Beasts of london, p.21
Beasts of London, page 21
“I don’t want this gift.” Her hand went to her puckered scar on instinct. “All I want is to become the woman my parents expect me to be. A woman should not have such ugly dreams. The future is not mine to know.”
“The matron at the orphanage tried to dampen Vera’s abilities, and it was stifling her. Why would you do the same to yourself willingly?”
“Vera isn’t human,” she said sharply. “I am not like her. Do not compare us.”
“Miss Lucy, if you’ll trust me, I promise you we will discover the source of your power and how to control it. What I will not help you do is bury your gift and pretend it doesn’t exist. Denying your nature is no way to live.”
She lowered her face into her hands, stifling an exasperated sigh.
“Will you help me catch this creature before it kills again? Will you consent to allow me to test your abilities? Think on it, at least. Give me your answer by this evening.”
Dropping her hands, she asked meekly, “Do you think the horned woman will stop haunting my dreams if I do? Do you think the horrific images will stop?”
“There is no way of knowing that yet, but there could be a chance.”
“Then I shall help you.”
He resumed flipping through the sketchbook but stopped on another page, and all of the soft earnestness seemed to flee his body and voice. “What’s this?”
Taking the sketchbook from him, she noticed it was open on the latest drawing she had made while sitting in the room as Witherbones tended to him. It was of Mr. Morris’s sleeping face, sketched with soft, wispy strokes to show his gentleness. He looked as vulnerable as a child.
“It’s simply a quick sketch I made earlier, sir.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You were sleeping, and you called out to someone named Emily. Do you remember?”
He turned from her, his expression darkening. “It’s not a very good sketch.”
Lucy struggled to swallow around the lump in her throat. “Were you not praising my art for its beauty moments ago? Why the change of heart?”
“I dislike portraits. I would much prefer to be in a scene, depicted as Apollo, for example. You did not ask my permission beforehand.”
“Did it occur to you that you were not meant to see it? An artist simply sketches what she sees. She does not ask the trees for permission to draw them from life.”
“It’s not an accurate depiction. I think trees would protest inaccuracy if they could speak.”
“My style is realism, Mr. Morris.” She leaped to her feet, jerkily tucking the book under her arm. “If you do not like what you see there, then you simply do not like the truth of yourself.”
He grumbled something under his breath before rising and snatching his dressing gown from the bedpost. “If you’ll excuse me while I make myself presentable, Miss Lucy, then we shall get started on finding this creature.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Agnes poked her head out of her room. She had been hiding all morning with her copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho. With Lucy gone and her father mysteriously absent since last night, she was alone in the house with Madam Hazel and her strange guests. She felt like an intruder in her own home.
I’m like a prisoner in a Gothic castle, she had thought, the idea sending butterflies scattering in her stomach. Oh, I’m just like poor Emily in Udolpho, though Lucy would probably say I’m not meek and polite enough to be a heroine.
A figure lurked at the top of the stairs. Madam Hazel’s spindly, auburn-haired maid was standing as still as a deer and staring straight at Agnes with dull black eyes. Agnes flinched. Why isn’t she moving? Then, as if she was a puppet whose strings were pulled by an invisible hand, the maid came to life suddenly and scurried down the stairs.
Agnes hesitated before following her. Why does everyone act so eerie around Madam Hazel? If this were a novel, I might believe she was an evil countess, or a murderess like in Lady Audley’s Secret, or a—
“Right mardy you are, Hazel.” A woman with a Yorkshire accent spoke in a booming voice. “I’ve brought what you asked for, make no mistake.”
Madam Hazel and her guests walked into the foyer, their heeled boots clicking on the floor. A woman in outdated clothing with too much rouge on her cheeks handed Madam Hazel a brown paper parcel.
Hazel unwrapped the bundle, revealing the bright purple pansy flowers she always wore. After counting them, she covered the flowers again and cradled them to her chest like a precious newborn. “You’re certain it’s strong enough? I’ve been having some trouble.”
