The Retribution of Mara Dyer (Mara Dyer, #3)(40)

“How do you know my name?”

“Ask the wrong questions, and you will get the wrong answers. I will let you ask three of them before we begin our lessons.”

I had never been challenged so directly, not since arriving in London, at least, and I was perturbed by it. “Who are you?” I asked warily.

The professor smiled, exposing all of his white teeth. “I am a person. A human. A man. I have been a father and a son, a husband and a brother, and now I am your teacher. Is that really what you want to ask me?”

Frustrated, I blurted out, “Why do you look familiar?”

“Because we have met before. That is three. Now—”

“Wait! You never answered my first question,” I said as I crossed my arms over my chest.

The professor smiled again. “I know your name,” he said, “because Mr. Grimsby announced you before you walked in.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What’s your name?”

“There is power in a name. That is four questions, and three was our agreement, but for practical purposes, I shall answer. You may call me Professor. Now, let us begin.”



Most days the professor taught me about the world and its people. Which countries were at rest and which cities were at war. He taught me the history of the world and of the universe, about mathematics and science. But every now and then we would do something different. He would play cards with me, and not the way Aunt Sarah did. I never understood the rules of the game. He would have me cut the deck, and then he would lay out his cards, with strange numbers and pictures on them. Sometimes he would give me objects, like bird feathers or stones or, one time, even a sword, which he withdrew from his cane, and he would tell me to write stories about them. Other times he would give me pretend problems and ask how I would solve them. He never answered my questions, about the objects or cards or their purposes. He said I had asked my three questions, and had wasted them. In the future I would be more careful. On those days I hated him.

Every other day I was Aunt Sarah’s doll, to be dressed and played with and entertained. My own doll lay buried but not quite forgotten in the trunk I still kept beneath the skirts of my bed. I scarcely remembered the befores—my days spent with Sister beneath the hot sun, or nights with Uncle as he’d showed me the stars. I became an indoor creature, like Dash, the late Master Shaw’s foxhound, who had been relegated to the servants’ quarters since he’d taken an immediate disliking to me.

I watched my reflection change in the mirror above the marble fireplace as the seasons changed outside. The garden bloomed with roses, and I bloomed into womanhood. After Aunt Sarah’s year of full mourning ended, she began to talk of presenting me at court, so that she might begin her search for a suitable match for me.

She would not hear that I might not be considered by the greatest families in London because of my skin, or my lack of family and property. “You are fair enough, and your face is so lovely! With your full lips, your raven hair—and your eyes, so exotic! You are a rare beauty, Mara, and I will ensure that you have the grandest dowry—any man would be lucky to have you.” She fingered the locket of her husband’s hair that hung around her neck.

But the professor discouraged this idea. In fact he discouraged any mention or proposal of my being brought out into society. Aunt Sarah was not a meek woman, but he was persuasive, and he persuaded her for a time. But he could not talk her out of marriage.

I told him I did not mind. I saw ladies and gentlemen paired off together, sitting sweetly in Hyde Park. Why not me? I dared not say it to the professor, of course. He was not married himself. He did not believe it natural to have one partner for an entire lifetime. “Animals do not mate for life, and we are animals, no matter what anyone pretends,” he told me more than once.

But I was presented at court anyway, and engaged six months later. My fiancé was sweet and shy, and he loved me. Our engagement lasted three months. He died on our wedding night, just before dawn.





25


JAMIE’S EYES WIDENED AS HE saw me and Stella approach. I was too shaky to stand on my own. Stella cut him off before he could ask any questions.

“Mara’s sick,” she said, “and you’re driving.” She tossed Jamie the keys and helped me into the backseat.

I was grateful for the help, but I hated it. I couldn’t even muster up a proper amount of self-loathing about it, though. I was too tired and too scared and too sick to do anything but lean back in the seat and close my eyes as Jamie drove.

It was early in the afternoon when we reached Savannah an hour later. We pulled into a hotel parking lot not far from the highway.

After we got our keys, Stella said to Jamie, “I need to talk to Mara. You go ahead.”

“Can it wait?” I asked. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I didn’t need to, actually, but I wasn’t up to talking about what she would want to talk about. I just wanted to sleep. Really sleep. In a real bed.

“Didn’t you just go?” Jamie asked.

I threw him a look, and he handed me a key to my room.

Stella followed me in, but I escaped into the bathroom immediately and turned on the faucet to hide the fact that I wasn’t peeing. But I soon heard voices outside—Jamie was in our room too, for some reason. Damn it.

After I could no longer justify hiding, I washed my face, took a few deep breaths, and opened the door.