Her Dark Curiosity

by Megan Shepherd

  We reached the top of the stairs and I tried to brush my hair back and make myself look presentable, when all I could think about was a boy back from the dead.

  We entered the parlor, a small but opulent room with a cheerful fire crackling in the ornate fireplace and tea service set out on the low table between the upholstered chairs. Lucy’s aunt, a rather stiff-lipped, dried-out woman, turned when we entered, eyebrows raised at my sudden appearance. Henry was sitting on the sofa with his back to us.

  Lucy brushed an errant curl back. “Aunt Edith, Henry, I’d like to introduce you to a dear friend. This is Juliet Moreau.”

  I dimly heard my name, but for some reason she sounded far away. Henry had turned at the sound of her voice and was staring at us. At me. Suddenly the room felt too small, as though the furniture was pressing in and the fire consuming all the oxygen. He stood slowly to greet us. I was vaguely aware of Lucy’s aunt standing as well, her mouth moving and sound coming out, but she was no more real than a dress shop mannequin. Everything seemed equally unreal, just vague suggestions of furniture and people.

  Everything, that was, except for the young man whose gold-flecked eyes met mine.

  “Juliet,” Lucy said, “may I introduce Mr. Henry Jakyll.”

  He stepped forward to shake my hand.

  The faded scar on his right cheek. The face that was so achingly familiar.

  The hand extended to me belonged to Edward Prince.

  NINE

  THE FIRE STOPPED CRACKLING. The steam froze in the air. Everything had drifted into a far-off place, shifting into a colorless world like a fading photograph.

  Everything but Edward.

  Jakyll, I thought. Another false name, just like the other name he’d created—Edward Prince, or rather Prince Edward, a name borrowed from the pages of Shakespeare. Edward didn’t have a given name since he’d never truly been born, but made in a laboratory out of a handful of animal parts. Fox. Heron. Jackal. Of course—that was the source of his false name, a testament to his darker animal side.

  The jackal side.

  He had changed in the months since I’d seen him. Though the scar under his left eye still marred his face, his features had sharpened in a way that gave him a dramatic, brooding look. His eyes seemed a darker shade of brown—very nearly black—as did his hair. The most shocking change, however, was his size. Never a large young man, he now stood several inches above me and seemed to have put on a stone of muscle.

  No wonder Lucy was so taken with him.

  I gradually became aware that the room had gone silent and that Aunt Edith and Lucy stared at me expectantly. Edward’s outstretched hand, no longer skeletal but strong, powerful, hiding six-inch-long claws, awaited my own.

  I had to make a choice. I could scream. I could tell Lucy and her aunt everything, accuse Edward of being the Wolf of Whitechapel, throw the boiling tea in his face to blind him, and run him through with the poker.

  But the hand extended to me wasn’t that of a monster. Edward was split into two selves that shared the same body: one a sharp-clawed monster, the other a tortured young man who wanted nothing more than to be free from his curse. I thought of the little white flower tinged with blood I’d pressed into my journal. A gift from this young man before me, who had once loved me madly.

  Well, whatever Edward had felt, it didn’t matter. Everything had changed when I walked into this parlor to discover Edward had involved Lucy in this. He might not intend to harm her, but the Beast could have other plans.

  Edward’s throat constricted as he swallowed. I wondered, fleetingly, if he was as thrown off balance by seeing me as I was seeing him.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jakyll,” I said at last.

  Lucy flopped onto the sofa and reached for her tea. Aunt Edith might have greeted me; I wasn’t sure. If she had, it had been brief and normal, just as though today was any other day and this was any other tea. But it wasn’t any other day. And this wasn’t any young man.

  Clara bustled in with a tray of gingerbread cakes. “Pardon me, miss,” she said with a grin, shuffling around me.

  I slowly sank onto the sofa next to Lucy, feeling it first with my hands to make sure I wouldn’t miss the seat. Edward sat directly across from me in a dark green velvet chair. My head couldn’t reconcile his presence with Clara’s smile, Lucy’s carefree posture, the sunlight pouring in from the window.

