Folding the old bloodstained dress, she left it on the seat.
Then, thinking better of it, she reached inside the pocket for the stolen kitchen knife.
The door to the carriage flew open.
Molly swung around with the blade raised.
“Come now, even my aunt Iris gets dressed faster than that, and she’s near eighty.”
The boy climbed in and slammed the door closed, taking a seat across from her.
“Now, that’s an improvement.” He gave her newly dressed figure an appreciative glance. “Not sure about the knife, though. Doesn’t quite go with the gown.”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The boy ignored her.
Leaning his head out the window, he gave a loud whistle, and the carriage bucked to life.
* * *
Molly lurched forward, and the boy caught her neatly in his arms.
This close, she could smell him. A rich, earthy scent like leather mixed with the clean pine of soap. He set her gently back down onto the horsehair bench.
“Now, if you wanted a hug, you need only ask.”
“Where the hell do you think you’re taking me?” She held up the blade again. She could stab him and jump out of the carriage, but she was sure to injure herself. Not to mention the dress. They were already moving at a frightening clip.
“Nowhere you’ll be needing that.” He nodded at the knife. “Your aunt wants you to run an errand is all. Got to work for your keep.”
She felt some of the tension leave her. Of course. Whoever had been peeking at her through the window wanted to declare her dominance, like a dog peeing in its new yard. Some spoiled rich woman using her power to move others about like a toy. The nuns had rulers; the wealthy had carriages.
Molly sank back against her seat in a huff.
The boy let out a maddening chuckle, spreading himself across the carriage like a lord. “By the way, I’m Tom.”
He held out his hand, and she ignored it.
She couldn’t figure him out. He was Irish, like her. She could tell that by the traces of brogue that poked through his words, like a sticker through rough cloth. His lanky frame looked as strong as a farm boy’s. And yet there was something soft about his face, a tenderness in his single eye. Across the other was the scar, its ropy flesh twining a violent path across an otherwise handsome brow.
Tom caught her staring and stared unabashedly back. This time, she did not look away. “What does my aunt want me to do?”
“Ah, nothing much. Just pick up a package.”
“A package? At this time of night?” Molly waited for him to elaborate, but he only looked out the window and began to whistle a tune.
Her brow furrowed. If her task was something as simple as running an errand, why all this fuss about changing gowns?
Without warning, Tom reached out across the carriage and grabbed her hand. He squeezed it tightly, and she winced.
“Listen to me, because I’ll only say this once. There are plenty of other jobs in the city. Take one of those.”
She had never held a man’s hand other than Da’s. Tom’s touch was hot, his dry skin painfully rough against her wound. He turned her hand over in surprise, studying the large cut on her palm. She yanked her fingers away.
“Ah, so it is a job, then.” She smirked. “My aunt—if that’s who she truly is—is my only family left in the world,” Molly said sweetly. “If she wants me to pick up a package for her, I will. I’m not too proud to run errands.”
It would be easier to escape from a bad situation if whoever was ordering her about trusted her.
The carriage bumped along beneath them. Molly wished that she could open one of the windows or light another lantern. She wanted air. Light. The damned thing felt like a confession box.
“If you’re choosing to go on with this, then there’s something you should know,” Tom said. The playfulness had disappeared entirely from his voice. Now it was as frosty as the snow-covered streets. “Your aunt’s not a woman to give second chances.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A warning. Don’t take this lightly.”
The hair on the back of her arms stood to attention. But before she could press him further, the carriage pulled to a stop. Looking out the window, Molly saw they were parked outside a grand downtown hotel.
Men and women bundled in heavy furs came and went from an entrance manned by two well-dressed porters.
She swallowed the lump that bloomed in her throat. For the first time that night, she felt afraid. She slipped the knife back into her pocket.
Tom smiled as he helped her out of the carriage. Pulling her close, he whispered in her ear, the words sending a chill up her spine.
“Good luck.”
4
She was to be a married woman.
The thought was laughable.
“The Actias luna moth doesn’t even have a mouth to eat,” she’d told Kitty on one occasion when the girl had been dreaming of her own wedding. “Just dies after she lays her eggs. It’s what happens to women who are foolish enough to do the same.”
But Tom did not laugh when he’d told Molly the plan.
“They’ll know if you’re nervous. Speak clearly and plainly. Don’t let anyone else touch the package once you get it. And above all, if someone tries to take it from you, fight.”
Again, that small thrill of fear woke in her breast.
“Why would someone try to take my package?”
He looked at her grimly. “Let’s just hope they don’t.”
If she wanted to run, now was her chance. He wouldn’t dare stop her in a street full of people. She’d be free and, better yet, in possession of a new gown, however big, and shoes.
But after that? She’d have nowhere to go. Nowhere to sleep.
And there was something else. For the first time in a long time, she did not know what the next day held for her. It had been one of the worst things about the orphanage—there were no surprises. Her life was carefully and completely planned. Now all that routine had been peeled away like the skin of a carrot.
