“He’s back again,” Mom whispers. “That man.” “Honestly.” Miss Yue lays aside her Peaceday wreath, takes her by the shoulders and leads her away from the window. “Someone should call the lancers.” “Call the Altassians?” Mom’s other friend says. “On an old man?” “He knows what’ll happen if they find him here. We have children here.” “Jian?” Mom turns and sees me standing in the door, one foot in my shoe, stuffing the last of a fried dough stick in my mouth.

Phosphorus Jack isn’t one of the glossy uptown heroes, all cloak and jewel-tones. He’s a hopped-up vigilante, a little guy in dark leathers snapping and crawling with white sparks. Can’t fly, but he’s got the jetwing for that, the weird jet-powered cross between a surfboard and a thyroidal boomerang. On balance he’s a good guy. Gives bullies grief if he catches them making trouble, stops the occasional robbery, plays thorn-in-the-side to Petrochenko.

— 1915, The Lower East Side, New York City — Ruthie can’t sleep for the whispering of the dolls. Hildy and Margaret are talking to each other in the dark, their voices as light and thin as paper. Even the sound of Ruthie’s heartbeat drowns them out, but if she lies very still and listens intently, she can hear what they are saying. They lie together on the night table in the little bed Ruthie made from tissue paper, high enough from the floor that they won’t try to escape.