#Bulfinch Press

[uwmspeccoll]

Milestone Monday

Poetry in Punk

On this day, December 30th, 1946, Patti Smith, a singer, songwriter, author, poet, photographer, and painter, was born in Chicago, Illinois. Often referred to as the "Godmother of Punk," Smith is known for her influential music that blends rock and poetry. Her debut album, Horses, released in 1975, is considered a landmark work in the punk rock genre. Beyond her music career, Patti Smith has written several books, including the acclaimed memoir Just Kids, which explores her relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe and their experiences within the New York City artistic scene. Throughout her life, she has been a prominent cultural figure, advocating for artistic freedom and social change.

Images featured come from:

Our first edition of A Useless Death, a poem by Patti Smith that was published as a chapbook and distributed by Gotham Book Mart and Gallery in New York in 1972.

Ha! Ha! Houdini!, a poem written by Patti Smith and published as a chapbook. It was distributed by Gotham Book Mart and Gallery in New York in 1977.

Robert Mapplethorpe, released by Peter Weiermair and published by Robert Wilk in 1981. The contexts come from a catalogue of an exhibition sponsored by the Frankfurter Kunstverein, April 10-May 17, 1981, and features an introduction by Sam Wagstaff, the artistic mentor and benefactor to Robert Mapplethorpe and Patti Smith.

Some Women by Robert Mapplethorpe that features an introduction by one of the pioneers of New Journalism, Joan Didion. Our first edition was published in Boston by Bulfinch Press in 1989.

Robert Mapplethorpe by Richard Marshall with essays by American poet, literary critic essayist, teacher, and translator Richard Howard, and South African-born American writer and editor Ingrid Sischy. Our copy is the first cloth edition, published in New York: Whitney Museum of American Art; Boston: in association with Bulfinch Press: Little, Brown and Company in 1988.

Mapplethorpe prepared in collaboration with the Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation with an essay by American art critic, philosopher, and Professor Arthur C. Danto. This first edition was published in 1992 by Random House in New York.

-View more Milestone Monday posts

-Melissa, Special Collections Graduate Intern

[archivist-dragonfly]

Book 484

Leonardo da Vinci: The Anatomy of Man - Drawings from the Collection of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II

Martin Clayton and Ron Philo

Bulfinch Press 1992

So, let’s get the fact that this book is an excellent collection of Leonardo’s anatomical drawings out of the way up front. That said—this next bit is quoted from the foreword—“Her Majesty the Queen possesses, in the Royal Library at Windsor Castle, more than six hundred drawings by Leonardo da Vinci, the finest such collection in the world.”

But how? Well, it’s a very convoluted story. According to the foreword, upon Leonardo’s death, they were passed to his favorite pupil, Francesco Melzi. After Melzi’s death, the collection was purchased by sculptor Pompeo Leoni, who had them bound into books. Upon Leoni’s death in 1609, one volume was “acquired” and brought to England by Thomas Howard, advisor to King Charles I. Ultimately, they were “recorded for certain as being in the possession of Queen Mary II in 1690.”

So, were they stolen? I don’t know. But I know this: Italy’s never going to see them again.

[alessandro55]

Cyclops Albert Watson

Bulfinch Press, Boston 1994, 246 quadrotone plates, ISBN 978 0821 223888

euro 35,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

Presents a collection of iconic portraits and photographs taken from the twenty-five year long career of the photographer, Albert Watson

26/07/24

[fashionbooksmilano]

Branded Youth and other Stories  by Bruce Weber

designed by Dimitri Levas. Lyrics by Sammy Cahn, Gilbert Keith Chesterton, and Patti Smith; Poems by Charles Bukowski, A. E. Houseman and Allen Ginsberg; and essays by Ingrid Sischy, Martin Harrison, and Charles Saumarez Smith.

Bulfinch Press/Little Brown and Company, Boston New York 1997, 278 pages, 28 x 22 cm., ISBN  9780821225257

euro 110,00

email if you want to buy :booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

“Branded Youth And Other Stories” was published in conjunction with Bruce’s exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery London in 1997. The title refers to a story of some wild-child teenagers he met in Montana, who in an act of teenage bonding had branded each other on the shoulder with the heated blade of an army bayonet. The reckless romance of this band-of-brothers fable sets the tone for the photographs of this volume–images that evoke youth, freedom, adventure…and the ties that bind. This book opens with a portfolio of Hollywood’s brightest lights, actors of todays’ A-list like Leonardo diCaprio, Christina Ricci, Natalie Portman and Mark Wahlberg, all caught at the moment just before their biggest breaks.  Their innocence stands in stark contrast to the “Court TV” chapter that follows, Polaroid stills from the time when when cable crime reportage became a national fixation, the lurid underbelly of fame represented by the Menendez brothers, Amy Fisher, and Lorena Bobbitt. “Branded Youth” is very much concerned with a search for lost innocence, that “big fantasy life” only dangerous because of its elusiveness. The book traces Bruce’s travels and adventures over the course of several years, from Vietnam to South Africa, Mississippi to Montana. Everywhere he witnesses and documents families celebrating together, children, elderly folks, life-long friends, enchanted landscapes. The prevailing feeling is of possibility and love and faith, the desire people share to build communities and live in harmony with one another, regardless of the injustice or violence of the past. In these photographs, Bruce captures an openness to life as it presents itself to his lens–the pictures resonate, above all, with hope. The book ends as it began, with a study in contrasts. Youthful friendship and loyalty are celebrated in photographs of athletes (at Dan Gable’s Wrestling Camp in Iowa) and Boy Scouts (specifically, Troop 1426 of Virginia). Adolescence and sexuality get their due in a series of figure studies which end the book. But even with its prevailing exuberance, Bruce Weber closes “Branded Youth” with a thoughtful essay expressing the ephemeral nature of such joy. 

09/03/23

orders to:     booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

ordini a:        booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

twitter:         @fashionbooksmi

instagram:   fashionbooksmilano, designbooksmilano tumblr:          fashionbooksmilano, designbooksmilano

[finishinglinepress]

FLP MEMOIR BOOK OF THE DAY: GAUDY SORROW – MEMOIR by Barbara Seyda

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/gaudy-sorrow-memoir-by-barbara-seyda/

Barbara Seyda‘s GAUDY SORROW is a surreal, epistolary #memoir about her Basque friend who died of Covid on Christmas Eve. A rant elegy swerving like a euphoric requiem, over 200 short, blunt letters catapult us into an epic odyssey. Rowdy and transcendent, we zig zag through tightly-braided random moments, street slang, Shakespeare, Spanglish and over-wrought metaphors. This queer Covid narrative spews sexy rage and body parts like a swamp monster of grief – a hydra sprouting infinite heads from fresh wounds for the beloved. A female-centric opera and hybrid text, GAUDY SORROW flickers like a dead lightbulb, dazzling and bereft.

Barbara Seyda is a queer, Polish-American playwright and screenwriter. Her published books are Women in Love (Bulfinch/Little Brown) winner of a Lambda Literary Award, Nomads of a Desert City (University of Arizona Press) and Celia, A Slave (Yale University Press) winner of the Yale Drama Prize. Seyda lives in Tucson, on the Sonoran Desert home of the Tohono O’odham people.

PRAISE FOR GAUDY SORROW – MEMOIR by Barbara Seyda

Gaudy Sorrow is a kaleidoscopic tapestry that spirals the reader into a personal journey-rant of rich textures. Barbara Seyda’s tender probing, in-your-face, funny, raw swirl through grief, grasping, and wonder is a careening mouthful of orgasmic words placed just so. Reading Gaudy Sorrowshould not be rushed, but savored the way a 19th century naturalist would explore her first jungle canopy. The way one would “floss teeth with trumpet vines,” as Seyda says. This jewel of a journey is thrilling, violent, confessional, and beautiful; we want to go with Seyda as she “drives though LA with a megaphone clamped to the top of a stolen Volkswagen bug. Blasting a non-stop transient grief monologue.” I am grateful for this rant and will continue to revisit it over and over again.