  None of them knew they were having tea with the Wolf of Whitechapel.

  “Juliet’s traveled the world as well,” Lucy said to Edward, throwing her arm casually on the sofa back. “Henry’s been all over, knows about practically every country in the world, but you’ll have to forgive him if his customs are strange. He’s from Finland, you know.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Finland.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t bear it,” Aunt Edith said, brushing a crumb off her dress. “All that cold year-round.”

  I stared at them as though they spoke a foreign language. Lucy reached for another gingerbread cake and Aunt Edith made a disapproving cough in her throat.

  My eyes trailed back to Edward. The last time I’d seen him, blood was pooling beneath his head into fresh straw. Why had I stopped Montgomery from slicing his throat? I wasn’t sure, but it might have had something to do with the look on his face now, somehow innocent despite all his hands had done.

  “I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Henry,” I said.

  The accusation was heavy in my voice, and though the ladies didn’t seem to notice it, Edward did. His eyes searched mine, pleading for forgiveness. How could I forgive him for placing Lucy in danger? For making me care about him when everything had been a lie? For murder?

  Edward stood and began to pace as though he needed to stretch his legs, but I recognized that nervous agitation. The Beast was there, lurking just below the surface. “Yes, I wondered when we might meet each other,” he said quietly. “From what Lucy has said, we seem to have some interests in common.”

  Lucy clapped her hands. “Oh yes, I forgot to tell you! Henry was interested in something about chemistry… that was it, wasn’t it? I told him you were much better at science than any boy I know.”

  Edward’s haunted eyes stayed on me. They said everything his voice couldn’t. He hated his dark other half—the Beast—and the terrible things it led him to do. Even now, his eyes pleaded with me for help.

  I couldn’t bear this, having tea with a murderer. All I could think about was the bodies in the morgue. Four people no longer breathed because of him. He’d killed people I cared about, like Alice. Innocent people. And yet, wasn’t I as good as a murderer myself? Father might still be alive if I hadn’t opened that door to his laboratory for Jaguar.

  I clutched the sofa’s arm, rubbing my thumb against the rough upholstery seam to stay connected to the present.

  Outside, the sun was past its zenith.

  “I should go,” I choked. Lucy and her aunt looked at me, surprised. “I didn’t tell the professor when I’d be home.”

  “No, you don’t,” Lucy said. “You’re not running off without even touching your tea. If the professor is in need of you, I’m certain this is the first place he’ll look. Oh my, Juliet, do you feel all right? You’ve gone pale.”

  Aunt Edith said something droll about her own constitution and Lucy answered back smartly, and they started arguing again.

  “Drink some tea, Miss Moreau,” Edward said quietly. “You’ll soon feel better.”

  I tried to pick up the delicate cup, but it was like my hands were paws, my fingers too thick. It trembled so badly, I had to set it down.

  Edward leaned on the back of the chair opposite me, his dark hair falling over his forehead. “Have you seen the hedge maze in the garden, Miss Moreau? There’s a wonderful view from the window.” His eyes flickered toward the sun-drenched windowpanes. It was a good ten paces from where Lucy and her aunt argued—well out of earshot. He wanted to speak in private. When I hesitated, he leaned forward, his voice d
ropping to a whisper. “Please, Juliet.”

  There was such tightly controlled desperation in his words that I set down my tea and glanced at Lucy. They were talking of the grand Christmas tree that would soon be delivered in preparation for the masquerade. I stood and walked to the window with unsteady steps, Edward right behind me. It was a beautiful winter’s day outside, the hedges evergreen, not a cloud in the sky.

  I kept my voice at a whisper. “If you dare to hurt Lucy—”

  “I won’t,” he said quickly, matching my hushed tone. “I would never hurt her. I have some measure of control over—”

  “Henry!” Lucy called behind us. “Henry, come tell Aunt Edith how we met that day in the rain. She wants to hear, and you know I’ve no patience for storytelling.”

