These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(41)
“It’s all—it’s his blood,” I croaked. “Please, let me help him . . . I must, he saved me.”
Miss Lodge looked hesitant but gave in before I did, asking Cushing to fetch me the supplies I needed. In a flash, he returned with a cart of bandages, gauze, towels, laudanum, a sewing kit, and a bowl of warm water. Even if I couldn’t magically heal him, I could still do this.
Whereas Miss Lodge’s illness had baffled me, Mr. Braddock’s treatment came naturally, recalling the countless farming accidents that Rose and I tended to in Bramhurst. First came the knife wound, which required peeling off the blood-drenched jacket and shirt with Cushing’s help and trying to ignore the fact that Mr. Kent and Miss Lodge were waiting and watching in the corner. The cut ran six inches across his back, but fortunately it ran fairly shallow—Dr. Beck had not hit anything too serious. Silence fell upon the room, and I fell into a trance with my ministrations, carefully cleaning up the cut with the towels, stitching it closed with the sewing kit, wrapping it with the bandages, and then repeating the process for the cut on his forehead. The whole time, the faint sensation from Mr. Braddock tied us together like a delicate thread, and I did everything in my power to keep it from snapping.
Only when I stood up to fetch the laudanum to help Mr. Braddock with the pain did the exhaustion of the night hit me in full force. The dizzying room lurched like a boat, and my feet struggled to find stable ground.
In an instant, Mr. Kent was by my side, supporting me on his shoulder. “Miss Wyndham, you need rest, and I doubt this floor is the best place for that.”
I let go of him and grabbed the bottle from the cart. “He still needs some laudanum. And some ice for his bruises.”
Miss Lodge gently took it from me. “You’ve done all the difficult work. We can manage some simple nursing. Please, you’ve given me my health back, and I am truly thankful that I can do this for him.” She looked past me. “Would you be able to escort her home, Mr. Kent?”
He nodded, and I gave Mr. Braddock one more glance, no energy left to argue or obstinately plant myself down by his side. This was Miss Lodge’s home. She was already busy asking Cushing for more supplies and preparing for the rest of the night. Mr. Kent turned my exhausted body away and led me downstairs.
The dismal trip back to the Kents’ felt like it took hours as Mr. Kent and I rolled through black, vacant streets, our silence thicker than the London fog. I hardly knew what to say to him, and he didn’t press me with questions. My lips managed a thankyou and a promise to explain everything the next morning. He nodded and helped me to the house, where Tuffins politely greeted me as if I weren’t a horrible mess and had a maid draw me a bath.
In the warm water, I gazed at my limbs as if they belonged to someone else. If my powers weren’t working, there should have been at least a bruise or a scrape from my fall out of the carriage. But my skin was unbroken, unblemished. I tried to think, to analyze the evening’s events, but my brain refused to process anything. I was numb, detached, empty. The last thing I remembered, as my head finally hit the pillow, was making a final prayer for Mr. Braddock’s recovery. For my strange abilities to somehow do their work.
It was a good sign that the Lodges hadn’t donned their mourning weeds the next morning when they welcomed me into their drawing room, but they weren’t exactly the portrait of happiness, either. They both had expressions of equal parts trepidation and optimism, a fear of hoping too much.
“Miss Wyndham, it is good to see you safe and sound,” Mr. Lodge said. “Is the rest of your party well?”
As I took a seat on a settee, I settled on a vague enough answer. “Yes . . . a bit shaken up, perhaps, but no harm came to them.”
“Something must be done about these drunk ruffians,” Mr. Lodge declared. “It’s a shame that you cannot even attend the opera without worrying about an unprovoked attack. You must be able to identi—”
Mrs. Lodge rested her hand on her husband’s. “Dear, I am certain Miss Wyndham does not want to revisit the event so soon. For now, we must count ourselves fortunate it was not worse.”
“Thanks to Mr. Braddock’s bravery,” I added. Did this mean he was awake? He must have provided the Lodges this story. “How is he right now?”
The Lodges exchanged a brief glance. “He left early this morning.”
What? He was close to death just hours ago. “How could he— did Miss Lodge not stop him?” I asked.
“She was watching over him but started to feel rather unwell herself. That is why Sebastian left. He did not wish to slow her own recovery.”
“Terrible, terrible business,” Mr. Lodge concluded, his weary, kind face drained of all color.
A silence settled over the room. I should have anticipated this. Both of them cared too much for the other’s health, to the detriment of their own. Had Miss Lodge’s illness returned? Had I even cured it in the first place, as Mr. Braddock claimed? My fully healed body gave me some hope, but I dreaded the thought of failing Miss Lodge. I had to be sure.
“Is Miss Lodge still resting upstairs? May I see her?” I asked.
From the way both their faces lit up, I could tell I’d made the right decision, even though the same doubt and dread (which seemed to accompany every visit here) seeped into my stomach as I followed Cushing upstairs to the bedroom.