–Shelly Hubman, Writer, Intuitive Healer

Barbara Seyda’s searing tale of sex, love, and grief is like a glimmering sequined dress—one minute we’re dancing wildly and aglow; the next we’re stripped bare, lying in a heap on the floor, waiting for morning sunlight. This, after all, is a chronicle of human intimacy, a place only those willing to face blood and balm dare to go. With its breathy, exquisite prose and cutting candor, Gaudy Sorrow left me sweating, gasping, and fully alive.

–Kimi Eisele, The Lightest Object in the Universe

Sylvia Plath warned that ‘poetry, at its best, can do you a lot of harm’ and maybe that’s why I return to it. The same can be said for loving. Which is to say living is truly treacherous work. Make no mistake about it, you dirty human miracle, Barbara Seyda’s GAUDY SORROW will hurt you. It will tie you up. Hurl you into a carnival of ruin with a locked-up staggering beast. Then slap you for not saying fuck you. Here, glue-gunning our fingers together becomes an expression of gratitude; this is poetry for the un-furred, the grief-scored. Don’t miss your chance to stare straight into the eclipse, you who are a private bomb with a heart.

–TC Tolbert, The Quiet Practices, Gephyromania

Please share/please repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #book #read #memoir

[pearlywritings]

After the cold there is always warmth

synopsis: the December evening, that Diluc and twins spend outside playing in snow and then cuddling together in front of the fireplace.

pairing and characters: Diluc, his twin sons Rufus and Lucas, Diluc x fem!reader as a fact

tw: pure fluff, domestic moment, vision affects Diluc’s body temperature

word count: 2k+ words

author’s note: got inspired by thiiiiiis ✨✨

Family AU Masterlist

The headmaid of the Dawn Winery, the one members of the Ragnvindr's family trust the most, is a constant witness of many sweet familial moments shared between her masters, Archons, she often becomes a direct participant in those.

Today is not an exception. You, her lovely Lady, decided to go out with your friends and then stay for a sleepover at the house of one of them, something you haven't done in quite some time. Which meant your husband and two sons were left on their own and that, as it was proved on multiple occasions, sometimes leads to different kinds of predicaments, because boys know how to convince their dad to do mostly anything, even if it'll take them hours to accomplish. So before leaving you assigned a task to Adelinde - keeping an eye on your boys, so they don't get in trouble. Nothing new to the woman who practically raised Diluc and Kaeya years ago, moreso, she happily promised to look after the three redheads, sending you off with no worries to have.

The windows in the spacious building are huge, so, locating a man and two boys outside is not hard, besides, the fiery color of hair sticking from under their knitted hats is vibrant against the whiteness of the snow and it makes spotting them even easier.

She saw a lot: boys running around under the falling snow; them standing with heads thrown back trying to catch the snowflakes with their tongues stuck out before Diluc told them not to (they didn’t really listen, and tried to do it a few more times); small hands pressing snow into balls and throwing them at each other and at dad too, trying to drag him in a game, but quickly abandoning their attempts, because the snowball melted in his gloved hands the moment he tried to form it; how the little mischiefs jumped on Diluc and he (clearly pretending) fell in a snowbank, keeping two laughing and squealing boys on top of him; making replicas of Anemo Archon while lying in snow, with wings and stuff; how Diluc pretty often caught one of his sons to brush snow clinging to the clothes and check if any ended up under it. The last thing she saw them doing was the twins rolling balls to make a snowman.

Just when she puts a new log in a fireplace, a gust of cold air bursts through the front door, but quickly dies as it clicks shut. With a smile Adelinde turns around and hurries to assist the little troublemakers with their clothes, which, as she could easily predict, is practically soaked.

"How was your time outside, young masters?" she asks, as her fingers quickly work on the buttons of Rufus's fur coat.

"Great!" The older twin is grinning widely, nose and cheeks as red as the bulfinch's breast, with ruby eyes twinkling brightly and red hair a fluffy mess that makes him look like what Callie, Master Kaeya's daughter, calls both of them - a cherry.

His brother is no better in the department of the color, tugging off his mittens and stuffing them in his pockets.

"The snow melted under papa's feet when he stood in one place for long," it seems like he is very eager to share with the fact, handing the woman a hat he already dragged off of his head and letting her work on his coat as well.

"Oh, it did? How curious!" A soft chuckle and a quick glance at the 'culprit'. The man in question only sighs and points at the vision resting on his hip that wasn't visible under his own outer clothes.

"And he almost melted the snowman we were making!" Rufus suddenly complains, crossing his little arms and hmph-ing.

"I said I was sorry," Diluc mutters, putting the heavy boots on the carpet for staff to clean later, "I simply wanted to help with rolling the snow in bigger balls…"

Oh, it is such a rare sight for a man like the oldest Ragnvindr - an apologetic look on his face makes it hard to believe that this gentleman can destroy a group of Abyss mages in one go or gruffly tell off and kick the drunks out of his tavern late at night.

"Ruuuuu, don't be mad at dad!" Lucas grabs his brother's wrist and tugs on it to break the lock of crossed arms. "He meant good, you know that!"

"I am not mad!" Rufus protests, turning to look at his father. "And I forgave you, dad."

"Oh, thank you," Diluc exhales in exaggeration to show how relieved he is, pressing a hand to his chest to look more convincing. "I really appreciate it, firefly."

"Mhm!"

Finally undressed, the twins are sent off to their room where the two other maids will assist them, if needed, with changing into clothes they wear at home. Adelinde makes quick work of hanging coats, hats, scarfs and gloves to dry and turns to Diluc, who is in the middle or untying his hair.

"Maybe you should leave your vision at home, Master? I don't think it's dangerous near the winery, besides you always have an eye on the boys," she suggests lightly, reaching out for a towel and then offering it to the man.

"I gave it a thought actually…" he admits, throwing the fluffy fabric over his head. "I suppose you are right. It won't hurt to do so once in a while. Thank you for the fireplace, by the way, I am sure the boys will want to cuddle near it."

"Yes, you need it after two hours out there playing with the snow."

"It's been two hours? Time does fly by at a rapid speed when it’s Ru and Lu… Oh, can you make hot chocolate for them, please? They'll start asking for it the moment they come back down."

"Why of course, Master. With greatest pleasure."

When the sweet brew is ready, Adelinde doesn't forget to add marshmallows to Rufus's mug (Lucas still looks at them weirdly and refuses to try them) and returns to the living room. 

During the time she was busy, the twins got changed and their hair dried as well as possible and then brushed. Diluc is there already too, bare foot (and who is going to set an example for kids, sir?), clothes fresh and hair cascading down his back. Sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, the man cradles the bodies of his sons close to his chest, sharing the body heat to make it nice after so much time spent outside, in the middle of December no less.

"Thank you," Adelinde nods gently, carefully putting the small tray with both mugs on the floor near Diluc, and then, getting a non-verbal permission from her boss, leaves to get some personal things done before calling it a night.

The fire dances beautifully within its stone confines, licking and biting at the wood hungrily. Watching it makes the owner of the Dawn Winery slowly relax and clear his mind of all the unnecessary thoughts. Such a magnificent evening: he's home, the work is done, his sons are satisfied, and he genuinely hopes you are having a great time with your friends - you deserve a break and he was the one encouraging you to take it, - it's not easy to be the mother of two and the Lady of the house.

A content silence settles within the winery, leaving only the crack of burning wood and the rustling of clothes whenever the boys start fidgeting to change the position a little or cuddle even more into their dad, relishing in his warmth and how secure the firm embrace of his body feels.

"Papa…" Lucas calls in a tiny voice, the tune of sleepiness making itself clear. A big warm hand presses against the back of his head and massages the scalp, which leaves the boy borderline purring from pleasure.

"What is it, Lu?"

"Addie read us a book…" he starts, but quickly trails off, distracted by the fingers' ministrations.

"Yes, the book?"

"Oh, and… and there was a prince… and he saved a princess from a dragon… and then they married and had kids…"

Diluc hums, asking him to elaborate, all the while catching Rufus's hand - someone wanted to try and tickle his dad it seems. Too bad the man's reaction is immaculate. Instead it's the boy who bursts with giggles, being the one to be lightly tickled.

"So… did you save mama from a dragon too?"

"Did I save mama from a dragon? Why would you think so, baby?" There is a hint of surprise, but also amusement in Diluc's voice and he releases Rufus from under a tickling attack and pats his head gently instead.

"I heard how maids called you… um.. uncraned?"

