. Charcoal examined it a moment before wrinkling her nose.

“Dust. The most unnecessary form of charcoal imaginable,” she lamented. “Only rich people buy it to shade their drawings. Normal people just rub their fingers over a stick and use their fingers to shade. The best thing, though, is to get a stump.” Charcoal glanced at Hercules and Cap, seeing that she had clearly been misunderstood. She quickly picked up a small device that was pointed at both ends. She smiled, feeling the soft, rolled up paper. She handed it to Hercules

“This is a stump?” Hercules asked. Charcoal nodded, looking at everything Hercules and Cap were holding.

“That should be enough,” she said. “Unless you want to buy her a kneaded eraser, too.”

“A what?”

Charcoal studied the aisle a minute, finally finding what she wanted. She tossed a chunk of soft rubber to the pair.

“One kneaded eraser will last a lifetime, I promise,” she explained. “It’s the best for charcoal, because every time you get it dirty, you can clean it by pushing it around a little.” She grinned as Cap started playing with it. One of the best parts of drawing with charcoal was the fact that you could play with kneaded erasers as much as you wanted.

“Thanks,” Hercules said. “You were a big help.” She flashed Charcoal a grateful smile as Cap began calculating how much they would need.

“48 cents,” Cap announced. “Man, is Sketch lucky to have friends like us.” She winked at Hercules, who began laughing.

“Sketch, huh?” Charcoal said idly. “So she’s pretty good, huh?” Hercules nodded, but Cap was the only one to verbalize her emotions.

“She’s the best. I can’t believe half the stuff she draws. It’s amazing. I mean, Sketch has to be the best artist in New York.” She grinned. Charcoal restrained a frown. She would have to see about that.

“Can I meet her?” Charcoal asked. Hercules and Cap exchanged glances.

“Sure,” Hercules said, shrugging. “You can head back to the Lodging House with us.”

“The what?” Charcoal asked.

“Lodging House,” Cap replied, poking a hole through the eraser. “We’re newsies.” Charcoal thought a moment before nodding. She knew that. After all, didn’t she meet Hercules trying to buy a paper?

“We can leave right now if you want,” Hercules said. Charcoal shook her head and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I need to pick up a few supplies first,” she said, reaching out for a sharp penknife. She had one, but it was blunt and didn’t work very well. The knife was 12 cents. She was lucky she had an ample supply of vine and stick. She picked up a few pencils, grinning as she saw a white charcoal pencil. They were really only for highlighting or when you wanted to draw on colored paper, but she loved them. She remembered that she needed a stump and selected the best one she could find. They tended to get dirty quickly if you didn’t have a kneaded eraser. With that thought, she picked up one from the pile. As she tallied the price her head, she realized with a sinking feeling she wouldn’t be able to buy a sketchbook. “Hey, you guys can buy your things now,” Charcoal advised. They nodded and retreated to the register. Charcoal walked slowly to the sketchbooks. She drew a sharp breath as she saw the perfect book. It was small, sturdy, and covered with shinny black paper. She reached out for it, running her hand over the heavy black spiral that kept it together. This would last a lifetime. She flipped the pages, imagining her own drawings inside. She checked for the price, knowing she wouldn’t have enough, but couldn’t find it.

“’Scuse me,” she said to one of the employees. “How much is this?” The young man looked at the book closely.

“A dollar 24,” he said, handing it back to her. She felt her stomach drop. After what she needed to buy, she would have about 20 cents left over. In her eyes, it was a fortune, but it was nowhere near to what she would need for the book.

“I have 20 cents…” she said slowly. The man stared at her.

“Give me that book,” he threatened. Charcoal shook her head.

“Do you think I could just work it off? Or give you the money when I can?” But the man was already reaching out to grab the book back.

“Please,” she pleaded. “Just keep it here for a little while. I’ll try to bring the money.” He glared at her as he made up his mind.

“One week,” he decided. Charcoal grinned, handing him the book.

“Thank you,” she said happily. He grumbled a reply and stalked back to the storeroom. Charcoal walked over to the register, where Hercules and Cap were already wrapping the presents in brown paper. The cashier quickly rung up the price and Charcoal handed her the dollar.

“Ready to go?” Hercules asked. Charcoal nodded, starting to push her purchases into her pockets until the lady behind the register said the paper was free. Finally, all three emerged from the store, their parcels underneath their arms. Without warning, Charcoal’s stomach grumbled, low and loud. She looked sheepishly at the other two girls, who smiled softly.

“Good thing we’re right by the neighborhood that holds food in the highest regard,” Hercules said brightly as she started for little Italy. The smell of freshly baked cannolis and Italian bread filled her nostrils, giving her a warm delicious feeling. Hercules stopped outside a small shop.

“I’ll treat ya for giving us all the good advice,” she said brightly. Charcoal started to object, but was interrupted by Cap.