“Aye, they’ll keep that husband of yours in line. Be careful with it. Too high a dose could be dangerous.”
She chuckled. “I’ve learned that the hard way, dear. Just a few days ago, Felix accused his colleague of trying to seduce me and assaulted him.”
“Then you best ease off.” She smiled. “‘Course, you’ll be expected to provide a return of services, so to speak.”
“I have been gathering information as requested, and I have much to share.”
“Then it would be wise to pay our mother a visit.”
Gathering information for what? Visiting whom? Agnes gripped her book tightly. This involves Father somehow. I know it!
The maid rushed up to her mistress and whispered something in her ear. Instantly, Madam Hazel snapped her gaze up to Agnes. “There you are, Agnes,” she said brightly. “I had thought you might come down and introduce yourself to my guests like a proper young lady—especially when Mr. Morris stopped by.”
Though her wounded heart stuttered and her face warmed, Agnes forced a smile. “Forgive me, Madam Hazel. I got lost in one of my novels.”
“Of course you did.” She chuckled and turned to her guests. “Now, ladies, shall I see you out? I have errands to run before my husband returns.”
After Madam Hazel saw her guests out, she hummed a bright tune and carried the parcel of flowers to her room. She returned to the entryway a few minutes later in a smart plum Tyrolean hat and matching wool cape with black tassels. Her maid shuffled along behind her in a worn grey jacket.
“Might I accompany you?” Agnes asked, breathless, as she descended the stairs already bundled up against the chilly, foggy autumn air. “Where will you be going? Harrods, perhaps? I’ve been dying to browse the latest fashions.”
Madam Hazel sharply appraised her as she pulled on her gloves. “Your father will order you as many dresses and hats as you desire, Agnes.”
“Oh, but it’s not the same. I like to look at everyone out and about, and I think the fresh air will—”
“All you’ve done these past few months is avoid me,” the woman interrupted with a bitter sting in her voice. “I cannot imagine you wish to spend time with me now.”
Agnes lowered her head and shuffled her feet. “It’s true that I’ve avoided getting to know you since you’ve entered Father’s life.” She steeled herself, clenching her fists, before forcing out the next words in a sweet tone. “However, I’ve since realized how childish I’ve been, Mother.”
Madam Hazel’s dainty, elegant mouth stretched into an unrestrained smile, and she clasped her hands together like a giddy schoolgirl. “Agnes, you have no idea what it means to me to hear you say that. Let us spend the day together, then.”
She winced as guilt plucked at her heartstrings but followed Madam Hazel and her maid out the door and into the waiting carriage. She sat next to the woman, while the maid sat hunched in the far corner of the carriage across from them and gazed out the window with a blank expression.
“First we shall browse around at Harrods,” Hazel said, patting Agnes’s gloved hand. “Afterwards, I must visit a colleague of mine in Chelsea. It will not take long.”
“A colleague? Do you mean from your Egyptology studies?”
She smirked. “Indeed.”
At the department store, Hazel seemed in no rush, taking time to scour the shelves of imported fabrics and the latest designs from France. She took great care suggesting which colors went best with Agnes’s complexion. Agnes almost forgot for a moment that they weren’t simply two young ladies shopping together.
“Here,” Hazel said, holding up a bolt of vibrant blue satin. “This color shall bring out your eyes. Felix will be too stunned by your beauty to make a fuss about the price.”
Eagerly, Agnes took the bright, luxurious material in her arms and stroked the fabric. It was as smooth and cool as water. Then she froze. “I cannot wear this,” she said. “I’m still in mourning.”
Madam Hazel swatted her hand through the air. “In this day and age, no one expects an eligible daughter to shut herself away and drape herself in black for a full year.”
“A year is the smallest amount of time to pay respect to the dead!”
“Yet your father moved on after a mere four months of mourning.” Her smile was pitying. “You girls should follow his example and stop living in the past.”