"It's uncrowded!" Rufus exclaims, "Uncrowded!"

"Maybe..? But that you are king and mama is queen. Addie explained that prince and princess become king and queen later."

"So was there a dragon?" Straight to the point, so typical of your older son.

With a deep chuckle, all the way out of his broad chest, Diluc smiles and the fondness overtakes his features. If you were home to witness the sight, you'd surely want to kiss all over his beautiful, lovely, shining with adoration face, cradling those rosy cheeks in your palms and rubbing your nose against his.

"There was no dragon, I am afraid,” ‘only if you can call Kaeya one,’ he thinks amused, joking, of course, “but the story about how I met your mother is indeed interesting. One of my favorite stories, actually."

"But there is no dragon," judging by the tone Rufus is in disbelief. The look in his widened eyes proves it.

"And yet I love it. Would you like to hear?"

The twins whip their heads to face each other and, after a brief moment of exchanging gazes, look up at Diluc, excited.

"Yes!"

"Then grab your hot chocolate and make yourself comfortable. It'll be your bedtime story for today. Oh, careful, firefly," with the tips of his fingers he supports the mug's bottom when Lucas takes. Rufus meanwhile turns around, swings his legs to put them on both sides of Diluc's thigh and presses his back against the warm body behind. Only then the mug appears in his hands. The younger twin remains sitting the way he was, facing Diluc, now having a perfect view of his brother as well.

"Good, good. Now, where do I begin? Ah, yes… it all started, the day your mother…"

When later that evening Diluc is carrying his sleeping sons to the master's bedroom, having relived the memories of meeting and falling in love with the most amazing woman in the whole Teyvat and having shared this story with the most important beings in both his and your lives, he feels so utterly happy, heart filled with joy and yet unshown affection, that he catches himself thinking how alive he actually feels.

The days of biting chill are long forgotten, he is now surrounded by the heat of multiple emotions his family causes him to feel, and he is so glad he can return it both metaphorically and physically.

After all, after the cold there is always warmth, just as the sun rises after a dark night. And as Diluc pulls the covers over himself and the boys, his heart weeps with overwhelming glee, because his precious little flames attach themselves to his body immediately and the man is weak for them. He is convinced that if you were here, witnessing the scene, you'd comment something along the lines "looks like you are their personal heater now, Luc. You better expect them sneaking in our bed every night, now that they got the taste of winter cuddles properly" with fondness singing through your voice.

And you'd be absolutely right. And it’s not like Diluc Ragnvindr would ever complain about cuddles with his loved ones.

[mybeingthere]

Easter egg patterns by Charles W. Saalburg, published in The World, 1902. The directions for dyeing eggs with these patterns were to cut each one out, wrap it carefully around the egg, and then hold a vinegar-soaked cloth around it for five minutes, transferring the ink from the newsprint to the egg. From The World on Sunday (Bulfinch Press, 2005).

[vintagehomecollection]

also! is there any particular book in your collection that's your favorite?

Classic Decorative Details, 1994 Henrietta Spencer-Churchill, Rizzoli International Publications, Inc.

Living Barns: How to Find and Restore a Barn of Your Own, 1984 Ernest Burden, Bonanza Books, distributed by Crown Publishers, Inc.

Classic Country Style And How to Achieve It, 1990 Mary Trewby, A Bulfinch Press Book

Traditional Country Style, 1991 Elizabeth Wilhide, Universe Publishing, New York

The Cottage Book, 1989 Richard Sexton, Chronicle Books, San Francisco

[80sdeco]

Iridescent emerald green walls, couch, carpet with classical gold framed paintings. From the book Point of View, Design by Jay Spectre. 1st Ed, Bulfinch Press 1991

[colorphotosblayney]

Mary Ellen Mark

MARY ELLEN MARK achieved worldwide visibility through her numerous books, exhibitions and editorial magazine work. She published photo-essays and portraits in such publications as LIFE, New York Times Magazine, The New Yorker, Rolling Stone, and Vanity Fair. For over five decades, she traveled extensively to make pictures that reflect a high degree of humanism. She is recognized as one of our most respected and influential photographers. Her images of our world's diverse cultures have become landmarks in the field of documentary photography. Her portrayals of Mother Teresa, Indian circuses, and brothels in Bombay were the product of many years of work in India. A photo essay on runaway children in Seattle became the basis of the academy award nominated film STREETWISE, directed and photographed by her husband, Martin Bell.

Mary Ellen received the 2014 Lifetime Achievement in Photography Award from the George Eastman House as well as the Outstanding Contribution Photography Award from the World Photography Organisation. She has also received the Infinity Award for Journalism, an Erna & Victor Hasselblad Foundation Grant, and a Walter Annenberg Grant for her book and exhibition project on AMERICA. Among her other awards are the Cornell Capa Award from the International Center of Photography, the John Simon Guggenheim Fellowship, the Matrix Award for outstanding woman in the field of film/photography, and the Dr. Erich Salomon Award for outstanding merits in the field of journalistic photography. She was also presented with honorary Doctor of Fine Arts degrees from her Alma Mater, the University of Pennsylvania and the University of the Arts; three fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts; the Photographer of the Year Award from the Friends of Photography; the World Press Award for Outstanding Body of Work Throughout the Years; the Victor Hasselblad Cover Award; two Robert F. Kennedy Awards; and the Creative Arts Award Citation for Photography at Brandeis University.

She published twenty books including Passport (Lustrum Press, 1974), Ward 81 (Simon & Schuster, 1979), Falkland Road (Knopf, 1981), Mother Teresa's Mission of Charity in Calcutta (Friends of Photography, 1985), The Photo Essay: Photographers at work (A Smithsonian series), Streetwise (second printing, Aperture, 1992), Mary Ellen Mark: 25 Years (Bulfinch, 1991), Indian Circus,(Chronicle, 1993 and Takarajimasha Inc., 1993), Portraits (Motta Fotografica, 1995 and Smithsonian, 1997), a Cry for Help (Simon & Schuster, 1996), Mary Ellen Mark: American Odyssey (Aperture, 1999), Mary Ellen Mark 55 (Phaidon, 2001), Photo Poche: Mary Ellen Mark (Nathan, 2002), Twins (Aperture, 2003), Exposure (Phaidon, 2005), Extraordinary Child (The National Museum of Iceland, 2007), Seen Behind the Scene (Phaidon, 2009), Prom (Getty, 2012,) Man and Beast (University of Texas Press, 2014,) Tiny: Streetwise revisited (Aperture, 2015,) and Mary Ellen Mark on the Portrait and the Moment (Aperture, 2015.) Mark's photographs have been exhibited worldwide.

She also acted as the associate producer of the major motion picture, AMERICAN HEART (1992), directed by Martin Bell.

Her last book "Tiny: Streetwise Revisited" is a culmination of 32 years documenting Erin Blackwell, who she first met in 1983 on assignment for LIFE magazine. Erin was the subject of both the book and film "Streetwise." Martin also made an updated film, "TINY: The Life of Erin Blackwell."

Aside from her book and magazine work, Mark photographed advertising campaigns among which are Barnes and Noble, British Levis, Coach Bags, Eileen Fisher, Hasselblad, Heineken, Keds, Mass Mutual, Nissan, and Patek Philippe.

[eeveevie]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (7/18)

Chapter 7: Romantic as a Pair of Handcuffs

It has been a busy month for the Valentine Detective Agency—Madelyn, Nick and Piper regroup to go over all the evidence in the case against Eddie Winter. Marty Bulfinch arrives with a lead and an invitation to an event perfect for “Charmer” and Deacon. After having her partnership with the Railroad spy questioned a second time by Piper, Madelyn confides in the most unlikely of people. Later, at the Third Rail, it’s showtime for two undercover agents.

“Well, you’re about as romantic as a pair of handcuffs.” - Debby Marsh as played by Gloria Grahame (The Big Heat, 1953)

[read on Ao3] x  [chapter masterpost]

April 8th, 1958

The first signs of spring arrived in Boston not a moment too soon, alleviating the city from a harsh winter—weather wise, at least. Piper couldn’t resist using the change in seasons as a clever headline for the latest edition of Publick Occurrences— “Winter is over, but Eddie Winter isn’t.” It had been a busy month for the mob boss, who had all but taken control of all the major crime families in the city. With the exception of a few holdouts, his men had wormed their way across the criminal underground and begun to infiltrate once reputable businesses. Nowhere in Boston was safe.

