by Anne Mallory
“I don’t know.” Her cheeks took on a brighter glow, one that made her look even more delectable.
Telly bustled inside. It would have been decidedly awkward had she entered just one minute earlier.
He watched Abigail run a hand down her hair in an attempt to calm herself. Sometimes he felt as if he knew her better than he knew himself.
Telly helped Abigail remove her clothing, which although a magnificent sight, left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could touch her, miraculously, but not enough. Not enough to forget what or where he was. Where was he? Would he be in this cursed state forever? Or once the men who had taken him finished doing whatever it was they were doing, would he disappear as Abigail had said that some spirits did?
Spirits like his brother’s.
The shoulder cuffs of her dress caught on her wrists as Telly tugged the gown from her. Straps of cloth tying her in. He rubbed his wrists. How was he going to discover where he was being held without putting Abigail in more danger? Abigail seemed determined to help him even considering what he had done to her for the last few years.
He watched her, absently rubbing his wrists. Shackles that bound him in life, death, and in between.
Abigail’s eyes met his and her gaze shifted to the wrists he irritably stroked, her emotions reflected in her eyes. Pity, determination. He dropped his hands and paced to the window, pressing into the drapes in order to look through the panes, his back to her. He ignored the low conversation behind him, instead absorbed in his own morbid thoughts.
He heard the door close and a light hand ran down his back. “Telly said that she identified more than a dozen places that start with M-A-L or have that letter sequence in the name. Mostly pubs and taverns. We can search tomorrow.”
He wondered if tomorrow would be too late, but he simply nodded, the innate concern for her that had never disappeared—instead overlaid with anger and bitterness these past years—blossomed fully again.
“She said that neither she nor the man who helped her read the signs were aware of any hospitals or asylums being near, but we can take the carriage around to check at some point when mother and Mrs. Browning aren’t aware. They would ask too many questions otherwise.”
“Why do you put up with her?”
“She’s my mother.”
He turned to her. “No, not your mother, though she is unfortunate for you as well. I meant Mrs. Browning.”
She stepped back and returned to her dressing table, lifting a brush and running the tines along her palm. Something tickled at the edges of his mind. “She has provided us with entrance to society. I think most would ask why she puts up with us.”
“You could do better.”
A mocking little smile worked along her mouth before she turned her back fully to him, hiding her face. “No, we couldn’t. Mrs. Browning is far more than we could hope for.”
He frowned and she dropped the brush, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
“Do you seek to argue?” she asked.
Did he? Yes, he usually did when it came to her. Far better to argue and be angry than to give in to other, more insidious feelings.
“Don’t you tire of it?” She wiped a hand along the looking glass, and he could see her reflected face, lost and searching, sad. “Wish that things could be different?”
“Things are different,” he said automatically.
She laughed without humor. “Yes. But for how long?”
“What do you mean?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you know something about what will happen to me?”
Perhaps she had been lying this whole time—this dream-like incarnation of Abigail—stringing him along, knowing exactly what would happen to him. Her tales of spirits echoing the real Abigail, merely hiding the fact that his body was already dying. That he would disappear to wherever it was that spirits disappeared.
He had never been fond of the notion of death, personally. It seemed like giving up, of failing. Of something he couldn’t control. Like his brother’s death. Unnecessary. A circumstance he should have been able to change.
Her eyes closed and she once more fingered the brush on the table. “I merely meant that nothing stays the same. Everything changes. Nothing can be counted upon.”
“Plenty can be counted on. Prestige, ancestry, that Parliament will always produce brilliant men and jackasses.”
“You are so caught up in lineage. You use it at every opportunity to degrade or to compliment.”
“It is a vital component in our world. That should hardly be a surprise to someone who walks within it.” He leveled a look at her through the shifting glass, the slight imperfections of the glass causing her reflection to ripple.
“Don’t be a boor, Valerian.” She looked down at the table.
The spike of pleasure from her use of his name caught him by surprise again. The spike turned sour as he pondered a response.
“What difference does it make?” He grit his teeth, lying. It had made all the difference in the world between them. “You should hardly be worried about your lineage. It is safe enough.”
Her head shot up sharply.
He pretended to ignore the reaction. “Or perhaps your mind is telling you to wait. Saying you are not ready for marriage. In which case”—he wiped a hand along his leg—“I think you should listen to that instinct and not get betrothed so spuriously.”
He thought that quite brilliant actually. He himself had been pushing away his betrothal for more than a year. He sometimes felt as if he could continue to do so indefinitely, though he knew his father might try to force him one of these days.
She laughed again, and once more her voice held no humor. Her eyes dropped to the brush so that he could not read them through the glass. “Mother would be supremely unsupportive of that plan, of course.”
“She can’t make you marry.” A silly response as he recognized that he would do his duty eventually as well. Every man of his circle must.
“No.” There was something about the hitch in the word, as if there were an unstated “but” attached.
“The last time I checked, the bride did need to consent.”
“Consent to marriage,” she said darkly.
He narrowed eyes at her. “Yes, what else?”
She waved a hand. “Marriage, of course.”
