Charlee uncrossed her arms and picked up the violin case. She opened it. Inside wasn't a violin. It was a photograph — Chase's mother, young, laughing, with an infant Belle in her lap.
Belle nodded. "The ruby knows. Now you do too."
The room went silent. The jazz band stumbled. The ruby flickered once, then dimmed.
She glided past the line of rum-soaked sailors and factory workers, her pearl necklace catching the gaslight. Belle didn't wait. She never did. She rapped twice on the brick, whispered "Velvet" to the slot, and slipped inside. Charlee watched her go, a half-smile on her lips. Belle was trouble wrapped in silk stockings.
Charlee appeared beside them, arms crossed. "Alright, you two. Outside or upstairs. Choose."
The speakeasy was called De Tit — a name no one could quite translate, but everyone felt in their bones. It sat beneath a forgotten laundry mat, its entrance a sliding brick disguised as a mailbox. Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of honeysuckle perfume.
Belle didn't look up. "Everyone wants what I have, Chase. But no one ever asks why I took it."