Madelyn had kept herself just as occupied, juggling her work with the agency and the Railroad. Most days she would investigate leads with Nick, tracking down the necessary proof to pin Winter for his crimes. In her spare time she was partnered up with Deacon, fielding the work from Desdemona or Doctor Carrington, and the few odd job from Tinker Tom (maybe odd was putting it lightly). The two had caught a break and made contact with a surviving safehouse—Randolph—and worked to bring them back into the fold, strengthening the organization numbers. It was still slow going as the data from the Switchboard was decrypted, but she was glad to have given the group—and Deacon—a second chance.

Meanwhile, the agency had been successful in collecting the evidence that had been disappearing from police custody through their own unscrupulous means—but if there was sabotage within the precincts, their options were extremely limited. MacCready’s lead on recordings had so far been a dead end, as promising as it sounded. Nick had followed up on the rumor with his old friend Marty Bulfinch at Precinct 8 but finding physical proof of Eddie Winter’s crimes was like trying to capture lightning in a bottle. Winter’s corruption had spread through the entire government—from law enforcement to the mayor’s office—with anyone from beat cops to prosecutors offered bribes. Nobody could be trusted.

Madelyn was carefully inspecting the handwriting of a newly obtained letter, comparing the messy scrawl to the copies on hand, trying to determine if the note MacCready snatched off a drunken police detective belonged to their set. She read over the lines of text again, wishing that more than a few words in a sentence were intelligible. The most she could make out were the words sir, head, and artist. Whatever that meant. At least she could say the scribbles belonged to the same hand who wrote the other letters. Even though none had been signed, there was enough inference to say Eddie Winter had penned them all.

“He’s done it again!”

A Boston Bugle newspaper slammed down right atop of Madelyn’s work, causing her to snap up in alarm. Nick was fuming, pacing in front of her desk as a waft of cigarette smoke trailed behind his head like a halo. This wasn’t a surprising mood to find him in as of late—as they ramped up their investigation, the detective had become more stressed than ever, bordering on manic—relentless in his endeavor to stop Eddie Winter’s takeover of Boston. Late nights in the office had left his jaw shadowed, in need of a shave, and his light green eyes were dull with sleep deprivation.  

Madelyn glanced down to read over the newspaper print, frowning when she saw the bolded typeface—Boston mob leader Ron Trevio found dead. Nick paused in his footsteps and approached, reaching down to tap his finger against the article in question.

“What they don’t say is that Winter had him assassinated,” he muttered, reaching up to grab at the nearly burnt out cigarette. Madelyn scooted the ashtray she kept in her office specifically for him closer so he could snuff the smoke out. “Whoever he got to do the job blew his head clean right off, destroying the bullet in the process.”

She grimaced at the thought, swallowing down the sickly feeling that crept up her throat. Not that she doubted Nick, but she questioned what made him so confident. Trevio was a mid-level player on the mob-scene but had stayed out of Winter’s way—rumor was that he was even making plans to head east to New York. For him to wind up dead and deposed of in such a gruesome way seemed unbefitting of even Eddie Winter.

“Are you sure?” Madelyn asked, watching as Nick ran a hand through his dark hair, distraught. “We both know he’s unhinged but this…this seems brazen.”

Her partner gestured to the newspaper again. “He knows he can get away with it. He has this entire city in his palm, and this is a warning to anyone who dares to go against him.”

She considered his words, wondering if he had thought about what Eddie Winter would do if he knew about the depth of their investigation. It was likely no secret to the crime-family organization that the Valentine Detective Agency was after them, but Nick had always been considered a joke to the city—something that used to bring him shame, he was now using to his advantage to keep their work under wraps. Still, Madelyn was on edge. If Winter and his men knew how much they had discovered, how close they were to finding a smoking gun, her and Nick were as sure as dead.

“Hey doll,” her partner called her from her thoughts, and she flicked her gaze up to meet his eyes. “You alright?”

This was what she signed up for, wasn’t it? When she first came to the agency all those years ago, he didn’t just need a legal assistant, but somebody who would help him in the pursuit of justice. After Nate’s death, she wound up relying on him for similar reasons. Nick was more than her partner, but her friend and somebody she trusted with her life. She was more than ready to see the Eddie Winter case to the very end with him, even if it killed her.

She put forth a smile. “I’m fine, it’s nothing.”

Before Nick could protest, quick footsteps echoed though the lobby and the two could hear Ellie correcting their guest to the right office.  

“Oh so we’re in here for a change,” Piper joked sarcastically, taking a second glance at Madelyn’s name on the door before entering. She had a copy of the Boston Bugle and her own newspaper tucked under her arm, her bright red coat thrown over the other. As she threw herself into one of the cushioned armchairs, she let out a large sigh. “You saw the news?”

“Yes,” Nick and Madelyn answered simultaneously.

Piper regarded them both, grumbling under her breath. She tossed the papers haphazardly towards the desk, and Madelyn had to fumble to catch the copy of Publick Occurrences. The front page lacked any information on the Trevio murder, instead focusing on Mayor McDonough and his finances—sources were able to track donations to the McDonough reelection campaign back to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology—

“This wasn’t the first time a murder has occurred and we’re the last to hear about it,” she sneered, interrupting Madelyn’s reading. “Talk about a media cover-up. Police corruption is one thing, but now Winter is messing with the freedom of the press!”

Nick choked over a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course they’d have a mole at the Bugle. Control the flow of information to the public. Spread fear through lies.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Madelyn warned, reading over her friend’s newspaper again.

Ever since the agency had begun collecting hard evidence against Eddie Winter, Piper had been itching to blow the whistle, promising to site the two as anonymous sources. As convincing as she made it sound, and as safe as her previous unidentified informants remained, Nick vehemently denied her request. The agency and Publick Occurrences were cut from the same cloth, and it wasn’t because they shared the same building. If Piper shared any information, she’d be painting a target on her back too.

“I know Blue, I know,” she relented, looking more defeated than before. “We’re so close.”

Nick nodded, pulling a new cigarette from the pack in the breast pocket of his shirt. “We are,” he nodded towards Madelyn as he flicked at his lighter. “Let’s go over the list again.”

She shuffled through the small pile on her desk until she found her steno notebook, lined with the details of the case. With a pen, she started at the top, suppressing the memories the name conjured. “Johnny Montrano, Jr.”

Nick and Piper nodded in agreement that they could still find a way to pin Montrano’s murder on Winter, even without a witness. Based on the information she had learned from Henry, the casefile and street rumors, they could corroborate that Eddie’s old hitman Robert Cooper had been hired for the job.

“Mac said Winter’s boys have been trying to keep that one quiet from Johnny’s pop,” Piper quipped. “Maybe he’s afraid of somebody after all.”

Madelyn shrugged, continuing down the list. “Arlington Green three,” she paused. The bodies had been discovered in the sand-trap just before Thanksgiving while Eddie Winter was still incarcerated at Cedar Junction. “Doesn’t Boston P.D. want to pin this on one of the O’Malley brothers?”

“Doesn’t mean the order wasn’t given down the chain of command,” Nick said, tapping his smoke over the ashtray. “Did they ever identify the victims?”

She solemnly shook her head. “The theory is they were low-level members of the Irish crime families.”

“They also could’ve been innocent bystanders for all we know,” Piper argued. She waved her hand, encouraging Madelyn to read on.

“Arthur Black,” she spoke. “Murdered a waiter in Winter’s presence. His girlfriend was there too.”

“Claire Pozinski, what a piece of work,” Nick scoffed. “What she sees in him—”

“Money, probably,” Piper interjected. “That, or she’s got a few screws lose in the head.”

“That’s besides the point,” Madelyn brought them to attention, dragging her unclicked pen down the paper. “Black was found dead, multiple stab wounds outside one of Winter’s clubs.”

“He was a liability. Leaving him out in the open was a warning to the others,” Nick reminded, harkening her back to their earlier conversation.

She nodded, blood running cold at the next item. “Danvers.”

