When looking for a place to stay, Katie was chiefly concerned with location. She wanted to be right in the middle of South Philly, connected to as many of the happenings as she could. In the old days, it was knowing the secrets of other people that had given her power. Or given her a purpose. If she was going to follow a similar path here, she didn't want to be living on the sidelines. And so the tiny apartment downtown, although it lacked the luxuries she would one day hope to gain, provided everything she needed just by existing in the middle of the action.

It was strange, starting a new life. She'd done it before, she supposed, but not when she was old enough to think about it. Mostly it felt strange being in a city where she didn't know anyone- where she didn't care about anyone and they didn't care about her. Not yet, at least. 

She'd try to make those connections over time. But it was strange to think about what would happen to her now if she died. No one would even know who she was or anything at all about her.

To record her thoughts and memories, Katie purchased a red leather journal and a pen that seemed worthy of the thicker paper. She most often wrote while sitting on her bed or the sofa, leaning the book against her knees as she pondered the past and considered the future.

Most people have pictures from their childhood, but all I have are memories. The first picture I ever saw of myself, I was seventeen and hanging onto someone's arm. Now I don't even have that anymore.

I know much less of my early life than most, but I do know some things. I was born in Galway and spent the first few years of my life there. My father was Cormac O'Connor. He was a soldier, but he was killed before I ever met him. I was raised by my mother along with my siblings: Joseph, Mary, and Peter. I don't remember much from any of them. Some flashes of playing with Mary or praying with my mother, but how much of that is memory and how much is imagination? I remember a gun battle on the streets outside our apartment, us four kids crammed into the bathroom like sardines as my mother prayed on the floor next to us. 

Somewhere around four or five, my mother gave us all up. I can't blame her for it. I wouldn't have lasted as long as she did, I think. The four of us kids got split up; I went to work as a servant for a well off British family living in Yorkshire, the Greens. William Green had made a small fortune in business, mostly tailors and related supplies, and he did his best to throw his money around to seem like he was a noble. He had his house in the country for himself, his wife, and his daughter, and a small team of servants to run his household. I was to be his daughter's servant and companion, although Margaret saw me much more as a servant. They were nice enough people, in their way. Snobs and social climbers. They weren't too nice to me. I was their servant, after all. But they insisted I get educated alongside Margaret, and they weren't unkind to me. Well, not until much later.

Life with William, Dorothy, and Margaret Green was good, for the most part. Unlike many children, I had safety, an education, enough to eat, and a warm bed. Mrs. Bedford, the cook, and Mrs. Evans, the maid, looked after me and would chide me when I wasn't focusing on my lessons. Mr. Green had a private tutor come in for Margaret who taught her all sorts of things a young lady should know: how to read and write, poetry, music, maths, history, Latin, French. I was rubbish at the languages and the maths, but the reading and the writing and the music interested me. Even writing this diary, I can feel the old rhythm of writing coming back to me. Like a muscle that hasn't been exercised during a sickness. 

Well I was always very careful not to upstage Margaret. She wasn't a bad girl. I'd even call her my friend. But in moments when she felt that she wasn't 'winning' she could make life hell for me. I suspected our tutor, Mr. Hodge, was aware of this and heaped the loudest praise on her, even though my work had much more comments written on it.

It seems boring to say "and then ten years passed", but when people get to say that it really means you're lucky. If you can make it from age six to age sixteen with a normal process of just getting older and getting more educated, "tens years passed" really means "nothing horrible happened to me."

Well nothing horrible happened to me, until Henry Covington changed everything.

Near the end, Margaret became increasingly nasty to me. She'd do anything she could to try to hurt me, and it wasn't until Mrs. Evans sat me down that I really understood why. Mrs. Evans said it was jealousy, which seemed ridiculous. Her family was rich and she'd marry someone else who was just as rich, if not more, so what did she have to be jealous about? I started seeing it more, though, after that. We were both becoming women, and Margaret became obsessed with beauty, spending her father's money on any product that was well advertised and some that weren't. 

