by Viola Carr
Her eyelids fluttered, and the world shimmered to white.
We’re tucked up in bed, stiff sheets our chains, white gossamer curtains our prison now. This fine house stinks of walls. Same as the asylum, padding smeared with blood, only now they’re dressed in fancy clothes like a bad actress in silks. Fairfax has released me—for now—but it’s all for appearances’ sake. A civilized façade.
I thrash, restless sweat soaking our nightgown, a futile effort to shake her off. It’s midnight, or long past, but we’ve slept precious little. This thing in my head—this “Lizzie” who scratches like a wildcat in my chest, demanding to be free—never sleeps.
Below, footsteps pace in the study, thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP, the uneven gait of a monster.
Lizzie grips my muscles—a demon possessing me, a creeping cramp I can’t shake—and drags our body out of bed.
I don’t want to go. Don’t want to hear. But she makes us. Tiptoes out into the stairwell, down to the landing. Below, yellow light leaks beneath the study door.
“—the only way, old bean. The full dose, say what?”
I want to jam my palms over my ears. Nothing good will come of this . . . but the old compulsion warms our blood, giving Lizzie strength. The treacherous, ineluctable need to know.
“Damn you, I never wanted this for her.” A second voice, rough and rich like old whisky. “Dresses, suitors, fancy bloody balls at society houses. That’s what should trouble her. Or your god-rotted science, for all I give a damn. Just get it through your smoke-addled skull: I want her ordinary.”
“But Edward,” comes the reply, “Edward, you obstinate old jackal, look at the poor girl and tell me we’ve got any choice! For once, listen to what Jedediah is telling you.”
A snarl, fit for a beast. “A conceited arse with airs above his paltry talents. Fuck him.”
“Certainly.” A nervous giggle. “Quite the thing to do, old bean. Go with God, say what? But he’s right about this, eh? We must get this thing out of her. You saw the mess she made when we let it take its pleasure. That pretty tutor of hers might eat fluxions for breakfast with the best of them, but he’ll never get his depth perception back.” The scrape of a match, the sharp scent of a cigarette. “You know the rage only gets worse. Remember Madeleine.”
A crash, something heavy hurled, a roar of rage and frustration. “Think I’ve forgotten, you arrogant skunk? Think I don’t know how bad it gets—”
“Then stop prevaricating!” A snap, as if something mild inside the fellow has melted away, leaving only steel. “For pity’s sake, she’s as good as my daughter, too.”
A throbbing beat of silence.
And then he growls, a deep-throated threat. “She can’t ever know why. Not a god-rotted word, Marcellus. Not ever.”
A deep exhale. “You know your secrets are safe with me.”
“Tomorrow, then. Midnight. Brew me your finest. Make it so she won’t remember. And if she ever finds out, I swear by the Devil’s bleeding balls I’ll . . .”
. . . I’ll kill you myself.
Around Eliza, the air shrieked and tore apart.
Paradox, whispered a ghostly Seymour Locke in her ear. Open a rift to the past . . . reverse every decision you’ve ever made . . .
Simultaneity games . . . The aether doesn’t like it . . .
Light flashed, bang!
She stood in a darkened square. Mist curled over the cobbles, wreathing the wrought-iron park fence. The air smelled fresh, exhilarating. Stars glittered through broken clouds, and a gaslight shed a frosty golden halo over a row of neat town houses. Four stories, brick chimneys, white plaster façades.
Her house.
In the upstairs window, a candle burned, waiting.
Footsteps, approaching from the mist like a dream. Uneven, one light and one heavy. Click CLICK, click CLICK . . .
A man, wrapped in a greatcloak, lopsided shoulders hunched. His hat was pulled low, shadowing his hooked nose. A sweet whiff of alchemy drifted in his wake. He clutched an object under one arm—a package? a bottle?—and mumbled as he limped by, an off-key snatch of song. “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive-oh . . .”
“Father?” Her whisper was hoarse. Behind her back, she grasped something hard and cold. Lizzie’s blade. Her hope for the future.
He halted. Turned. Glanced up.
Storm-gray eyes, her own reflection stark in their depths.
He lurched back, an awkward stumble. He looked young. Confused. Fearful. “What fresh madness, by God . . .”
