by Zekas, Kelly
“How did you find me?” The words slipped out of me. I needed a distraction as I pulled Mr. Braddock onto my lap, cradling him as if my arms were the only things keeping him in one piece.
Mr. Kent’s jaw set, but he answered civilly enough. “I saw a strange woman in the dress your sister was wearing earlier. Curious business, that. But she told me where you were—after enough money changed hands, of course.”
“Yes, of course, I will explain . . .” But I couldn’t. My words drifted away, leaving me unable to think on anything besides Mr. Braddock. Blood still seeped out of the cut on his back, soaking my hands, my dress, my thoughts. He had said I was a miraculous healer. He said I restored Miss Lodge to full health. I’d seen my hands heal. It was true. And I wanted it to be true. As we rolled down the bumpy streets, I closed my eyes, willing my body to access my power, whatever part it was that would make him better.
Please. I believed. Damn it all, I believed.
THE ENTIRELY HEALTHY Miss Lodge greeted us at her front door and let out a soft gasp, taking in the entirely bloody Mr. Braddock. With the quiet, incurious assistance of Cushing, we hauled Mr. Braddock’s body up the stairs and into a dark-paneled guest room. My arms trembled with exertion, and my eyes itched with tears I would not allow to fall. As we set him on the bed, I held Miss Lodge’s disbelieving gaze, unnaturally shiny over the candle.
It was true. She really had recovered. And now I burdened her with this.
“I’m terribly sorry for troubling you,” I whispered. “We just needed to treat him quickly.”
At that, she snapped into action, swiftly rearranging the bedsheets around Mr. Braddock with an agitated energy. “No, no, please. Thank you for bringing him,” she said with a rushed imitation of a smile. Her eyes finally landed on my dress and widened. “You’re—you’re covered in blood, Miss Wyndham. Are you hurt? We will call for a doctor.”
“It’s all—it’s his blood,” I croaked. “Please, let me help him . . . I must, he saved me.”
Miss Lodge looked hesitant but gave in before I did, asking Cushing to fetch me the supplies I needed. In a flash, he returned with a cart of bandages, gauze, towels, laudanum, a sewing kit, and a bowl of warm water. Even if I couldn’t magically heal him, I could still do this.
Whereas Miss Lodge’s illness had baffled me, Mr. Braddock’s treatment came naturally, recalling the countless farming accidents that Rose and I tended to in Bramhurst. First came the knife wound, which required peeling off the blood-drenched jacket and shirt with Cushing’s help and trying to ignore the fact that Mr. Kent and Miss Lodge were waiting and watching in the corner. The cut ran six inches across his back, but fortunately it ran fairly shallow—Dr. Beck had not hit anything too serious. Silence fell upon the room, and I fell into a trance with my ministrations, carefully cleaning up the cut with the towels, stitching it closed with the sewing kit, wrapping it with the bandages, and then repeating the process for the cut on his forehead. The whole time, the faint sensation from Mr. Braddock tied us together like a delicate thread, and I did everything in my power to keep it from snapping.
Only when I stood up to fetch the laudanum to help Mr. Braddock with the pain did the exhaustion of the night hit me in full force. The dizzying room lurched like a boat, and my feet struggled to find stable ground.
In an instant, Mr. Kent was by my side, supporting me on his shoulder. “Miss Wyndham, you need rest, and I doubt this floor is the best place for that.”
I let go of him and grabbed the bottle from the cart. “He still needs some laudanum. And some ice for his bruises.”
Miss Lodge gently took it from me. “You’ve done all the difficult work. We can manage some simple nursing. Please, you’ve given me my health back, and I am truly thankful that I can do this for him.” She looked past me. “Would you be able to escort her home, Mr. Kent?”
He nodded, and I gave Mr. Braddock one more glance, no energy left to argue or obstinately plant myself down by his side. This was Miss Lodge’s home. She was already busy asking Cushing for more supplies and preparing for the rest of the night. Mr. Kent turned my exhausted body away and led me downstairs.
