These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(46)

“He wanted me to help with his other subjects, to see the value of his experiments,” he said, blanching. “But I wanted no part.”

“And you drew the line at killing an innocent man, but not the men who forced you to do it?”

There was no need to respond, but to his credit, he did anyway. “Yes. I didn’t want to take any lives, even his.”

“So you let them continue doing it . . .” I said, my voice coming out thin and high as a reed.

Mr. Braddock said nothing, and I had nothing more to say to him.

My sister’s terrified face from last night swam in my head, and I was backing out the door away from both of them before I knew it, unable to say whether or not they might have called after me.

Perhaps it had been better when Mr. Braddock was hiding behind the lies and mysteries.





I FLEW DOWN the sidewalk, heart hammering in my ears, tears welling without permission. I couldn’t see the road, nor the people in my way. Instead, my vision was filled with a faceless body falling, drained and withering at Mr. Braddock’s hand while an elated Dr. Beck held up a pocket watch. Over and over I watched him kill Dr. Beck’s victim till eventually I slowed, exhausted and nauseated.

He didn’t want to kill that innocent man. Dr. Beck had forced him. At least that’s what Mr. Braddock claimed. But after that, Dr. Beck simply released him? And Mr. Braddock left peacefully? How did I know these weren’t more of his half truths? He’d lied about his ability and his connection to Claude, only admitting the truth later, when he could justify it with some noble explanation. Honesty wasn’t quite honesty when it came reluctantly and piecemeal. It called everything into doubt, made it impossible to fully trust him, and I hated that one insurmountable fact. Our hopeless situation was almost starting to make sense during that brief moment when it seemed I’d finally found the real Mr. Braddock. But now it felt like he was further out of reach than ever.

A hand grasped my arm.

“Miss . . . Wyndham . . . wait . . .” Mr. Kent gasped, trying to catch his breath as he caught me. “I brought a carriage . . . and my driver will be . . . quite offended . . . if we choose to run instead.”

From one confusing man to another. “So what do you suggest we do?”

He tapped his cane on the ground and stood straighter. “We forget this . . . unpleasantness and continue the search. I’ve already checked this Dr. Beck’s location from last night, but it’s been abandoned. Perhaps Camille or one of the science societies will know more about him or where he’s gone.”

So, he meant to completely skirt the topic of Mr. Braddock and proceed as if he never existed. That sounded better than fixating, to be sure. He offered his arm, and I perhaps leaned a little too heavily upon it, for he added, “That is, if you’re up for it. How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted,” I said. “And sick. But I want to come.”

“Then we’ll stop at home first,” he said. “Because I’m sure you haven’t allowed yourself a moment to eat in the past day. And whether or not this healing of yours helps out in that regard, it certainly isn’t a substitute for a good cake.”

Between his soothing voice, easy questions, and optimistic plans, Mr. Kent’s foremost concern for the entire carriage ride seemed to be my comfort. I appreciated the warm gesture as the cold, indifferent London streets streamed by my window, but the moment he handed me out of the carriage, his touch brought to mind his disconcerting behavior last night. It seemed such a small matter after all we’d been through, but whether he saw through my disguise and put on an act to have fun with it, or that was simply a hasty excuse to cover his mistake, it planted a worrisome seed in my mind. Perhaps lying came easier to him than I thought.

As I climbed the stairs to the Kents’, wondering if there was anyone in London entirely trustworthy, Tuffins answered the door—and my question. And as he let us into the entrance hall, he gave me a bit of news I would not have believed coming from anyone else.

“A Miss Alice Grey is here to see you.”

The name took me a moment to comprehend, and even then I needed confirmation. “Miss Grey?”

Tuffins nodded politely at the stupid question. “She arrived looking rather distressed and insisted upon waiting for your return.”

“Who is Miss Grey?” Mr. Kent asked.

“My former governess.”

“Well, Tuffins can send her away—”

“No—” I interrupted. After one year of silence, with no visits or letters, she somehow tracks and finds me here. Not to mention her appearances in those recent vivid dreams of mine. It was too strange. There had to be some meaning to it. “Mr. Kent, I don’t think I can accompany you on the search today.”

Perplexed, he gaped at me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I must speak to her. It’s important.”

He frowned and nodded slowly, seeing my resolve. Or perhaps seeing signs that I truly needed rest. “I—very well. I’ll send word if I learn anything.”

Once I regained my ability to walk, Tuffins showed me into the drawing room, where I once again lost it.

“Evelyn,” the visitor breathed. It was her in the flesh, not another apparition in a dream. Her footsteps ruffled the carpet. Tears streamed from her face, splashing down onto her blue dress. She rushed over and embraced me, looking worse than she had in my dreams: sallow, bruised skin framing her bloodshot eyes; nose and cheeks a bright pink; loose strands of her red hair messily stuck to her brow. She was only twenty-eight, but whatever she had been through seemed to have stolen away that last bit of youth. Frantically, she clutched my shoulders and pleaded, “Where is Rose?”