“I need ta get goin’,” she said quickly. She waved good-bye to Charcoal and Hercules and started down the street.

“Ten ta one she’s stopping by David’s,” Hercules grinned. Charcoal lifted an eyebrow. “Come on, the faster we eat, the faster we can get back to the Lodging House.”

“So where is this place?” Charcoal asked as they sat down. She talked slow, ignoring the lightheaded feeling she was getting from being so hungry.

“Duane Street,” Hercules said. “Two of your famous raviolis, please.” The waiter nodded and whisked their order to the cook in the back of the tiny restaurant.

“That’s only a few blocks from my house,” Charcoal said, taking tiny sips of her water. “I live in Greenwich Village.” Hercules looked at her for a minute. Charcoal knew why. Only rich families lived in the village, and she certainly didn’t look rich.

“I mean, I’m a house maid at one of the mansions.”

Hercules nodded this time. She looked as though she was going to say something else, but the food arrived, ending all conversation. Charcoal quickly ate the steamy pasta, trying not to wolf it down. When she had finished, however, she noticed that her companion had finished faster.

“I wanted to get going,” she said, her cheeks flushing. Charcoal smiled, and sopped up some of the leftover sauce with a roll. Hercules tossed some coins on the table and stood up.

“We’ll need to hurry to catch the trolley, otherwise we’ll have to walk about thirty blocks,” Hercules said, starting out the door. Charcoal followed her, content with her full stomach.

“Thanks,” she said. Hercules grinned.

“Don’t mention it.” She broke out into a sudden run as she saw an advancing trolley. Charcoal quickly caught up to her and they jumped on.

“Close,” Charcoal gasped between breaths. Hercules shrugged and sat down.

“We’ll get off in a moment,” Hercules said after about 15 minutes. “That’s Thomas Street. We just need to walk a block to get home.” Charcoal nodded, and before she knew it she was jumping off the trolley and starting down the street. A quick glance at a clock told her it was 4:07, and she had to remind herself that she didn’t need to get back until 8.

“Here it is,” Hercules said grandly. “The newsies’ Lodging House.” There was a sign that stated it was a newsboys’ Lodging House, but someone had put a notice under it that read “Ladies Welcome.” Charcoal pushed the door open, getting a comfortable feeling from the worn down brass handle. She walked inside, seeing a deserted room. A small bark told her it wasn’t totally deserted, and she soon saw a large white puppy rise and walk to Hercules.

“Heya, Pup,” Hercules said soothingly, running a hand over his long fur. She started up a staircase, Charcoal quickly following.

“You need to sign in, miss,” Charcoal heard someone say in a slow voice. She turned, seeing an old man emerge from a side office, rubbing his glasses and yawning. He pointed to a ledger on top of his desk. “First night is free, and it’s a nickel a night after that.”

“She ain’t staying the night,” Hercules responded. She pulled on Charcoal’s arm to keep her moving. “That’s Kloppman, the owner. He’s a pretty nice guy. Protects us from the bulls and everything.” She climbed the stairs until she reached a large room. “That’s where the boys sleep. We sleep down the hall.” It looked to Charcoal as if everyone was residing in the boys’ room. There were people draped over beds, and leaning on nightstands.

“Hey new girl!”

Charcoal turned to find a pair of brown eyes examining her.

“Know how to play poker?” the same person asked. He showed her a deck of beaten cards. Charcoal shrugged. He grinned. “Good enough for me. We’re playing five card straight.” He started to pull her over to a table when Hercules intervened.

“Geez, Race, she just got here. Leave the poor girl alone.”

The boy shrugged. “We need another player.”

“Then ask someone you know,” Hercules said. She reclaimed Charcoal as they started off to the other side of the room. “You’ll have to excuse Race. He’s got a little problem with gamboling!” she yelled over her shoulder.

“Aw, shuddap!” was the response, to which Hercules grinned. She stopped next to a group of girls who were busy talking.

“Sketch here?” she asked each of them. They all shook their heads.

“She went out ta catch a show wid a few of the boys,” a dark-haired girl explained. She leaned forward and grasped Charcoal’s hand. “I’m Dusk. Dere’s an empty bunk under Beaner if you wanna put your things there. We get up around five, and catch breakfast at da corner.” She let go of Charcoal’s hand and pointed down the hallway. “We sleep in dere. I’ll show ya your bunk.” Charcoal threw a dazed glance at Hercules.

“Hey Dusk,” she said quietly. “She’s got her own place to sleep.” Dusk looked as though she had just been told the obvious. She shrugged, her cheeks pink, and turned back to the group. Hercules laughed and stood up on one of the bunks.

“Hey everyone,” she said loudly. “This is Charcoal. She’s stayin’ here for a few hours.” There were a few weak greetings coming from the group. “Don’t worry,” Hercules said, jumping off the bunk, “they’re just tired. Catch them in the middle of the day and they’d wring your hand.” She grabbed a chair and motioned for Charcoal to imitate her.

