1944

Edith Sawyer took another drag on the cigarette before grimacing. She flicked the stick away, stepping onto the embers with a mud-covered boot. It was a brand she despised, tasting distinctly of a dance hall outside Harrisonburg—all smoke, but no body. She'd long since figured that the memories of that place would haunt her forever, seeping into each mannerism and preference.

After a couple years out from under Old West's iron fist, she'd come to have a new appreciation for the hall owner's peculiarities. Lord knew, and so did she, that the dance hall was becoming a hell of a lot more preferable to this hellhole.

"When I said I dreamt of coming to Italy, I didn't mean this."

Her vision swirls with the smoke and the rain and the fog as she glanced toward the other girls.

Caroline snorted, supremely unladylike. Whatever would Mrs. Castlefeld say? Edith watched the girl—a recruit with shapely legs and as full of a chest of any Edith had ever seen—take a long puff from her stick, holding the smoke in her lungs for a moment before exhaling.

"Better than Spokane."

"It's a warzone." Betsy huffed with a shake of her head. Bless Betsy for her sweetness. "Spokane does not compare to this."

Edith pushed her hands further into her coat pockets, feeling water start to fall from her wrecked hair. It hardly mattered anyway. The performance wasn't until the next day. Goodness, if only she could get sick and avoid the dancing and the singing altogether.

"Spokane was a nightmare. It gives this a run for its money, warzone or no." When she saw the look in Betsy's baby blues, she held up a hand and waved. "Just because you're from that hellhole doesn't mean that I'm gonna cut it any slack. The slouches there were bastards."

Betsy started to argue, but seemed to think better of it. Edith wondered if perhaps the girl had remembered that encounter with a veritable horde of grabby good-for-nothings. Now, that was a party. Edith still had a scar from the encounter, a light slash across her hand. Men and their damn rings. Her head shook and she refocused on the present.

"—not like we're doing anything here. Can't we just run into town?"

"What town?" Edith just listened to Caroline's biting tone. "Closest towns're probably destroyed, and you think any of the locals wanna welcome us? They're just trying to survive. Think about it, Betsy darlin'." She took another drag and puffed it out into the rain, which immediately washed it from the air. "These men we're performing for? They've been through hell. I mean it. This is the one-oh-seven. We couldn't have ended up with a more battle-exhausted party if we tried."

"Means they need it the most." Edith sighed. "Means they're gonna want a bit more of a show, if you know what I mean. Kick your heels up a little higher." Shifting her shoulders, she felt a little warmer when the coat covered her front a bit more. "Poor Steve ain't gonna stand a chance tomorrow. These fellas aren't gonna have it. They're not gonna be quiet about it either." She glanced to where California was pursing her lips. "What? Say it."

"Some of the fellas might appreciate Steve, if you know what I mean."

Betsy gasped, covering her mouth. Edith had to laugh at the completely scandalized expression on Washington's face. Poor, sweet girl. "Why I never! Caroline, that's—"

"Ladies! Ladies! Come inside now. We have many notes to go over. Hurry along!"

Edith groaned, head falling forward. Water fell onto the back of her neck and she shivered as it ran along her spine, finding just the right path to avoid her collar. It stopped thankfully at her bustier, but the feeling left her feeling crummy. Her arm linked with Betsy's as Caroline dropped her cig and crushed it into the mud. A few of the other girls—Ava, Bea, Mattie, and that one red-head whose name she could never remember—filtered into line after them, muttering under their breath about the terrible weather and Mrs. Castlefeld's frizzing hair, and her fraying wits, too.

Smiling slightly at Ava's very clever likeness of the Show Mother to a wet bulldog, Edith planted herself at the back of the gathered girls. One leg went over the other and she leaned back.

"Are you aimin' to make the Bulldog angry, Powderpuff?" Ava questioned with a coy smile, sitting down as primly as you please. With the humidity, Edith could only guess at how much product was in her hair to hold it in such a style. "You look an unholy mess. Why're you wearing that coat again? Didn't you get a new one in Buffalo?"

"Did you sell your soul for those waves? How do you do it?"

Ava ignored her question, practically preening. "In all seriousness, Mrs. Castlefeld's been in a state since we arrived. Did you see her dress down Grace? She gave her a verbal lashing the likes of which I haven't seen since that brouhaha in Birmingham."

"Excellent alliteration, Ava. Impressive."

