There had been a recent announcement declaring that Dreamland would venture into the world of science, for what was more miraculous than the future men made for themselves? There was already a village built in 1904 called Lilliputia, where three hundred little people resided in a world of their own, with their own fire department and parliament, so that they might be studied by the crowds. There were exotic human beings who startled New Yorkers with their differences: Algerian horsemen, Somali warriors, Bantu women who stretched their necks and lips with brass rings. The Dreamland sideshow featured oddities and curiosities the Professor referred to as freaks rather than wonders: Ursa, the bear girl. Rob Roy, the albino. A human salamander named Schrief, who could catch flies with a flick of his tongue. There was an exhibition to display the tiniest babies in the state, each cared for by a nurse in a starched white uniform, each babe placed in a new contraption called an incubator, a machine not yet used in hospitals.

This devotion to science infuriated the Professor, for it was a realm he considered to be his own. He could never afford the huge exhibitions Dreamland would offer, and yet he felt that grand park stole from him. The Wolfman, the very act Sardie had created, was said to be one of the acts planned for display in the sideshow just outside Dreamland’s gates, steps away from the Museum of Extraordinary Things. The beaten-down creature rescued from a jail cell would now be known as Professor Morris. He would wear a tuxedo and glasses and smoke a pipe as he read Shakespeare’s sonnets and the poetry of that great local hero, Whitman, in a voice that was as heavenly as his countenance was beastly.

“Do you think it’s true that he’ll work for Father’s enemy?” Coralie asked Maureen as they cleared the overgrown area that would soon be the vegetable garden. Coralie had always wished Mr. Morris had left them to travel from one wonder of the world to another, from Paris to Cairo to the Victoria Falls.

The two women tended their garden each spring, wearing muslin aprons and heavy boots as they cleared out mud. Coney Island, once pastureland for cows, flooded each winter, which was why there was a need for raised, slatted sidewalks and why the iron pier was so very popular. This year the women raked cinders and their eyes teared as they labored. These were the ashes of the dead that had drifted across the East River. By June there would be all manner of herbs in this garden, rosemary and sorrel and parsley, along with mustard, which was said to cast off gloom, and madder root, which was used for a dye. There would be bulbs of garlic that would appear burnt when peeled and tomatoes with bloody, black hearts, formed, perhaps, from their bed of embers. Coralie and Maureen did not speak of the tragedy. They usually did not discuss disturbing issues, which was why Mr. Morris was not often a topic of conversation. The museum employees likely had been directed not to ruminate over his fate, for whenever Coralie had brought up the Wolfman, the living wonders had gazed away. It had been several years since Professor Sardie had let him go. Now, as they worked side by side, Maureen paused upon hearing Mr. Morris’s name, but she quickly resumed ridding the garden of stickers and weeds. “How would I know what’s become of him?” she huffed. “I’m employed as a maid, not a mind reader.”

Yet a distracted smile played upon her usually stern mouth. Coralie had always guessed that the housekeeper knew far more than she dared to say.

“Fine, don’t tell me. Keep your secrets.”

Coralie had her own secrets, the nighttime swims in the Hudson, of which Maureen would have never approved. All the same, she was hurt by this turn of events, for she’d mourned Raymond Morris after his disappearance, and had feared for his welfare. She used her spade to make neat furrows for a row of peas, turning away to ensure that Maureen wouldn’t notice the tears flooding her eyes. The sun was so bright that the dim light that had been drifting over to Brooklyn ever since the Triangle Fire was finally burning up.

When Maureen came up beside her, Coralie pretended to be squinting in the haze. “It’s not you I’m keeping things from.” Maureen slipped an arm around her charge’s waist. “Trust me when I say, it’s best for both of us to keep our thoughts to ourselves.”

PROFESSOR SARDIE was more desperate every day, frantic in his quest to find a wonder that would match the ones soon to be on display at Dreamland. He arranged for Coralie to make one final swim. She had always considered herself to be fearless in the water, but now she felt a wave of anxiety. For the past few nights she’d experienced a recurring dream in which she remained underwater for so long she grew gills and fins. It was a painful, bloody process. In every dream, when she attempted to climb from the river to its banks, she found she could not walk across the grass but instead slipped back into the watery depths, gasping for breath, confused as to what sort of creature she had come to be.