by Zekas, Kelly
“How could you possibly know it was you?” I spit out.
Mr. Braddock reached for a glass of water. He gulped down some (and spilled the rest) before speaking again. “I didn’t at first. Because of the development period, sometimes I was hurting them; sometimes I was harmless. There was no clear pattern. Until I returned to the city for Henry’s funeral and spent time with Miss Lodge. Within the first day, she, too, fell sick with the same symptoms. That was proof enough for me.
“So I left and hid in the city, cutting off all contact with society. I wish I could say it was because I knew that would fix everything, but I . . . I couldn’t bear to be there and feel responsible.”
“And she recovered because of your absence?” I asked.
“Within a few days of my leaving.”
“What are the symptoms?”
“It starts with coughing and a fever, which quickly intensifies, leaving the person light-headed, weak, and coughing up blood. Then they fall unconscious until death takes them.”
I dropped his hand by instinct. If he even noticed, it didn’t seem to bother him. “And your touch is what causes it?”
“And my presence, to a lesser extent. When I am within ten feet of anyone, the symptoms emerge after two hours, and if I do not leave by the twelve-hour mark, they will die.”
My every question felt like the twist of a knife. “And what happens if you make direct contact?”
“A few seconds at most for the coughing and fever. Twenty seconds to lose consciousness. Thirty for death.”
There was nothing I could possibly do but look down at his hands in disbelief. I took them back in mine, feeling a little ashamed for stopping my healing when those symptoms clearly did not affect me.
His teeth were clenched together, his jaw protruding from behind his cheeks. His words came out strained. “Gloves and clothing help dampen the effects by a few seconds, but no matter what, I must take precautions and keep these times in my head to be sure I never do permanent damage. If I am with someone for more than an hour and notice their health deteriorating, I leave immediately. As far as I know, they are able to make a slow but full recovery when I am gone.”
“Does Miss Lodge know any of this?”
Alarm crossed Mr. Braddock’s face. “No—I don’t know how I would ever tell her. How can I look her in the eye and say that I was responsible for all her pain and her brother’s death?”
“It’s not.” I grasped at ephemeral strands of logic, unable to hold what I meant to say. “It’s—”
“You need not say it’s not my fault, Miss Wyndham. I’ve heard that said in excess.”
“Well, no, it is your fault. No need to shilly-shally around that.”
He paled and raised his eyebrows. “Have you had no practice in bedside manner?”
“It was an accident, though, and one you could not have thought to prevent—you must accept that. I can relate . . . albeit on a smaller scale. I myself could have—no, should have—protected Rose. If I had simply noticed these abilities earlier, we might have taken the proper precautions. But if there is a bright side to any of this, it’s that guilt can be rather persuasive motivation to fix everything else around you that requires fixing. One becomes a better person for it.”
I peered down at the rumpled damask bedding, unsure what else to say, and followed the chaotic details as they blossomed into a pattern of perfect symmetry. The bedsheets shuffled and Mr. Braddock sat up straighter, sliding his hand from mine, though it seemed to linger somewhat.
“It appears some things can’t be fixed,” he said, checking his forehead injury.
“No improvement?”
He shook his head. The corners of his mouth struggled to conceal his disappointment. “When I asked you to cure Miss Lodge, I had been hoping our powers were diametrically opposed, and it seems my wish has inconveniently been granted. You cannot give life to someone who sucks it away, as I cannot hurt someone who gives life. And if that is the case, then it might explain a few other strange things.”
“Such as?”
“In the last two or three years, did anyone in your household ever fall sick? Family, servants, guests?”
I scrambled through my memories, failing to picture myself by someone’s bedside in our house. “No. The last I remember was my mother. She fell ill during a trip to Paris, and when she returned home, Rose helped nurse her. That’s when we first took an interest.”
He nodded fervently. “Indeed, perhaps our powers are similar in more than one way. My presence also made many of our servants sick, while your household’s good health suggests that your presence might help those around you.”
“What would that mean?”
