"Ah." In the looking glass, her eyes flashed with alien fire. My breath caught, and I twisted my head back to look at her. But there was only her knowing black gaze, the Roman nose, the too large mouth. She walked back and forth behind me, taking me in from all angles. "So now we see the assets you have been hiding beneath this bombazine abomination. But this is better than expected. Nice bosoms, very nice waist. Not much for hips, but nothing a bit of padding won't help. A French corset can see to that."
"I don't need a French corset," I said firmly, "nor anything beyond a modest frock. I wish to be garbed as befitting my station."
"Of course, dear, of course. 'Tis part of your charm, this plain demeanor which hides the passionate creature within." I tried not to squirm as her hands skimmed down my sides, as her lusty chuckle sounded near my ear. "Ah, but methinks the beast wants out of her cage. Let's take her dimensions, shall we?"
She pulled at a loop of satin draped around her neck. It was the length of a measuring tape, but its width was unusual—at least five inches thick—as was its ruby color. There were no markings on it that I could see.
I frowned. "What kind of measuring tape is that?"
"Oh, one of my own invention," she said, smiling. "It has all sorts of useful functions. But first we'll have to remove your undergarments."
"Remove my—" I swallowed as panic pulsed over my skin. "Surely that isn't necessary."
"Why of course it is, little dove. We'll just—"
There was a timid scratch on the door. It cracked open, and the clerk's voice filtered through. "Mrs. Cunningham?"
"Damn it, Kitty. Haven't I told you never to interrupt when I'm with a client?"
"Begging your pardon, Missus. But there's a bit of a ... problem. It requires your personal attention. Directly, if you please."
In the reflection, I saw creases form around the dressmaker's mouth. No doubt in response to the urgency in Kitty's voice. "Hold tight a moment then, Miss Jones. I shall be right back."
So saying, she draped the satin over my neck. I did not hear the rest of her words, nor witness her departure from the room. The world suddenly contracted into a dreaded prism of colors. The intensity pierced me, needles of painful heat and brightness. I did not move to rub my eyes, for the vision came not from those earthly orbs but a more sinister place. A darkness that welled from my soul. Terror overtook my breath as madness claimed me once more.
ELEVEN
I was in a shadowy cave. No, not a cave: its walls were printed damask. 'Twas the glow of a single table lamp which created the illusion of a dome. Next to the table was a chair. Upon the chair was a man, his back to me, his front oddly facing the wall. I could see nothing of him but the dark slick of his hair and the downward slant of his shoulders. They were shuddering beneath the pale fabric of his coat. A lurid ménage of wine and sweat assaulted my nostrils. And underlying that, the paralyzing scent, the one that signaled my captivity in madness.
The smoky floral smell grew stronger and stronger until it singed my senses. I could not move, so heavy were my limbs. Memory faded, fogged over by the sweet, acrid burning, petals bursting to flame.
"What do you think of the view, my lord?"
Every hair stirred at the sound of Mrs. Cunningham's voice. Only it was not only hers—but mine as well. I could feel myself being pulled from the shadows, moving with slithering grace toward the figure in the chair. Her fingers—my own—slid over the man's shoulders, massaging, stroking, our lips hovering by his ear.
"Lean closer, my lord, and take a good look. Is she not as I promised? A fresh English rose, ripe for the plucking."
The man's panting shivered down my spine. He pressed closer to the wall. All at once, I understood what he was doing, and my stomach gave a greasy lunge.
"Look at her tits. How full they are, how delicate pink the nipples." Our breath stirred the dark hair over the man's ear. "Wouldn't you like to touch them, my lord? To feel all that sumptuous softness in your palms?"
His head bobbed like a well-trained pet's.
"Watch Kitty's hands. They're your hands, aren't they? Touching her ladyship's lovely white skin. The daughter of a marquess, she is, but she wants it as badly as any trollop. Look at how her thighs are trembling."
The man's face was now plastered against the wall. I knew he was watching the scene I had described, seeing his lurid fantasies unfold from the secret viewing hole. My palms grew clammy and cold even as my tongue snaked out, curling around the man's ear. He shuddered with excitement. I was enveloping him with shadow, with the words flowing from my lips. Fabric rustled beneath my fingers.