The dismal trip back to the Kents’ felt like it took hours as Mr. Kent and I rolled through black, vacant streets, our silence thicker than the London fog. I hardly knew what to say to him, and he didn’t press me with questions. My lips managed a thankyou and a promise to explain everything the next morning. He nodded and helped me to the house, where Tuffins politely greeted me as if I weren’t a horrible mess and had a maid draw me a bath.
In the warm water, I gazed at my limbs as if they belonged to someone else. If my powers weren’t working, there should have been at least a bruise or a scrape from my fall out of the carriage. But my skin was unbroken, unblemished. I tried to think, to analyze the evening’s events, but my brain refused to process anything. I was numb, detached, empty. The last thing I remembered, as my head finally hit the pillow, was making a final prayer for Mr. Braddock’s recovery. For my strange abilities to somehow do their work.
It was a good sign that the Lodges hadn’t donned their mourning weeds the next morning when they welcomed me into their drawing room, but they weren’t exactly the portrait of happiness, either. They both had expressions of equal parts trepidation and optimism, a fear of hoping too much.
“Miss Wyndham, it is good to see you safe and sound,” Mr. Lodge said. “Is the rest of your party well?”
As I took a seat on a settee, I settled on a vague enough answer. “Yes . . . a bit shaken up, perhaps, but no harm came to them.”
“Something must be done about these drunk ruffians,” Mr. Lodge declared. “It’s a shame that you cannot even attend the opera without worrying about an unprovoked attack. You must be able to identi—”
Mrs. Lodge rested her hand on her husband’s. “Dear, I am certain Miss Wyndham does not want to revisit the event so soon. For now, we must count ourselves fortunate it was not worse.”
“Thanks to Mr. Braddock’s bravery,” I added. Did this mean he was awake? He must have provided the Lodges this story. “How is he right now?”
The Lodges exchanged a brief glance. “He left early this morning.”
What? He was close to death just hours ago. “How could he— did Miss Lodge not stop him?” I asked.
“She was watching over him but started to feel rather unwell herself. That is why Sebastian left. He did not wish to slow her own recovery.”
“Terrible, terrible business,” Mr. Lodge concluded, his weary, kind face drained of all color.
A silence settled over the room. I should have anticipated this. Both of them cared too much for the other’s health, to the detriment of their own. Had Miss Lodge’s illness returned? Had I even cured it in the first place, as Mr. Braddock claimed? My fully healed body gave me some hope, but I dreaded the thought of failing Miss Lodge. I had to be sure.
“Is Miss Lodge still resting upstairs? May I see her?” I asked.
From the way both their faces lit up, I could tell I’d made the right decision, even though the same doubt and dread (which seemed to accompany every visit here) seeped into my stomach as I followed Cushing upstairs to the bedroom.
“Miss Lodge?” he asked with a light knock.
No response.
“Miss—”
“No need to wake her,” I whispered to Cushing. “I just want to see her condition.”
He nodded and left me alone in the dim bedroom. This would be better anyway. With her asleep, I wouldn’t have to flounder about trying to explain my lack of medicines.
Quietly, I approached Miss Lodge, planted myself in a bedside wicker chair, and attempted a diagnosis. Her breathing was heavy and labored, her forehead burned from a fever, and her nightstand held a handkerchief spotted with blood. This wasn’t the Addison’s disease that I last saw. Something else ailed her, and it looked very much like the consumption she had survived before. My goodness, was she the unluckiest girl in all of London?
<
br /> I waited stupidly, hoping for a sudden, newfound understanding of my powers. No such luck. There was no reasonable explanation. Sometimes my healing worked. Sometimes it didn’t. There was nothing to do but hope this would fall into the first category.
I clasped Miss Lodge’s hand, closed my eyes, and waited. One minute. Two. I opened my eyes. No change. I shifted my left hand to her arm, my right hand to her burning forehead, and clenched my jaw, as if the strain might squeeze out my dormant power. Unsurprisingly, my orange-juice-inspired attempt did nothing. The persistent fever would not abate.