Agnes bit her tongue to hold back a sharp retort. With effort, she nodded in agreement. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I shall wait in the carriage. I feel a bit ill.” After shoving the bolt of fabric back into the woman’s arms, Agnes shouldered past her and out of the bustling department store.
Moments later, Madam Hazel joined her, followed by her maid carrying two paper parcels. “I took the liberty of purchasing that lovely satin fabric, Agnes,” Hazel informed her. “I believe you deserve to own a proper lady’s ballgown. It will be perfect to wear for Mr. Bradshaw’s masquerade ball in a week’s time.”
“Mr. Bradshaw?” She made a face. “But he’s a reporter.”
“Yes, and he is very influential and powerful.”
“I have always wanted to go to a masquerade ball.” Agnes wiggled in her seat and bit back a smile as images of masked men twirling women in crimson bell-shaped hoop skirts danced in her head. “Oh, it seemed so romantic in ‘The Masque of the Red Death.’”
Hazel raised an eyebrow but did not remark on it. She settled back in her seat, her hands neatly folded on her lap. “Now, before we go home, I must make a quick stop.”
The carriage wheels clicked over cobblestone streets, splashing through rainy puddles as they reached Chelsea. They passed a row of red brick houses with terraces and wrought iron gates before pulling up to house number thirty-eight. It was a white house with a black door and shutters. On the door was a golden knocker in the shape of a raven’s skull.
“I will only be a moment.” Hazel rose and opened the carriage door. “Rosalie, keep Miss Agnes company while I am gone, will you?”
The maid stiffened but nodded.
“Might I come with you?” Agnes asked quickly, scooting forward in her seat.
“I’m afraid you would be quite bored, Agnes.”
“Oh, but I have actually become quite interested in Egyptology lately—all the penny dreadfuls are full of Egyptian references and mummies these days.”
Madam Hazel’s tight smile bordered on sickly sweet. “Dear, your morbid interest might land you in trouble one day. As your mother, I must insist that you stay in the carriage. I do not want to be responsible for encouraging your wild imaginings.”
“But—”
Madam Hazel exited the carriage, adjusted her hat, and primly sauntered to the building. When she reached the front door, the woman did not ring the bell or use the knocker to signal her arrival. Instead, she kicked the toe of her boot five times against the bottom of the door in a strange pattern.
Instantly, the black door swung open, revealing a dark, narrow hallway with shadows cast by an eerie blue light. Madam Hazel stepped inside, and the door was shut behind her as if by some unseen hand.
I must find out what she’s up to!
When the driver tended to the horses with his back turned, Agnes leaped to her feet, but when she reached to open the carriage door, the maid’s hand clamped down on her wrist. “Please stay here, miss,” she pleaded in a thick Yorkshire accent. “You’ll get me in trouble with milady if you leave.”
“I only wanted some fresh air in the carriage.” Agnes jerked her arm out of the girl’s grasp, shivering at the sensation of her sharp, clammy fingers on her skin. She feels like a corpse! Suddenly, the memory of “The Masque of the Red Death” was not so romantic.
Sitting back down shakily, Agnes picked up her copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho and flipped through the pages. With her heart pounding, she waited. The moment the maid relaxed again, she shot up and dashed through the open carriage door.
“Miss Agnes, wait!” Rosalie stumbled after her, grabbing the girl’s wrist.
In a moment of wild panic at the cold sensation, Agnes shrieked and swung around. Wielding her book like a weapon, she struck the side of the maid’s head and sent her sprawling. The girl collapsed like a crumpled doll with her back against the iron railing, stunned and groaning.
Agnes dropped the book and stared in wide-eyed disbelief at what she had done. There was no time to linger.
“Oi, miss, what are you doing?” The driver yelled. “Come back here!”
With a quick, panicked apology, she scurried up to the door. “Now, what pattern did Hazel knock in? It was five times…”
There were marks on the door. A faint symbol made of odd circles in five points was engraved in the wood.