Edith watched as the remaining girls filtered into the tent, their smiles fading at the look that the oldest woman was giving them. Edith adjusted her coat again, sinking further into her seat. It wasn't ladylike at all (for shame), but Edith was uncomfortable enough without trying to impress the Show Mother.

"She gave Grace that dressin' down because the little idiot snuck out after curfew in a warzone." Ava nodded mutely in agreement, but cut her eyes toward where Grace sat with her head down. "It was just luck that Beth and Barb weren't caught."

"Ladies! Ladies! Settle down."

Edith tried not to exhale too dramatically, not wanting to draw attention. Her attention flickered around the tent, noting who looked semi-together and who looked like wet gutter rats. It was a fair half and half. Edith knew without doubt that she was in the latter group.

"Now, as you well know, these soldiers have been perhaps one of the most active units on the front. They deserve every proper attention you can spare." There were a couple quiet laughs and Caroline pushed Grace from behind playfully. "I do mean proper attention. Under no circumstances will dalliances be tolerated. There will be no interaction with the men. Do I make myself clear? No dalliances at all."

"Abundantly clear," someone replied sarcastically while another giggled.

"Crystal."

Edith sat forward, resting her arms lazily over her crossed legs. "You know," she whispered while Ava leaned in, "wouldn't it be swell if we could something other than dance for these men?"

At the look her friend shot her, Edith sat back and crossed her arms—looking toward the rain that was beating against the side of the tent.

"—performances tomorrow and the day after. Once those performances conclude, we will move on to a town farther south before boarding the ship back to England. In each of these places, while we are here in Europe, I do not want to see a single girl left alone. You will travel in groups of two or three. You will not sneak out of your designated areas. You will not participate in questionable activities. Need I remind you that there is no drinking? There will be no smoking."

Mrs. Castlefeld paused, sucking a breath as she stood taller. Her posture was commendable, all straight and neat. Edith just raised her brows, the terrible cigarette burning the back of her throat.

"Tonight, you will take dinner and settle in for the evening. Tomorrow will be a long day." Edith almost let out a breath when the woman's sharp eyes focused on her. "Edith, uncross those legs! My God in Heaven!"

In a show, she did just that and primly crossed her ankles, the boots making the action a bit less poised than was expected. It was such an awkward move that several of the girls laughed, stifling their giggles when the older woman went red in the face. Edith shrugged her shoulders and just placed both feet on the ground evenly, dramatically placing both hands serenely in her lap.

"I swear!" Mrs. Castlefeld huffed and marched for the exit.

"Always fun to get her growling. Why am I thus burdened!" Grinning from ear-to-ear, she stood and stretched her back by bracing both hands on her hips and leaning back. "D'ya think she'll send a note to my Pa?" It was a sarcastic comment and Ava swatted at her with a laugh. All of the girls knew that her Pa was long dead, knew since the show in Richmond. "I'll never understand all this, honestly. She acts as if we're all harlots."

"To her, maybe we are. Dancing for money and all that. She thinks we're little more than taxi girls."

Ava grimaced, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. Edith shrugged, making a face at the idea of it all— she was a taxi girl before joining the show. Ava clearly knew she misspoke, apology entering her eyes.

"It's not as if all of us sneak out at night. That woman would think the worst of anyone short of her high society ladies. You think she'd be more of a patriot, right?"

"No kidding." Caroline ran a hand over her blonde hair, sighing as she pulled another cigarette from the pack in her jacket pocket. She rolled it absently between her fingers as the rest of the girls filed out of the tent. "Except you did sneak out in Austin."

Ava choked on nothing.

Stepping out into the rain, the women went their separate ways. While Ava and Caroline went toward the barracks where the girls would be sleeping, Edith pushed her collar up and headed for the mess tent. In her pocket, her fingers wrapped around her switch blade. While women weren't supposed to walk alone in the camp, as claimed by Mrs. Castlefeld, Edith was certain that she'd go without reprimand. After all, she was "worth less than all the other girls combined."

And she could defend herself well enough, Spokane was evidence enough of that fact.

The mess was empty, save for a single man sitting at one of the tables. His hair was out of place, disheveled. An apple core sat on the table in front of him and his pencil moved easily over the paper as he sketched it. A simple sketch for him, so Edith figured that there was something on his mind.

"You know, still-life is so boring. You should try drawing the rain or the mud or something." He turned, blue eyes dark and tired. Edith shrugged her shoulders and grabbed something from the basket near the back of the tent. "You look a little under the weather, fly-boy."

