The Dastardly Miss Lizzie

by Viola Carr

  But those nightmare images stuck, clammy like a wet shroud. Locked in a padded cell with Mr. Fairfax. Why? It had felt so real. And Lizzie, taking control of her body like that. With her, Eliza, trapped inside, watching. Powerless to escape.

  Was that how Lizzie always felt?

  Chilled, she clambered from the bath and huddled in a warm towel. On the table, her wineglass glimmered like blood. She grabbed it and swallowed. Insipid, weaker than the gin Lizzie liked. Compared to her elixir? Like lolly water. She gulped again, heedless of spilling.

  Whilst you were so ill. Byron Starling’s slip of the tongue at Finch’s Pharmacy. His expression of horror.

  That awful asylum cell wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.

  And Byron and Marcellus Finch were the key. Marcellus had evaded the truth, and not for the first time. But when Marcellus lied, it was always for a compelling reason—and that reason was invariably Edward Hyde.

  Starling’s face in that awful vision, still with both eyes, no scars or milky irises. Early twenties at most. Which made her . . . what, fifteen?

  The year before Lizzie was born.

  Lizzie flashed back into view, bending over naked by the hearth, squeezing out her dripping hair. “What a scene! D’you see his face? Priceless!”

  Eliza edged back, clutching her towel.

  “Not nice being trapped inside, is it? How’d you like them apples?” Lizzie swung her hair, firelight gilding her wet skin. She was beautiful. Terrible, a goddess to be placated. And Eliza’s heart shrank in terror.

  “Why did Mr. Fairfax lock us up?” she whispered. “What did you do?”

  Lizzie crowed rich laughter. “Why don’t you ask Starling? He’s eager to start that conversation again.”

  “Don’t be crude.” Eliza’s bravery tasted false. “You can’t fool me. I’d have remembered that.”

  Lizzie stretched out on the hearth rug and luxuriated, wriggling her shoulders. “Ask Eddie why he gave you the elixir, then. I dare you.”

  Eliza gritted her teeth. How could they ever resolve this? How could either of them be free? “Why am I always the last to know? Curse you, Lizzie, this is my life!”

  “Is it just?” Lizzie jumped up, rage like gunflash. “We’ll see about that!” And she dived for the cluttered shelf, and grabbed a glass phial.

  Not the elixir. The wolf cure potion.

  “No!” Eliza jumped forwards, her towel falling. “That’s not finished. It’s dangerous. You can’t—”

  Grinning, Lizzie popped the cork and chugged the vile blue brew down.

  Eliza yelled. Lizzie hurled the phial away. Glass smashed into the hearth, shards and blue droplets flying—and in a triumphant flash, Lizzie vanished.

  Silence. Just the crackling fire.

  My life. Her words mocked her, shouted back in Lizzie’s voice. This is my life, too.

  Trembling, she crept into bed. The smooth sheets were cool, the quilt soft. Her muscles creaked with exhaustion, but she lay rigid and shaking. She couldn’t relax. Visions of those fleshy white mouse-lumps spiraled, threatening. Separate forms. Transcendental identities. Twins.

  Her veins itched, scoured by new and disturbing sensations. Was it the dark alchemy, eating like acid at her blood? Or was the whole episode just a madwoman’s black fancy?

  Sick laughter choked her. She’d wanted to re-test the mixture. Here was her chance. Those mice had taken weeks to grow their fleshy counterparts—but in controlled conditions, with nutrition and care. What would happen to her, with none of those?

  And what in the meantime? She didn’t dare imagine. The last time Lizzie had tried one of Quick’s concoctions, it hadn’t ended well. What a fool Eliza was.

  The candles flickered low. The clock ticked, interminable. Lizzie didn’t return.

  Surely, sleep would never come.

  But it did. And she dreamed again of Bethlem Asylum, her wrist chained to the wall in that greasy padded cell, skittering rats and the stench of excrement and the ragged howls of madmen.

  Sunlight stabs in the barred window, and I claw at my stinking shift, screaming at that tiny patch of outside world to have mercy. It’s me, Eliza. I’m not insane. Let me out!

  It comes out as gibberish. Just groans and whines, like a wounded animal.

  The door bolts clunk. I crouch, ready to fight.

  But it isn’t Starling or Fairfax. It’s Remy Lafayette. He smiles at me, tears shimmering as blue as that lost electric sky.

  NOTHING LESS THAN A LIFER

  A FINGER ON ELIZA’S LIPS JERKED HER AWAKE.