“What are you hiding, Abigail?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do you continuously hint at something as if you want me to know.”
“Want you to know? That is rich. You are the last person with whom I’d care to share my secrets.”
“Why? I’ve kept them, have I not?”
She walked brusquely to the bed. “We will go searching tomorrow, see Basil the next day, and hopefully figure out what the devil this is all about—to borrow your phrase. Perhaps find your body, set you to rights once more, and allow you to continue your one-man terror campaign of the ton.”
“I don’t know if I should feel pleased by your compliment that I can terrorize the ton single-handedly or annoyed that you are ignoring my question.” The spike of anger that covered another emotion caused him to cross his arms.
She said nothing, didn’t turn around.
“Abigail—”
She turned tired eyes to him, cutting him off before he could formulate what he wanted to say. “No. We can argue tomorrow. Please. I can’t do this now. I need to sleep.”
Anger combined with the stranger, soft emotions she always provoked, and jumbled the words in his head.
“Very well.”
He watched her fall asleep, and when her breath evened, he moved next to her and curled around her heat, feeling her even breaths against his unmoving, deadened chest.
When Abigail woke, Valerian was gone. Skulking about the house, no doubt. She stretched and then stared pensively at the ceiling. He had kissed her last night. Actually kissed her.
The kiss had been much better last night than the first time he’d kissed her. Though the first time she’d only been thi
rteen, and he fifteen, so she didn’t think it quite a fair comparison. It was hard to countenance that the emotions evoked at thirteen had been less confusing than her emotions now. She had thought her world turned completely on end then.
She lifted the covers and swung her feet from the bed. She was surprised Telly hadn’t been in to wake her already. The light had already started to seep past the drapes—around the edges that hadn’t been tightly fastened.
She paused for a moment to listen to the bustling of the servants going about their tasks, a muted conversation somewhere in the hall, the birds chirping a violent melody outside.
Aunt Effie sat in her corner, an almost pensive cast to her face as she raised her teacup. She usually was chattering incessantly by this time of the morn.
“Is something amiss, Aunt Effie?” she asked absently, not expecting an answer as she pushed from the bed to the floor.
“No.”
Abigail landed heavily on her feet, jerking to stare at the apparition who suddenly smiled bat-tily and waved her teacup. “Just thinking about my lemons. Dreadful winter. Spring is coming though. The blooms are so lovely. The lemons so tantalizing. And soon, soon it will be summer.”
Abigail continued to stare. Aunt Effie had a very rigid routine—she had since the day Abigail had moved into the house years ago and adopted her as an “aunt.” Never had she said the like.
“I’ve always loved summer,” Abigail carefully replied, not knowing what type of response she might receive, if any.
“Oh yes, dear.” The spirit looked directly at her. “I’m sure that you have. Lovely memories, yes?”
Through her shock Abigail acknowledged that most of her summer memories were good ones. Romping with Valerian, and then waiting for him to return from Eton those few precious years between his start there and the end of their friendship.
“I’m sure that you will have many more, dear.” Effie raised her cup to drink, watching her over the edge.
“I…” Abigail wet her lips. “Why are you suddenly chatting with me like this, Aunt Effie?”
The spirit tilted her head and opened her mouth to answer.
Valerian burst through the door. “There is a man downstairs asking for you. I dislike the look of him.”
“Really, Valerian, you promised to help me with my suitors—”
“He’s not a suitor, Abigail.”
Something in his tone made her pause.
“Dreadful winter.” Aunt Effie shook her head and started chatting about tea and Mabel, the same words she’d always used, the same actions she’d always performed. As if nothing had changed.
Abigail frowned, but turned to Valerian. “I don’t understand. You mean a man paying a social visit? Or a constable?”
She thought of the stolen ledger. Did it count if you only had possession of the stolen item for a few short minutes?
“Neither. Hurry and get dressed, then leave down the back stairs.”
She stared at him. “Whatever for?”
“I told you, I don’t like the look of him. Your mother sent Mrs. Browning a note saying you would not be attending your appointments this morning due to sickness. This man appeared soon after.”
Fear trickled through her, but she clamped it down before it could spread to panic. “What does the man look like?”
“Small, brown-haired.” He waved a hand. “Barely descript. I’d never notice him in a crowd. But I don’t like his eyes.”
“Does he carry a cane?” Please, no.
Valerian’s eyes narrowed. “Silver-handled, shape of a snake.”
The room tilted.
“Abigail? Abigail, what the devil?”
Yes, those were the appropriate words. She looked up to see Valerian holding her arms, steadying her.
“You know the man. Who is he?”
She laughed a little hysterically. “Oh, no one important.”
There was a knock on the door. “Miss?”
“Tell your maid to help you escape,” he demanded.
She opened her mouth, but the handle turned, and her mother appeared in the door instead, brows furrowed.
“Abigail, you must dress quickly,” her mother said.
“No.”
“Abigail!”
“Mother,” she whispered. “Why?”
Her mother didn’t ask how she knew. “Because you need help. If you already know who is below, then your problem never disappeared. You lied to me.”
