Something Strange and Deadly (Something Strange and Deadly #1)(69)

Her mood flipped like a coin, and she bubbled with delight. She doted on me, all the while singing of betrothals, wedding gowns, and wealth. She even indulged my desire for a second helping of toast.

And I hated all of it. The serpent of guilt that lived in my chest now wound into my stomach. It writhed with something else too, something much darker.

Powerlessness. Dread. My whole life rested within Clarence’s hands, and with it laid Elijah’s. If Clarence decided to tell Mama about my time with the Spirit-Hunters, about Elijah’s disappearance—as far-fetched as it all sounded, I knew she would believe him. Her esteem of Clarence, of Junior, was too high. As was her suspicion of my “rebellion.”

I knew I would have to tell Clarence everything. I would lie with all my heart about Daniel’s part in the puzzle, though. If I had to, I’d say Nicholas Peger was the one who’d shared Clarence’s secrets with me. But I couldn’t hide the truth of Elijah and his letters. And perhaps the part of Clarence’s character that I liked—the young man with the fetching smile who loved his family—would find it in himself to help me.

With each passing minute of the day, my paranoid anxiety only worsened. I scrawled a note to Clarence after breakfast, but I received no reply, and by midafternoon he still hadn’t called.

To make matters worse, the explosion of the dy***ite factory was on the front page of the Sunday paper. I read the entire article four times, my chest growing blacker and heavier each time. There was no mention of Daniel or me—no description. Likely the guards feared we’d rat out their own wrongdoings. But that didn’t make me feel better. So much destruction because of me.

Daniel probably felt tenfold worse. He’d been forced to relive the worst night of his life, and yet I was so very glad I hadn’t left him to die.

And poor, poor Joseph. Had he recovered from his exhaustion? Could he recover from the loss of his lab?

I paced the parlor, my leg muscles screaming from overuse and my blisters still burning. The knickknacks, the flowered wallpaper, the velvet curtains all shouted at me, sucked the air from my lungs until I had to flee the house and walk in the yard. But once there I couldn’t stop staring at the bench, couldn’t stop replaying Clarence’s words.

And then Daniel would flash into my mind, his lips parted and pulling me to him. A strange ache would flare through my chest, and I would think of his lips, of his fingers. And then those thoughts would mix with the guilt and the darkness like some chemistry experiment gone wrong. My whole body would shake.

What was I doing? Truly, things could get no worse.

I gave a strangled cry and dashed back into the house, up to my bedroom. I desperately wanted to go to the Exhibition, but I couldn’t. I had to wait for Clarence. Wait to see if he meant what he’d said.

I burrowed myself in my sheets, and I let my emotions overtake me. Clarence didn’t come that day.

The next morning was Monday, and my composure was on the verge of shattering. I was so tired that my nerves throbbed. If I had to hear another pleased exclamation from Mama, I would crumple to the floor in a weeping heap.

I needed to talk to Clarence, and then I had to see the Spirit-Hunters. I placed my green bonnet firmly on my head. Shadows ringed my eyes, and I pinched my cheeks to induce some—any—color into my lifeless face.

I wore an old dress that barely reached my ankles and didn’t require a bustle, and after wrapping the blisters on my feet with linens, I donned my sturdiest walking boots. Fashion and appearance be damned. If I was lucky, my clothing might frighten Clarence into helping me.

Best of all, I could breathe, having foregone my corset. I had fought furiously with Mary until she’d run away on the verge of melodramatic tears. But I had won the war, and no corset confined my waist today. If the suffragists could do it, why couldn’t I?

As I descended the steps into the hall, a knock resounded at the front door. The black dread exploded in my stomach. I raced to it and flung it open, expecting Clarence. But it was Allison, flustered, crimson cheeked, and sweating.

“Oh Eleanor!” She rushed inside and clasped at my hands. “Have you seen Clarence?”

“No. Why?”

A cry escaped her lips, and she threw her hands to her mouth.

“What is it?” I demanded.

“H-he hasn’t come home.”

My pulse thumped in my ears. “Since when?”

Allison only shook her head and whimpered. A tear rolled down her cheek.

“Allison! When did you see him last?”

“S-Saturday.”

My breath froze. Oh no, what had happened? “He never came home after the opera?”

“N-n-no!” she wailed. “We were supposed to leave town, b-but... ”

“Calm yourself. You must explain.”

She didn’t respond but rocked and wept into her hands.

For a lack of anything better to do, I dragged her into the parlor and thrust her on the sofa.

“Get a hold of yourself.” I knelt and gripped her chin. “Look at me. What is going on?”

Allison took in a shaky breath. “He never came home, and Willis said he came here after the opera. B-but when Willis came to pick him up, Clarence wasn’t around, and his security men didn’t know where he’d gone.”

I crumpled to the sofa. I had seen a figure following him and assumed it was a Pinkerton, but it must have been... “The Dead,” I breathed. “Oh no, oh no. I’ve got to find him.”