She spent a small fortune preparing for her debut: her dress, her hair, her skin, and her makeup each had a person dedicated to its perfection. Mrs. Bedford had cooked enough food to feed the five thousand and Mrs. Evans and I spent days erasing every speck of dust from the house. The guest list was perfectly assembled: dozens of young, eligible bachelors that would be a good match, and young women that Margaret didn't consider a threat.

I spent most of the evening running plates back and forth to the kitchen, listening to the music when I could and watching these people from another world twirl around the dance floor. At one point, the kitchen got so hot and I seemed so tired that Mrs. Evans ordered me outside.  

It was there, under the midsummer moon, that I met Henry Covington. I was leaning against one of the columns facing the garden taking in the cool evening air when I heard someone breathing on the other side of it. I immediately froze, waiting for someone to walk around the column to face me, but when a hand touched my shoulder I still almost jumped out of my skin. I turned and saw the most handsome man I'd ever seen in my entire life.

And at that point, he smiled and I felt like my brain just shut off. 

How lucky it is for women that when we clam up we often appear shy in an enticing way. I can only imagine that that's what occurred as he spoke to me in the moonlight. 

At that point, I'd never had a drink in my life but I was drunk on that moonlight. Drunk on the way he'd loosened his clothing and ran his hand through his hair. 

Eventually, I found my voice, although for a million dollars I couldn't tell you what we said, other than exchanging names. At some point, he kissed me and I felt a warmth deep inside me, something kindled and all the other handsome lads from town I'd ever met and all their awkward kisses seemed like a comic prologue to something much deeper and much more real. 

When Margaret screamed, I didn't even register it until Henry pulled away from me. He tried to defend me, before he was led away by his friends. Mrs. Evans and Mrs. Bedford tried to defend me. But in the end, it didn't matter. I'd ruined the evening, and Margaret hated me.

Within 48 hours, I found myself on the streets and alone. 

Where do you eat? Where do you sleep? Who's going to try to hurt you?

These are hard questions to answer, especially when you've never had to think about them.

The first few weeks on the streets were a blur to me. Moving into poor houses and receving alms from the church, but moving on because someone took too much of an interest or got too handsy. I only truly felt threatened a couple times, but I got out of trouble and started carrying a knife. 

When it became clear that my former life was over, I started heading west any way I could. I kept on the lookout for food, trains, and cars. 

It was an animal existence, and it lasted for three months until I met Jimmy Doyle.

Most people become thieves out of necessity. And most of them get locked up before they develop their skills. I was lucky. And good I suppose.

I got caught a couple times early on, but some tears on a pretty face can be invaluable. I learned how to move silently through the world. Dark colors helped one blend into the night. Soft shoes or bare feet made one silent inside. I began to enjoy life as a shadow. First I stole enough food and money to survive. Then I stole enough to feed some of the other desperates living in the bowels of the city. 

But oh, those first few months had taken their toll. The grime covering my skin seemed like a permanent fixture. And my hair, left tied and untended to for so long, nothing could be done with it. I cut it off, so short that when dressed in multiple layers I could sometimes pass for a boy, which had its own advantages at deflecting attention.

At the point I was skilled enough to mostly be sleeping in hotels and bathing, I got too confident. Stealing food and a few dollars here and there? Not a problem. But when I started lifting jewelry, I underestimated the heat. I also learned the difference between being stealthy and being conspicuous. Wearing rough, black clothing and a hood made me almost impossible to spot during a break in, but I stuck out like a sore thumb in a crowd. About five minutes after I realized I'd taken an expensive enough necklace to really piss someone off and that I looked like a thief, they nabbed me. Tossed me in the back of a wagon with two other men.

One of them was Jimmy Doyle.  He told me with a smile that I picked a great day to get arrested. 

And I did. He was the second man I ever loved.

These days are hard to write about. I'll keep them short. I want this to be more about my new self anyway.

