The only other time I’d been so friendly with a girl had been Father’s young maid, Alice. Days later she’d been murdered. I pictured Lucy in Alice’s place, cold body dead on the tile floor, white feet dripping with blood.
That won’t happen to Lucy. I won’t let it.
But the thought conjured visions of bodies torn apart by razor-sharp claws, and flowers stained in blood, and a murderer hidden in my attic chamber.
Lucy gave me a devilish grin, banishing my troubled thoughts. “Don’t worry, Juliet. This is going to be a very memorable party.”
I tried to smile back. Memorable was watching Alice die. Memorable was learning my father had betrayed me. Memorable was a white flower spotted with fresh red blood.
I wasn’t looking for a memorable party. I’d have settled for a perfectly forgettable one, but ever since Edward had returned to London, I had the feeling nothing would be forgettable ever again.
THIRTEEN
THAT NIGHT I WAS sleepless with wracking pain. My knuckles popped in their sockets; my head ached in a low, dull way. I could feel each bone in my body as though it moved of its own accord. I had been taking my injections daily, and yet the fits were only getting worse. I lay in bed for an hour, sweating into the sheets, until at last the illness passed.
As soon as Elizabeth and the professor had retired, I stood shakily and broke the new lock on my bedroom window with more hydrochloric acid, praying I could find another lock to match Elizabeth’s so she wouldn’t know it was gone—and eased the window up as quietly as I could. The snow fell in thick flakes, but the wind was mild for once—a small blessing. I crawled to the end of the overhang and then down the balustrade into the garden with limbs that were still sore, and made my way along streets that grew noticeably more run-down until I arrived in Shoreditch.
I paused at the entrance to the lodging house. The fresh air and movement had eased my symptoms, and without the distraction of pain my mind could focus on bigger questions. Edward claimed he would never hurt me, but how much control did he really have over his other half?
My hand fell to the weight in my coat pocket. When I’d replaced my bedroom lock months ago, I’d ordered several extra padlocks from the blacksmith’s, a few small ones to lock my serum and journal in private boxes, but also a heavy lock I’d intended to put on the attic door. Edward had said the Beast sometimes broke the lock on his chains—surely he couldn’t break this one.
But would a padlock really stop a monster? If only Montgomery were here. He was young too, unprepared too, but together we’d always been stronger. I felt at times as though his memory was fading around the edges like an old photograph.
“What should I do?” I whispered into the night.
Montgomery was far away, but I didn’t need his voice in my ear to know that he would tell me to do everything I could to prevent Edward from hurting more people—and from hurting me.
I drew my knife and hid it in the folds of my coat, in case I needed it quickly. As I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, a strange thrill plucked at my ribs, toying with my body like another symptom of my illness. The door was locked, so I knocked hesitantly.
Edward was quick to answer. The shock of the door suddenly opening and him standing there robbed any fears that he might hurt me. There was only concern in his dark brown eyes. Only love. I squeezed the knife harder to remind myself he was still dangerous.
“You should have asked who it was before answering,” I managed to say.
The smell of roses and camphor spilled out around him. I could hear the woodstove crackling and the tea kettle rattling on top, beckoning me in. My stomach felt suddenly very hollow, and I was overwhelmed with the idea that the only place I belonged was this little room, with this boy who knew me so well when no one else did, and I was immediately ashamed of those thoughts. What would Montgomery have thought of that?
“I know your footsteps,” he said. “Or rather, the Beast does. I don’t share all of his memories, but a few things bleed through. Information that relates to you, most of all.”
He stood back to allow me entrance, and I came in almost feeling like a stranger in my own home. Edward seemed to fit so perfectly among the twisted rosebushes and frosted glass windows that it was hard to believe he had only been here a day.
I caught a glimpse of Sharkey curled on the hearth, fast asleep and dreaming, and that place in my stomach felt a little less empty and yet even more hollow at the same time.
“I’ve been working on the serum,” Edward said, nodding toward the worktable. He picked up some yellowing pages that still had the earthy smell of the island. “These are your father’s letters that I took from the compound before it burned. I doubt you’ll find anything useful; he was careful to hide his tracks.”
I devoured the letters in a matter of minutes. My father’s handwriting felt so alive that it was hard to imagine I’d never see him again. They discussed bank transfers and lists of surgical equipment, and a few philosophical ramblings, but Edward was right—nothing concrete to tell me who Father had been working with.
I set down the letters, and as if sensing my disappointment, Edward said, “I’ve gone through your father’s journal and pieced together what I could. I performed two variations on the formula, but neither held longer than a few seconds. The phosphorous salts you’re using are quite old. I thought I might go out and get a new batch.”
“No!” It was my instincts speaking. “No, don’t leave. I’ll get the salts. You promised me you would stay here.”
“Stay near the chains, you mean.” There was a certain edge to his voice.
“Can you blame me? Edward, you’re a murderer.” I pulled the heavy padlock out of my pocket. “I had this made at the blacksmith’s. It’s created after one of Father’s designs. Call him what you will, but he was a genius when it came to mechanical locks. No matter how strong the Beast gets, he won’t be able to break through that.”
I set it on the worktable with a thud. He picked it up quickly, as though its mere presence disturbed him, and stashed it in a drawer.
As I watched him, it struck me how truly handsome he was, despite the scar beneath his left eye. How could Lucy not have fallen in love with him? He was another creature entirely from her other stuffy suitors, who all dressed alike, spoke alike, made her the same tepid promises. Everything about Edward spoke of a different world, one richer in detail somehow, as though the waking world was merely a dream and he the only thing clear in it.