  She recoiled into her pillows, blinded by daylight. “Who’s there—mmph!” A hand fastened over her mouth. A long-fingered hand, oddly familiar.

  She struggled, but the sheets trapped her. The weight of a body. Cold sweat broke out. Was it the book thief? She’d be killed in her bed. Or dishonored by a ham-fisted robber, or . . . Images of Malachi Todd chewed her nerves, that greedy flash of steel. “Mmph! Blmphm!”

  “Don’t mean no harm.” A man’s voice, strange but not strange. “Don’t you know me?”

  At last, her eyes adjusted. Wild black hair, mismatched dark eyes.

  Oh, my. She froze. Johnny eased his hand away. “There y’are. Quiet-like. No trouble.”

  Breathless, she scooted back, dragging the sheets up to her chin. Bluff. Pretend I don’t know him. Get him out of my house. “How did you get in here?”

  He just shrugged. Stupid question. Johnny was a thief, after all. Tall, loose-limbed, wearing a dusty coat whose hue transcended the word yellow. A pleasant enough sort, if you enjoyed underfed rogues who washed less often than they lied.

  Eliza shivered, the unfamiliar bedroom no comfort. Had Johnny known about her and Lizzie all along? How had he found this house? Had he followed her? Watched her after all, that morning she thought she’d slipped from his bed unnoticed?

  “Well, I’ve no idea what you want, but—”

  “Please.” His eyes held black desperation. “I wouldn’t come here, and I ain’t asking questions. God knows it’s none of mine. But Eddie’s in trouble and I need Lizzie right now.”

  Her throat parched, a sour prickly taste. That dark alchemy mixture Lizzie had so triumphantly quaffed. What would the effects be? Would her elixir even work anymore?

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Ain’t for a lady’s ears, miss. Begging your pardon.”

  Such a pretty thing, whispered her father’s voice gleefully in her ear. Let me show you . . .

  She didn’t want to know. But the thought of Crane’s letter to Hyde itched, unresolved . . . and an idea struck her. One hundred pounds was a lot of money. Too much for Hyde to entrust to any grotty reprobate who happened by. “Answer me this, then. Did you deliver a sum of money for Mr. Hyde last evening? To Red Lion Square?”

  A fluid shrug.

  Aha! “Did the lady there say for whom it was intended?”

  “Some cove she called ‘that dirty-minded eavesdropper.’ “ The ghost of a sly, attractive grin. “For you, that’s free.”

  “Generous of you, sir,” she said coldly. “And did you lay eyes on this lascivious listener?”

  A velvety head-shake. “Offered to stay and cosh the bastard, but she wouldn’t have it.”

  “I see. I’m afraid she died last night. Murdered.”

  “Oh.” He looked faintly incensed. “Waste o’ coin, then.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Silence stretched. Warm skin, stroking fingers, the sweet scent of flowers . . .

  Awkwardly, Johnny stood, cracking multiple knuckles. He didn’t seem to know where to look. “I’ll linger out front,” he said, and silent as a breath, he slipped out.

  Eliza banged her head back against the bed frame. Damn it. She should have yelled for Brigham, called the police, had the scoundrel arrested.

  But Eddie was in trouble. And she knew what she must do.

  Stiff with dread, she padded to the mantel. Her skin tingled, oddly eager. On the shelf,
her elixir hissed and beckoned. The warm black glass slicked her palm, the sweet-bitter scent making her shudder and groan . . .

  Squoink! I slip out like a wet fish, a wrench of such sheer pleasure that I cry out, my breath on fire. Colors glare, over-bright, the chill on my naked skin a delight. She’s barely swallowed a mouthful, and for good measure, I chug the rest, and it’s like gin and absinthe and molten gold, boiling into my veins to make me immortal.

  Whatever that dark alchemy hellbrew did to us, I like it. Ha ha! Our own living experiment. Where’s your sense of adventure, Eliza? Will I get my own greasy pale mouse-thing, d’you think, as the days go by? Or will it simply become easier to cast Eliza off, to ignore her god-rotted disdain that scratches in my bones? That prickly blue mixture could be a godsend. Pity there’s no more.

  I un-knot my red dress, the one she used to carry our stuff. Looks like she dragged it backwards through a bush, and her corset is antsy tight like usual, but it’ll do. My hair’s a mess, but I leave it. No time to waste.

  Cane in hand, I slink out. Corridor’s empty, floorboards warped with age. The stairs creak as I descend. This place stinks of alchemy and dead animals in jars, the echoes of dead scientists’ whispers, the sighs of sleepers long passed on.