“Father.” The lump in her throat strangled her words. Stab him. Cut his throat. Smash the bottle to the cobbles. Scream for the police, cry assault, have him dragged away. Anything, except let him carry on. “It’s me, Eliza. I can’t explain. I only . . .”
“Never explain, m’darling.” Hyde laughed, a rich and hearty sound, the licorice scent of absinthe strong on his breath. A crooked, handsome not-quite-gentleman, with a devilish smile and eyes full of fire. “Never complain, and sure as hell never explain. It’s magic! Ha ha! Bleeding Christ, you remind me of your mother. You poor child. So it works, does it?” he added, suddenly fiercely cunning. “This hellbrew of Finch’s. I only want the best for you, girl.”
She smiled helplessly through hot tears. Such simple words. Only the best for you. All her life, she’d thought them the cruelest lie. But his elixir hadn’t broken her in two. She understood that now. It had saved her life—and Lizzie’s, too. Lizzie, who was part of her, for good or ill.
This is MY life. Words she’d screamed so often. Mine. As if Lizzie wasn’t the better half of her, brave and strong with a heart of tarnished gold.
“And is it good for you?” Hyde was gruff, careful. As if reluctant to cross some line. “This life of ours. Are you . . . ?” He hesitated, seemingly lost for some unfamiliar description.
The word he wanted quivered on her lips, and she set it free. “Yes, I’m happy.”
For a moment, she and Hyde watched each other. Face to face, mirror to mirror.
Then he gave an odd, bitter smile. “Disappear, then, before I’m ready. That’s what you are, isn’t it? Some beautiful poisoned dream?”
“I know why you gave me the elixir.” The words tasted strange, a new and terrible truth. “Give me, that is. Tonight.”
He grunted. “Finch flap his gums, did he? Mouthy gobshit.”
“No.” Her fingers tightened around the cold blade. Just one strike, and all this would be over. No jealousy, no turmoil, no senseless rage.
No spirit. No heart. No soul. So many empty years, alone.
“I know why you did it, Father.” Her view of him blurred, and re-formed, clear and sharp like crystal. Not a monster. Just a man. “I know. And I forgive you.”
Hyde stared at her, fire and storm. And then he laughed, and tipped his hat, and went on his crooked way.
Swiftly, silently, he climbed the wall. Hopping from windowsill to crevice to foothold with improbable, lopsided grace.
So that was how he did it. Not magic, or a conjuring trick. Just . . . Hyde.
Smiling, she watched him slip in the window, a warm breath of wind behind the curtain.
“G-good evening, sir.” Her own voice, drifting faintly from within. Young Eliza, in her best silken gown. Waiting for her mysterious guardian, tremulous with fear—but with excitement, too, and intrigue, and romance. With her life ahead of her, for good or ill. “I heard voices outside. Who was that?”
A gruff laugh. “A dream, my sweet. Just . . .”
. . . just a dream.
Someone was shaking her. Her head rattled, cobbles poking uncomfortably into her hips. It vexed her. Why was she lying in the road?
“Eliza, wake up.”
She opened her eyes. Bright sunshine glared. Crowd noise filtered in, footsteps and excited voices. New Palace Yard was clearing, Enforcers and soldiers urging the people back. Above, the clock tower chimed the first refrain of the Westminster Quarters. A quarter past eleven.
A fa
miliar shape knelt beside her. Remy, gloriously backlit by the sun, chestnut hair afire. Alongside him, an owlish Marcellus Finch, an enormous bundle of tinfoil crammed under one arm.
Remy grinned. “Welcome back.”
Beside the wooden dais, surrounded by flunkies and bodyguards, the Philosopher and Lord Beaconsfield were deep in conversation. Sir Isaac caught her eye, and winked. Or was it just a trick of the sun?
She sat up, muscles protesting. “And where exactly did I go?”
Where, indeed? A soft giggle tickled her ear, fragrant with sweetness. Startled, she glanced about. A scarlet hood, a spray of mahogany curls . . .
But Lizzie was nowhere to be seen.
MURDER IN THE BLOOD
TWO DAYS LATER, ELIZA FOUGHT THROUGH SCOTLAND Yard’s marble-paved lobby, trying to catch her quarry’s attention amongst bustling constables and civil servants. Hippocrates bounded gaily beside her, cogs whirring, and she swerved to avoid tripping. “Sir Stamford, please, a moment of your time.”
