Jane Steele(29)

Mr. Vesalius Munt was felled by a strangely skilful blow—as if I had studied the act, when in fact I had simply decided that he should stop being alive. He gurgled a disbelieving shriek, eyes ablaze with wrath and fear, looking perversely more alive than ever, each muscle taut with severest alarm. He even got halfway to his feet, reaching for me, rich gore soaking the fateful ledger.

Then his lips bubbled crimson, his blazing eyes hardened, and he slumped forward over the desk. His fingers, so graceful in life, twitched like the poisonous insect he was; his back ceased to shudder.

I cocked my head and gauged his condition: dead.

I paused to be medically certain; but as he continued dead, I heaved a breath and looked around me, beginning with the mirror above the fireplace.

The spray of crimson across my school uniform was not inconsiderable, and another plume of blood had feathered my hand; I carefully wiped these drops on Mr. Munt’s own sleeve. Using the late Mr. Munt’s coat the way one would a handkerchief was an act of sufficient disrespect that I turned away giggling, the giggles followed by a hysterical peal of laughter.

A bottle of amber spirits sat upon the side table. In for a pound, in for a penny. I poured. The taste was much harsher than the laudanum I had once pilfered from my mother’s dressing table; the sear returned my senses and, after spluttering awkwardly, it occurred to me that I was in a not-insignificant amount of danger.

My heart pattered a rhythm like spring rain upon a roof; according to the tall clock, I had nearly an hour before the close of Sunday services.

I rifled through the secretary as well as any drawers I could open without shifting my latest victim, scattering papers and pens. When my pockets contained coins in the neighbourhood of five pounds, a dented silver watch tucked away for repair bearing the initials VOM, and the almost-forgot volume published by Clarke’s family, I shut the door of the study behind me and raced silently down the corridor.

? ? ?

Reader, would you prefer me to have felt remorse in the aftermath of my second slaughter?

Though the brutality of the act sent fearsome tremors through my small frame for days and weeks afterwards, never have I regretted ending the life of my headmaster.

Dressed in a too-large brown travelling suit stolen from Miss Lilyvale’s wardrobe as by then I owned nothing save school-issued clothing, having wrapped my bloodied uniform in paper and stuffed it in my trunk, I was raiding the pantry an hour later when Clarke discovered me.

A small cough sounded, and I whirled around.

I stood in the windowless room aghast with a single rushlight flickering, shoving bread and fruit into my trunk, preparing to abandon everything I knew—but caught out.

“I went to his study,” Clarke whispered.

A word of advice: do not ever kill for love, or you will find yourself tethered, staked to the ground when your cleanest instincts require you to run for your life without a backwards glance. Killing for love is one of the most tangled acts you can commit, reader, in an already twisted world.

She looked so small, this beautiful friend of mine. Clarke’s madcap blond curls hung loose and tangled, her miniature lips chalk white. Inexplicably, she was dressed in her holiday travelling clothes, an emerald woollen suit and a cap appropriate to her age. I blinked dumbly; Clarke was the colour of goose down, so I promptly deposited her onto a stool.

“You discovered Mr. Munt, didn’t you?” Her seaweed-green eyes flooded with brine. “I dragged myself to chapel to make a point in front of everyone, but he wasn’t there, so I tried to catch him alone. I had meant to beg him, it was shameful, but I found—did I find what you found?”

The silent steel cogs of my mind ticked.

“Yes.” I clutched her to me, cherishing her still-warm bones. “Oh, Clarke, I meant to plead with him myself. But there were drawers open and thieves must have—it was horrible. I’m so sorry you saw it too.”

Lying had never been easier. Either I informed Clarke that I had shoved a letter opener in Mr. Munt’s throat, or I kept my beloved companion for another half an hour; the decision did not trouble me overmuch. She set her head against my shoulder and quaked as she cried, whilst I attempted to determine the most efficient way never to set foot upon a scaffold. Swift escape seemed the best option; but swift escape had been delayed by my partner in defiance.

Meanwhile, I reminded myself harshly, Clarke was still dying.

“Here.” I tore away from her, hands landing upon some plain bread and shoving it unceremoniously into the white butter pot, tearing her off a portion. “Eat slowly. You know when we don’t, it—”

“I know,” she answered before devouring the hunk in mouselike bites.

I continued my travel preparations; a paper packet of cheese, a fistful of nuts. For leave I must, and I felt a knife in my own throat when I thought of final separation from Clarke. I wondered why on earth she was wearing ordinary clothing when we were all due at cold Sunday supper in uniform in an hour.

“Where are we going?”

Turning, I regarded my friend, who had slid off the stool and was reaching for a lone apple in a basket full of onions and braided garlic heads. Her freckles still glared dark as tiny bruises from the pallor of her cheeks, but her voice was stronger.

“Clarke, I haven’t anyone to go to.” Telling her the truth was always pleasurable, as if I were apologising for the glaring omissions. “My aunt loathes me, and until I’m of age . . . I simply can’t go back, not to her. You have a family, you can—”