“Not only do our powers fail to work when we make contact, but perhaps also when we are near each other. The two instances when I attempted to use my powers in your presence, they did not seem to work.”
“The fights?” I asked, cold at the memory.
“I had more difficulty with the drunkards than I should have. And Claude should not have reached the window.”
My stomach felt sick. “So my being there nearly got you killed, and I can’t even heal you . . .”
“I’d say Claude nearly got me killed more than you did.” He tried to smile but just made a miserable mess of the process.
My overwhelmed mind raced through what all this meant. “If my presence cancels your power,” I said, pulling out a card from my reticule. “Then does the opposite hold true?”
The thin edge sliced my skin open, but when I wiped the blood away, the paper cut remained. It didn’t close within seconds, as it had when I was alone. I rose out of my chair and took slow steps backward, pausing and watching as the cut stubbornly stayed open, until I nearly reached the wall. In the blink of an eye, the cut vanished like it should have.
I glanced up at Mr. Braddock. “It healed immediately, after that step.”
He looked at the distance between us. “Ten feet?” he suggested.
I sighed, returning to my chair. “This would be far easier if we had a guidebook. How can there be thousands of handbooks on the proper ways to bow or how to arrange forks for every possible occasion, but not a single one about how far you must be to keep from accidentally killing someone?”
For the first time and for the briefest, tingling moment, I made him laugh. “Perhaps you might write it.”
A voice replied from behind me. “It might prove to be more revelatory if you were to write it, Mr. Braddock.”
I spun up and out of my chair to find the intruder.
“Mr. Kent, what are you doing here—were you just eavesdropping?”
“Of course not. I was waiting for the perfect moment to enter the conversation with a witty rejoinder, but I had to settle for that. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, continue as you were.” He ambled in, appearing perfectly at ease. But there was a set tension to his jaw.
“How on earth did you find this place?”
“When you were not at my parents’ home, I checked with the Lodges. They mentioned Mr. Braddock’s address.”
I did not know what to say. I found myself embarrassed, for some reason, as though I had been doing something I shouldn’t. Mr. Braddock also seemed to be at a loss for conversation. Was Mr. Kent angry? Disappointed? Appalled? It was impossible to tell with the light air he gave his words.
“Very well. Then I’ll take this opportunity to formally introduce myself,” he said, marching up to the bed. “Mr. Braddock, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Nicholas Kent, the man who saved your life last night.”
“It seems I am greatly in your debt,” Mr. Braddock replied, not looking particularly thrilled about that.
“Excellent. Then I’d like to call in your first payment now with some questions. Have you known all along who took Miss Rosamund?” Mr. Braddock was visibly disturbed but still answered the question, as Mr. Kent paced haughtily around his bed, back and forth.
“No, I wasn’t sure.”
&nbs
p; “But you had your suspicions?”
“I did.”
I couldn’t hold back. “You already knew who Dr. Beck was?”
“I once . . . worked for him,” Mr. Braddock answered.
My breath disappeared, and my stomach slammed into my heels. Mr. Kent broke the silence, his voice grim. “When?”
“A year ago.”
“Are you still in league with him?”
“No. As you can tell, we aren’t on the best of terms.”
“Then why would you ever help a man like that?” I asked.
“I thought he could cure me. I’d killed my parents, my best friend, and nearly killed m—Miss Lodge. I spent months searching London for anyone experiencing the same problem, and it was then I read of Dr. Beck in a newspaper article. He made wild claims and speculations about evolution, the development of abilities, and the future of mankind. It turned him into an object of ridicule within the scientific community—everyone thought his ideas unbelievable—but if there was a sliver of a chance he could help me, I had to take it. So I offered to pay him anything for a cure, or at least a proper explanation.”
The floor groaned as I stepped closer to the bed. “What did he say?”
“He was enthusiastic, but he did not want my money—he had plenty of funding. He wanted my assistance. While I worked with him, he shared all his theories and findings with me. He told me what I told you before, about our abilities being the result of saltation.”
“And what assistance did you provide him in return?” Mr. Kent asked.