She wanted to see what was underneath.
Dressed in the oversized gown, the flounces making her bottom twice as wide as she was used to, Molly stumbled through the hotel’s door, feeling like an unwieldy sailboat.
The wealth inside was ostentatious. Everything, even the umbrella stand, was gilded, and the lavish new rugs might as well have come with their cost attached. To step into this hotel was to show that one could afford luxury.
She couldn’t figure out where to put her hands, so she tucked them into the velvet-lined pockets of her new dress. Her palms slippery with sweat, she found the knife and grabbed hold of its handle.
A beautiful woman in the lobby looked up as Molly passed. She wore a rose-pink gown and was freshening her rouge in the foyer’s enormous mirror. She met Molly’s eyes in the glass and gave her a curious smile.
“Madam?” The man at the desk cleared his throat. “How can I be of service?”
Molly took a deep breath. She had survived four years of Mother Superior’s wooden ruler. Surely, she could manage this.
The man’s large basset-hound eyes looked as if they could see straight through her. To the layer of poverty that no water could wash away. To the bones of her ribs, from the hundreds of nights she’d had nothing more than a stew of mealy potatoes.
“I’m here to pick up a package.” She tried to inject Mother Superior’s crisp coolness into her voice. What came out was a weak tremble. Kitty would have laughed to see her here, trussed up like a Christmas fowl.
“Excuse me?” Cupping an ear, the man craned across the desk.
The heavy silhouette of her dress was making her sweat more. She was afraid to take a step, lest she trip over the belled skirt’s curtain-l
ike heft.
“A package,” she said louder.
The man frowned. “Your name?”
“Cline.” Tom had given her the made-up name. He said it was just smart enough to sound wealthy, and forgettable enough that no one would care. Though why she couldn’t have just used her aunt’s name—whatever it was—he didn’t say.
“Ah, yes.” The man’s face brightened. “I believe we have it for you here. Your husband left it this morning.”
He returned with a large box. “There. Shall I have someone help you to your carriage?”
“No, thank you.” Molly lifted the package. “I’ll manage fine.” She offered him a shaky smile and nearly tripped on her skirt as she turned, just barely managing to stay upright. At least the package wasn’t heavy. Whatever was inside weighed no more than a bag of flour.
“Would you like to check the contents?” The man hurried around the desk, stopping her. “I know some things tend to get broken in transport, and I’d hate to have the hotel blamed for negligence, especially if it’s fragile.”
She hesitated. Tom had said not to let anyone else touch it.
Sweat beaded inside her gown. She could feel it rolling down her sides.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“It’s customary. I wouldn’t want there to be any sort of mistake.”
Not knowing what else to do, she set the box back on the counter.
The concierge smiled as he cut the string and carefully lifted the lid—strangely, lined with tarred paper and tea bags—to show her its contents.
His face changed in an instant.
According to his breeding and station, the concierge himself had not looked inside, but Molly understood his reaction immediately. The tea bags had been for the smell.
With the lid removed, an unholy stench wafted from the box.
Trying not to show her surprise, she peered inside.
A human head stared back.
Clapping a hand to her mouth, Molly stifled a scream.
“Are you all right, madam?” The concierge’s thin mustache twitched. Wrinkling his nose, he hurriedly slammed the lid back down on the box.
She closed her eyes, but it was still there, every grotesque detail.
The dead man’s forehead was stretched twice as wide as a normal one should be, the flesh blown up like a balloon. Large blue veins wound around the taut skin, like worms nestling into the discolored skin.
“Madam? Is it not what you were expecting? I must say, the . . . smell . . . did not seem quite right.”
Kitty’s head staring at her from the dirt.
Pretty skin, split and oozing . . .
Molly clenched her fingers onto the desk, trying to stay standing. Her nails dug so deeply into the wood she could feel one rip. Blood welled beneath the surface.
“It’s fine,” Molly said, her voice eerily bright. “Everything is just fine.”
The room began to spin, the walls pulsing like a heart.
“Are you quite sure? If you don’t mind my saying, you look rather . . . unwell.” He sounded concerned. But Molly also noted the first signs of suspicion lift the corners of his eyes. “Perhaps I should just take a look?”
“No!”
Before she could stop him, he reached for the lid.
“Is that Limburger?”
The woman in the pink dress suddenly appeared. Her perfectly manicured hand landed on the box’s lid, keeping it closed even as she leaned over, inhaling.
“Absolutely delightful. I’d know that scent anywhere. Limburger used to be me mam’s favorite.” She turned to Molly. “I’m Virginia, by the way. Ginny for short.” She spoke with a broad English accent.
“Ah!” Understanding spread across the concierge’s face. He leaned conspiratorially across the box. “I don’t mind telling you I have a weakness for the stuff myself. Is it a gift?”
