“How long are you staying?” she had asked, letting her gown slip away a bit from her shoulders.
She had his attention in that instant.
He ran his hand along her back, along her tattoo, which was only slightly raised in scar tissue and ink. She had requested that her tattoo be drawn larger than those on the other Conclave members, that it cover her entire back. She had embraced her position within the Conclave with sorrow and relish. At first, she had thought the immortality would be a gift, giving her power she had not had in her mortal life, but eventually realized that she had not only become their pet, but their slave. She had not seen the other Conclave members since they had made her immortal, after … she rarely allowed herself to think about that time.
Also, she couldn’t think of how Robert Buck, and especially Julian Bartlett, had abandoned her. For years now, Max had been the one to supply her, to bring her a yearly dose of the elixir. She took her elixir with him, without ceremony, when he came to inject a concentrated formula into all of the animals.
“Only two nights,” Max had said finally. “I must leave the following morning.”
She had stood, the fire and storm sounds roaring. She pulled the ribbon that held her gown together, letting it fall to the floor.
His stays were too short. Always too short.
It stormed. For two nights and an entire day. On the morning he left, the storm finally moved eastward—away from her world.
Often over the years, from the tall craggy peak where she now rested, she would watch him row away from her island. Now, sunlight broke through a crack in the black storm clouds and she stretched her back in the beam. Shiny. Indestructible. Dense. As she coiled her tail, Seraphina’s thoughts turned to her old life—to the days before the transformations, before her life had fallen into this beautiful placid ruin.
Reflecting on her human life could be too painful. It was only here, in her monster form, that she could allow herself to think of the time before she became an immortal freak.
That life, in most respects, had been one of ease. Her father was the wealthiest Scotsman on the island, her family’s estate just outside the nearest Orkney isle seaside town of Bromwell. She thought now of how many lives had started and ended while she lived out her decades on her island home, just across the waters from Bromwell. She had been forbidden by the Conclave from going there. Still, she often wondered about her father’s mansion, whether it was empty, overgrown with weeds and ivy like the castles and Roman ruins scattered about the isles. Perhaps another family, unafraid of ghosts and shadows, had moved into it, repainting and refurnishing the halls and galleries.
Her childhood …
She had been so curious as a child, wandering the estate daily with her governess. Usually it was just herself and the governess—they had a loch very close to the house, and she
had loved taking long walks along the water’s edge in the summers. The waters were often still and slate black, shiny, by late afternoon. She was always thrilled to see her father’s carriage on the estate’s long driveway. And now, despite her eternal eighteen-year-old form, she felt perplexed at that girlish thrill; as best she could remember, her strong, distant father had said less than a hundred words to her in her whole life. A merchant, Joseph Umphrey spent most of his time on business in London, in Edinburgh, or even overseas. She remembered bursting through the front doors on the days of his return, and seeing his hard profile as he sat warming his feet by the fire. She would run to him then, but it was always the same—he would distractedly rumple her hair, his eyes on the fire. As she chattered, he only nodded, his thoughts far away. When her governess took her upstairs to bed, there was always a gift, some expensive gown or doll, something exquisite he had brought back to her from his travels.
She had often wondered why he didn’t care about her more, why he never wanted to look upon her. She wondered sometimes whether it was because her mother died giving birth to her. She wondered if her father hated her, his only child, for this reason. But then she had no idea whether or not he even loved her mother; the only thing she knew about her was that she was dead, that her name had been Lucy, and that there was a portrait of her hanging in the main gallery. But even the portrait couldn’t reveal to her anything specific about her mama—in the portrait, Lucy Umphrey had ordinary pretty features and an ordinary pretty smile; she wore silks and taffetas and held her small Pekingese in front of a faux pastoral background landscape. She seemed so expressionless, so vague. Whether this was the work of an unskilled artist or whether her mother was unremarkable, Seraphina would never know.
She had had no other relatives. All her grandparents or cousins were either dead or they lived too far away to see; she often thought bitterly that her life underground, as a monster, seemed so similar, too similar, to her earlier life—isolated, secluded. Even though she was unrelentingly curious about the outside world, she was unable to participate in it, to be part of it. She was simply given beautiful things to placate her.
Then there was her childhood skin condition. She re-membered screaming in pain when the eczema was at its worst—itchy, scale-like hives, whitish and red splotches. It had been terrible. By the time she was ten she wore long sleeves all the time, even on warm days, just to cover her arms; her arms, especially, had had the pigment altered from all the outbreaks. Anything could bring on an outbreak—a new dress or food, a change in the weather. The skin condition returned often, and became increasingly severe.
Even now, with the disease gone, she could vividly remember the hot, burning pain. Her governesses had brought physician after physician to help her. She had been soaked in so many medicinal baths; she had taken so many herbs and bitter tonics. One physician had even tried bleeding her. She still remembered her childhood terror as he cut into her arm and began draining the “poisonous blood” into a small bowl. That hadn’t helped her at all. She had merely fainted from the loss of blood.
