Read The Enchantment for Free Online Page A

now. After all, I've a fortune to remake."
    He smiled weakly. It was a lie, and they both knew it. "You're smart, you're young. You'll find a way."
    Another lie. She tightened her grip on the leather portfolio to still the trembling of her fingers. "You're damn right I will."
    Before Eugene could say a word, she turned and bolted out of his office. She hurried through the suddenly oppressive, overly quiet halls of the bank, her head held high as she sailed past Miss Baxter's cage. The teller's snicker nipped at Emma's heels, clawing at her confidence, but she set her lips in a grim line and ignored the laughter. At the door, she snatched her umbrella and gloves from the doorman and marched outside.
    The doors slammed shut behind her.
    At the sound, her composure crumpled. Her shoulders trembled and slumped, her chin sank.
    Dear God . . .
    It was over. After fifteen years of clawing and scraping and sacrificing, she'd lost it all.
    Somehow she kept moving. Like a sleepwalker she glided forward, seeing nothing, feeling less. Moving, drifting, staring straight ahead through wide, painfully dry eyes. Sheer force of will kept her feet moving.
    The buildings on either side of her melded into one another, forming an indistinguishable blur of gray.
    Equally gray

    38
    Kristin Hannah
    THE ENCHANTMENT
    39
    was the sky above; no sunlight penetrated the gloom or warmed Emma's cheeks.
    She clutched the slick wooden handle of her umbrella with frozen fingers. Rain thumped the black pongee satin over her head, its staccato beat an echo of the headache behind her eyes.
    Broke. The word repeated itself with every raindrop that hit the umbrella. Broke . . . broke . . . broke . .
    . She squeezed her eyes shut to block the taunting word from her brain, and kept moving forward. "Hey, lady!"
    A hand curled around her forearm and yanked hard. She stumbled backward, slamming against a strong, barrel-sized chest.
    She opened her mouth for a scathing retort, but before she uttered a single sound, an electric trolley rattled past her. Water spewed off the fast-moving car and splashed her face.
    "You okay, lady?" It was the same voice, softer this time.
    Okay? She felt as if her bones had turned to porridge. She'd almost walked into a moving trolley! Taking a deep breath, she turned to look at the man who'd saved her life. He was a big, burly, middle-aged man, a stevedore by the looks of him, and he was looking at her through the warmest brown eyes she'd ever seen. Gratitude filled her heart, but as usual, the words stuck in her throat.
    He doffed his worn red cap and offered her a fatherly, concerned smile. "You okay, miss?"
    She tried to dredge up an answering smile, but
    couldn't. The best she could summon was a small nod.
    He led her back onto the flagstone walkway, and once
    there, she looked around. For the first time, she real-
    ized that she was no longer in the financial district. "Where are we?"
    "I figgered you was lost. Don't get too many ladies like yourself on Mott Street."
    Mott Street. Emma's heart lurched. Her throat seized up. It had taken fifteen years to scrape her way out of this cesspool of poverty. Now here she was again.
    And dead broke—just the way she'd started. A chill crept across her flesh. Jesus, she thought with sudden, fierce desperation, had it all been a dream? Had she ever really gotten out? "Why're you here, miss?"

    The question lodged in her brain like a shard of glass. Why was she here?
    The answer was obvious. Too obvious. It was one she'd run from all her life. Because you belong here.
    You 've always belonged here.
    Could it be true? she wondered with a rising sense of panic. Had a vengeful God given her the moneyed life on Eighth Avenue, only to snatch the goodness away at the last moment and plunge her back into the coldest darkness she'd ever known?
    She shivered at the thought. It fit so well with her perception of the Almighty.
    "You wanna come with me, miss? You don't look so good. The missus—"
    Emma