None of them said a word, silently nodding in agreement. Just over Christmas, right after Eddie Winter had been released from prison, there had been a shooting in a speakeasy in the small town north of Boston. Two rival gangs had encroached on neutral territory and it didn’t take long for guns to go blazing. When the dust settled, each side had their fair share of casualties, but civilians had also perished. The prevailing rumor was that Winter had sparked the confrontation, sending his men to provoke the fight. Police had closed the investigation with all responsible parties arrested, even if their leaders still walked the streets.

“Alice Lansky,” Madelyn voiced after a moment of silence. “The missing safety inspector that was found…” she shook her head, unable to form the words. The poor woman had been stuffed into a barrel, remained dissolved in hydrochloric acid. Out of all of the victims linked back to Eddie Winter’s crime family, her death had been the most grotesque.  

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around why they needed to off a safety inspector,” Nick mused, rubbing at the stubble along his jaw. “How does she fit into this?”

“Maybe she stumbled across something she wasn’t meant to see,” Piper suggested, lips falling into a straight line the moment she said the words. As if Madelyn hadn’t already been worried about meeting an untimely end at the hands of Winter’s men, now she was imagining being crammed into a metal barrel, never to be discovered again. She did her best to hide the shiver that ran down her spine.

“Other than the numerous unexplained disappearances, robberies and drug running that have been occurring,” Madelyn sighed as she leaned back in her chair. “That’s what we have so far.”

“I know we’ve been over this before but,” Piper started. “Are you sure there isn’t anybody you trust within Boston P.D. with this information? Other than Marty, that is.”

Nick smiled, shaking his head. “You must think I’m real thick if you believe I trust that snake in a blue suit, Piper.”

The reporter laughed along with him, though Madelyn held back her amusement as she noticed Ellie leading a guest towards the open office door. She straightened in her seat. “Speak of the devil.”

Marty Bulfinch stood in the doorway with a sly grin, hands poised midair as he surveyed the room. He looked disheveled as always—even the expensive, navy pinstriped suit he wore didn’t do much to hide his less-desirable features. “Nicky, you talking trash in here?”

“You can’t walk around Boston with ducks on your ties and expect people not to say something, Marty,” Nick joked, deflecting what they had been actually been speaking about masterfully.

The other man rubbed at his necktie self-consciously. “Hey now, the other guys think its hilarious.”

Madelyn grimaced, wondering when, or how Nick would’ve ever been friends with such a slimeball. Even if her partner kept him on a short leash, she had her doubts about having the police detective as an informant—it was too risky, for all parties involved.

“What brings you here, Mr. Bulfinch?” she finally questioned, motioning for him to sit in the other armchair. Madelyn knew that her politeness always seemed to unnerve him and fairly quickly his expression shifted, eyes fixating on her as he moved from the doorway to the empty seat. He looked like a nervous child, come to the principal’s office for a punishment—that is, until he flicked his gaze back to Nick.

“You know those recordings you’ve been asking about?” he said, hand disappearing into his jacket pocket before revealing a holotape—technology only used by police, the government and a few lucky hospitals—the others in the office were taken aback by its appearance. “Now, I couldn’t well smuggle a holotape reader out of the office, but, I have it on good authority that this tape has Winter’s voice on it. With some self-incriminating information.”

“You don’t know what it says?” Piper asked directly. “Is there a transcript?”

Marty glared at her, tired eyes unblinking. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he slowly handed it over to Nick, who carefully inspected the foreign piece of data in his palm before passing it over to Madelyn. Marty shifted in his seat. “You’ll have to find your own way to listen to it.”

She had her own ideas, thinking about all of the various gadgets and inventions Tinker Tom had built and tucked away beneath the Old North Church. Of course, she wasn’t about to make the suggestion in front of their guest—for all he knew, the Railroad was a fairytale.

“I also have a lead on where ol’ Eddie might strike next,” Marty continued, fidgeting with his tie again. “Tensions between Winter and Skinny Malone have reached a fever pitch and he’s ready to have him offed.”

“That frosty, huh?” Piper chimed in, eyeing the rest of the room’s occupants. “Last we heard, Winter was allowing Skinny and his Triggermen to operate the speakeasies downtown, as long as they got a cut.”

“Skinny Malone doesn’t want to share anymore,” Marty explained, flatly. “And that made Eddie flip his lid.”

“Any idea on when the hit is supposed to take place?” Nick asked, extinguishing his cigarette. He leaned against the front of the desk, staring his former partner down. “The whole scene has been brimming with activity lately, it could be any day now.”

Marty nodded in agreement. “Skinny Malone is throwing a bash at his joint this Friday to celebrate his broad’s birthday,” he tilted his head side-to-side. “Ya’ know, the Third Rail? It’s been pulling in customers from Scollay Square ever since it opened.”

“That has Eddie Winter written all over it,” Piper remarked, leaning forward eagerly. “There’s no way he’ll make an appearance himself, though, right?”

“I doubt it,” Nick grumbled, considering the information. “Is Boston P.D. working on this? Are they going put Skinny Malone into protective services?”

Marty shrugged. “A few of us are being sent to the Third Rail undercover just in case we have to intercept,” he explained. “That’s when the offer will be made. We don’t expect Malone to come in quietly unless he feels his life is truly in danger.”

“Speaking of,” the investigator spoke, pointing to Nick. “Say the word and I can get you on the short list and inside that club.”

Nick was dumbfounded by the offer for a split second before smirking. “Undercover work isn’t really my schtick, Marty,” he said, raising his right hand to emphasize the prosthetic he wore. “Kind of hard to blend in. And don’t get me wrong but working with a precinct of cops that already hate me seems…risky.”

“I could always fill your shoes,” Piper grinned, fanning her fingers through her hair. Almost immediately the others were shaking their heads.

Madelyn softly chuckled at her friend. “Everybody in town knows about Public Occurrences, Piper. Even if you dyed your hair blonde and wore Nick’s trench-coat, you’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

The reporter slumped, defeated. That’s when Marty reluctantly flicked his gaze to where Madelyn was sitting behind the desk. He cleared his throat. “What about the dame?”

Nick raised an eyebrow, irritated that he was still going on about calling her that. “Madelyn?” When he realized what Marty was implying, he made to argue. “Marty, if you think for a second I’m sending Madelyn in with the wolves, you’re outta your damn mind!”

The danger was very real, and while Nick had every right to be upset and defensive, she couldn’t help but feel offended. It brought her back to that night in the agency, after the destruction of Ticonderoga, when he and Deacon almost came to blows. If the last month proved anything, she did her best work not cooped up in the office or behind a desk, but in action.  

“Nick,” she said his name calmly, gaining his attention. The moment he met her gaze, he knew she had made up her mind. But she could ease his worries, if only slightly. “I don’t have to go alone.”

Piper caught on to what she was inferring immediately, a disgruntled expression pulling at her lips as she sank further into her armchair. Nick remained stoic, but eventually relented as he nodded, looking back to Marty.

“You can get her in?” he asked. “Plus one?”

The Boston police detective looked unsure, meeting her gaze for a long moment. “Uh, sure,” he mumbled, before quirking his mouth up in a smile. “You better come with one hell of a disguise, ya dame.”

Madelyn rolled her eyes, and Nick took the cue, politely gesturing to Marty that it was time for him to leave. “Come on, you oaf, you better get back to the pen before they start searching the gutters for you.”

Marty let out a hearty laugh, slapping Nick on the back as he brought him into a handshake. “Don’t be shy around the precinct, Nicky. They don’t hate you—that much.”

The three were silent as he exited the room, listening to Ellie wish him farewell.

“You’re seriously going to take whatshisname to the Third Rail?” Piper wasted no time in questioning Madelyn as soon as the agency door slammed shut.

“He has a name,” Madelyn replied with a sigh. “If I can’t take you or Nick, what’s the harm in taking Deacon? Undercover work is what he’s best at.”

“Are you sure about that?” Piper mumbled, crossing her arms.

Madelyn frowned. Her friend had been upset ever since she had first met the man and learned of the deception it took to keep the Railroad a secret. The strain hadn’t eased, even as she continued to work with the organization and as his partner. It seemed the reporter couldn’t get past the fact Deacon wasn’t willing to divulge much of the truth—at least with her.

“What do you have against him?” Madelyn asked, wanting to clear the air.