"Ah, what a man you are, my lord. Your rod is a monster—the biggest I've seen. How it twitches. It wants for a good fuck, doesn't it? It wants to poke between those shy dimpled thighs. To feel that creamy virginal cunt. And once she feels this fine prick, how she'll beg for it. She'll scream as you give her a good hard ramming—"
He was groaning now, in rhythm to the lascivious suggestions and the rapid jerking of my arm. With my other hand, I reached to my neck—unwound a gleaming length of rose-red satin I knew to be there. As I lowered that silken loop toward the man's lap, something nudged against my mind. A memory, a thought. What was it? Something that I needed to do, to remember—lucidity flashed then, a star blazing across the dark universe. The blinking of dawn just before the night swallowed me whole.
With all my strength, I threw the satin noose from me.
*****
The wild-eyed creature in the looking glass stared at me. She was dressed in a ragged corset and petticoat, a coil of red ribbon just beyond her bare toes. She was shaking, her hair undone and falling over her bare shoulders to her waist.
She was me.
With a jolt, I snapped into my earthly body. I could feel the heart thundering in my chest, the dizzying rush of blood in my veins. My vision cleared; I saw where I was, knew who I was. My fingernails bit into my palms, and the crescents of pain felt good, vital because I was alive and sane once again. Then I heard the voices, coming from beyond the door but nearing with each step. Mrs. Cunningham was returning.
Panic ignited my actions. I snatched my dress from the table. There was no time to put it on, or to do the laces on my boots. Throwing the bombazine over my shoulders, I stumbled barefoot to the door. I wrenched it open. The voices grew louder, coming from the corner to the left. I took off in the opposite direction.
I ran as I had never done before. My feet skidded across the wooden planks as I turned another corner and another. How far did this maze of rooms extend? I knew not what awaited at the final destination, I just kept running, away from Mrs. Cunningham and her satin tape and the sweet burning evidence of my madness. I heard raised voices, a cry of alarm. I had a minute, mayhap two, of freedom. Should I hide in one of the darkened rooms? Keep going? My body did not want to stop. Then I saw it, and my heart lifted.
Praise God, a window that let in the light. Next to it, a door.
I grabbed the knob. It would not turn. I rattled it as a desperate animal does the door of its cage. To no avail. The footsteps were nearing, louder, reverberating beneath my feet. I tugged my dress off my shoulders and wound it around my fist. I smashed through the pane of glass. Shards exploded, tinkling onto the gravel outside. I cleared the edges of the window sill once more and hoisted myself through.
I gasped as pain bit into the bottoms of my feet. But there was no time to stop. Limping, I turned right down the narrow alleyway. 'Twas dark and humid here, the bowels of industry filled with heaps of rubbish and crawling vermin. The smell of excrement festered in my nostrils as I hobbled on with desperate speed. My heart stuttered at a sudden, high-pitched sound.
"Wot you goin' so fast fer, luv?"
From atop one of the rubbish piles, a dirt-streaked boy winked at me. More pale faces peered out from the swarming mounds. My chest constricted with horrified pity.
Children. By the looks of it living here, in the filth.
A shout whipped my
head back. I saw them: Mrs. Cunningham and Kitty, their faces blurred by distance. They were waving their arms and yelling after me. I did not pause to catch their words. With feral focus, I pushed forward, heedless of pity, of pain and fatigue. I could see the alley's end now. A vertical beam of light that flickered with movement.
Carriages passing. People. Safety.
The noises of the street grew closer. I was almost there. My lungs straining, I plunged into the light.
A thundering came at me from the left—an enormous dark shape bearing upon me. With instinctive speed, I threw myself out of harm's way. My shoulder hit the cobblestones with breath-stopping force. Pain lanced through my arm, my side. I struggled to sit up, a wave of nausea smudging my vision. A sea of shouting faces surrounded me. I felt something grab hold of my arm. I pulled free, somehow stumbling to my feet.
