The nun’s mild blue eyes gazed probingly at Pin’s face. Pin felt herself grow hot under that intense inquiry: not suspicion, not anger, but something fierce all the same. After a few seconds, the nun’s hand dropped to the rosary at her stomach. She fingered the jet beads, then slipped her hand into the folds of her robes to withdraw a brightly colored slip of paper.

“Do you know Saint Dymphna?” She handed a holy card to Pin. “My name saint. She’s the patron of girls in distress.”

The card showed a red-haired girl, light streaming from the small crown on her head. Pin touched the embossed gold lettering. Saint Dymphna, Protect Me in My Hour of Need.

“Thank you,” Pin said, and tucked the holy card into her pocket.

The nun folded her hands across her stomach. “Mr. Darger lives at Workingmen’s House. Do you know where that is? No? Over there—”

She tipped her head to indicate the stairway at the opposite end of the hall. “There’s a fire escape on that landing—if you follow it downstairs, it will take you directly outside, and you won’t have to walk back through the hospital lobby. When you get outside, you’ll see another big building right behind this one. That’s Workingmen’s House. The men live on the third floor. The nurses live in the rest of the building, and men aren’t allowed there. Even young boys,” she said, and gave Pin a strange look. “There’s a separate stairway to the men’s floor, you’ll see it on the left once you’re inside. I believe that Mr. Darger’s room is number thirty-two.”

Pin started to thank her, but the Irish nun raised that gently chiding finger again. “Tell Mr. Darger that Sister Dymphna gave you permission to see him. He doesn’t have many visitors. I think he’s lonely. How do you know him?”

“I know his friend Willhie, and Willhie’s sister. I’ve been to their house.”

“I have met Mr. Schloeder. His sister, that would be Elizabeth?”

Pin nodded. Sister Dymphna turned, robes swishing, then stopped to look back. “What would your name be?”

“Pin. Pin Maffucci.”

“Pin.” Sister Dymphna savored the word, then smiled. “Your nickname? Because you’re bright as a pin, I reckon.”

“Yes,” said Pin, and met the woman’s sharp gaze with her own. “That’s right.”

“Goodbye then, young man,” said Sister Dymphna. “Good luck to you.” To Pin’s shock, she winked at her before turning away.

Chapter 88

Chapter 88

WORKINGMEN’S HOUSE WAS a quieter, smaller shadow of the hospital, its dim hallways smelling of floral colognes, clean linens, the Murphy oil soap used on the slippery wooden floors. Two young women walked arm in arm past Pin, talking happily.

“He took me to the Movie Inn, we sat by the picture of Mary Pickford! Can you believe it?”