"'m not sick," he muttered. "Just reminded of what these guys are sacrificing. And I'm wearing that…get-up. Tights." Edith sat on the edge of a nearby seat, not really looking at the star of their show—all muscles, broad shoulders, and kindness. She bit her lips together, wringing her hands. Her eyes rose to stare at the top of the tent. "'m not complaining. I just…Doing the show tomorrow feels like a sham."

"Oh, it's definitely a sham. These boys don't need you to tell them to sock Hitler in the face. And Lord knows most them are gonna just be satisfied to seeing some bare knees. The higher we kick our feet, the happier they'll be." Edith looked over to see Steve glaring down at the table-top, ears looking mighty red in the dim light. All this talk of bare knees, she supposed. He was always very easy to fluster. "Don't get me wrong, Steve, but they ain't—"

"How are the girls?"

She snorted a laugh, running her hands through her hair before crossing her arms. A smooth subject change while his ears were still burning. Edith allowed it, leaning back and nodding her head.

"Oh, they're swell. Mrs. Castlefeld caught Grace sneakin' out last night." Steve turned to her, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. As if he was scandalized. "Oh please, don't. You know as well as I do that Grace has a honey back home. She ain't not gonna step out on him. Just got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time by the wrong person. And she shouldn't have been stupid enough to go off on her own after curfew in a warzone anyway, but that's just my common sense showing. Poor Nebraska…"

"Tryin' to keep them in line then, Miss Sawyer?" Steve closed up the sketchpad and stuffed it into his leather jacket, lacing his fingers on the tabletop. Edith shook her head, knowing that was an impossible feat if ever she heard one. Keeping those girls in line just wasn't her storm. "Mrs. Castlefeld been fair lately?"

"Fair? Castlefeld?"

"Well…"

Edith smiled.

A year of knowing this man, even only as much as he allowed, made her confident that he was one of the best men she'd ever encountered. And she'd encountered more than her fair share.

"She's got it in for me. She's used to ballerinas and pretty things, not taxi girls. Can't say I blame her—We're a rougher sort." Steve frowned at the self-deprecation. "Don't get me wrong now, Rogers. I'm not sayin' that we're a bad sort. We are just…more worldly by nature. Can't help that given our circumstances. You get felt up enough and you learn your way around a good swing. Castlefeld's intimidated. And her husband is out here somewhere. You almost have to pity her."

Her Pa always called it "takin' the high road." The high roads always got the most rain, just like this soaked Italian camp. She sat in silence for a while. Steve didn't ruin it with witty repartee or banter. Or questions. He just sat there too, listening to the rain. After a while, it seemed like that rain was the only sound in the world.

"Did you like it?" Edith lifted her head, once beautifully arched brows furrowed. Steve's ears were red again, even in this dim light. "Taxi dancing? I…never went. My friend… It sounded—" His head shook and he seemed unable to look at her for more than a few seconds. Seemed she'd finally been able to break through some sort of wall.

Steve never asked questions other than 'how are you?' and 'how are the girls?'

"Met lots of good fellas. Real good men. Some better than others. Most of them've been shipped off by now. Met lots of good girls. Some of them better than others. It paid the bills. Kept a roof over our heads better than the factory job."

Edith gave a thoughtful hum, trying to think of how she could describe taxiing to a man like Steve Rogers, who seemed like a Golden Boy who would hesitate on the steps of the dance hall before turning around to leave.

"Did I like it? At times, Steve, dancing for a dime was the only thing keeping me going. Keepin' me and my Pa fed. Other times, I had eggs tossed at me for my 'vile work.'" His head shot up and Edith shrugged, focusing on the rain outside and the way it beat into the mud. "It was better than the factory job."

He didn't say anything. Part of her didn't expect him to. Another part, maybe a really foolish part, wanted him to be affronted. To stand up and walk out. She was used to it by now, so what would it matter?

"Only ten cents?" Her attention swung to him, ready to rip into him in defense. Ten cents was good money. But then it registered how he said it. Quiet curiosity. Only curiosity, not accusation. Edith decided then that Steve Rogers really was the best man she'd ever met. "Sorry, I—"

"No, no. You stop that apology right there." Edith waved a hand, laughing a bit at his nervous smile. "Nah, ten cents was the going rate. Worked at a place in Harrisonburg for years under a guy called Old West— Jimmy Westerman was his name—and he was the boss. Said no girl was worth more than ten cents a turn."

Steve, Captain America himself, produced a strangled cough, looking righteously angry in the next moment.

Edith waved him off again, leaning a bit over the table to whisper: "I charged an extra ten on the side for the Lindy."

