Page 11 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

The impromptu singing made Olive’s heart shine.

She had penned that simple chorus. She was the reason the den overflowed with the spirit of the cause.

An urge to reveal herself fluttered in her chest. While it was paramount that her identity remain hidden from the public, couldn’t she at least tell the few women who would celebrate her actions?

They were her friends, her sisters-in-arms—they’d be proud of her, wouldn’t they?

She sang along softly, her needs and wants warring within her.

When the song ended, she took a deep breath and willed herself to be courageous.

“I can’t wait to teach the Olympians our anthem,” Rhoda declared.

“As much as I enjoy the anthem,” Clem began, her apologetic tone and careful words a gentle damper, “I’m not certain it would be welcome at WESA headquarters.”

Olive’s words stuck in her throat.

“Why on earth not?” Rhoda asked. “Do they have their own anthem?”

“It’s the use of suffragette. Our latest instructions have been to distance the clubs from the word.”

“But why?” Yuki asked. “It’s already being used in the newspapers. What’s the harm?”

“Unfortunately, the term has been used to mock our English sisters’ more radical approach. There is fear the same mockery will be applied to our efforts, so Mrs. Hutton and Mrs. DeVoe are adamant that we stick to more ladylike strategies.”

Rhoda heaved a sigh. “The still hunt approach is so boring.”

“It can be,” Clem agreed. “But so far, it’s working. We mustn’t tip the scales the wrong way.”

Olive’s courage dissolved completely. Her chin sank lower and lower as the signatures she pretended to scrutinize blurred before her eyes.

First Mrs. Drake, now this. She couldn’t believe it—her anthem was the opposite of what the suffrage leaders wanted.

If they learned it was a member of their Society that had penned it, what would happen to them?

Their little group already had a reputation as a society of misfits, of outliers, of those who didn’t quite fit the mold.

This would only harm them further. How could she risk ruining everything?

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

The anthem would have to remain a secret, even from her best friends.

Emil Anderson’s prying questions in the serving pantry chose that moment to echo in her mind, and she internally cringed.

If the detective continued to investigate, would he ferret her out?

Would he tell his friend Mack, who would then tell Winnie?

With any luck, his futile visit to Chase Music General Store had convinced him she made a terrible source, and he’d leave her in peace.

“Olive, are you well?”

She raised her head and realized with a start that she was alone at the table with Rhoda. Clem, Susannah, and Yuki had moved to stand before the Inspiration Station, and Clem was pointing to a pinned pamphlet.

“Only a little more tired than I thought.”

“Why don’t we go out for a hot chocolate after the meeting finishes? My treat.”

She smiled weakly. If only she could take up the offer, but there were so many things to be done before the day’s end.

She’d collected tuition earlier, so she wanted to pass by the bakery to see if they had any day-old bread on discount.

Then she had to settle the outstanding fee at the butcher shop, or Mr. Thompson would start refusing them even the smallest of soup bones.

Finally—and this one hurt—she couldn’t postpone going to the pawn shop any longer.

The back rent had been paid, but with fewer performances arranged past the holidays, the next would be even more challenging to scrounge together.

Hopefully, her father’s gold watch would make up the difference.

And then, somehow without crying over the loss, she would go home, help her mother with dinner preparations, and force her brother to practice reading.

She was exhausted just thinking about it.

“That’s very kind, but I have to run a few errands before the stores close.”

“Oh. All right.”

They went back to copying signatures in silence.

Soon, however, little vibrations began to pulse through the wooden table, and Olive lifted her pen from the paper before it could smear.

She peeked at Rhoda from beneath her eyelashes.

Her friend’s pen was idle, and it was her fidgety leg shaking the table.

Her jaw clenched and unclenched, almost as if she were chewing on a disagreeable thought.

“Rhoda,” she began hesitantly. “Are you well?”

Her friend straightened, her dark brows rising. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Olive’s lips parted at the sharp tone, but she didn’t have time to wonder what it meant. Rhoda was already pivoting, reaching under the table and rummaging through her bag. “Say, I almost forgot. I got you something.”

Olive’s heart sank when she saw the brand-new record, its crisp cardboard jacket emblazoned with a colorful title. “You shouldn’t have.”

Rhoda waved a dismissive hand in the air. “It’s purely for selfish reasons. I love ragtime, and it would be even better to hear it played live. Could you learn it and play it for us?”

An uncomfortable prickling heat rose to Olive’s cheeks. “But I don’t have a gramophone to listen to it.”

“I have one I could—”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly take yours.”

“Honestly, you’d be doing me a favor. It’s old, and the sound quality has deteriorated,” she warned. “It’ll be thrown out otherwise.”

Olive looked down, fiddling with her pen. Her initial instinct was to refuse again, to put some distance between herself and the shame that crept in at the offer. But there was something about Rhoda’s behavior today that made her unsure if refusing was the right thing to do.

“Well…if you’re certain.”

“I am.” Rhoda brightened noticeably. “I’ll have it sent over tomorrow.”

“Thank you. I know my mother will enjoy hearing it as well.”

It was no lie. Bringing music back into the home would be wonderful. Perhaps it could even ease her mother’s sorrow over giving up her husband’s watch. And perhaps it could pull Olive’s mind away from the gnawing suspicion that someone was trailing her.

She shook her head at the nonsensical notion and bent her head to her task.