The Becoming of Noah Shaw (The Shaw Confessions #1)(66)

I press my palm against her breastbone and step back, needing the distance, needing a breath. Mara backs up, bounces lightly onto the bed.

“Noah,” she says, and the sound of her voice seizes my heart even now. She blinks slowly, her eyelashes dusting her cheekbones. She looks like art, a living sculpture. And then she speaks.

“Come to bed,” she says silkily.

I bend down to her ear, feel her smile against my cheek. “Sleep it off, sweetheart.”

Then I leave the room, leaving a trail of blood behind me.

Oh God, Simon. My hands shake, my words—I can scarcely bring myself to write this, though it’s been a fortnight already. But I must. You would want to know; and I believe you do know my thoughts as I write them. Perhaps it will give me some measure of peace.

The night began so beautifully. Her wedding was glorious—her dress like no other. She looked so rare and exotic and exquisite, her husband could not take his eyes from her, and neither could anyone else. I thought to-night, having invited everyone who matters from society, they would finally understand: The colour of her skin does not make her any less. If anything, the way the spun gold in her white dress reflects the bronze of her skin, they should have seen that she was more. So much more. More beautiful, more elegant, more intelligent, more accomplished—more. The blondes and brunettes in their common dresses with their common conversation and common skills were no match for my daughter—I have come to think of her that way, husband. My daughter. The one I always wanted and never had.

The authorities showed up near dawn. They were shown into the sitting room, their hats and coats still on, dripping, puddling rainwater onto the floor.

When you died, they allowed Mrs. Dover to take their hats and coats, and they sat with me while I cried.

This night, they did not let me sit.

Mrs. Dover woke me, knocking quite loudly on my door, opening it before I could answer. She stood there as I awakened, carrying her candle. I felt as though I’d been caught in tar, my dreams still staining my mind with blood.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice husky with sleep.

“I’m sorry, my lady, you must come downstairs at once.”

The panic I felt, Simon! “Is it the boys? Elliot, Simon, are they—”

“They’re sleeping, they’re well,” Mrs. Dover assured me. It’s—the police, my lady. They refuse to tell me their business. They refused Albert as well. They demand your presence immediately. Come now, let’s get you dressed, all right?”

I didn’t answer, but I stood, trembling, and allowed her to slip on whatever clothing she could over my dressing gown; my fingers were frozen. I felt a terror I couldn’t yet grasp, but I felt it.

Mrs. Dover led me down the stairs, arm in arm, as if I were feeble. When we reached the brightly lit sitting room, my eyes skimmed their faces, some of which seemed to mirror mine, which terrified me further.

“Lady Shaw,” one of them began. “There’s been”—he struggled for the appropriate word—“there’s been a murder.”

My hand covered my mouth. Mara. My Mara.

“Is it my—” I almost said “daughter.” “Is it my niece?” She was Mrs. Christensen now.

The inspector met my gaze directly. “Her husband, Mr. Christensen, I’m afraid. The servants heard nothing, but one reported passing their bedroom earlier than usual, unable to sleep, and said that though she heard nothing, she felt compelled to check on them. When she knocked on their door and received no answer, she took it upon herself to fetch the master key, and unlocked it. Her screams woke the house.”

“Mr. Christensen was found in their bed. Mrs. Christensen was not,” a different inspector said.

“I don’t understand,” I insisted. “Was she taken? Kidnapped? Could her husband simply be ill or—”

“There was blood. On the bed.”

“Well, naturally,” I said, losing all sense of propriety. “It was their wedding night!”

“No, my lady.” The inspector looked down, embarrassed. “There was much of it. And none in him.”

“We must find my niece at once!” I insisted. “She’s in danger!”

“One of the other servants reported seeing her in her travelling cloak leaving the house at about that hour. We are searching for her now, rest assured.”

But I could not rest, not that night nor any thereafter. I will not mourn her, cannot believe that she has died. I cling to the desperate hope that she had been stolen, somehow, but was alive, and we would be reunited someday in life.

But there are whisperings, Simon. That she fled in the night with a demon. That she was a demon, one we had foolishly welcomed into our home and let settle into our family to feed on our kindness and generosity and love like a tick, until she’d grown full, and found someone else to feed on.

I cannot believe it. I must not. But God forgive me, husband, I dream it. A vision covered in blood in her dressing gown, staring down at her new husband—it haunts me every night.

I am cursed.





36


DEPLORABLE SUCCESS

I AWAKEN WITH A SCREAM perched in my throat.

Flames licking at boxes, melting metal shelving. I glance down—I’m not holding the journal any longer. It’s morphed into a bottle of lighter fluid, and my hand is no longer my own. It belongs to a girl, her fingernails painted blue, wearing a delicate ring on her middle finger made of twisted gold. Her lungs are full of smoke.