It's hard to talk about Jimmy. He could talk the shirt off your back, whether he needed it or not, and there was never a group where people didn't look to him before they knew it was okay to laugh. Or get pissed. Or anything. Lots of people don't even know they're doing it, but they do. When they make a joke or say something that they're worried about, pay attention to who they look at first. That's the person who's really in command. Everyone looked at Jimmy like that. And the day I saw Jimmy make a joke and look first at me was one of the happiest of my life.

He and his boys were all from Galway although they roved around the country as needed. Spent lots of time in Dublin, of course. The north, occasionally. Jimmy's da was in the IRA that won the revolution, but died in the fighting after. Jimmy and his friends were convinced the treaty would be the death of the country, just prettier chains from the English, and so they kept fighting. Stealing money, stealing guns, killing people who needed killing.

And there were enough of them that they always had each others backs. I miss that. Being alone now makes those days feel like another life. I'm not going to talk about anyone else in the group. Some of them have family still fighting. 

Fuck. This is hard.

When Jimmy's squad hit the wagon to rescue him, they took me along too. I asked them and they didn't seem surprised. And they weren't shocked when Jimmy and I became a thing, but I don't want to talk about that. I think they were only really surprised when Jimmy didn't move on from me. When I became one of them.

Mostly, I handled information for them. They were good lads and good fighters, but a lot of them couldn't tell their ass from a hole in the ground. If you gave them a target, though, they were aces. I wriggled my way into the good graces of every other bartender, cop, and criminal in the city. Soon, I had enough secrets that I started tipping the scales. Doling out secrets to show my value and make people more likely to talk to me in the future. I juggled them all in service of the cause. 

I never really cared for politics until Jimmy. Don't really think I'll ever care again. But he made me believe, and I helped him and his squad be more effective than they'd ever been before.

Effective enough that a bunch of soldiers blasted through their doors and killed them. 

I found Jimmy's body and the next day I was on a ship to America.

I don't want to say any more.

I arrived in Philadelphia several days ago. Things have been much harder and much easier than I imagined.

My time on the ship is a blur to me. Huddling with the other third class passengers, eating meals that tasted like sawdust, and thinking about Jimmy. The fog of grief was just starting to dissipate when I arrived in Philadelphia.

Stepping into this new world, I found a few people who could seemingly recognize my newness. Anakin Skywalker. Video. Resistor. They were kind to me, and two of them pointed me towards South Philadelphia to find what I was looking for. 

It felt so strange, being in the dark. In Galway and Dublin, I felt like I was constantly aware of what was happening on the streets. But here? Nothing. It cost me most of my money to just find the right building, and I had to stand there like an idiot waiting for someone to come out. Fortunately, Aurelio was the first person out. We spoke for a little while, and after talking with him I was convinced that this was the place to me. I also very briefly met Isabella Luciano and the other members of the crew. 

Everyone was so friendly and helpful that I felt suspicious at first. Aurelio and Don Luciano gave me a lot of money to get started, so much that I almost jumped on another boat. But if that's what they can afford to give away, there must be lucrative opportunities here if I can make my way, right?

I did a job spreading rumors about a politician that helped me get even more money, and then I purchased some essentials. I have an apartment. A wardrobe. And a diary. 

I suppose the only thing for me to do now is to wait and see what happens. I'd like to start getting to know people better. A woman named Roxanne seems to be in a similar position and could be a good person to get to know. I'm not sure how much to push myself onto Aurelio on Don Luciano. Does one gain more respect by marching in and introducing? Or should I wait to earn their attention? I'll build my contacts up in the city so I don't seem so blind. Once I'm a little more established, it might give me a chance to talk about more impressive things with the people I choose to work for. 

Diary, you were a much better idea back when I could just reflect on the past with relatively little to do here in the present. The last couple weeks have been a whirlwind for me! 

First, I met with Don Isabella. I pushed hard to get a chance to prove myself. Maybe too hard? She gave me four different missions, and I've spent every moment since zigzagging around the country making contacts and introductions and setting up business arrangements.

It's exhausting, but I'm happy. First time in a long time I can say that.