The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(47)

I threw myself upon the sofa and closed my eyes. I pressed my fingertips hard against the lids until red roses blossomed in the darkness.

“Slate clean now,” Mr. Faulk said.

“I suppose that is so,” I acknowledged. “From Competello’s perspective. But true recompense demands that my head be in that box, Mr. Faulk.”

“All in all, better it’s still on your shoulders, Mr. Henry.”

I opened my eyes. “On Elizabeth Street, between Hester and Grand, there is a little restaurant; I cannot remember the name.”

He was nodding. “I think I know the place.”

“Good. Start there. If the padrone isn’t there, someone will be who knows where you can find him.” I fished one of Warthrop’s cards from my pocket—I always carried a supply with me—and handed it to him. “Tell him the doctor requests a meeting.”

“When?” Mr. Faulk asked.

“Nine o’clock.”

“Here?”

I shook my head. “He won’t come here. It must be a public place—or at least a crowded one.” I gave him the address.

“The doctor?”

“I gave him enough drug to knock out a horse.”

“He shouldn’t be left alone,” he said. “I know a man, a very trustworthy fellow.”

“All right. But two would be better. One outside the door and one downstairs in the lobby.”

He nodded, and again his eyes were drawn to the box.

“What’s he got in his mouth?”

“The cause of it all. I don’t know what brings Warthrop more torment—the death of his best friend, the death of that thing, or the death of something not quite so corporeal.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Henry?”

“It wasn’t Yorick who gave the Dane such distress, now was it?”

“You’ve lost me there, Mr. Henry. Yorick? Dane?”

I waved my hand. “It’s a very old story. Out of date.”

He left on his errand and, after a few minutes to tidy up, I left on mine. I left the box sitting on the table; von Helrung’s bright eyes followed me all the way to the door. The day had turned very cold, though the sky was clear, and there is no burden, there is no weight upon your shoulders. I arrived at Riverside Drive feeling as if I had stepped into a dream, or perhaps out of one: My mind was as clear as the sky. The butler informed me that Lilly and her mother were away shopping, but I was free to wait for them in the parlor, which I did with the patience of Job, sipping a gin and bitters and watching the sunlight slip across the floor, listening to the mournful droom-droom of the tugboats and the occasional sputter of a motorcar chugging past. The butler sent in a plate of cucumber sandwiches, which were very good, but I desired something of more substance. I finished my third gin and then took a nap. I woke with a start, for a moment ignorant of my location, thinking I was back at Harrington Lane and the doctor was in the next room reading, dinner was through, the plates washed and stacked, and this was the best part of the evening, when Warthrop gave me some peace and I felt a little less burdened, the weight upon my shoulders a little less heavy. From the back of the house I heard the laughter of women, more joyous than water in a fountain, and Lilly came in wearing a taupe-colored dress and her feet were bare; I’d never seen her feet and forced myself not to stare.

“And here you are!” she said. “Why? And please don’t begin the conversation by saying you had nothing better to do or some other insulting remark that you mistake for wit.”

“I wanted to see you.”

“Now that is an excellent answer, Mr. Henry.” She was in a good mood. She took off her hat, shook free long curls. The entire maneuver caused my mouth to go dry, and I thought of having the butler fetch me another drink.

“But it is rather awkward, don’t you think?” she went on. “Since we have already said good-bye.”

“I didn’t,” I said. “Say good-bye.”

“You must have news. No, you must, I can see it by the look on your face. You’re easier to read than you may think, Mr. Henry.”

“For you, perhaps.”

“Honesty and flattery? It must not be news; you must want something.”

I shook my head and sucked on a piece of ice. “There is nothing I want.”

She leaned forward and rested her forearms upon her knees. Her eyes really were identical to her uncle’s. It was unnerving.

“Then what is the news?”

“T. cerrejonensis is no more.”

She gasped. “And Dr. Warthrop?”

“Nothing will ever kill Pellinore Warthrop. He is as immutable as air.”

“Then you saved him—but not the prize.”

I nodded, rubbing my hands together as if they were cold. They were not. “I saved him . . .”

“You saved him, but.”

I nodded again. “I killed two men and almost a third.”

“A third of a man?”

I laughed in spite of myself. “That’s one way to put it.”

She thought for a moment. “A child?”

I nodded a third time and rubbed my hands.

“Why would you almost kill a child, Will?”

I could not meet her gaze. I waved my hand absently in the air, as if to shoo away a fly. “There was . . . it is very hard not . . . things were happening very fast, and you have never experienced those moments, those very fast moments, when you’ve only an instant to decide, well, no time really to decide anything, because you’ve decided long beforehand or it is too late, too late to decide anything . . .”