These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(44)

“How could you possibly know it was you?” I spit out.

Mr. Braddock reached for a glass of water. He gulped down some (and spilled the rest) before speaking again. “I didn’t at first. Because of the development period, sometimes I was hurting them; sometimes I was harmless. There was no clear pattern. Until I returned to the city for Henry’s funeral and spent time with Miss Lodge. Within the first day, she, too, fell sick with the same symptoms. That was proof enough for me.

“So I left and hid in the city, cutting off all contact with society. I wish I could say it was because I knew that would fix everything, but I . . . I couldn’t bear to be there and feel responsible.”

“And she recovered because of your absence?” I asked.

“Within a few days of my leaving.”

“What are the symptoms?”

“It starts with coughing and a fever, which quickly intensifies, leaving the person light-headed, weak, and coughing up blood. Then they fall unconscious until death takes them.”

I dropped his hand by instinct. If he even noticed, it didn’t seem to bother him. “And your touch is what causes it?”

“And my presence, to a lesser extent. When I am within ten feet of anyone, the symptoms emerge after two hours, and if I do not leave by the twelve-hour mark, they will die.”

My every question felt like the twist of a knife. “And what happens if you make direct contact?”

“A few seconds at most for the coughing and fever. Twenty seconds to lose consciousness. Thirty for death.”

There was nothing I could possibly do but look down at his hands in disbelief. I took them back in mine, feeling a little ashamed for stopping my healing when those symptoms clearly did not affect me.

His teeth were clenched together, his jaw protruding from behind his cheeks. His words came out strained. “Gloves and clothing help dampen the effects by a few seconds, but no matter what, I must take precautions and keep these times in my head to be sure I never do permanent damage. If I am with someone for more than an hour and notice their health deteriorating, I leave immediately. As far as I know, they are able to make a slow but full recovery when I am gone.”

“Does Miss Lodge know any of this?”

Alarm crossed Mr. Braddock’s face. “No—I don’t know how I would ever tell her. How can I look her in the eye and say that I was responsible for all her pain and her brother’s death?”

“It’s not.” I grasped at ephemeral strands of logic, unable to hold what I meant to say. “It’s—”

“You need not say it’s not my fault, Miss Wyndham. I’ve heard that said in excess.”

“Well, no, it is your fault. No need to shilly-shally around that.”

He paled and raised his eyebrows. “Have you had no practice in bedside manner?”

“It was an accident, though, and one you could not have thought to prevent—you must accept that. I can relate . . . albeit on a smaller scale. I myself could have—no, should have—protected Rose. If I had simply noticed these abilities earlier, we might have taken the proper precautions. But if there is a bright side to any of this, it’s that guilt can be rather persuasive motivation to fix everything else around you that requires fixing. One becomes a better person for it.”

I peered down at the rumpled damask bedding, unsure what else to say, and followed the chaotic details as they blossomed into a pattern of perfect symmetry. The bedsheets shuffled and Mr. Braddock sat up straighter, sliding his hand from mine, though it seemed to linger somewhat.

“It appears some things can’t be fixed,” he said, checking his forehead injury.

“No improvement?”

He shook his head. The corners of his mouth struggled to conceal his disappointment. “When I asked you to cure Miss Lodge, I had been hoping our powers were diametrically opposed, and it seems my wish has inconveniently been granted. You cannot give life to someone who sucks it away, as I cannot hurt someone who gives life. And if that is the case, then it might explain a few other strange things.”

“Such as?”

“In the last two or three years, did anyone in your household ever fall sick? Family, servants, guests?”

I scrambled through my memories, failing to picture myself by someone’s bedside in our house. “No. The last I remember was my mother. She fell ill during a trip to Paris, and when she returned home, Rose helped nurse her. That’s when we first took an interest.”

He nodded fervently. “Indeed, perhaps our powers are similar in more than one way. My presence also made many of our servants sick, while your household’s good health suggests that your presence might help those around you.”

“What would that mean?”

“Not only do our powers fail to work when we make contact, but perhaps also when we are near each other. The two instances when I attempted to use my powers in your presence, they did not seem to work.”

“The fights?” I asked, cold at the memory.

“I had more difficulty with the drunkards than I should have. And Claude should not have reached the window.”

My stomach felt sick. “So my being there nearly got you killed, and I can’t even heal you . . .”

“I’d say Claude nearly got me killed more than you did.” He tried to smile but just made a miserable mess of the process.