  Ooh. I shiver, delighted. Fucking house is haunted, Eliza. Told you so.

  But her nightmare of the asylum slides over my tongue like oil. What did I do, indeed? Fact is, I don’t rightly recall, despite how I taunted her. But it can’t be good.

  I make it to the front door. Don’t see Charlie Brigham, by God, and what sort of a butler d’you call yourself? That stain under the rug is faded, but I still see it. Don’t think you can hide, you sinister stain of guilt, you. Oho! My mother, bones askew, crimson trickling from her lips as she fights to breathe, move, stay alive. Her lover’s shadow lurches on the wall, terrifying as it treads closer.

  Did you beg for your life, Madeleine? Did you curse him to hell? Or did you forgive him with your last breath for loving you to death?

  I imagine them, their bodies entwining in sweat. It makes me think of Rose, his duchessa, his pretty thing, and then I recall poor dead Turquoise Tim and I don’t want to think about Eddie no more.

  All he ever wanted is someone to love him. Madeleine didn’t. Look what happened.

  Outside, garish late-afternoon sun waters my eyes. Johnny’s waiting at the fence, jigging up and down like an impatient beggar. No time to ask how he knew, or what the hell he’s doing breaking into Eliza’s house looking for me. Thank Christ. Don’t want no talk of Eliza and her goddamn respectable life. That over-sized palace, her servants and fancy clothes and Remy’s sapphire the size of a fucking goose egg on her finger.

  I pull him in for a kiss, and he kisses me back, but it’s absent, half-hearted. I shove him. “Shy all of a sudden? Who are you, and what’d you do with the real Wild Johnny?”

  But I can already hear what he’s thinking. How will this work, when you’re her and she’s you and your heart lives in two places? Why d’you even want me, when you can have all that? D’you even love me, Lizzie? How can you, when SHE’S watching? Rage burns bitter in my mouth. Not warm-sweet-bitter like elixir. Cold-dark-bitter, like hatred.

  Johnny sighs. “Lizzie, you gotta come with. Eddie’s in trouble.”

  We set off across the square, mud sloshing in cartwheel ruts and carriages fighting for space. “What manner of trouble?”

  “Soho. A dead girl.” Johnny walks fast, gaze fixed ahead.

  I scramble to keep up. “Girls die in Soho every day.”

  “Not like this. Mrs. Fletcher’s, a streetwalker called Saucy May.”

  Oho. Inspector Fuck-face’s witness, what testified to Fancy-Britches Man. “So? What’s it to do with the price of eels?”

  “Eddie were there last night. And he can’t remember what he done.”

  His meaning sinks in, a chill like death. “What d’you mean, can’t remember? If he were that plastered, how can he have . . .”

  A tight shrug. “Dunno. But that’s the word.”

  My mouth salts, dry like prison biscuit. Saucy May seen the Slasher. Could’ve proved Eddie’s innocent. Now she’s dead. And we’ll never know.

  I grip my cane, dragon’s head hissing. If Eddie goes down, Johnny and I go with him. “Whose word? Jack friggin’ Dawkins, puttin’ it about that Eddie’s the Slasher? I’ll have his whale-arse guts for ribbons.”

  “All in good time. And without Tom o’ Nine. Jimmy ain’t laid eyes since night afore last.”

  Regent’s Circle is busy, and we cross it at a run. “Handsome Tom? A shilling he’s shacked up in some married lady’s boudoir.”

  A dark head-shake. “Tom’s in lavender. The Dodger’s making his move, Lizzie. Gotta take care of Eddie, right slick.” He leads me into a dim alley by the grim electric-fenced workhouse, where shit splashes the bricks and the groans of hungry inmates shiver through my bones. “I’ve brought one who can help. Don’t take on.”

  “Take on? Why in hell would I—” A shadow shifts, and I blunder backwards into the wall. “Jesus bleedin’ Christ.”

  Velvety darkness oozes, and shapes into a man.

  Sunshine, my father calls him. Dragged him from Newgate Prison in flames, locked him in a cage for a rainy day. Eddie’s idea of a lark. Eddie, my friends, is off his friggin’ rocker.

  The light falls on that awful, familiar face, and I can’t help a gasp of horror. The right side’s still pale and perfect, those porcelain cheekbones fresh from Eliza’s nightmares.

  The left side? A weeping, burn-scarred horror.

  Mr. Todd smiles—a lopsided thing of blackened, terrible beauty—and tips his hat. His right hand is unspoiled, stylish, terrifying. “Hello, Miss Hyde. Did you miss me?”