“Information about my ability. I answered his questions, gave him blood samples, and allowed him to test and observe the effects.”
“What did you test it on? Animals?” I asked.
“Animals aren’t affected.”
My thoughts had moved ahead and frozen at one question with the sudden realization. How far had they pushed the tests?
Mr. Kent asked the question I could not. “Then you tested it on human subjects, who I assume were less than willing?”
Mr. Braddock fixed his eyes on me, all mirth drained out. “I tested the milder effects on Claude, but . . . I—there was an impossible situation. Dr. Beck asked me to test on others, and when I refused, he . . . he locked me in a small room with a man who was just looking to earn a sovereign. I tried to sit at the farthest corner, I tried to convince Dr. Beck to let us out, I tried to control my power, but nothing worked, even as the man wasted away in front of me. I begged him. I begged him, and still he forced me to stay, slowly killing this poor soul.”
“And after, he simply let you go free?” Mr. Kent continued, unaffected by Mr. Braddock’s apparent pain.
“He wanted me to help with his other subjects, to see the value of his experiments,” he said, blanching. “But I wanted no part.”
“And you drew the line at killing an innocent man, but not the men who forced you to do it?”
There was no need to respond, but to his credit, he did anyway. “Yes. I didn’t want to take any lives, even his.”
“So you let them continue doing it . . .” I said, my voice coming out thin and high as a reed.
Mr. Braddock said nothing, and I had nothing more to say to him.
My sister’s terrified face from last night swam in my head, and I was backing out the door away from both of them before I knew it, unable to say whether or not they might have called after me.
Perhaps it had been better when Mr. Braddock was hiding behind the lies and mysteries.
I FLEW DOWN the sidewalk, heart hammering in my ears, tears welling without permission. I couldn’t see the road, nor the people in my way. Instead, my vision was filled with a faceless body falling, drained and withering at Mr. Braddock’s hand while an elated Dr. Beck held up a pocket watch. Over and over I watched him kill Dr. Beck’s victim till eventually I slowed, exhausted and nauseated.
He didn’t want to kill that innocent man. Dr. Beck had forced him. At least that’s what Mr. Braddock claimed. But after that, Dr. Beck simply released him? And Mr. Braddock left peacefully? How did I know these weren’t more of his half truths? He’d lied about his ability and his connection to Claude, only admitting the truth later, when he could justify it with some noble explanation. Honesty wasn’t quite honesty when it came reluctantly and piecemeal. It called everything into doubt, made it impossible to fully trust him, and I hated that one insurmountable fact. Our hopeless situation was almost starting to make sense during that brief moment when it seemed I’d finally found the real Mr. Braddock. But now it felt like he was further out of reach than ever.
A hand grasped my arm.
“Miss . . . Wyndham . . . wait . . .” Mr. Kent gasped, trying to catch his breath as he caught me. “I brought a carriage . . . and my driver will be . . . quite offended . . . if we choose to run instead.”
From one confusing man to another. “So what do you suggest we do?”
He tapped his cane on the ground and stood straighter. “We forget this . . . unpleasantness and continue the search. I’ve already checked this Dr. Beck’s location from last night, but it’s been abandoned. Perhaps Camille or one of the science societies will know more about him or where he’s gone.”
So, he meant to completely skirt the topic of Mr. Braddock and proceed as if he never existed. That sounded better than fixating, to be sure. He offered his arm, and I perhaps leaned a little too heavily upon it, for he added, “That is, if you’re up for it. How are you feeling?”
“Exhausted,” I said. “And sick. But I want to come.”
“Then we’ll stop at home first,” he said. “Because I’m sure you haven’t allowed yourself a moment to eat in the past day. And whether or not this healing of yours helps out in that regard, it certainly isn’t a substitute for a good cake.”