She had taken up painting at the age of thirteen, and painted landscapes rich with the eyebright and orchids around the loch. At that time she had been able to finish the paintings, and they were coherent, organized … unlike most of her portraits now, which were darker, mostly faces from her memories. And although she had painted hundreds of them, she couldn’t finish a single one. But during her mortal days, the loch in autumn under the setting sun, crimson over the waters, had caught her eye and been her favorite scene to paint. Even during her worst eczema episodes, she could almost forget her pain as she painted.
She thought of those last few years of her mortal life, when she had dreamt of becoming an artist; she thought of her doomed engagement, of Dr. Buck’s first treatments upon her, and then the first transformation …
Now, as she had so many times over the years, she thought about how hard it was to accept what she had become. She looked out in the direction of Bromwell—although she could not see it through the fogs and mists—and allowed herself to think of those early years. When Max had left her that time, twenty years ago, she had been disturbed by thoughts of Caroline; and now, once again alone with her memories, Seraphina remembered Max’s very last visit in November—that awful visit when she had learned of the Conclave’s interest in Caroline’s daughter, Arabella.
As she thought of his November visit, her slitted, serpentine eyes narrowed in the evening darkness; she heard the idiot calling of sea gulls on the north shore of her island, and smelled, with her keen senses, the smell of a fisherman somewhere, perhaps a mile away. She repressed her urges with a low guttural growl. But she knew that if Max did not return to her soon, she could not repress the rising urge to hunt.
Eight
Dinner with Grandmother that evening was a silent event. I felt so terrible it was nearly impossible even to engage in small talk with her. Fortunately, she asked nothing and said nothing about William.
On the staircase landing, on the way to my room, I met Richard.
> “Miss Arabella,” he said, handing me a note. “This arrived in the mail earlier today. I thought I would hand it directly to you, so that it isn’t”—he lowered his voice and cast his eyes to the parlor where Grandmother sat reading—“lost.”
My heart quickened. If Richard had the discretion to protect the note from Grandmother’s eyes and Ellen’s hands, it had to be from William, or perhaps from his aunt.
“Thank you, Richard.” I smiled, seeing Christina’s name on the outside.
Always the professional butler, Richard only nodded. As I hurried up the stairs to my bedroom to read the note, I thought warmly of how kind and reliable Richard had been to me since I’d arrived in Kensington last year. I remembered what Simon had said when I’d worried about Grandmother’s safety on that terrible night when we pursued the Conclave. I remembered Simon’s cryptic words: “You should know your butler better.” And then I had seen Simon try to hand Richard money, as if in payment for something. Yet with all that had happened since then, I had forgotten to ask Simon about Richard.
Once in my room, I tore the note open.
Abbie, please do arrive at the house on Monday evening at eight o’clock. I have a proposal to make. –Christina Rossetti
My spirits rose a little. Christina volunteered in another London hospital for the poor. Perhaps she knew someone who might offer me advice regarding my professional studies. That had to be the case. But I also felt a wave of anxiety as I wondered if this might be some sort of attempt on her part to reconcile William and myself. I did not know how much he confided to her of his romantic peccadilloes.
I wondered if Christina knew about William’s history with Jane Burden Morris—after all, Jane was an old acquaintance of Christina’s too.
I bit my lip as the angry thoughts surged again.
I returned to Whitechapel Hospital on Monday after a mostly sleepless weekend. Fortunately, upon returning, I discovered that I was too busy to think of William much. Mostly I worked alongside of Simon, or kept myself in the nursery. But when necessary, William and I worked together with detached cordiality.
By nightfall, when I arrived at Christina’s home, I felt exhausted.
“Abbie!” Christina exclaimed when she opened the door. Each time I saw her, I felt surprised by her smallness—it seemed so at odds with her personality. Christina pulled me inside and helped me take off my coat.
I cast a discrete glance around me, hoping that William was not at home. He had still been at the hospital when I had left.
“William is not here,” Christina said quietly. “He is still at the hospital.”
“I … ”
“It is all right,” Christina replied. “This will pass. Whatever it is, William can be quite an ass … ”
Then she peered into my face.
“Oh dear,” she whispered. “You and William truly did have it out.”
“Did William not tell you?” I asked quietly.
She shook her head. “William has told me none of the details, and—well, he can be so moody anyway. But … ” She put her hand over her mouth and looked troubled. “I had no idea that there was a—split.” She paused. “Do you want … ”
“No,” I said quickly. “Thank you, but I don’t wish to talk about it.”
I inhaled deeply, clearing my head. I could not keep dwelling on this melodrama.
Christina took me to the parlor. All of her rescued animals ran or flew, in a frenzy, about the room. This was a typical scene. I seated myself on an upholstered chair that had dove feathers stuck to the back.
“Abbie,” Christina said cheerfully as she thrust a cup of tea into my hand. “At work today I met Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson.”
“The physician,” I said stupidly, stunned.
“The very one. She works in several hospitals for the poor around London; she is a member of the British Medical Association.” Christina frowned. “Since she became a member they have closed membership for women, and as you might already know, she has, in recent years, established a hospital for women, not too very different from Whitechapel Hospital.” Christina sat on the couch. “I have told her much about you, how remarkable you are, how you plan to attend medical school, how I am certain you will get an excellent endorsement from Whitechapel Hospital.”