Neither would the thoughts and questions and doubts swirling about my head. How long did I have to sit here, futilely trying to cure her, before I was dragged away and declared mad? The last time, I had held Miss Lodge’s hand for at least a half hour and sat with her for half a day. There was no telling how long was needed to heal her, or if it could even be done. I felt like some sort of useless steam engine, lifting my hand up every minute, sucking in a hopeful breath, then returning my hand back to her body with a sigh. Until finally, the cycle broke, and a yelp escaped my mouth instead.
Her face looked less flushed, and the sweat I’d wiped from her brow had not returned. And her breathing, it . . . looked more relaxed. Had her fever really decreased? I went absolutely still, afraid to break the spell. For several more minutes I just sat there, a curious and astonished lump, holding Miss Lodge’s hand as she regained a healthy glow, steady breathing, and a stable temperature—completely cured right before my eyes.
I had seen my own hand heal. And I had heard of Miss Lodge’s prior recovery secondhand. Nothing compared with this, though—I had helped save someone, restored their health in full. Me, alone. Was this giddy surge what Rose felt every time she cured someone back in Bramhurst? It was as if pure light flowed through me. Energy, renewal, life. I paced around the room several times in a daze.
How many people could we cure? Could Rose and I heal London? England? What would people say if we suddenly turned medicine on its head, performing miracles at every turn? I wanted desperately to run to a hospital and heal every person I could. But that fantasy was not complete without Rose. It would have to wait until she was by my side once again. Then I could think about the future.
Back downstairs, I assured the Lodges that their daughter would be perfectly healthy after a little more rest. On my way out, I asked for the address of Mr. Braddock’s lodgings so I might inquire about his recovery. And in the cab, I provided my driver that address, instead of returning to the Kents’.
I had to speak with Mr. Braddock, and I cared not one whit if I was unaccompanied. All the rules of society had flown out the window with the rational rules of the world.
BROKEN GLASS WAS never a good sign.
Afraid to knock, I reached through the broken window, groping around the other side of the door for the lock. A click brought me inside the dark, empty Braddock household. The door closed behind me with a faint rasp.
It looked as if no one had been here for months. Every piece of furniture in the entrance hall had a white sheet draped over its surface, with an extra layer of dust over that. The barest slivers of light were creeping in through the closed drapes. I waited for a moment, listening and hearing nothing but the sound of my heartbeat. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.
I tread a few steps forward, wincing and pausing at the creak of the first stair under my weight. Nothing else stirred. I continued upward and reached the second-floor landing, finding three rooms before me. I chose the first bedroom to my left, the only open door, hoping I’d simply find a resting Mr. Braddock in there and I could finally get back to breathing.
An oak four-poster bed proudly stood in the center, with soft wallpaper and opulent furniture announcing the Braddocks’ wealth. The weak gas lamps along the wall barely lit the room, but I could tell it had been used since the servants packed up the house. The bedsheets were a rumpled mess, there were bloodied bandages on the ground, and—
A strong arm wrapped tightly around my neck, pulling me against its owner’s body. A warm, bare chest pressed hard against my back, and the sharp scent of mint-like medicinal salve and leather filled my nose.
In a panic, my elbow jerked back into the body, but I regretted it the moment it made contact, recognizing that familiar glow wherever my body met Mr. Braddock’s. Whether it was my elbow or the same realization, he loosened his grip and staggered back, taking labored breaths as I tried to regain the use of my lungs, as well.
“I’m . . . sorry . . . Miss Wyndham,” he said. “I thought you . . . an intruder. Are you hurt?”
I tried to respond but was immediately distracted by the picture of Mr. Braddock, braced against the wall for support. A large patch covered his forehead, one cheek showed some minor abrasions, and the other had the blue tint of bruising to match his black eye. His half-naked torso had fared better, but the looking glass behind him revealed a red, bandaged streak across his back, sending a shiver down my spine. I tore my gaze away and forced it back up toward his less confusing face.
“I . . . saw the glass broken downstairs,” I finally said. “I didn’t know what to think.”
“I should have cleaned it. I had no other means of getting in when I first arrived.”
“Where is your house staff?”