Abigail shook her head. “Please.”
Her mother looked away. “It is for the best, Abigail. Believe me. Everything will be better. You will be happier. Remember when you were happy?”
“I’m happy now, Mother.”
“No, you haven’t been happy for a long time, Abigail. Let him make this right.”
“You can make it right by making him leave.” Her voice rose, a hysterical edge to the words. “You know what he wants to do.”
Something passed over her mother’s face. “I told him he couldn’t. He’s just going to speak with you. Maybe do a few exercises.”
“Abigail, tell me what is going on. Right now,” Valerian’s voice said in her ear.
“No.” She answered to both. “Send him away, Mother.”
“No, Abigail.” Her mother lifted her head. “Mrs. Browning has already begun to suspect something is off. She is asking questions that I cannot answer.”
Coldness washed through her. “This was your idea, Mother. This whole thing was your plan. What are you going to do if I don’t speak with him? Take us back to the country? Leave society? Your obsession, not mine.”
Her mother’s lips tightened and her eyes clouded. “It is for your own good. Can you not see what a better life you will have?”
Abigail wanted to sob. “Yes, I can see what you want, Mother. And it is working well enough as it is. Don’t do this.”
“It will help.” The firm conviction in her mother’s voice stopped her for a moment. “Believe me. All you have to do is rid yourself of the curse, and you will feel—”
“Much, much better.”
Her heart stopped as the brown-haired, brown-eyed, non-descript man moved around her mother and through the open door. There was a sharp, calculating look in his eyes, and in the confident, slick way he moved, tapping his cane to a beat that demanded attention and obedience.
“Who is he?” Valerian demanded.
“It has been a long time, Miss Smart, has it not?” He placed a satchel down near the dressing table and began unbuttoning his left cuff, curling it up.
“Dr. Myers,” her mother said softly. “You should be waiting in the drawing room.”
The doctor shot her mother an oily smile. “But I know Miss Smart quite well already. I didn’t think she would mind.”
“I do mind. Get out.”
“Oh, so feisty still.” He rolled his right cuff. “It has been far too long, Miss Smart.”
“Mother, tell him to get out.”
“Now, Mrs. Smart, you know that this is for her own good. She will be far better served if you left us alone. I will keep to my promise.” He smiled. It was not a nice smile, but her mother nodded and turned to leave, not meeting Abigail’s eyes.
“Mother, I will never forgive you.”
She hesitated in the doorway. “Someday, Abigail, you will thank me.” She closed the door. The lock turned on the other side.
“Smart, answer me, who is he?” Valerian shook her arms, trying to gain an answer.
Effie gave a sympathetic wail in the corner and slipped through the wall.
“Dr. Myers, you should leave. I have not invited you into my bedroom, which is beyond socially egregious.”
“Oh, but we must get reacquainted, Miss Smart. Far better for you to remember what you are missing out on by not giving yourself over to me for a full treatment.” His eyes strayed to the bed, and she gripped Valerian’s arm for a second before tearing herself away.
“I find your treatments foul, just as I find everything
else about you.” She strode to her dressing table, seemingly putting things in order on top while trying to find a useful weapon. Never losing sight of the intruder through the looking glass. It was always a very bad idea to take her eyes away from Dr. Myers.
“Shall we start with the most boring part of this intervention?” He walked toward her and she unconsciously backed away. He smiled and pulled her dressing chair away from the table and sat in it, leaning his cane against his leg and his bag on top of the table. “The questions?”
She said nothing, moving away to the other side of the room, looking for anything that might aid her.
“Are you still seeing ghosts, Miss Smart?”
“No, only jackasses.”
Valerian circled the man, examining him. He looked up sharply at the mention of ghosts and wisely, thankfully, remained silent.
“That is not what your mother thinks. Seems she believes that the treatments I used at our last meeting didn’t cure you of the evil.”
“Well, Mother has been quite stressed lately. The season will be coming to a close in a month. She is feeling the pressure.”
“Ah, yes.” He smiled. “Pressure for you to marry well. To secure a place in society.”
She didn’t answer.
“So interesting, your case.” He opened his bag and began rummaging through the contents. “My father knew your mother when she was a child blooming into a woman. Lovely girl, I was told. Much like yourself.”
Abigail spotted her shears on the bed table beneath her book and grabbed them, hiding them in her skirts.
He pulled something from the bag, a strap, long, leather and whipcord thin. “I did promise your mother that I would not perform the final test, but she knows it will eventually be necessary. She just couldn’t bring herself to give me permission. Not that I require permission, necessarily.” He smiled. “But then, if you admit everything to me, perhaps it will not be necessary after all.”
“No. There is nothing to say, and I won’t let you.”
“Ah, innocence still. Lovely.” He smiled, satisfied. “So, Miss Smart, did you ever stop seeing the spirits or did you just convince your mother that you had? You know that I never believed you.”
“I know you didn’t,” she spat. “You didn’t care anyway, just wanted to give the ‘full’ treatment. You are a deranged lunatic, far more crazy than I.”