The world spun around me. I needed to keep going, to push onward, to get away. I forced my legs into action as the roar of the mob blurred into color and shape.
She came out o' nowhere—I didn't see 'er, I swears it ...
I made it one step, two.
Slatternly disgrace, that's wot I calls it. A gin whore, no doubt, an' in daylight, too.
I had to keep going, keep moving, couldn't stop ...
Behold Satan's consort! Mark me words, children—she's possessed, she is. The bride o' the devil walkin' among us. Well, she'll pay for her wickedness. May her soul burn in all the fires of hell!
They surrounded me. I thrashed out wildly as I was lifted from my feet, the world tilting, dissolving into haze. Shouts, jeers faded in my wavering awareness. With the last thread of consciousness, I tried to see the face of my attackers. I glimpsed blue fire. A thought blazoned through the mist of pain: Can't let him know.
Then the darkness came, and I let go.
TWELVE
I awoke to a dream. At first, I thought myself back in my old room, the one I shared with Aunt Agnes. But the familiar faded cornflowers were not there; they were replaced by delicate waves of ivory and gold, a wheat field rippling through paper. The walls themselves had grown, sprouting in height, blooming to ornate moldings and a pristine ceiling of snowy white. The instant I saw the rose-colored chandelier, with its carved brass arms like that of an octopus, I knew I was far from home.
I sat up—and fell back with a gasp as pain shot through my left arm.
"Ah, Miss Jones is back with us at last. Very good, very good."
My gaze veered wildly in the direction of the voice. A man with wire-rimmed spectacles and a graying beard and moustache was peering at me. When I tried to scramble back, I felt the pain again and a softness against which I could find no purchase.
"There's no need to be frightened, Miss Jones. If you'll simply let me—"
He leaned over me, aimed a steel spike with a gaping mouth over my heart.
Screaming, I fought for my life.
"Abby. Abigail Jones. Be still, you are safe."
The stern words pierced my panic. Hux's voice. I opened my eyes, not even realizing that I had closed them, and saw him standing beside the other man. His eyes held mine, commanded me to calm. Slowly, I released my breath. I was in a bed, I realized. The room was oddly familiar—one that I had been in before. I focused on the brass bed frame and remembered the care with which I had polished those gleaming bars.
I was back in the house, in one of the guest rooms on the first floor. I looked down at my left arm; it was wrapped in a linen sling.
"Wh-what happened?" The words scratched painfully against my throat.
"I am Dr. McCaberneth," the grey-bearded man said. "A physician from London. I have been attending you since this afternoon, after your accident. Now, do you know where you are, Miss Jones?"
"Hope End," I said. "Earl Huxton's residence."
"Excellent, excellent. And what day is it, young miss?"
I had to think. In doing so, it all returned in a flash: the accident ... the carriage and the mob ... and Lord help me, Mrs. Cunningham. The witch and her lair of depravity. I felt the tightening of the red satin around my throat. Terror welled, and my right hand flew to my neck. My fingers found the worn linen of my under-things rather than the sinuous silk. A whimper escaped before I could stop it. Liquid heat burned behind my eyes, and for once I couldn't stop that either.
I felt the mattress shift beneath me. I was enveloped in warmth, in Hux's scent.
"Shh, Abby, you are safe now. I won't let harm come to you. Trust me, little one, I will take care of you."
The words whispered into my ear and the gentle stroke over my hair undid something within me. A torrent of emotion gushed forth, and there was no stopping it. The sobs took over. All the while, the arms never let me go. Hux never let me go. To my shame I clung to him, to the strong haven of his embrace, even after the tears subsided.
"A shock to the nerves, my lord, I have seen it before," I heard the physician say. "Being a female and therefore of fragile disposition, Miss Jones may be gravely affected by the events of today. I would suggest laudanum to dull her overactive sensibilities. Phosphorus, as well, if her condition does not improve."
"No." But the word came out dulled, slurred. My tongue felt thick in my mouth. "No l-laudanum. No medicines. Please, Hux." I struggled to look up at him. I could not risk anything but a clear mind.