“Ahh.” The old fellow tottered on his trembling cane, squinting through his monocle with a big rheumy eye. “Who are you, young lady? And who’s your saucy friend in red? What’s your purpose in following me about? Froggie assassins, by God!”
She sighed. Two days since the catastrophic events at New Palace Yard, and the world seemed frighteningly fragile. She’d spent most of it appealing to the Commissioner—now the new Home Secretary, to whom Lord Beaconsfield had owed a favor—to no avail. “Dr. Eliza Jekyll, sir, crime scene physician. I’d like to speak with you about reinstating Harley Griffin, now that the Slasher case is going to trial—”
“Arrest that woman! She’s interfering with police business.” Reeve strode up, brandishing his cigar and smirking like a cream-fed tomcat. His usual foul brown suit had been replaced by a fawn one, for once neatly pressed. Had he found the courage to apologize to his wife? Despite his truculence, Eliza found herself hoping so.
“Is she, indeed?” Sir Stamford ducked, grabbing his teetering hat. “These radicals are shameless, sir. String ’em up, eh?”
Hipp snorted indignantly, and Eliza gritted her teeth. “This is public property, Superintendent, and I’m here as a private citizen to petition the Home Secretary. It’s none of your concern.”
But inwardly, she cursed. A pair of uniformed constables—Tweedledum and Tweedledee again—were edging up to carry out Reeve’s order. Run? Attack them? Fake a swoon?
A flustered Constable Perkins hurried up from the front desk, dark wisps awry from her usually perfect bun. “Mr. Reeve, sir, you’re needed—”
“I said, arrest her.” Reeve ignored Perkins, shoving his thumb into tartan braces. “I warned you, Doctor. Just goes to show: women never listen.”
“Attention!” Hipp squawked, madly flashing his lights, red-blue-red-blue. “Attention!”
Perkins, too, jigged like a frustrated puppy. “Sir, you really must come . . .”
Dum and Dee moved forwards. Eliza bristled. “Don’t you dare lay hands on me—”
“Sir!” shouted Perkins, red-faced. “You really need to see this.”
Dum and Dee froze. Sir Stamford goggled. Reeve scowled, and spun on his heel. “What is it, woman—Jesus Christ on a racehorse.” His cigar stub fell to the floor.
At the front desk, hands tucked neatly behind his crimson coat skirts, stood Malachi Todd.
Eliza stumbled, bones jittering. Surely he wouldn’t. Not here. Not now.
Todd just smiled, mild and terrifying. “Superintendent Reeve? Perhaps you remember me. Malachi Todd, at your service.”
Reeve just gaped, speechless. For once, Eliza sympathized.
“I understand you’ve arrested the Soho Slasher,” continued Todd blandly, brushing a dust speck from his sleeve. “Bravo, sir! Seven murders, the papers said. Admirable. But I’m afraid I can’t allow this pitiful imposter—Hyde, is it?—to claim credit for a moment longer. My conscience, you know. Such a burden in my line of work, but you know me: at all costs, I must have the truth.” Green eyes twinkled amidst ruined flesh. “You see, Hyde isn’t guilty. I am.”
Silence.
Eliza stared, dazed. At her feet, Hipp wobbled, cogs jammed in confusion. Was this an apology? A trick? Or just a chance to let her father go free, to undo the damage wrought by her failure? “Superintendent, I—”
“No doubt Dr. Jekyll shall corroborate my confession with physical evidence.” Todd waved carelessly. He didn’t look at her. “In fact, I insist on it. I owe her much, you see, and sadly she’s the only one amongst your pack of imbeciles who’s fit to deal with my case. You’ll reinstate her accordingly.”
At last, Reeve recovered, eyes gleaming with relish. “Take him down, lads,” he crowed, and actually lurched forwards to do the deed himself.
“Not so fast.” Todd’s unburned hand twitched, and in it, his razor flashed bright. Dum and Dee skidded to a halt. “Dr. Jekyll is reinstated. Say it. Oh, and your tragic Inspector Griffin as well. Or I’m afraid I must take as many of your unfortunate trained monkeys down with me as I can”—Todd licked his ruined lips, a horrid grin of promise—“and believe me, sir, my best will be plenty.”
Reeve’s face purpled, and he stifled a curse.
