“The daguerreotype means a lot to us,” Cristiana said. I knew she would not give up until I had given her the image, but I was stupid with the game of it. There was something in it for me, and I was hungry for that something. It’s repulsive to think how I must have seemed to her. I was not a good man. I tell you, I was a cog in this terrible story.
She smelled of sweat, milk, urine, cast iron and something flowery I couldn’t identify. It occurred to me to go, but I couldn’t seem to get myself to do that. Her smell was beguiling.
“I wish I could help you,” I said. “I really do wish I could.”
Cristiana let her face fall a little to the side. She gave me a sour look because of course I could have helped her. “You ravaged my dead husband’s uniform,” she said. “You read his letter, and you d
