These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(61)

And I fell.

A rush of air and a blurry procession of bricks streamed by me and cut out with empty thuds and cracks of pain spiking through my legs and across my side. I tasted bitter metal, and a sudden numbness took over. Carriages clanked, a baby cried, bells rang, a woman screamed, and then it all quieted down to final thoughts (so this is what dying is?) before even those faded away into a blissful shroud of nothingness.





A STARK ROOM greeted me when I awoke.

With a groan, I sat up and rubbed the blur out of my eyes—it felt like I had overslept by several years. The glow of gas lamps shone through the room’s tiny window, and drops of rain pattered against the pane.

I rolled and twisted off the bed, feeling a shudder when my feet touched the cold floor. Instinctively, I rubbed my leg: no lingering pain, no scar, no mark at all. My last memories were hazy, but I could distinctly recall the falling, the utter fear, and the peculiar understanding of pain. The reality of being fully recovered instead of fully broken sent goose pimples prickling up all over my body.

At the sound of my sheets rustling, a nurse, slumped over in a rickety chair by the corner, stirred and shot straight up. “Miss Bradent, one moment, I’ll go fetch him,” she said, already halfway out of the room.

Miss Bradent? I glanced around the room, noting the white stone walls and the dreary lights. I wasn’t in an asylum, was I? What other place on earth could look this depressing? It was too dark to see out the window and not quite tempting enough a prospect to wait and find out for myself. In a hurry, I slid off the stiff bed and tiptoed to the door. I pulled it open, and there stood Mr. Braddock on the other side of the threshold, his breath drained and his person drenched.

“Miss . . . Wyndham . . .”

“So. You’ve finally arrived,” I managed to mutter, my voice hoarse from disuse.

Only a few inches away, he heard me clearly. His tense hands clutched the doorway, and his eyes dropped downward. “I’m—I’m sorry. How do you feel?”

“Absolutely blissful. Perfect is an understatement,” I replied drily, pulling back and widening the gap. “How did you find me?”

“The hospital. They found you in an alleyway with no identification. My card was in your pocket, and they contacted me.”

As Mr. Braddock spoke, he raised his head and stared pointedly above my right shoulder, his flushed cheeks growing even redder. I looked down and realized my white hospital gown appeared to be slightly transparent. It was hard to care about covering up my body after it had been through so much, but for the sake of Mr. Braddock (who had retreated into the hallway), I turned around with forced composure, padded back inside the room, and crawled into the bed.

“Mr. Braddock, please come in,” I called. “I don’t give a fig for propriety at the moment.”

His dark head peeped around the corner. He slipped in, closed the door, and leaned against the farthest possible wall.

“Why does the hospital think I am Miss Bradent?” I asked.

“I told them you were my cousin Elizabeth and had you moved to this private room, so I could watch from the street,” he said.

“Always a distant cousin,” I muttered.

He bit his lip for a moment before giving in to the questions he was holding back. “Tell me. What happened? How did you come to be hurt?”

“I fell off a roof,” I said vaguely, clenching my jaw. I wanted him to feel miserable.

Concern and disbelief filled his eyes. “It was true, then,” he murmured, unlacing his arms and starting toward me before pulling back, remembering to remain stoic. “By the time the ambulance arrived, your injuries were so minor, they concluded you fainted in the alley. The only witness was a drunkard, and his story about the roof sounded too unbelievable—even to me. Given the circumstances, you were quite—”

“Lucky?” I finished with a bitter laugh.

The silence boiled through the room. If he bit his lower lip any more, it would fall off. “Does anything still hurt?” he finally asked.

“No.”

He rubbed the back of his head in distress, stepping forward slightly. “What were you even searching for? What was possibly worth all this?” he asked.

I steadily told him about my encounters with Camille, William, Arthur, and Dr. Beck. When I finished, I found him glaring at me. I was getting particularly tired of that look.

“So it was for nothing,” he said, taking another step. “I don’t think you fully understand how fortunate you are. We’re still figuring out the extent of your powers. You just as easily might not have been protected from such severe injuries. Or if the ambulance had arrived earlier, one of the doctors could have observed your healing ability, and you would be—I don’t know—locked up somewhere to be studied! It was pure chance that you’re not de—I thought you promised to stop this recklessness.”

“And what about your promise? Why did you just disappear . . . ?”

“. . . leaving me to that terror and pain?” was the unspoken end to the question, but he heard it nonetheless. A stricken expression crossed his face, making him look younger and gaunter as he grasped the end of the bed. I almost felt delight in his reaction. Then I remembered the mountain of guilt he was already struggling with and simply felt wretched for us both.

“I was following Lord Ridgewood,” he said.