“I’m just saying Blue,” Piper’s tone softened. “You seem to trust this guy a lot, but you barely know him. How long has it been? A few months? And he’s come in here and—whew—swept you off your feet like it’s damn Roman Holiday!”

Madelyn was stunned into silence, a warmth settling in her chest. She couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment, or excitement at having the relationship she had with Deacon described in such a way. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized how whirlwind it had been. Since their first meeting in the Memory Den, she had been chasing that feeling back and forth all through winter. There was an unspoken intimacy between the two, lingering touches and close calls where she was sure either one of them could’ve closed the gap and just kissed. And yet, there was also a silent boundary, an invisible line keeping them apart—she had always assumed it was her guilt, the weight of the wedding ring she still wore on her finger, the specter of a dead husband lingering above watching her every move—but now, she wondered if there was something more.

“I mean, what’s with the codenames?” Piper sighed. “Do you even know his real name?”

“I—” Madelyn choked on her words, at a loss. Her friend was right, and she was suddenly second-guessing every one of her emotions all over again.

Nick had been silent through the entire exchange, but finally spoke, reading her mind in the process. “Maybe Piper is right,” he mused with a little shrug. “But damnit if this isn’t the happiest I’ve seen you in months.”

Madelyn was flattered, especially when she noticed the way Nick was smiling at her, considering she knew how there was still tension between the two men whenever they happened to interact. But her chest felt heavy—the doubt had already started to creep its way in. Piper seemed ready to continue her verbal pestering when Nick sharply shook his head in warning.

“Don’t let it get to you,” he assured—a little too late. Still, Madelyn put forth a small smile and nodded. “We should plan for Friday.”

They had work to do.

The conversation with Piper and Nick continued to replay in Madelyn’s head the remainder of the day and into the evening. Even on the carbide home (on which she insisted on, so that Nick could make it home at a reasonable hour for once), her mind was clouded with conflicting emotions. She couldn’t deny that she had felt livelier, more like her true self in recent months—but didn’t want to base that happiness on lies or deception. A part of her understood it was the way the Railroad operated, outside the fringes of society where dishonesty was a necessity.

“Remember, you can’t trust everyone.”

“Even you?” she asked.

“Especially me.”  

Months later, he would put an addendum to his well-spoken phrase, holding her hand as he told her he was in her corner, and always had been. As the memory came to her, all she felt was confusion. Madelyn wanted to see him, but she wasn’t sure what she would do or say, or how her feelings would shift—for better or worse? What was stopping her from acting on impulse like she had been as of late? What if Codsworth had never walked in on them that cold March evening? Would she have kissed him and sealed the deal right then? She shook her head, breaking herself free of her delusions, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to dream of what-ifs. Instead, she needed to focus on the future and what she really wanted—if only she could figure that out.

As Madelyn walked into the lobby of her apartment building, she noticed Drummer Boy at the mailboxes, sifting through various envelopes. He regarded her with a polite smile, moving to join her in the trek up the staircase.

“Have a good day at the agency?” he asked.

She sighed, trying not to sound too disgruntled. When he shot her a concerned look, she forced a smile. “It’s been very…busy. With the Winter case, that is.”

“Right,” Drummer Boy replied, letting her half-assed excuse slide. It was difficult to bluff when she was emotionally compromised, and exhausted after a long day—and hauling herself up seven flights of stairs. “I have a note for you, from Deacon.”

Madelyn swallowed down the tightness in her chest at the mention of his name. “Isn’t he in DC?”

He had been put on a special assignment by Desdemona to make contact with the southern branch—something about helping set up a new safehouse for the newfound agents and assisting with their first round of assignments. As much as Madelyn wished she could’ve joined, her obligation to the agency and the Eddie Winter investigation kept her in Boston.

Drummer Boy nodded, handing over a folded note. “I thought it was a serious correspondence, so uh,” his cheeks became red in color, which made her feel equally flustered. “I shouldn’t have read it.”

The two paused on the third story landing if only so she could scramble to read the letter, which was hardly filled with anything important, or relevant. Rather, it was incredibly lewd, and even a modern woman such as herself was turned flushed by the contents. Of course, she realized fairly quickly as the note rambled on and became more grandiose that it couldn’t possibly be real. Oddly enough, it sparked a wave of relief as she was unable to contain her laughter.

“You know he did this on purpose to get a rise out of you, right?” she chuckled, trying to give it back to Drummer Boy who waved it away, still red in the face.

“His idea of jokes sure are…elaborate,” he sighed, lifting his blue cap to run his hand through his hair. “Too much time on his hands, even hundreds of miles away.”

Madelyn regarded his words. “Do you think he’s bored?”

“No,” he answered as they continued walking up the stairs. “The opportunity to set up a new safehouse is right up Deacon’s alley. Not that he doesn’t have the experience, but to do it all on his own is a big deal.”

“He helped with HQ, right?” Madelyn clarified. She eyed Drummer Boy carefully. “After…”

He looked solemn but held back any grief. “After the Switchboard, yes.”

“Deacon’s been a big help to Dez even before the move, he does a lot more than is asked of a regular agent or heavy,” Drummer Boy mused. “You’d think he was the second in command, or the head honcho but…”

She stole another glance when he paused, seemingly in thought. “You know our history, right?”

Madelyn shrugged, taking a reprieve on the fifth story landing. “Tom once rambled off a lot of codenames to me in-between telling me how the air was going to poison me while I slept and that I needed to take the immunization shot he invented to protect myself against ‘invisible bugs’”

Drummer Boy softly laughed, nodding along. “Well, before Dez, there was Pinky Thompson. She only became leader because of a string of organizational failures under Pinky’s watch.”

“Are you suggesting that somebody might be vying for Desdemona’s position?” Madelyn questioned. “As in, Deacon?”

“No, not really,” he replied. “Deacon would never stage a coup like that. Carrington maybe, but never Deacon,” he smirked. “He’s been around…well, before my time. He was around when Wyatt and John D. ran the show, building the Railroad into the organization into what we know today.”

She found herself amused. “I always thought he was lying when he said he helped create the Railroad. Sounded too boastful, even for him.”

“Well, depending on who you believe or what you make of the records,” Drummer Boy flashed an impish grin. “Some of the agents like to think Deacon and John D. are one in the same.”

The confusion from earlier settled back into her mind, but this time, she wasn’t sure what to make of the information. This was just more conjecture—a rumor—Railroad gossip that had been passed down from agent to agent. Deacon himself had even fanned the flames, relishing in the spotlight. If anything, it only fueled the argument set forth by Piper that Madelyn truly didn’t know anything about him—about his past, about his present…about their future. Rather than anger, she felt despair—whatever had been built between them had to end, and when it did, it wasn’t going to be easy.

On the seventh floor, the two separated to their doors across the hall from one another. Almost as an afterthought, she turned back to him, motioning to her ajar door. “I prepared a pot-roast this morning, if you’d like to join me for dinner,” she offered, feeling more awkward than she meant. Even he looked perplexed. “As my neighbor, Robby. No Railroad business. Otherwise, most of it is going to Dogmeat.”

After a beat, he laughed. “Pot-roast sounds great, Hardy.”

April 11th, 1958

Madelyn hardly recognized the woman staring back at her in the reflection of her vanity mirror as she applied the finishing touches to her makeup, searching her drawers for the perfect red hue of lipstick. Her natural golden hair had been tucked back and hidden beneath a long, wavy dark brunette wig, the soft barrels falling over one shoulder and resting across the sweetheart neckline of her dress. Gown—she could hear Jenny correcting—Madelyn reminded herself she would need to be extra careful with the borrowed garment. It would not end up in the box of ruined clothes she had ripped or stained while running around the city investigating with the agency and Railroad.

Outside her bedroom, she could hear Dogmeat happily barking, Codsworth murmuring something while a third voice laughed along. Deacon—fresh from his trip to the nation’s capital, he had wasted no time in agreeing to an undercover operation and promised a show. She hadn’t seen him since he departed—communicating through dead drops to confirm their ‘assignment’—and could feel the anxiety bubbling to the surface over her conflicted feelings for him. But that night, more than ever, she would need to suppress her emotions for the sake of the investigation and stay focused.  