  His smile to her was artificial, though not unkind. “One moment, darling.”

  When his eyes returned to mine, the false smile had vanished. “I swear to you I mean Lucy no harm. I wouldn’t ever let myself be around her if I thought the Beast might get free. I have a small measure of control over him; not enough to prevent the transformations, nor the crimes he commits, but I can delay them.”

  I studied the deep crease in his forehead. I’d spent weeks with Edward at sea and on Father’s island, ignorant of his darker nature, and he had never hurt me, always managing to curb his other half’s cravings until he could release the Beast on some other poor victim. Perhaps he did have some measure of control over his transformations, but all I could picture was the cadaver room full of bodies.

  “How did you escape the island? I thought you were dead.”

  “The Beast is stronger than you think.” His eyes were hooded, his body tense. “I’m trying to cure myself. I’m close.”

  Here was the Edward I knew, the young man whose eyes were like a mirror to my own. “What kind of cure?” I whispered, rubbing my own knuckles, which were already beginning to ache.

  “I just need to identify one missing ingredient in the serum. I need a little more time.”

  “You should have come to me sooner.”

  “I didn’t dare involve you. I’ve gone to great lengths to avoid direct contact with you, afraid the Beast might learn some information he could use later to harm you. I’ve settled for slips of news from Lucy. She cares about you a great deal. She speaks of you often.” His throat tightened. “It didn’t mean that I didn’t want to see you. In fact, I wanted to see you quite badly.”

  The look in his eyes gave me pause. Nothing of the Beast’s glowing yellow eyes lurked there now, though what I saw frightened me nearly as much.

  Desire.

  I looked away, wishing my cheeks weren’t turning warm. It seemed Edward’s infatuation with me hadn’t lessened with the passing months.

  “Meet me somewhere,” I said, quick and low. “You must tell me what is going on.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t dare. Not until I’m cured.”

  “I don’t care what you want! People are dying, Edward.” I darted a glance at Lucy and dropped my voice lower. “And we both know exactly who is responsible. I’m already involved, don’t you see? I was involved since the day the sailors pulled you out of the ocean and onto the Curitiba. You must agree to meet me and tell me everything. If you don’t, I’ll expose you. Lucy’s other suitor is the detective leading the investigation of the Wolf of Whitechapel. I can have him here in minutes.”

  My heart pounded. I knew, on some deep level, that it was madness even to be talking to Edward. I also knew that, madness or not, Edward’s and my fates were tied together. I was the one threatening to expose him now, but our roles could so easily be reversed.

  He took out his gold pocket watch and flipped it open and shut in indecision. At last he closed it and said, “Where?”

  We needed someplace public enough so that I would be safe alone with him, yet private enough to speak intimately. My mind went back to the island, he and I behind the waterfall, sharing secrets and even a stolen kiss.

  “The Royal Botanical Gardens at Kensington,” I whispered. “The greenhouse. We’ll each leave separately and meet there within an hour.”

  He nodded.

  The grandfather clock in the study chimed. Aunt Edith stood up and brushed the crumbs off her skirt, missing half of them. “Two o’clock already. I’ve got a dinner tonight at the club I must get ready for. Henry, dear, it’s been a pleasure. Won’t you walk me out?”

  Edward’s eyes met mine. We were accomplices in this lie now, for better or worse. “I’ll be saying good-bye then, Lucy. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Moreau.”

  I hesitated a breath, just long enough to remember his false name.

  “And you, Mr. Jakyll.”

  TEN

  THE PARLOR DOOR REMAINED open behind them, leaving only the sound of the ticking hallway clock. Henry Jakyll. Edward Prince. One and the same.

  “I’m glad she’s left,” Lucy said, coming to stand next to me at the window. “I think Aunt Edith only ever comes to tea to chastise me for all the things I’ve done wrong.” She hunted in the fruit bowl on the side table and selected a grape. “What did you think of Henry?” she asked slyly, popping the grape into her mouth. “He’s just awful, isn’t he? Didn’t I tell you?”