He kept my head tucked to his chest, his voice rumbling beneath my ear. "She will not have anything she does not wish, McCaberneth."
I nodded and slanted a look at the physician.
He was frowning and stroking his beard. "Do you think that wise, my lord? Though I have bound her arm, she will likely experience significant pain as the ligaments heal. There are the wounds on her feet as well. In point of fact, the cumulative shock of today's events has likely caused imbalances in her blood. At the very least, I should perform a bloodletting. I no longer use leeches, you understand, only the newest advances in steel blade technology—"
"No! Do not touch me!" Pushing out of Hux's arms, I tried to scramble off the bed. The motion jarred my left arm, and a wave of pain and nausea crashed over me.
"Abby, you must calm yourself. Trust me—I will not allow anything you do not wish." It was Hux's voice in my ear, his warmth caging me against the feather softness. His deep tones soothed over my senses. "Nod now, if you understand me. Or I will give the good doctor free rein with his quackery."
My head moved emphatically against the mattress; behind Hux, I heard Dr. McCaberneth give an affronted grunt.
"The letting blades were produced by Rodgers & Sons," he said stiffly. "They are the very latest in medical technology. Perhaps your servant does not understand how fortunate she is to be privy to such—"
"She does not wish it," Hux said.
A sullen pause. "Then it seems my services are no longer required."
"As you say," Hux said indifferently. "Send me the bill. You may see yourself out."
Moustache bristling, Dr. McCaberneth grabbed the handles of his medical bag and marched to the door. Hux went to the side table and returned with a glass. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he held it to me.
"Drink this."
I eyed the slosh of amber liquid. I was not in the habit of imbibing spirits of any kind. "Truly, I do not need—"
"It's this or the laudanum," he said calmly. "Your choice."
Seeing the firm set of his jaw, I saw no choice but to take the glass. I sputtered as the brandy trailed fire down my throat. He was watching me, ensuring that I drank every drop. After a while, the burning faded to a warming sensation, dulling the throb in my arm and other places. The edges of the pain, of my mind softened.
"Better?"
"Thank you," I said. "For this—and for getting rid of the physician."
"Damn quack. I should have known better than to consult him. But I had little choice, did I, given your shenanigans. Now that you are feeling more the thing—what the bloody hell happened today?"
Tread carefully, Abigail. Guard your secre
ts.
Hindered by the golden haze enveloping my brain, I tried to conjure up an adequate excuse for my actions. "I ... I needed to leave. I was afraid," I mumbled.
"Afraid? What in God's name were you afraid of at a dress fitting?"
"Mrs. Cunningham," I whispered.
Tears blurred my vision as I thought of her red lips and slithering touch. No amount of brandy could dissipate that memory. She was the devil incarnate; in my bones, I knew this. Just as I had intuitively sensed the same malevolence in Lady Priscilla. Certainty flared: though I might be mad for having visions in the first place, I was not imagining what transpired in them. The evil was real.
For most of my life, I'd believed my trances random, a figment of lunacy. Before the last two visions, I had never encountered the people of the trance in the flesh, and, consequently, had thought they existed purely in my head. But I had not invented Lady Priscilla and Mrs. Cunningham; I'd been in the same room as them, interacted with them, and they had been unmistakably real. Unmistakably wicked. Even now, I could feel the churning darkness of the dressmaker's thoughts, the pull of her appetites more overwhelming than in any vision I'd had before—
"What happened? Did she say something to you?" Hux's stark voice snapped me back. With my thoughts jumbling, I could not summon words, and he growled, "Damn it to hell, Abby, you'll tell me now, or I'll have it directly from her. So help me God, we will go back there—"
"No! No, I won't ever go back."
"Then tell me."
Through the haze of tears, I looked up at his face; it was implacable, an austere profile carved in marble. In that instant, Mrs. Cunningham's voice poured into my memory, and I heard myself saying, "She ... she said you were her best client. That you always brought her the b-best raw materials."
A heavy pause.
"Damn her," Hux said, his voice strung tight with fury. "She had no right."
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