She slipped her feet into a pair of strappy black heels as she stood, reviewing her appearance in the full-length mirror. The strapless gown was black, with a sheen to it that sparkled under the right light. The fabric hugged her curves (and then some), loose around her legs with a slit along one slide that was almost too high for her tastes. It was unlike anything Madelyn had in her closet, and not something she would’ve expected her partner’s fiancé to own either, until it was offered as the perfect outfit for the evening’s festivities. The only problem was that she and Jenny weren’t exactly the same size—she stretched to reach the zipper again, struggling to get the right angle to make it budge.

“Miss Madelyn,” Codsworth buzzed outside in the hallway. “Mr. Deacon is inquiring about your presence. Is everything alright?”

With a defeated sigh, she opened her bedroom door for the robot, laughing at the way his mechanical eyes widened as he inspected her appearance. “Can you work a zipper?”

“Pardon, mum?”

She gave his metal chassis an affectionate pat as she walked past him, awkwardly holding the dress to her body as she walked the short distance to the main room of her apartment where Deacon was sitting at the kitchen counter, turned towards the hallway as if he had been waiting for her appearance. Or at least she thought it was Deacon—if it weren’t for his ever-present reflective shades, she wouldn’t have recognized him. The black pompadour (which High Rise had strongly hinted wasn’t natural to begin with) was gone, replaced with a short, wavy style instead, a warm ginger in color—it matched his eyebrows. He wore a different, well-tailored black suit than he had before, black wingtip shoes looking like he hadn’t been walked a step in. Handsome was an understatement—Madelyn wasn’t sure what to make of the not-so-subtle transformation—reminding herself to remain on task.

“Need some help there, Charmer?” he asked, breaking the silence. He gestured to her dress and beckoned for her to come closer.

Madelyn approached with a small nod, finding that her tongue felt too heavy in her mouth to speak. She turned her back to him, breathing in deep and straightening slightly when she felt his fingers brush across her skin for the zipper of the dress. What should’ve been a simple and quick movement had turned into another spark between the two, his touch lingering far longer than necessary, thumb sweeping across her spine. But she didn’t move away.

“You look downright sinful.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, hoping he couldn’t sense how nervous she was, how her skin had turned burning hot at his words. She focused on his hair, and curiosity got the better of her.

“Is that your natural hair?”

He smirked, one eyebrow arching up like he expected something a little more flirtatious from her. “Maybe.”

Madelyn twisted around to face him, resting one hand along the kitchen counter to balance herself. As Deacon pulled his hands back to himself, she noted the glimmer on his left hand and a new tightness formed in her chest at the sight of the golden band. Why was he wearing a wedding ring? At her confusion, he gestured to her own wedding band, causing her to clamp her right hand around the diamonds to hide the jewelry.

“I knew you weren’t going to take it off, even for the sake of an undercover persona,” he explained. “Figured we’d go for the easiest play in the book. Better to blend in than stand out.”

As uncomfortable as she suddenly felt, a new wave of emotions taking over her body and mind, Deacon was right. He was also far more of an expert at espionage than she was—he knew what he was doing, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she needed to trust him.

“We’ll need a good cover story,” she offered, nodding in agreement. Still, she anxiously twisted at the ring Nate had given her almost twelve years prior, burning against her skin. More than ever, she could feel the weight of his presence around her, the guilt compounding as she agreed to this charade—even for one night.

“What do you suggest?”

Madelyn deliberated, fidgeting with the slit of the dress before thinking of who had leant it to her in the first place. Her mother had always taught her that when in doubt, use what you know.

“I’m a nurse at Medford Memorial Hospital and you’re a retired army vet. We met when you ended up in my ward after a training exercise went wrong and I had to nurse you back to health. Sparks flew, our parents disagreed, and we had to elope. Thanksgiving weekend, 1954 in Manhattan.”

She thought about the rest of the specifics. “Catherine,” she said. Her mother’s name—not that Deacon needed to know that. “My name is Catherine. Kitty for short.”

Deacon looked stunned. “Did you just come up with all that right now?”

She softly chuckled. “Thank Nick and Jenny, give or take…the rest of the details.”  

“How romantic,” he mused. “I’d say you’re better at this than you think. A natural.”

He stood, signaling to the clock on the wall that they needed to catch a cab across town, or they would be more than fashionably late to the party. Feeling more confident than she had earlier, she smiled at him. “So husband, what should I call you?”

Deacon grinned as he laced their hands. “Dollface, you can call me Johnny.”

The Third Rail was classier than Madelyn expected for a speakeasy, built into one of the abandoned subway tunnels downtown. Even if Skinny Malone and his gang of Triggermen—as he dubbed them—were gangsters, she had to give it up to them for the ingenuity of the idea. There was a certain kind of ambience to the place—low lighting and dark linens spread across the tables—seedy characters lining the walls with leery expressions, it was enough to make anybody fearful. Yet Madelyn felt strangely at ease, and it had everything to do with the way Deacon’s hand was resting along her waist.

For an hour now, they had been seated at a candlelit table, chairs pushed close to ensure their cover as husband and wife remained intact. Despite her comfort, her mind had been running wild, filled with questions about Johnny. Was that supposed to be an allusion to John D.? As Madelyn took a sip from her glass of champagne, she took a side eyed glance at him, fixating on his hair. She wondered if this was his way of shedding his Railroad persona and if for a little while, he could be himself without anyone knowing. The mystery of not knowing frustrated her even more—this wasn’t exactly the place to confront him for the truth. Instead she continued to sip at her drink, allowing herself one brief moment to think about brushing her fingers through the ginger waves before looking away.

A gorgeous woman adorned in a sparkling red dress crooned a slow song about love from the lit stage, her small band of jazz musicians accompanying her like they had rehearsed the melody a hundred times. Skinny Malone had introduced her as Magnolia—a starlet in her own right among Boston nightclubs, there as a special treat for his beloved girlfriend on her birthday. So far the evening had been as calm as one could expect when in a room full of drunken mobsters, with no sign of anyone suspicious, even as she sighted a few men so green they had to belong to the Boston police force.

“Kitty darling,” Deacon leaned to murmur in her ear. “We’ve got eyes on us.”

She nonchalantly glanced to find a man at the bar taking too many looks at them over their shoulder. In spite of his disguise, his fidgeting and whiskey gave him away. Marty Bulfinch. With a small smile she shook her head. “That’s a friend.”

Deacon nodded, though his lips twisted into a thin line. “Looks familiar.”

“Hmm?” she was genuinely curious, wondering how their paths could’ve crossed.

He frowned, quickly dismissing the topic. “Not now. Later.”

Madelyn continued to survey the crowd as she drank her champagne, giggling on cue when Deacon would provide her with information from the conversations he was eavesdropping on, under the guise of saying something nonsensical into her ear.

“You didn’t happen to sneak a weapon past the guards, did you?” he asked, fingers tightening along her waist as he took a long sip of his brandy.

She brushed her foot against his ankle, catching his attention so he’d glance down to wear she was hiking up the slit of her skirt ever so slightly to reveal the holster attached to her garter belt—a trick Piper had taught her after watching too many detective movies. Madelyn didn’t realize how practical it would become, the .22 cold against her skin. Deacon made a low sound, somewhere between a hum and a growl and it caused a warmth to bloom in her chest.

“If all else fails, there’s the hairpin in my curls,” she added, adjusting her dress and flashing him a knowing look.

He held her gaze, the candlelight flickering in the reflection of his sunglasses. “We both know how deadly you are with that.”

As Magnolia dedicated the next song to Skinny Malone and his gal, Deacon shifted out his seat and extended his arm to her. “Come on Kitty Cat, let’s dance.”

Madelyn took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, her heart racing with excitement and skin tingling alive with goosebumps. Almost immediately she was transported to that first dance at the Memory Den—the electric feeling that had engulfed her body and soul. Maybe she should’ve known then that she would be enraptured by his enigmatic nature. It was inescapable, no matter how hard she tried to deny herself the truth. But what was the truth?

Deacon tugged her close as they swayed to the slow song, dipping his head so his lips were angled near her ear. “What do you think?”

She blinked, struggling to remind herself what he was referring to. Her eyes danced around their environment, looking from the pairs of dancing couples to the patrons that sat at the surrounding tables. As far as she could tell, the only people present were Skinny Malone’s Triggermen and the people Marty Bulfinch had brought from the precinct. If any of Eddie Winter’s men were in the building, they had yet to make themselves known. She didn’t want to assume they wouldn’t take the opportunity to strike, not when the iron was hot.

