Why could she not remember which place was Emma’s? Anne scanned the road. To her left stood a row of two-story houses, the shadows descending to fill the nooks and crannies between them with ebony. Above and to her right was an uneven line of backyards, empty clotheslines and rickety porch balconies jutting over scraps of gardens and unpainted wood fences, thin flickers of lantern light peeping between gaps in shades and blinds. The houses clung to the side of Telegraph Hill, ascending haphazardly to the summit, better and more solid homes with stone steps and large windows that could catch the first rays of the morning sun up there. A good rainstorm would turn the streets to mud and wash them all down, she thought. She simply wished she could remember which one was the boardinghouse where Emma lived. It had to be somewhere nearby. She’d been there once, shortly after Miss Whittier had brought Emma to work with them, but long enough ago that she could no longer recall precisely. So much misery and pain between her and clear recollection.
