One evening in late August, Soph told us proudly that artists and writers from across the world were corresponding with her about the pamphlet. Aseel, Morehshin, and I were in her parlors, having a smoke before bedtime. Troubled, I touched Soph’s arm. “Aren’t you worried about sending it through the mail?”
Her face fell into seriousness. “Of course. But isn’t this what we wanted? Now people can decide for themselves whether the danse du ventre is obscene, instead of having Anthony decree it from his infernal throne.”
Aseel was anxious. “That’s true, but maybe you should stop using the mail to talk about it.”
“Don’t ever forget that Comstock wants you to die,” Morehshin added.
Soph laughed defiantly. “I’m not going to be quiet anymore.”
I shot a glance at her, thinking of how Comstock bragged that he’d driven abortionists to suicide. Soph’s friend was one of them. She was putting up a brave front, but clearly she knew the risks.
Morehshin grunted and stubbed out her cigarette. “If he kills you, then you’ll have no choice but to be quiet.”
“May the goddess protect us.”
“What do you really know about the goddess?” Morehshin sounded like she was asking a technical question, not a mystical one.
“I have devoted my life to study of the goddess in all her forms. I do not pretend to know her will, but I think I know her benevolence.” Her pale cheeks flushed. “Do people in your time still study the ancient Nabataean inscriptions devoted to her?”
“Yes. At Raqmu.” Morehshin nodded.
“I spent years there in the libraries and archives, learning ancient Nabataean, Greek, and Arabic. That’s where I began my career.”
I sat up, suddenly intrigued. “How did you come to do that?”
“My mother was a very devout woman, and she raised me by herself. We spent many nights with the Bible, and though I would not call her a compassionate woman—” Soph’s voice cracked and she took a quick drink. “Though perhaps she was not kind, she was progressive in her own way. She taught me that God came from a time in the universe before gender and sex. Our pronouns could not encompass God. And so when I came of age, I left our home in Massachusetts and went in search of a different kind of God.”
“You went all the way to Raqmu?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “How could you afford that?”
Aseel shot me a nasty look and Morehshin wore an offended expression. I felt terrible as soon as I realized how my question sounded.
Soph held her head high. “I read fortunes. I told men what they wanted to hear. I did what I had to do.”
“I’m sorry, Soph. I didn’t mean it that way. I was curious because you took an unusual path.”
She touched my arm gently, and the tension was broken. “I accept your apology. I rarely met other women during my studies, so I know it is rare. I have been blessed.”
Morehshin rubbed her chin and turned to me. “Another woman who does not follow the rules of her time. We are a good cluster.”
“I’m glad you approve.” Soph said it gravely, but with the hint of a smile.
Later that night, I awoke to the sound of shouting. I stepped into the hallway to find two police officers banging on Soph’s doors. Morehshin shoved me out of the way and approached the men from behind, pinching her jumper closed with one hand. Her other hand was a glowing red fist.
“You’re under arrest for obscenity, Sophronia Collins! Come out now or we will use force!”
As Morehshin reached them, Soph flung open her door. She was fully dressed in the bridal gown she sometimes wore when invoking the goddess. Her hair spilled in blond tangles down her shoulders, making her look wild and dangerous. “There is no need for violence! I will come with you willingly because I have done nothing wrong.”
Glimpsing Morehshin behind the police, Soph gave a minute shake of her head. The multi-tool stopped glowing, but I noticed that Morehshin did not put it away.
Despite her promise of cooperation, the police grabbed Soph roughly and put her in heavy iron handcuffs. “What’s this getup, whore?”
“It pleases the goddess.”
“Tell that to the judge.” One of the men guffawed. “He’ll see the slut under your white lace.” They gripped her arms and practically lifted her aloft in their enthusiasm to drag her down the hallway. Then they noticed Morehshin. “Is this your pet monkey girl? Hey, monkey, monkey!” Morehshin ignored them and kept her eyes on Soph, who was mouthing something.
Frozen with rage and helplessness, I watched them march past. Soph smiled. “Tell Aseel. She knows what to do. Please don’t worry, Tess.”
“We’ll get you out of this, Soph.” I made my voice firm.
As soon as they were gone, anxiety fizzed in the pit of my stomach. Despite having warned Soph about this exact possibility, I hadn’t been prepared to watch her seized and harassed. This wasn’t part of our plan.
Morehshin padded back through our door, and hunkered down on the pile of rugs and pillows she used as a bed. “They are going to kill her.”
“No, they aren’t. No. No, that’s not how it’s done here. We’ll get a lawyer tomorrow. That’s what we’ll do. First thing.” My words came out in a quavering rush.
“A lawyer.” She echoed the word like she didn’t know what it meant; or maybe she did, and was exceptionally dubious.
At Aseel’s request, Sol found us a young First Amendment zealot to take the case pro bono. Sitting in the gloom of his office, the lawyer told us exactly what I’d feared.
Comstock had men tracking all pamphlets coming to New York from Chicago. His men had seized several of Soph’s newsletters, including one about how angels had given us rubbers because sex is more spiritually fulfilling when there is no fear of pregnancy. When information about birth control crossed state lines, it became a federal matter under Comstock’s jurisdiction at the post office. The lawyer was excited about defeating censorship, but he didn’t seem to care much about getting Soph out of jail. Meanwhile, Soph’s friends in the press obligingly turned her story into shocking headlines:
Then the lawyer gave a few interviews, and the evening papers were all about him:
We were back at his office the next morning, asking when Soph would be out on bail. He leaned back in his chair, slicked his hair down, and regarded us with an expression of extreme satisfaction. “Ladies, this case is going pretty well. Did you read the papers?” He gestured at one, with his name prominently featured. “But I won’t lie to you. It isn’t going to be easy for your friend. They’ve taken her to Cook County Asylum. Because she’s hysterical, you know. A nymphomaniac.”
I stared at Soph’s lawyer, wondering why he’d taken this case if he believed that Victorian garbage about how women with an interest in sex were deranged. Cook County Asylum was a bug-infested hell south of the city in Dunning, notorious for abuse.
“We have to get her out of there.”
“That would be ideal, but this diagnosis means she’s totally inaccessible during the first few days of her treatment.” The lawyer made a sweeping gesture. “I have other cases to attend to, so check back with me next week.”