These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(30)

No, I wasn’t dreaming.

A sudden knock at my door startled me and sent me across the room.

“Y-yes?” I asked through the open crack.

“Mr . . . Wyndham has arrived, Miss Wyndham,” Tuffins said softly. “He waits in a carriage outside.”

“Did Lady Kent hear?”

“She is currently occupied with Miss Kent in the parlor. I did not think it necessary to disturb them.”

“Tuffins, you are a delight.”

His head bowed, and his footsteps faded away. The time had come. I felt a certain giddiness and wondered what was more unexpected: these powers or the fact that I actually wanted to see Mr. Braddock.

With Laura distracting her mother and Tuffins keeping the rest of the staff busy, I slid on my mask, crept out into the quiet hallway, made a hasty dash down two flights of stairs, and flew out the door without anyone glimpsing my dress. In a flurry of red silk, I leaped into the hansom (and nearly onto Mr. Braddock), and we were off. I hoped to God no one was watching.

My breath returned as I observed my escort. He was wearing the same black coat and trousers from the evening of Sir Winston’s ball. No strange clothes, altered features, or even a false mustache. He cared not one whit about his reputation.

“Fine disguise,” I said.

He stared me up and down with wide eyes. He did not have to say anything—I knew I looked like a tart. But with Laura’s hideous and inappropriate red dress barely secured on my shoulders (it was as bosom bearing as I had feared), her ornately carved, gilded mask fit snugly over my eyes, and the makeup painted on my face, I was also virtually unrecognizable.

“What on earth possessed you to wear that?” he finally asked, voice terribly low, averting his eyes to stare at his hands.

“You’re all kindness,” I replied.

He frowned. “You completely disregarded my advice.”

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring my extensive mask collection to London in my trunk. I had to make do. And you said nothing about my dress.”

“That should have been self-evident. Instead of blending in, you will be the center of attention.”

“Well, it can’t be changed now. Do you want to pull out your copy of She Walks in Beauty and spend the next hour acting moody?”

“Why don’t—” He stopped abruptly and took a breath. “Normally I’m good at being polite, but with you, I have to try very hard.”

“Were you trying very hard the two times you’ve compared me to a prostitute today?”

He huffed and cleared his throat. “That was not my intention. I apologize.”

“It’s no matter, but perhaps it’s better if we discuss something less hazardous for the time being. Say something about the weather, or ask me about my day.”

He gazed out past the closed curtain. “The weather’s fine, and I already know how your day went. You searched at more shops and discovered nothing.”

Well, he was only somewhat correct. He didn’t know Mr. Kent and I had visited more science societies to find nothing, as well. He didn’t know that I hid tonight’s plans from Mr. Kent, the idea of mentioning it flipping my stomach over and over. And he didn’t know that I believed his wild stories now.

“I discovered something,” I replied. “I have the power to heal. Myself, at least.”

He gave me a withering stare. “Very funny.”

Did I really have to convince him that he had convinced me? “Mr. Braddock, I—well, I am quite sure. Though there wasn’t much grandeur for such a momentous occasion. No dramatic moment where I finally believed in myself and healed someone who was on the brink of death. I just cut my hand on that stupid teacup this morning, and it healed. So did the other cuts.”

Mr. Braddock studied me, daring to hope that I was not teasing him. “What other cuts?”

“I gave myself paper cuts—which still stung and bled, mind you—but after a few seconds, the wound would close and the mark would disappear.”

“That’s . . . remarkable,” Mr. Braddock said faintly, eyes wide with wonder.

“As the one who told me of this, you have no right to be shocked.”

“It’s just—still—hearing you describe it . . . it’s impressive. I had inklings, but I did not know exactly how it worked.”

“I was rather hoping you would be the one to tell me.”

“I’m still learning about these powers. The little I know has only come from others.”

“How many others are there?”

He shifted toward me, ensconcing me in the corner of the cab. I felt like it was just the two of us in all of London. “I couldn’t say. As far as I know, it’s rather rare—otherwise the public would have noticed it. I’ve met several others, and that is only because I knew a man who was studying this phenomenon.”

“Who is he?”

The carriage rumbled and creaked over a rocky road, and he steadied himself. “The originator of the saltation theory. And from the others, I learned that everyone who develops the power does so between the ages of fourteen and sixteen.”

“We started nursing when Rose was fourteen and I was fifteen. . . .”

“And when they do start to appear, it is a weaker, more haphazard form of the ability. I would guess it took longer for your patients to be healed when you first started.”