These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(55)

Tedious hours passed without any sign of Mr. Braddock. Two messages were sent to his home, but no response came back. I peeked out the window. A rare sunny day for London—no rain, snow, or processions delaying traffic. I didn’t know whether to be angry or worried (though anger was certainly winning out at the moment). Had he safely returned last night? Did someone discover him? Why could he not send a short message? Would my power keep me from murdering him?

In fact, everyone seemed to have disappeared. Mr. Kent remained silent, and Miss Grey hadn’t yet replied to my reminder to meet. Heavens to earth, I couldn’t sit here waiting all day. I’d already wasted last night at the Lyceum. At this moment, Dr. Beck could be moving to a new secret laboratory across the world, where we might never find it.

Some twenty-three minutes past noon, I discovered my breaking point. I had come to London to search for Rose. Why couldn’t I do it alone? Without Mr. Braddock trying to protect me or Mr. Kent acting jealous. That had been my original plan from the moment I left my parents’. I had to do something, even if I had no idea what that was.

It was in this state of desperation that I found myself skimming through the rest of the diary, reading descriptions of other powered people across the world. The information was fascinating but mostly irrelevant, until I noticed another spotted-dog owner in London. And then a third. Which meant either a citywide conspiracy against solid-colored dogs, or the words spotted dog had nothing to do with animals. The dictionaries and encyclopedias in the Kents’ library had nothing to say about either of my theories, but a guidebook of London did. The Spotted Dog was a small, unremarkable public house located in Whitechapel. That had to be where they meet.

I stilled my frantic pacing through the library. There was only one problem: I couldn’t go there like this. A lone woman in that public house would attract far too much attention, and if Dr. Beck did show up for a meeting, he would immediately recognize me. I shuffled through the cards in my possession, and as I pulled out the last one, a ridiculous plan sprang fully formed into my head.

Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of the cab somewhere in the East End. A derelict building towered in front of me, looking ready to tumble over in exhaustion onto the street. I made my way through the squeaking iron gate, up the dank stairs, and to a half-rotted door. Seconds after I knocked, a strangely exotic woman, draped in shawls and jewelry, greeted me. I promptly decided to go jump off the building.

“I’m sorry, I believe I have the wrong place,” I said helplessly.

“Who are you looking for?” the woman asked. It took me a moment to understand that English words had been spoken in the thick accent.

“A Miss . . . Camille,” I replied hesitantly.

She smiled and made a floating gesture of welcome. “Come in.”

She led me into a luxuriously decorated living room—an incredible change from the rest of the building—and disappeared into a back room while I gazed at my surroundings. She clearly had an odd love for the color violet. Hardly anything in the room was another color. Even lamps and bookshelves and tea things had been repainted with a violet layer.

“I’m sorry to be rude, but does Camille in fact—” I stopped talking as I realized how foolish I really was. There was no Persian woman—she was Camille.

“It is you, is it not?” I asked.

The woman returned with a younger, angular face and greeted me in her French accent. “ ’Ello.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I did not recognize you.”

“Ma fille, no apologies. It is a compliment.” She flashed a devilish smile and reclined on her velvet sofa. The transformation was remarkable. “Did you find your sister?”

“Yes,” I said, taking a chair across from her. “But they managed to escape with her. I was hoping you might know where they’ve gone.”

She shook her head. “I only had the one address.”

I would have been disappointed, had I not been expecting that already. Dr. Beck wouldn’t trust her again.

“But that is not the reason you come here, no?” she asked, brows arching in perfect curves.

“No, I wished to speak to you about a job.”

“And who exactly is the job? Before and after, please.” She winked and removed her shoes.

“It is me,” I said, to her surprise. “And I must look like . . . well, a man.”

Camille lit up like a child with a brand-new toy. She shot up in excitement, closely analyzed my face from every possible angle, and murmured “Hmm” and “Ah” continuously, relishing her work. “What sort of man?” she asked, kneeling to view my chin from underneath.

“Young, unrecognizable, unremarkable, the sort who would never receive a second glance,” I said. “Can you do that?”

Her lips curled into a creamy smile. “Of course.”

“But I must ask you something. You don’t simply use makeup, do you? You must have . . . a power, yes?” I asked.

She laughed. “Dress it up and call it whatever you wish.”

“Well, what I want just seems quite impossible to ask—”

Camille floated back up like a pleased little snake. “Nothing is impossible for me, I assure you. This is one of my most popular requests. Come with me.”

I followed her into another room, where she glided over to her rosewood dresser, opened a drawer full of makeup bottles, and collected a few before progressing to the next drawer. With two armfuls of makeup, she returned to me. “You would make quite a beautiful man, you know,” she purred. “But I suppose we must find the beauty in the commonplace. When I am done, nothing of you will be left!”