“Yes.” Molly nodded, knees weakening with relief. If she was caught now, she’d be arrested. She needed only to get out of here, and then she would run as far away from this godforsaken city as she could. “Cheese for my aunt.”
“That’s certainly thoughtful,” the concierge said. “The ripest Limburger is not cheap, and from the bouquet of this one, you’ve got yourself a real treat!”
“Straight from Belgium, I’ll bet!” Ginny leaned across the desk, breasts nearly spilling out of her gown, which, Molly now noticed, was cut unusually low. “I hear the Americans are trying to make it now, but it ain’t nearly as good.”
The concierge’s face reddened, and he looked purposefully away. “I’m sorry, Miss . . . Virginia. What room did you say you were in?”
“I didn’t.”
He frowned. “Let me guess. You have an uncle staying here.”
“Nah. Three or four.” Ginny shot him a wink. “Listen, if you’ll excuse us, I believe I’ll follow this nice young lady out. Can’t be too careful these days, what with women disappearing.”
The man’s face shifted to one of concern. “No. I suppose you can’t.” He gave Ginny a hard stare. “But don’t bother returning. I think your uncles have had quite enough company for one day.”
Taking a deep breath, Molly picked up the package. She tried not to imagine the man’s head inside, rolling about, its eyes squished like tiny raisins.
Kitty’s eyes.
Kitty’s grinning face . . .
Ginny took her arm. “Hold steady, girl.” She whispered the words in Molly’s ear.
“You know,” the man’s voice called after her, “I shouldn’t let you leave.”
Molly stopped, frozen, in the middle of the foyer.
“Coming so close to such a delicacy, I should have demanded a taste.” He smiled.
Molly exhaled, hurrying with Ginny toward the door. Fresh air rushed at her in a welcome gust.
But halfway through the door, her enormous skirt snagged, yanking her backward.
For a second, she thought she would make it. Every muscle in her body tensed as she tottered like a child’s top, trying to stay upright. Wobbling, she steadied herself, but then her foot caught the edge of her skirt. Her teeth clacked painfully together as, with a sickening thump, she fell back into the hotel’s lobby.
The box fell with her.
“Madam!”
Molly watched in horror as the lid slipped loose.
Free at last, the head tumbled out of the box and onto the floor.
* * *
Ginny moved so swiftly that Molly hardly saw it happen. One minute there was a head, and the next it was gone, covered by the swishing folds of rose silk.
Molly scrambled forward on her hands and knees, frantically diving beneath Ginny’s dress with the empty box. It was like bobbing for apples. Crinoline brushed over her head in a wave, choking her with its fabric.
She was going to be sick. The skirt trapped the sweet, meaty smell of death like a hothouse.
Patting blindly, her palms brushed against wiry hair as her fingers dug into spongy, rotting flesh. It felt exactly like soft cheese, and for a horrible moment she wanted to laugh.
Grabbing the monstrous prize, Molly shoved it back into the box. Shaking, she extracted herself from Ginny’s skirts.
“Are you all right?” The concierge had rushed from behind his desk, his eyes wide with alarm. “I’ve been telling them to fix that entrance for ages. The tile’s uneven.”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Please accept my apologies. Is your package damaged?”
“Not at all.”
Molly scrambled to her feet, and before he could ask another question, she ran, pell-mell, through the lobby door and outside.
Her carriage pulled up to the hotel’s curb just as Molly exited. Its door swung open.
“Tom Donaghue!” Ginny’s voice rang gaily in her ear.
>
“You know each other?” Molly looked from one to the other, shocked.
“Tom’s an old friend.” Ginny grinned. “Asked me if I could keep an eye on you.”
“How’d she do?” Tom’s piercing stare raked over Molly in keen appraisal.
“Well,” said Ginny, her grin revealing the gap between her front teeth. “She kept her head. Mostly.”
“Ah, you’re a peach. Thanks, Ginny.” Tom slipped her a half-dollar, and Ginny tucked it neatly down the front of her well-endowed breast.
“No bother. I’d rather your lot get it than any of the others. There’s two new fellows who are keeping the stiffs’ clothes to wear. Stink to high heaven. Anyway, I’ll let you stand me a pint when I see you next.”
“Happily.”
Ginny turned to Molly. “Take care, girlie.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Remember—they can’t scare you if you ain’t afraid.”
Raising her hand, she gave a shrill whistle, and a man in a police uniform appeared from around the corner.
Molly tensed, but Ginny simply took the policeman’s arm and gave her a wink. “It’s like I told the hotel fella. Can’t be too careful these days!” The couple started off, the policeman’s hand happily resting on Ginny’s backside.
Molly’s nerves let loose in a rush. She shoved the box at Tom.
She wanted to scream. To be sick. To tell him how much she hated him. But she could only stand there, trembling with fury.
“I’m sorry.” Tom’s voice was soft. “I did tell you not to let anyone else touch the box.”
She stumbled past him into the waiting carriage.
The Corpse Queen Page 3