She kicked her boot toe against the marks. A rush of cold air met her as the door creaked open. Only blue-tinted darkness looked back at her from inside. With a deep breath and one last look at the maid and the driver pounding up the steps, she opened the door enough to slip inside.
She closed the door behind her just as the diver reached for the handle, and she muffled a cry as she was bathed in darkness. It only lasted a moment before blue flames flared up in their ornate bronze wall sconces. The holders looked like women’s hands cupping a flickering flame in their delicate palms. The house looked perfectly normal besides the strange flames. There were faint, echoing voices coming from one of the adjoining rooms.
With tentative steps, she made her way toward the door at the end of the long hall. Every other room she passed was empty and sparsely decorated. The door was detailed with even more symbols like the one leading inside the building, but it was slightly ajar. There was bright orange firelight bleeding through the crack.
When she stood outside of the room, a floorboard beneath her feet creaked. It had another pentacle symbol on it. She winced, holding her breath. But nothing happened. If this was one of my serials, then that would most certainly be a trap!
Agnes peered inside the door. Eight cloaked figures were seated around a large round table in front of a massive stone hearth. They were all women from what she could tell. There was a cut through the table that made room for a person to stand in the middle. Madam Hazel stood in the center.
Directly across from the woman sat a haggard, hunkered old crone dressed in white robes. She had long white hair and a twisted birchwood staff. She was saying in a deep, rough voice, “—about these attacks? We ought to keep a closer eye on these supernatural investigations, especially when they involve one of our own.”
“One of our own?” A woman in a hooded grey robe scoffed. “High Priestess, that snake selfishly turned his back on his own mother’s coven and legacy. He is not one of us.”
The High Priestess turned her head slightly in the woman’s direction, but when she opened her mouth she became wracked with coughing. It took her a moment to recover. “If we hope to survive, we need Delilah’s only living heir on our side. If he is too proud and foolish to join us, we need to give him the proper incentive.”
“High Priestess, on that note, Hazel’s been gathering information that may help us.” The guest of Hazel’s with the Yorkshire accent was speaking. “Tell her your findings, Hazel.”
From the center of the table, Hazel nodded. “You charged me with keeping a keen eye on Mr. Morris in search of weaknesses, High Priestess. My husband, Felix, is quite fond of him, but I believe I can sway him with the tools you have provided if needed.”
The old crone rested her chin on her folded hands, humming thoughtfully. “And Cecil cares for him as well? More than his own life?”
“I believe so.” Hazel sounded unsure.
“The boy we’re dealing with was once one of the most powerful, gifted witches I have seen in my many years. If he had joined our coven, he could have easily surpassed any of you sitting here…”
Agnes’s pulse pounded in her head. Her knees shook, and she braced herself against the wall. They’re witches! Madam Hazel is a witch too, and she’s hurting Father! She’s going to harm Mr. Morris! And Mr. Morris is… Oh, it’s too horrible!
With a stern shake of her head, the High Priestess continued, “However, he was weak and foolish, and he gave that legacy up to flee to London. When Emily and that useless child died years later, I offered him a place among us, and he ran away again like a coward.”
“You believe he will flee?” Hazel asked.
“At the first whiff of a witch, he’ll bolt.” She stroked her chin. “That is why you must be absolutely certain you have the proper tool to manipulate him, or he may abandon everything in London. We cannot afford to lose track of him for another two years this time.”
“What about his business?” From the corner of the room came a reedy male voice, and Agnes realized that a stocky man had been standing in the shadows against the wall. He stepped into the light and walked leisurely around the table, trailing his fingers over the backs of the chairs. “Mr. Morris seems determined to keep his museum open, despite my newspaper casting a shadow on its reputation. That could be a weakness.”
“But is his little faery business worth more to him than his life, Mr. Bradshaw?” the High Priestess asked.
“A man’s business represents his freedom, High Priestess,” he said, bowing at the waist.
She sighed. “He always did have romantic notions. Claimed being bound to our coven would take his freedom away.”