He chuckled then, eyes wide with surprise. As if he had expected something that would drag that red-eared blush down his neck. Edith saw it as relief and she figured keeping knowledge of that darker side from him was for the best.

Dance halls weren't sunshine and hops.

And the slouches weren't Fred Astaire.

"So you—"

"Miss Sawyer! Are you so intent on driving me mad?"

Edith had to resist letting her head fall forward into her hands. Sucking in a breath, she sighed and sent the actor across from her a dull look. His brows rose in surprise. Castlefeld was at the table's edge a moment later, jowls quivering in suppressed rage. A bulldog.

"I do apologize for her rudeness, Mister Rogers. I will see this young—lady back to her tent." Edith didn't even react when thin bony fingers wrapped around her upper arm. Being manhandled like that was nothing compared to times before. She was bodily hauled from her seat. Across the table, Steve stood. "Have a pleasant evening, Mister Rogers."

"She wasn't harming anyone, just talkin' to me." Mrs. Castlefeld paused at the door and Edith noticed the dark expression that was on his face at the hand that was so roughly grasping her arm. "Let her go. She can walk by herself. Seen her do it before."

Castlefeld released her like she was on fire, barely keeping her glare in check. "I'm sure you have better things to do, Mister Rogers. Excuse us."

She stepped out into the rain, obviously not caring if she was soaked. Edith suspected that the woman just wanted to get herself angrier. Turning back toward Steve, Edith had to smile. It was her case in point, she figured. The fact that he was obviously bothered by it meant more that he could probably recognize.

"I appreciate it, Steve. I'll see you tomorrow for the performance." Edith took half a step out into the storm. A thought flicked through her mind, worry lancing in her chest. "And Steve? Tomorrow's performance…I don't…" She wasn't usually so at a loss for words, but the sadness in his eyes was catching her breath. "Steve, they just want to see the girls. I'm sorry, for whatever they say. For whatever ends up hurting."

Before he could respond, Edith flipped up the collar on her old jacket and hurried across the muddy field between the mess and the male tent to her barracks, where Castlefeld was waiting.

"Alone with our star! Alone with a man! In the middle of a warzone! I have never in all my days…"

Edith tuned her out, walking directly to her bed at the back of the barracks, incredibly aware of all the eyes that were watching. Twenty girls in a single tent. She could already hear the whispers, even as she started pulling the bobby pins from her soaked hair.

"Do you know how that looks? How it makes me look? We are here to support those men out there, not to—"

"We're not in the last century, Castlefeld." Caroline spoke up.

Sitting roughly on the edge of her cot, Edith looked over at the woman who was blustering on and on about respectability and how she never and that there were more worth girls (girls with better training) more than willing to take her place in a heartbeat. Shrugging out of her coat, she settled it over her still-packed luggage.

"And if I step another shiny heel out of line, you'll send me right back to that cesspit I crawled out of?" Castlefeld stopped, glaring. Edith rolled her eyes, staring at the ceiling of the tent for a moment. She slipped her feet from the boots, rubbing them idly as she watched Castlefeld's cheeks flush.

"You think I will not? I've already spoken—"

"Golly, and for the life of me, I can't think of any of the girls we left behind wanting to come to the frontlines."

Edith made a thoughtful noise in the back of her throat, looking over to where Caroline and Ava were sitting on Caroline's bed. Their eyes were wide, and also tired. They'd seen this fight too many times.

"Not to pull anyone into this lovely conversation, but was there anyone besides us who wanted to come here?" She finished massaging one foot and uncouthly went to the other. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You're welcome to send me back, feeling like you've won some kind of battle. But this isn't a battle. Those boys out there—Those men are fighting for their lives while you're here razzing me. Is it that I'm some harlot, Mrs. Castlefeld, or are your priorities jumbled up?"

Edith idly wondered if Castlefeld's hatred was just a mechanism for dealing with her own fears and stress. Edith considered herself something of an easy target. A woman with no job security was a perfect person to manipulate. It's how so many women got pulled into taxiing in the first place. When the woman turned on her heel and stormed from the tent, she couldn't quite count it as a victory.

"You okay over there, Powderpuff?"

Edith huffed a laugh, pulling her legs up onto the cot and pulling the wool blanket up to her damp shoulders. "Not our worst tiff."

"Certainly in the top five," California spoke. "What got her so riled?"

"Was talking to Steve."