“Something isn’t right,” she muttered, unsure. Madelyn focused on the bar where Marty was sitting earlier, only to find he had disappeared. In an effort not to panic, she steadied her breathing, looking towards where Skinny Malone was standing, entertaining some guests near the stage. A waitress came by with a new round of drinks, just in time for the birthday toast.

Madelyn tried to lead him closer, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Easy now, kitten,” Deacon assured, the hand at her waist tightening a little. “We have an audience.”

She flicked her gaze over his shoulder to the two Triggermen on the edge of the dancefloor, muttering to themselves as they gestured to where they were dancing. With one steady breath, she slinked herself closer, resting her head against his shoulder. “We need a distraction.”

“I like the way you think.”

Madelyn looked up at him through her lashes, and felt his fingers trail up to her shoulder and then her neck, leaving a burning path in their wake. Cupping the side of her face, she could feel the cool metal band of the wedding ring he wore, reminding her of the charade they were meant to be playing. He wasn’t Deacon, but Johnny—not her Railroad partner, but her husband. If she wanted to, she could kiss him, and blame it all on the undercover assignment. It didn’t matter what her real feelings were—she could face them later—or live in this fantasy and sin for as long as she wanted.

He noticed her hesitation. “I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to.”

She didn’t say anything, tilting her chin a fraction closer just as Magnolia finished her song. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the sound of clinging glasses and the echoing sounds of cheers! It faded away as Deacon’s lips ghosted over hers, and she didn’t even care if the Triggermen were watching. Madelyn fluttered her eyes closed and could feel herself drifting—

A loud crash resonated through the entire club and on impulse she pulled herself away, inhaling a sharp breath as she focused her vision. For the split second she settled on Deacon’s face it was difficult to discern his expression—was he disappointed? It quickly melted away as they both diverted their attention towards the stage where Skinny Malone had collapsed, the table knocked over and glasses shattered. Madelyn was disoriented as she rushed over through the crowd of people—there hadn’t been a gunshot—what had happened?

A stocky man in a well-made, pinstriped suit was inspecting the tray of drinks that had been discarded on the floor. “Boss’ been slipped sumthin’!”

Poison? Madelyn felt the dread settle in her chest—this was unlike Winter—he always liked to take a direct approach when killing off his competition. But she had no time to question his methods when as of late, his crimes had become unpredictable.

“Move away!” she yelled over the crowd of frantic Triggermen. “I’m a nurse, maybe I can help!”

In the chaos, nobody made to stop her as she knelt over Skinny Malone’s crumpled body, pressing her fingers to his throat to check for a pulse. Frosty white foam was sputtering from his mouth and his eyes were wide, bulging. His hands were scrambling at the carpet for purchase, but a moment later they switched to yank at his jacket and tie. It was all in vein as he lie there suffocating, choking on his own tongue—there wasn’t anything Madelyn could do, even if she was a real medical professional. She gave him a sympathetic look, before noticing the thick pocketbook in the seam of his blazer. Without a second thought she snatched it, tucking it as well as she could in the front of her dress.

Skinny Malone began to struggle, gripping the arm of his nearest Triggerman. Madelyn was swept up at that time, Deacon’s hands tight around her waist as he led her away as calmly as possible.

“Time to hit the road,” he said through gritted teeth, suppressing his distress that they would be stopped in the confusion as they made their exit.

As they left the Third Rail, Madelyn felt as though their undercover assignment was a failure. Eddie Winter had gotten what he wanted with Skinny Malone’s death and was one step further in his complete take over of Boston.

It was time to play their hand.

[uwmspeccoll]

Milestone Monday

On this day, November 4th in 1946, noted and often controversial American photographer Robert Mapplethorpe was born in the Floral Park neighborhood of Queens in New York City. Perhaps best-remembered for his homoerotic imagery, Mapplethorpe's subject matter focused on statuesque male and female nudes, delicate flower still lifes, and highly formal portraits of artists and celebrities, mostly in black and white.

His portraits of Patti Smith, Philip Glass, Peter Gabriel, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Louise Bourgeois, and bodybuilder Lisa Lyon, among many others, have become iconic. Perhaps the most notable controversy related to Mapplethorpe centers on his 1989 exhibition, Robert Mapplethorpe: The Perfect Moment at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in DC and the Contemporary Arts Center in Cincinnati, which sparked heated debates about obscenity and the use of public funds to display such works. The Cincinnati Contemporary Arts Center was even brought to trial on charges of obscenity, but was exonerated by a jury. Robert Mapplethorpe died in 1989 at age 42 due to complications from HIV/AIDS.

The images shown here come from several publications held in Special Collections:

Robert Mapplethorpe by Peter Weiermair, published in Frankfurt am by Frankfurter Kunstverein in 1981.

Robert Mapplethorpe by Richard Marshall, with essays by Richard Howard and Ingrid Sischy, published in New York by the Whitney Museum of American Art in 1988.

Some Women by Robert Mapplethorpe, with an introduction by Joan Didion, published in Boston by Boston : Bulfinch Press, 1989 in 1989.

Pictures: Robert Mapplethorpe edited and designed by Dimitri Levas, published by Arena Editions in 1999.

Click or tap on the Alt attribute for each image to see a description.

View another post on Robert Mapplethorpe.

View more Milestone Monday posts.

[archivist-dragonfly]

Book 425

A book of books

Photographs by Abelardo Morell

Bulfinch Press 2006

Perhaps best known for his large-scale camera obscura works, Cuban-American photographer Abelardo Morell here turns his lens to the beauty of the book and the printed word. Originally published in 2002 in a large-format (12” x 12”) format, this reduced-format edition (9.25” x 9.25”) is an ode to the different and varied forms books can take. From a book smaller than a paper clip to a digital book to warped and deformed books, Morell captures the intriguing shapes, textures, and ways in which books can appear.

[alessandro55]

Albert Watson Cyclops

Jeff Koons, Introduction by James Truman

Bulfinch Press, Boston 1994, 246 quadrotone plates, 14,6x18,4 cm, ISBN 978 0821223-888

euro 35,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

Presents a collection of iconic portraits and photographs taken from the first twenty-five year long career of the photographer, Albert Watson

04/07/24

[fashionbooksmilano]

The Warhol Look

Glamour Style Fashion

Mark Francis and Margery King

Bulfinch Press Book,Boston  1997,304 pages, 380 photos, 150 in color, hardcover, ISBN 9780821224762

euro 80,00 

email if you want to buy :booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

From his childhood in the 1930s, when he collected Hollywood fan mags and publicity photos, Andy Warhol was obsessed with glamour, style and fashion. After moving to New York in 1949 he soon made his mark in the world of advertising and commercial art, and when he turned to fine art in the 1960s, fashion and commercial imagery continued to pervade his work. This book illustrates the decisive impact of his work on fashion and glamour and how that involvement and the “Warhol Style” have powerfully influenced contemporary art. The book takes us on a grand tour of Warhol’s passion for the swank and the chic: the publicity shots of Marilyn Monroe; his fashion drawings of the 1950s; photos of his department store window displays; the “silver factory” works of the 1960s that blurred the lines between avant-garde and popular culture; his explorations of gender identity; and “Interview” magazine and the downtown club scene - epicentres of style and trendsetting.

This book, which accompanies a major exhibition opening at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York, shows the decisive impact of his work on fashion and glamor and how the “Warhol style” influenced contemporary art. Exhibition tour: from New York, 1997-1998 to Pittsburgh 1999

08/01/21

orders to:     booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

ordini a:        booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

twitter:         @fashionbooksmi

instagram:   fashionbooksmilano, designbooksmilano tumblr:          fashionbooksmilano, designbooksmilano

[ebouks]

Art Deco: 1910–1939

Art Deco: 1910–1939 Charlotte Benton, Tim Benton, Ghislaine Wood, Oriana Baddeley This lavishly illustrated book brings together nearly 40 essays from leading experts in the field to discuss the phenomenon that was Art Deco. Categories: Arts – Architecture Year: 2003 Publisher: Bulfinch Press Language: english Pages: 472 ISBN 10: 082122834X ISBN 13: 9780821228340 File: 139.25 MB