These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(42)

“Miss Lodge?” he asked with a light knock.

No response.

“Miss—”

“No need to wake her,” I whispered to Cushing. “I just want to see her condition.”

He nodded and left me alone in the dim bedroom. This would be better anyway. With her asleep, I wouldn’t have to flounder about trying to explain my lack of medicines.

Quietly, I approached Miss Lodge, planted myself in a bedside wicker chair, and attempted a diagnosis. Her breathing was heavy and labored, her forehead burned from a fever, and her nightstand held a handkerchief spotted with blood. This wasn’t the Addison’s disease that I last saw. Something else ailed her, and it looked very much like the consumption she had survived before. My goodness, was she the unluckiest girl in all of London?

I waited stupidly, hoping for a sudden, newfound understanding of my powers. No such luck. There was no reasonable explanation. Sometimes my healing worked. Sometimes it didn’t. There was nothing to do but hope this would fall into the first category.

I clasped Miss Lodge’s hand, closed my eyes, and waited. One minute. Two. I opened my eyes. No change. I shifted my left hand to her arm, my right hand to her burning forehead, and clenched my jaw, as if the strain might squeeze out my dormant power. Unsurprisingly, my orange-juice-inspired attempt did nothing. The persistent fever would not abate.

Neither would the thoughts and questions and doubts swirling about my head. How long did I have to sit here, futilely trying to cure her, before I was dragged away and declared mad? The last time, I had held Miss Lodge’s hand for at least a half hour and sat with her for half a day. There was no telling how long was needed to heal her, or if it could even be done. I felt like some sort of useless steam engine, lifting my hand up every minute, sucking in a hopeful breath, then returning my hand back to her body with a sigh. Until finally, the cycle broke, and a yelp escaped my mouth instead.

Her face looked less flushed, and the sweat I’d wiped from her brow had not returned. And her breathing, it . . . looked more relaxed. Had her fever really decreased? I went absolutely still, afraid to break the spell. For several more minutes I just sat there, a curious and astonished lump, holding Miss Lodge’s hand as she regained a healthy glow, steady breathing, and a stable temperature—completely cured right before my eyes.

I had seen my own hand heal. And I had heard of Miss Lodge’s prior recovery secondhand. Nothing compared with this, though—I had helped save someone, restored their health in full. Me, alone. Was this giddy surge what Rose felt every time she cured someone back in Bramhurst? It was as if pure light flowed through me. Energy, renewal, life. I paced around the room several times in a daze.

How many people could we cure? Could Rose and I heal London? England? What would people say if we suddenly turned medicine on its head, performing miracles at every turn? I wanted desperately to run to a hospital and heal every person I could. But that fantasy was not complete without Rose. It would have to wait until she was by my side once again. Then I could think about the future.

Back downstairs, I assured the Lodges that their daughter would be perfectly healthy after a little more rest. On my way out, I asked for the address of Mr. Braddock’s lodgings so I might inquire about his recovery. And in the cab, I provided my driver that address, instead of returning to the Kents’.

I had to speak with Mr. Braddock, and I cared not one whit if I was unaccompanied. All the rules of society had flown out the window with the rational rules of the world.





BROKEN GLASS WAS never a good sign.

Afraid to knock, I reached through the broken window, groping around the other side of the door for the lock. A click brought me inside the dark, empty Braddock household. The door closed behind me with a faint rasp.

It looked as if no one had been here for months. Every piece of furniture in the entrance hall had a white sheet draped over its surface, with an extra layer of dust over that. The barest slivers of light were creeping in through the closed drapes. I waited for a moment, listening and hearing nothing but the sound of my heartbeat. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.

I tread a few steps forward, wincing and pausing at the creak of the first stair under my weight. Nothing else stirred. I continued upward and reached the second-floor landing, finding three rooms before me. I chose the first bedroom to my left, the only open door, hoping I’d simply find a resting Mr. Braddock in there and I could finally get back to breathing.

An oak four-poster bed proudly stood in the center, with soft wallpaper and opulent furniture announcing the Braddocks’ wealth. The weak gas lamps along the wall barely lit the room, but I could tell it had been used since the servants packed up the house. The bedsheets were a rumpled mess, there were bloodied bandages on the ground, and—

A strong arm wrapped tightly around my neck, pulling me against its owner’s body. A warm, bare chest pressed hard against my back, and the sharp scent of mint-like medicinal salve and leather filled my nose.

In a panic, my elbow jerked back into the body, but I regretted it the moment it made contact, recognizing that familiar glow wherever my body met Mr. Braddock’s. Whether it was my elbow or the same realization, he loosened his grip and staggered back, taking labored breaths as I tried to regain the use of my lungs, as well.

“I’m . . . sorry . . . Miss Wyndham,” he said. “I thought you . . . an intruder. Are you hurt?”