  THE MAN OF GENIUS

  I PULL MY SWORD, QUIVERING STEEL. “JOHNNY, WHAT the fuck?”

  Johnny lays a hand on my arm. “He don’t mean nothing—”

  “He’s a friggin’ maniac! Lucky he ain’t already splashed the walls with our blood.”

  “Think, princess. The Dodger’s coming for us. We need to know if Eddie done it. Want an expert on murder?” Johnny jerks his thumb at Todd. “Here he is.”

  “If he done it?” My blade wavers, mirroring my twisting guts. “You think Eddie’s guilty?”

  “Can’t ask Saucy May, now can we? You got a better idea?”

  “Do carry on discussing me as if I’m absent,” says Todd carelessly. “It’s positively enlightening.” He adjusts diamond-pinned cuffs, his ruined left hand crackling. Johnny must’ve fixed him up, because that rotted Sunshine-suit is gone, in favor of a black hat and trousers, and a sleek coat of gorgeous claret red. His crimson hair springs in unruly clumps, as if a cruel child hacked at a doll with rusted scissors.

  I back off. “Stay away.”

  But Todd don’t advance. He just looks. Famished for color, thirsty for rainbow sights. Devouring my red frills, Johnny’s yellow coat, the sparkle of light along my blade, my rippling mahogany hair. His hungry eyes glitter, lunatic fairy green.

  I feel naked. I want to cover up. Punch his corpse-prince face and yell keep your god-rotted eyes to yourself, crackbrain, because all that staring is like making love, and I don’t want him fucking me.

  He sighs, enraptured. “Those dusky fuchsia ruffles are practically edible. Extra-spectral, you know. And all the better beside antimony yellow!” He devours Johnny’s glaring eyesore of a coat like a starving man would food. “Truly a spectacular shade, sir. Poisonous, you’re aware. Too much lead shrivels your brain, not to mention other valuable parts. You ought to take care.”

  His voice rasps, as if the fire has ruined more than his face. Rot my arse red if I’ll admire him, but lesser folk would’ve died from what he’s suffered. The undamaged half only makes him more horrible. And inside, Eliza howls and begs me to look away.

  So I stare a little longer. Hmm. Still a looker, Todd, even after that fire’s taken its vengeance. Beauty corrupted, a
priceless artwork besmirched with filth. That good half—skin still smooth, those fragile cheekbones and pointed chin—it overlays a messy echo of pain. A façade, over a mass of frightful scars.

  I know that feeling.

  Truth is, he’s just the cove I need. Eliza can’t be trusted. When she examines Saucy May’s corpse for the police, d’you think she’ll do the right thing by Eddie, the way she sneers and calls him “killer”? Not bloody likely.

  As for Inspector Hoity-Toity, he ain’t no Royal Society nitwit, but in these days of rampant sedition and sorcerers’ lies, the crushers are nervous as nelly about civic unrest. They’d screw the King of Rats on less than a whore’s say-so before you can yell threat to public safety.

  Mr. Todd, au contraire, has a score of bloodied reasons for not involving the crushers. And Johnny’s right: if anyone can read a madman’s intent in his leavings, it’s this crimson-haired loon.

  A smile curls my lips. How’s that, Eliza? Think I can’t collect evidence, too? Fat good your lenses and swabs and electro-spectrical gadgets have done so far. I ain’t dropping Eddie in the cess just because Todd gives you the shivering nasties.

  It’s funny. I feel . . . apart from her, somehow. As if she’s faded into distance. Is that prickly blue mouse potion working its magic? Truth is, I don’t care. Now, Miss Lizzie, is the time to have some fun—but be on your guard, lest Todd cast his dark enchantment on you.

  I eye Johnny coolly, a little brassed off at his front, to be honest. For sure, Todd’s an expert on murder. A useful idea. But if Eddie’s guilty—and the shift in Johnny’s crooked gaze tells me he fears that’s so—then who better than Todd to put Eddie out of his misery?

  A killer to end a killer. An executioner. Smart lad, my Johnny, damn his pretty eyes.

  “All right,” says I, grudgingly resheathing my blade, “but he’s back in his cage as soon as we’re sorted. Todd, we’ve a murder scene to suss out. You in?”

  Todd’s eyes light up. “Capital. Most excellent. Kind of you, I’m sure, since you got me into this mess in the first place. Your generosity in releasing me is heartwarming.”

  Now we get to it. “Let’s get one thing straight. She got your lunatic arse arrested, not me.”