He pushed off the wall and closed in on me, trying to steer me out of the doorway. “You should not be here,” he said. “It’s not . . . proper.”
“And you should not be out of bed.” I sidestepped him and took a seat in the room’s only chair. “It’s not healthy.”
He frowned, refusing to come closer.
“Mr. Braddock, from what I can tell, there’s no household staff to make a fuss. Not that it should matter, seeing as I’m simply playing the part of nurse. So come. I’ve already healed Miss Lodge today, and I don’t intend to leave until I do the same for you.”
He took an eager step forward and almost fell. “With your power?”
I nodded. “Her symptoms disappeared within ten minutes, and she looked perfectly healthy when I left.”
Mr. Braddock’s expression changed from one of surprise to surprising warmth. “Thank you, Miss Wyndham,” he said. “I believe I owe you two sisters in return now. Though I . . . I’m sorry I have been unable to deliver the first.”
“The sooner we sort out your injuries, the sooner you can,” I said, gesturing to the bed.
He gingerly took his seat, ramrod straight on the edge of the bed, as if he didn’t quite trust it with his weight. That would not do.
“Lie down,” I told him. “You really don’t know how to rest, do you?”
His face was drawn and his lips thinned. Accepting help was obviously not something this man often did. But finally, he begrudgingly lay down.
I dragged the chair closer, wood squeaking against wood. As he squirmed slightly and adjusted, I severely misjudged where to set my gaze and found myself staring again at his uncovered skin. A very annoying blush warmed my cheeks. I had seen a torso here and there while helping Rose, but this was different. There was no emergency, and no Rose, to distract me. I could safely say that this was the oddest situation I had ever been in: trying to use a magical power to heal a strange, half-naked man in his bedroom.
“Your hand, please,” I said, pretending to have some logic to what I was doing. As I grasped his hand, my blood warmed, but I held on tightly. His hand trembled in mine. Maybe it would work better directly touching a wound. The cut on his forehead or on his back? Forehead. Definitely the forehead first.
My left hand swept back his silk-soft hair and settled on the pale forehead, fingers brushing gently over the small contusions. The air grew heavy and thick around us while we waited, as if all the world’s miraculous potential were building up right here in the room. Neither of us took a breath, afraid to suck it away.
“Is it healing? Does it still hurt?” I asked after a long minute.
He poked his forehead patch and grima
ced. “I’m not certain. There is that same . . . sensation from your touch.”
I took his hand, placing it between both of mine. “I never felt it when I healed Miss Lodge, though. Only you. I can’t help but wonder if it’s connected to why I couldn’t heal you last night.”
“I suspect it has something to do with my specific ability. I must confess, I haven’t been honest with you about it.”
“How so?”
With the slightest wince, he repositioned the pillow propped behind him. “When—when I was sixteen . . . my father and—” He inhaled sharply, and a cold mask seemed to descend over his face. His words came out clipped, sharp, and detached.
“Three years ago, within a few months of each other, my father and mother both suffered from what the doctors said was consumption and passed away. At first, I thought it a horrible coincidence, but the doctors worried it was contagious or an incurable sickness passing through my family. They advised me to leave the country for some time to protect my health and to get out of that unbearable house.
“So my friend Henry Lodge, Miss Lodge’s brother, accompanied me on a trip around the Continent, happy to follow wherever my fancy or grief dictated. But before we could even settle in our first lodgings in France, Henry fell sick—from the same illness. We called for different doctors, but nothing ever seemed to work, and he grew worse and worse—much faster, too. The night he passed . . . I—I was with him. He asked me to promise him a number of things. He—he died before I could finish.
“It was during those moments I saw his eyes, and I—he made me see the truth about myself. It was me. There was a spark, a realization: We both knew I was responsible for his illness.” Mr. Braddock let out an exasperated, humorless laugh.
“I developed an ability to . . . hurt others. My touch is like infecting someone with an illness . . . or . . . draining the life out of them. And this power, I cannot control it. When it first emerged, I was too foolish and blind to realize it, until I killed my parents and my closest friend.”