Between his soothing voice, easy questions, and optimistic plans, Mr. Kent’s foremost concern for the entire carriage ride seemed to be my comfort. I appreciated the warm gesture as the cold, indifferent London streets streamed by my window, but the moment he handed me out of the carriage, his touch brought to mind his disconcerting behavior last night. It seemed such a small matter after all we’d been through, but whether he saw through my disguise and put on an act to have fun with it, or that was simply a hasty excuse to cover his mistake, it planted a worrisome seed in my mind. Perhaps lying came easier to him than I thought.
As I climbed the stairs to the Kents’, wondering if there was anyone in London entirely trustworthy, Tuffins answered the door—and my question. And as he let us into the entrance hall, he gave me a bit of news I would not have believed coming from anyone else.
“A Miss Alice Grey is here to see you.”
The name took me a moment to comprehend, and even then I needed confirmation. “Miss Grey?”
Tuffins nodded politely at the stupid question. “She arrived looking rather distressed and insisted upon waiting for your return.”
“Who is Miss Grey?” Mr. Kent asked.
“My former governess.”
“Well, Tuffins can send her away—”
“No—” I interrupted. After one year of silence, with no visits or letters, she somehow tracks and finds me here. Not to mention her appearances in those recent vivid dreams of mine. It was too strange. There had to be some meaning to it. “Mr. Kent, I don’t think I can accompany you on the search today.”
Perplexed, he gaped at me. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I must speak to her. It’s important.”
He frowned and nodded slowly, seeing my resolve. Or perhaps seeing signs that I truly needed rest. “I—very well. I’ll send word if I learn anything.”
Once I regained my ability to walk, Tuffins showed me into the drawing room, where I once again lost it.
“Evelyn,” the visitor breathed. It was her in the flesh, not another apparition in a dream. Her footsteps ruffled the carpet. Tears streamed from her face, splashing down onto her blue dress. She rushed over and embraced me, looking worse than she had
in my dreams: sallow, bruised skin framing her bloodshot eyes; nose and cheeks a bright pink; loose strands of her red hair messily stuck to her brow. She was only twenty-eight, but whatever she had been through seemed to have stolen away that last bit of youth. Frantically, she clutched my shoulders and pleaded, “Where is Rose?”
I could not answer. My hesitation seemed to nearly destroy her. “Evelyn!”
“She’s . . .” I wanted to tell her, but I lost the words.
My governess closed her eyes with a sigh. She sank gracefully into the nearest settee and clutched her hat in painful meditation. “He still has her?” she asked, looking back up at me steadily.
Surprised, I peered deep into her grave eyes as I collapsed next to her. I nodded, and she pushed herself back up to her feet, pacing to and fro, weaving around the tables and chairs until I broke the silence. “Miss Grey?”
She stopped and looked at me, her eyes wet. “P-please, please forgive me—I am so sorry!”
I gaped up at her, unable to imagine what she could have possibly done.
“I—I tried to send warnings about Rose! I truly did!” The words poured out of her mouth so fast she started to cough on them. “But there was no way! They intercepted every letter, and no one would help me.”
“I saw you,” she continued, back to wildly pacing, hands in the air. “In your dreams. We spoke. You could discern me, Evelyn! Do you remember? Oh dear, I’m not describing this well at all. This must all sound absolutely mad!”
“I have been well acquainted with the mad lately, believe me,” I said. “I remember the dreams, although I only heard fragments. Are you saying you had the same dreams?”
Miss Grey sighed in apparent relief and gingerly sat back down. “It’s more than that. I’ll explain everything. All I ask is that you listen first, and then call me a lunatic and send me on my way.”
“I would never do such a thing.”
“I didn’t believe my parents would, either. That was the last time I told anyone about this, and it—well, it did not go as I wished.”
She cleared her throat and clenched her hands in her lap as her eyes met mine. Her breathing slowed. She began much as Mr. Braddock had. (Not that I was thinking of him.) Her tone had the same sad resignation: “Since I was fifteen years old, I’ve had an affliction. Whenever I fall asleep, I have very particular dreams about people I’ve never met. I used to believe they were parts of my imagination or characters from stories, because I would witness them perform extraordinary feats. Things no human can conceivably do.”