There was a hum of casual acceptance from the girls. Some even groaned, throwing their arms over their eyes. Since Buffalo and the success of the show, the girls had been kept carefully separate from their star. An attractive man with twenty, thirty, forty or more pretty girls? It was only too easy for rumors to start. And rumors didn't help sell war bonds.

Outside of rehearsals and performances, he was isolated. And they were kept corralled away from prying eyes, save for the few who were the go-to picture girls. Caroline with her blond hair, Sally with her brown hair, and Rachel with her red hair often served as the three who posed for pictures in the lobbies of theatres around the states.

"Is he doin' okay? He was lookin' mighty sick the other day." Edith snorted at Ava's question, curling herself further into the blanket. It was dang cold in this tent. "He's eatin' right ain't he?"

Typical Ava.

She was the mother hen of the girls. Careful to make sure others were safe and provided for. She left her children with her mother in Birmingham.

"He said he's fine. I think it bothers him though, bein' here to perform and not to fight, but that's just me."

Practically every girl knew it though. No one ever said anything. It wasn't their place to question. But everyone in the production knew that Steve was more than capable of being out there fighting. The fact that he wasn't was the source of a lot of gossip. Gossip that Edith and many of the girls worked to squash, 'cause it did nothing but hurt him. He knew about the rumors.

"I warned him that the soldiers might…"

She saw Caroline nod and she settled back into the head of her cot, closing her eyes.

As long as she remembered, Jenkins was a dustpan. In the summers, when the fields were brown and the dirt like sand, there'd be walls of dust as high as you could see. Her father called them "black rollers." It'd be as dark as night outside with the wind howling and the dirt choking. Edith remembered a time when she'd visited her aunt's family further west when she couldn't see the hand in front of her face.

Water had been the only thing that could save anyone from all that dust and there never seemed to be enough of it. There never seemed to be enough of anything. Her momma fell sick, after one of those black rollers came through. She died in the cab of their jalopy on the way to the new mine. Her Pa found work there, in the pines. Had a friend from the Great War, got him on the day crew.

Rain always used to clean away the soot and dust.

So, she couldn't bring herself to hate the rain and the way it just kept on and on through the night. If it has just rained more at home, the farm wouldn't've been buried, her ma wouldn't have been buried, and her Pa wouldn't have trekked all the way to Richmond—then Harrisonburg—with every worldly possession they owned on the back of his truck to live in some slapped up shack out in the woods.

"You still awake, Powderpuff?"

She turned her head lazily to the side to see Ava curled up on her side in the cot next to hers, blond hair strewn across the pillow in frizzed waves. The girl's hair never seemed to do well with moisture and it'd be a beast to tame in the morning to get those perfect waves back to their sculpted look. The dim light from the lamp made Ava's face particularly pale, casting shadows where they shouldn't be.

"You alright there, Ava May?"

"Thinking about Billy."

Edith pressed her lips firmly together at the mention of Ava's fella. He'd been deployed right before she joined the chorus, not knowing that he'd also be leaving her with in-laws that had no problem with throwing the girl in a factory. While that might've all been well-and-good, Ava—being the looker that she was—drew the aggressive attention of the foreman. She'd run to Birmingham, to her mother.

"If he got my letters, he knows I'm over here. For the first time in two years, I'm the closest to him I've been."

Edith didn't quite know what to say to that, so she stayed silent. She hated the platitudes of you'll see him again and I'm sure he's okay. There was no guarantee of that. It always seemed hollow and empty whenever she tried to say them. The girls never expected that kind of stuff from her.

"When'd you hear from him last?"

Ava was quiet for a moment, eyes focused on Edith's boots. "Why do you carry those everywhere for?" Despite herself, Edith huffed a laugh, reaching down to fiddle with the damp shoestring. "Mrs. Castlefeld tried to throw them away in Philly, didn't she?"

"And I nearly decked her."

Giving the other woman a considering glance, she settled for the truth.

"I was fifteen when we got to Richmond. Pa had packed us up, moved us there. Said he had worked lined up. Pa took up work with the coal mine out in Harrisonburg after Richmond fell through." It still didn't explain the shoes and Ava was giving her a tiredly flat look. "Ends up, I start workin' at a cattle slaughterin' place. Fancy shoes when I'm not dancing just don't make any sense to me."

And she'd learned pretty quick that fancy shoes could never be chosen over sturdy ones.

"Pa bought me those. Said sturdy shoes like that'd take me to better places." And here she was, on the front lines. "Not sure he had this in mind."

Ava fell asleep not long after. She never answered Edith's question. Edith couldn't seem to go to sleep that night.