“Charcoal, this is Dusk, Panda,” she pointed to a shy girl in the corner, “Beaner, Quips, Luca, and Dancer. Everyone else is…well, not here.” Charcoal nodded a hello. They all seemed kind enough, if wary about a newcomer.

“Do ya sell papes?” a girl with black hair asked. Charcoal shook her head.

“I work down in the village as a maid,” she said, and immediately regretted it. She saw that they pitied her for working under someone else’s rule, instead of in their freedom. She didn’t blame them, either. Almost anything was better than listening to Margarita complain and pine about everything. “But at least I get my own room,” she said with a smile. A few girls laughed, ending the tension. Charcoal leaned back in her chair, feeling the heavy package in her pocket and listening to the girls talk. After a few hours her eyes began slowly dropping. She pinched herself to keep from falling asleep, knowing she would be punished for not coming in.

“Hey, what time is it?” she asked suddenly. The girls all shrugged until the boy that wanted to play poker walked by. Dusk put out a hand to stop him and reached into his vest pocket.

“7:43,” she read off of a pocket watch. She put it back in his vest. Charcoal suddenly became wide awake. She would be fired for sure if she were late twice in one day.

“I gotta get!” she said, jumping from her chair.

“What?” Quips asked, somewhat lazily. Charcoal didn’t respond, she only picked up the jacket she had taken off and threw it over her arms.

“Hey, where’s she goin’?” a tall boy asked as she rushed by.

“Home,” Hercules responded simply.

“Alone?”

Hercules shrugged and turned back to her friends. The tall boy jogged up to Charcoal, setting a hand on her shoulder before she slipped through the door.

“Hey new girl,” he called. She turned around quickly, her hair whipping over her shoulder. “Name’s Jack Kelly. While I don’ doubt yer strength, da streets are rough at night, an’ I’d feel betta if you went home wid one of my boys.” He slid his eyes in the direction of two strong-looking young men. “…Or some a Brooklyn’s.”

Charcoal paused, not sure how to respond. “I guess…I guess that’d be alright. But I’m in a hurry.” He nodded, and turned to the boys. Charcoal made sure she still had everything in her pockets and leaned out the door to get a glance at the clock over a bank. 7:47. She would really have to hurry. She tapped her foot impatiently on the ground as she waited for them. She could see Jack nearly dragging the less-than-willing duo.

“But we’re going in the opposite direction from Brooklyn!” she heard one complain. Jack didn’t respond, but she saw his hands tighten on their shoulders.

“Nail and Tin,” Jack said, gesturing to the boys. “And if they don’t get ya home in one piece, they’ll have me ta deal wid.” Charcoal thanked Jack and jumped down the steps to the street. Her guard dogs followed at her heels.

“I really gotta hurry,” she said to her companions.

“’Kay,” Nail said nonchalantly. “Where do ya live?”

“On the upper side of Greenwich Village,” Charcoal responded. In a blink, Nail and Tin were running down the street, shouting out that they knew where the best shortcuts were. Finally, after 10 minutes of hurtling trashcans and ducking under clotheslines, she was in her neighborhood. Panting, she thanked the boys, who merely nodded and turned around the same way they had come. Charcoal quickly walked to her house, holding her side. She noticed an unusual amount of activity, almost as if someone where throwing a party.

“What’s up, Mayb’?” she asked the cook’s helper, a shy young girl of 14.

“Party,” the girl responded. “Pub--I mean, Mr. Fader proposed and of course Margarita accepted. Charcoal’s breath stopped in her throat. Handsome Mr. Fader--married? And to Margarita, no less. It was more terrible than she imagined.

“Ach! ‘Urry up and get changed!” Charcoal heard the cook’s great squalling voice directed at her. She ducked into her bedroom and began changing into the heavily starched dress used only for special occasions. She looked down at her hands, noticing that they were coated in charcoal. She carefully wiped them on the dress she had thrown over her chair and started back to the kitchen.

“Carry these plates out,” someone directed her, shoving three very heavy, very full plates of food at her. Charcoal just barely managed to settle them in her arms without one toppling over (years of experience). She walked slowly to the large crowd of socialites. They were all engaged in what seemed to be a very animate conversation. Charcoal could make out Pub and Margarita at the end, Margarita showing a large ring to whomever she could find and Pub looking quite sick from all slaps on his back and tight hugs from friends. Charcoal carefully set the plates down, nearly knocking over a brandy with her elbow. Lucky for her, its owner was too drunk to notice. She hurried back to the kitchen and soon was back with more plates, continuing the pattern until nearly one in the morning. She almost cried for joy when the first person stood up saying, “Well, I’d better turn in,” which was responded with a few, “As will I.” Her arms were singed from the hot plates; she rested a moment in a straight-backed chair.

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