My heart beat quickly. Pounding, in fact.
“She would like for you to begin working at New Hospital, her charity hospital. She would like to meet you, and if all goes well, she said that she can direct your studies until you apply to London Medical School for Women and take your examinations. She has assured me that it is highly possible for you to be ready to attend medical school in the autumn.”
“When am I to begin?” I asked, just as a puppy knocked over my teacup.
“Bad, Flush!” Christina exclaimed, chastising the dog while taking him into her arms. “I found him in an alley yesterday—he has yet to learn his house manners.”
None of Christina’s rescued animals had “house” manners except Hugo, William’s Great Dane, who was sleeping peacefully on the floor at my feet.
“She said that you may begin immediately,” Christina said as she struggled to maintain a grip on the puppy. “If you wish, you can begin tomorrow morning. It will be good training for medical school. I know it’s not Oxford, but the London Medical School for Women has an excellent reputation.”
I couldn’t believe it. This would be such a remarkable opportunity. To work and study alongside Elizabeth Garrett Anderson. I looked into the fireplace, flames roaring from it in great gold billows, and I considered the looming portrait of William’s great-uncle John Polidori. The man had been a vampire-book writer as well as a personal physician for Lord Byron. The concept of a female physician was essentially nonexistent during Polidori’s lifetime.
The front door opened suddenly.
I feared it was William, and I rose quickly to get my coat. I had hoped that I might leave before he came home. I felt great relief when I saw that it was only a neighbor, returning a borrowed bag of sugar.
It was nearly ten thirty as I made my way back toward Kensington. I told Christina that I would take a hansom cab. I knew I had to hurry to reach Kensington; it was so late. I very well might hear a lecture. Grandmother knew that she had very little control over my comings and goings, but nonetheless I tried, out of respect for her, not to stay out very late. As the carriage rolled out of Torrington Square, I stared out the window. The night was chilly and foggy; a damp mist had settled in the air, creating bright halo circles around the streetlamps. Emotionally, I felt almost ill—I still couldn’t find it in my heart to forgive William, to understand what he’d done with Jane Morris; it was too revolting.
When the carriage had traveled a few blocks and was about to turn west onto Marylebone Road, toward Kensington, the persistent cry of a child caught my attention, bringing me away from my reflections. The street was relatively empty, but I saw a woman wearing a dark cloak. As the hood blew aside, I saw her long curly hair falling loose down her back. She was walking northwards, toward the Highgate area, and she carried in her arms a child of about two years of age. At first, I saw nothing particularly remarkable about the two figures. Then the baby’s tear-stained face, wisps of blond hair blowing about, peered at me over the woman’s shoulder.
I froze as I recognized the child—she was one of the children who lived on the first floor of Whitechapel Hospital. Her name was Christabel. The woman, whose face I could still not see, paused in her walk. The moment the cab turned onto Marylebone, she half-turned her face in my direction so that I could see her profile and the small curve of a smile.
The woman’s face made my heart quicken; I remembered my nightmare.
Mariah.
But it couldn’t be. Mariah was dead.
The situation was peculiar. The carriage progressed west, and after a few moments of indecision, w
hich I spent trying to tell myself that the woman might be Christabel’s mother, I called to the driver to stop. I paid him and hurried back, attempting to follow the woman and child. They were no longer in my sight, but I could hear the child’s cries far ahead.
They had been walking swiftly, and it was a while before I reached Swains Lane, just in front of the Highgate Cemetery gates, and saw them again. I stopped, out of breath from my hurried pace, my corset tight around my chest like a vise. I then saw the woman more clearly, and heard myself gasp. Somehow, as she had walked ahead of me in the darkness of the streets, she had shed her cloak and shoes. Now she stood still, holding the child and wearing only a white gauzy dress or nightgown, even outdoors in the chilly air. She turned and met my eyes before disappearing through the open gates, with Christabel. Two thoughts struck me at once:
The gates should not be open at this time of night.
Mariah. She looks like Mariah.
I wondered once again if the woman might be the child’s mother, discharged from the hospital. But Whitechapel Hospital was quite a few miles from Torrington Square, a bit far to walk with a baby on a cold evening. Furthermore, I could not recall Christabel’s mother’s face. Perhaps the child was one of the orphans that Simon was keeping at the hospital, not having the heart to send them to the orphanage. The nightmare of seeing Mariah kept surfacing in my mind, and I tried to push away these darker thoughts.
The white dress. The curly hair.
Once again, I told myself that Mariah was dead. To see her walking here would be an impossibility.
Quickly, following the baby’s cries, I entered the cemetery.
It was all darkness once I walked through the gates—the great canopies of trees that kept the place dark, even on the brightest days, now shrouded the cemetery in blackness. Not even the streetlights could break through the leaves. Only a few strong moonbeams spilt whitish-gray spots on some of the gravestones. Gradually, my eyes adjusted a little to the darkness, and I started to follow one of the maze-like paths in the direction of the child’s cries.
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