  “Yes, awful,” I said carefully, glancing out the window to try to catch a glimpse of him as he left. “Not your type at all. Inspector Newcastle is more attractive anyway, don’t you think?”

  She frowned, but at that moment I glimpsed Edward and Lucy’s aunt stepping out of the house below, where he helped her into a cabriolet and then started down the street at a fast pace, heading to the botanical gardens for our rendezvous. I looked at the sky, where the sun was already casting shadows. Maybe two hours before sunset. Damn these short winter days. I’d certainly not be able to meet Edward and still have time to rush back home for dinner at the professor’s. He’d be beside himself with worry when I didn’t show up.

  Lucy plucked another grape, eyeing me strangely. She changed her mind and set it back down in the bowl. “The truth is, and I know this must sound absurd coming from me, but I actually think I might admire him. Not much, of course. Only a tiny bit. Perhaps it’s just stuffy in here.”

  I shot her a look. I couldn’t imagine anything that chilled my blood more than the idea of Lucy enamored of a boy with a monstrous other half who had already killed four people in London—for me. I clutched her hand suddenly. “He seems a bore to me. I think you should forget him. Really. Now I must go, Lucy. I’m so sorry.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You’ve only just arrived. I thought we might be able to talk, here, while we’re alone. Didn’t you want to speak to me privately?” She leaned in, her voice dropping. “I have things to tell you, too. I’m not certain Papa’s been fair in his business dealings, and when I mentioned it to Mother, she didn’t seem to care.”

  “Blast, I’m sorry, I really can’t stay to hear about it right now. I’m a terrible friend, I know, but I really must go.” I paused in the doorway. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you—Inspector Newcastle is going to propose. I thought you should know. And I really don’t think he’s that terrible; perhaps you should give him a chance.”

  I squeezed her hand and hurried from the room and down the stairs, waving to Clara as I ran out into the street.

  Guilt gripped me for leaving her so suddenly, but part of this was for Lucy. I could hardly explain that her suitor—who she actually fancied—had a murderous other side to him, and it was either cure him, kill him, or have her end up dead.

  A chill was settling into the shadows of buildings as late afternoon approached. I turned toward the sun in the west, in the direction of the Royal Botanical Gardens, where palm trees stood like ghosts within the captive heat of the greenhouse.

  A thousand places to kill. A million reasons not to trust.

  I started running toward Kensington.

  MY FEET ACHED BY the time I arrived. The tired-looking ticket collector glanced at his pocket watch.
r />   “Palm House closes at sunset, the gardens at six. You haven’t but a few hours.”

  “That’s all right,” I said breathlessly, shoving my coins at him. I dashed through the gardens to the bridge that stretched across the frozen lake. From there, I could see the greenhouse, where rays of light caught on the thousands of glass panels.

  I felt as though I’d crossed some invisible boundary and was no longer in London. Gone were the city crowds, the smoke and the soot, the noise of carriages and yelling street vendors.

  I took a deep breath and pushed open the Palm House’s ironwork door. A flood of warmth escaped the crack, filling my lungs with steam as I entered the domed central atrium.

  I slid out of my coat and left it hanging over a branch, then fumbled to open the top buttons of my dress. Sweat was already forming on my inner layers. Somewhere, the line between this world and another blurred.

  I was back in the jungle.

  The hiss of steam jets replaced the ocean tides. Machinery squealed like jungle birds. Steam filled my lungs with memories: Jaguar, with his flicking tail; the smell of burning refuse and unwashed animals in the islanders’ village; the salt in the breeze. In a strange way I missed the island terribly, heartsick for a place I’d hated and a father I’d wanted to die.

  No—a father I’d helped murder.

  “Edward?” I called as loud as I dared, uncertain if it was an enormous mistake to have come here.

  A chain rattled overhead. Iron catwalks spanned the ceiling so visitors could walk among the treetops. A well-dressed figure now descended the spiral staircase. Edward. He stopped a few feet from me, as quiet as the steam at our feet.

  “Hello, Juliet.”