Eliza’s brain clogged, sluggish with shock. “Sir, he means it. Please. Do as he says—”
“Don’t be stubborn, lad.” Sir Stamford brandished his cane at Reeve. “Your petty feud worth good British lives, is it? Give the lady her due and arrest this melted miscreant at once.”
Reeve spluttered, thwarted. “Fine,” he spat, “it’s a deal.”
Todd didn’t reply. Just let the razor slip from his fingers. Ping! It hit the marble and bounced away, a deadly, shining autograph. And a gang of eager constables—Perkins included—descended upon him.
He didn’t struggle. Just let them shove and jostle and cuff him, his elbows yanked cruelly behind his back. For an instant, he caught Eliza’s eye, and his crusted lips twitched in an utterly unapologetic smile.
As he’d been in the asylum, all those months ago. Lucid. Monstrous. Terrifyingly human.
She moved dry lips, but no sound came out. Thank you.
You’re welcome.
And steadily, she turned to walk away.
A FAMOUS NAME
THE FIRE CRACKLED PLEASANTLY IN THE DRAWING room grate, a soft orange glow in the deepening twilight. Rain pattered on the window, insulating the room from the rattle and hustle of Cavendish Square.
Eliza relaxed on the chaise, head resting on Remy’s shoulder in easy silence. A cup of tea sat forgotten on the table. At her feet, Hippocrates napped, brassy legs flopping over the soft carpet. She liked this room, the embroidered drapes, the redwood buffet, this comfortable chaise. It had been her mother’s room. The memories were faded, but sweet, unthreatening. Perhaps she’d leave it this way.
Her mind still boggled from the bizarre events at Scotland Yard that afternoon. Edward Hyde would be released, once the formalities were done, and Mr. Todd wouldn’t escape justice this time. She’d no insanity plea to offer. He’d surely hang—and deep in her heart, it hurt. He’d been part of her life for so long, the idea that he’d no longer exist was strange and unsettling. As if a lifelong wound in her soul had healed—but not without deep scars.
As for the real Slasher? There’d be no more victims, she’d make sure of that. Bertie would stay Bertie, and conventional treatments would have to suffice. He wasn’t responsible for what he’d done. But dangerous doubts plagued her, an itch she couldn’t satisfy. The Philosopher had returned her phial of medicine via courier, with a terse note attached.
Attend His Majesty at your convenience. Say, tomorrow, ten o’clock?
In the meantime, I advise discretion. A pity if the Royal College of Physicians should learn of the sort of treatments you provide.
Is. Newton, Regent, &c.
She’d formulated Bertie’s alchemical potion to the weakest dose. Nothing approaching full elixir strength. There was no chanc
e Bertie should have changed. Barring a mistake on her part, and on that score she’d racked her memory to no avail.
Despite the Royal’s rules, Sir Isaac was the consummate scientist, his curiosity an impassive force of nature. Nullius in verba. Had he tinkered with her preparation? For science’s sake, just to see what would happen?
A tiny chill tingled her skin. Seymour Locke and his time machine hadn’t reappeared—at least, not yet. Had he vanished into some temporal unknown? Or merely changed his mind? The temptation to tinker with Henry’s machine and go looking was strong. A chance to put things right, to change the world . . . but she’d learned the hard way that such vanity profited no one. She’d destroyed Henry’s machine, and everything that remained in Crane’s laboratory, over Marcellus Finch’s protests. Some things were better left unknown.
At her side, Remy stared into the fire, playing absently with the amulet at his throat. Coatless, shirt loosened, his cuffs startling white, boots propped absently on the footstool. A fresh scar on his cheek, faint but definite.
The Philosopher had agreed to let him walk, after hearing the story at length from Lord Beaconsfield. Had even offered to reinstate him in his job at the Royal. Whether Remy would take it . . .
She nudged him. “I charge consultations by the hour, you know.”
“Hmm?” He came to with a start, dropping the amulet. “Sorry. I wandered.”
“My plan precisely. You’ve missed the tide. Your lover in Paris will be wondering where you are.”
Fondly, he played with her hair. “The poor lady, falling for such a heartless rogue. I find I’ve quite forgotten her already.”
Self-consciously, she smoothed her skirts. New gray ones, crisp and pleasant. For so long, she’d fought Lizzie, and Lizzie had fought back. She’d thought the prickly blue alchemical potion had changed things, somehow. Severed their ties. Brought their incessant bickering to a head.