I went to the front door, throwing it open so I could gulp fresh air and let the afternoon storm clouds shroud me. The blood in my veins belonged to a stranger I’d never met. The wedding ring on my finger tied me to a liar.
I had been so afraid of revealing my secrets to him; perhaps I should have feared more what he was hiding from me.
I closed my eyes, feeling my whole body shake. Montgomery called my name but I tore outside, down the front step, through the mud and the dark day away from Montgomery, away from the truth, away from the fact that he had lied to me.
I wasn’t Henri Moreau’s daughter. I wasn’t a Moreau at all.
And if I wasn’t that, what was I?
WITH A MOONLESS SKY, the entire world looked black. Dusk and night had fallen, and I’d barely noticed as I crashed through the soggy muck away from the road and the manor and the servants depending on me. I didn’t want to be found, not now. How could I be found, when my soul was this lost?
My thoughts moved faster than my steps, and I barely paid attention to where I was going. For my entire life, society had defined me by my father—and so had I. I’d blamed all my faults on him: my unnatural curiosity and my inclination toward experimentation and even how easily I was able to kill. I’d also thought of him as my source of strength. All those desperate nights I’d comforted myself with my father’s brilliance and determination. I’d structured my entire world around a man who was both a madman and a genius because I thought his spirit lived in my blood.
But I was wrong.
I closed my eyes, collapsing against the skeleton of a tree. I stared at my hands in the moonlight, flexing them, feeling as if I didn’t recognize the lines of my own palm. There was no fate there. No fortune. All Jack Serra had read was the desperation in my face.
The tree’s bark scraped against my back, but I felt nothing. Memories of my mother looked different now: she had always clutched a Bible, so I’d assumed she was pious. Now that I thought back, was she a good person? All those times she came back from church sweaty and flushed, I’d assumed she’d been praying fervently, but it seemed so evident now she’d been with a lover instead. Or those days she was gone knitting socks for the inmates at Bryson Prison. I had never seen her knit at home, not even once. Did she even know how to knit?
Had every memory I had of her been a lie?
I sank into the mud, hugging my knees in tight. I wished I could disappear into the tree, into the soil, into the dark night, until there was nothing of me left. The bog had tried to swallow me once. Maybe I’d made a mistake in not letting it.
A branch snapped and my head jerked up, breath frozen. In my desolation I hadn’t thought about the foxes out here on the edge of the forest, winter starved and used to the taste of human flesh from Elizabeth’s thrown-out experimentations. Now that the rains were gone, they’d be coming out of hiding, just like Radcliffe.
He might be in Quick even now, stopped only by a flooded road, hunting us like some famished animal. The household of Ballentyne was resting all its hopes on me.
The branch snapped again, and I bristled. I reached for a fallen limb, tearing off one branch to form a sharp end. Fear clawed at the soft parts of my throat as movement caught my eye in the darkness, and I clutched the branch harder.
Out of the gloom the creature came at me on fast little legs, and I let myself relax. Those short legs and black snout didn’t belong to a fox.
“Sharkey,” I said, as my little dog ran up to me. I pulled him close, burying my nose in his fur, breathing in that earthy smell I so loved. More footsteps came and another figure loomed in the darkness, this one much too large for a fox, even too large for a man.
“Balthazar, what are you doing out here?” I asked as he entered the clearing and Sharkey ran over to nuzzle his leg.
“Looking for you, miss. Montgomery said you’d run away. Everyone’s out searching for you.”
He stopped a few feet away, tapped the ground with a foot until he’d found a dry patch, and sat cross-legged across from me. In the darkness he was little more than a voice and a smell of tweed and wet dog, though I knew that with his sight, he could see me perfectly.
I wiped the wet from my eyes. “I can’t go back there. I don’t belong there.”
“You’re mistress of Ballentyne.”
I barked a cruel laugh. “Elizabeth and the professor only made me their heir because they thought I was my father’s daughter. It turns out they were as wrong as I was.” I pulled my knees closer. “Did you know?”
“That the doctor wasn’t your father? Yes, miss. I knew from the beginning. You didn’t smell like him.”
Father’s smell came back to me, formaldehyde and apricot preserves, but I knew Balthazar spoke of a deeper smell. The scent of family. Henri Moreau must have instructed Balthazar never to tell me the truth, taking advantage of his unwavering obedience just as I had.
“I’m not a Moreau,” I said, testing out the words. “I’m a . . . Chastain, I suppose,” I said, thinking of my mother’s maiden name. “Or rather a James, since I married Montgomery.”
So many names, and none of them felt right. They didn’t have the right number of syllables or the right feel in my mouth. None of them were Moreau.
“It’s useless.” My voice broke. “I was so certain I knew who I was and who I was supposed to be. I’m not certain of anything now.”
My running, sniffling nose was the only sound in the night, save distant moisture dripping from branches and the wind in the moors. Balthazar’s joints creaked as he shifted.
“You’re Juliet,” he said simply.
I looked up at him helplessly. “I don’t know who that is.”
“Then you’ll find out.”
I found myself staring at the dark space his voice came from. One thing I’d learned about Balthazar was that even though he was created by my father, he wasn’t bound by him. He’d gone from idolizing the man as a god to forming his own thoughts and beliefs and identity. How had a creature made of bits of a dog and a bear already learned so much more about life than I had?
Tears started coming harder. Big, thick ones. Balthazar shuffled closer and wrapped an arm around me, patting me gently. Sharkey nuzzled his snout against my arm. Sitting in the dark forest, I still felt lost, but now there was a light to move slowly toward.
As I squinted, I realized the light wasn’t just in my head. It moved through the trees, far off, but silently. My body went rigid as I turned to Balthazar.
“Someone’s coming,” I whispered.
I pictured Elizabeth’s ghost walking through these bogs, just as she had when I’d nearly drowned with that sheep. How I wished she were here now to guide me, as she had then.
Sharkey barked as the light grew closer. I made out Montgomery’s guilt-ridden face reflected in the light as he followed the sound of our voices. He stopped.
“Juliet, thank God. I’m sorry.”
I wiped the last of the moisture from my eyes. Sharkey nudged himself closer, and I scratched his head as hard as he liked, hoping it would calm me, too.
“You should have told me the truth,” I said quietly. I stood, holding Sharkey tightly in my arms. “I’m not that same little girl you used to shelter from the bad things in the world, Montgomery. I’m grown, and I might make mistakes, but I’m capable of taking care of myself—and Ballentyne.” I took a deep breath full of the highland mist and looked in the direction of the lights of the house, hoping that was true.
“We’ll figure something out,” Montgomery said. “Radcliffe won’t take Ballentyne.”
I squinted toward the house, feeling the cold mist spread over me, listening to the sound of the dripping bogs. “I might have an idea how,” I said hesitantly, letting the idea grow, and reached down to cup a handful of water from the closest puddle. “It has to do with Jack Serra flooding the moors.”
Montgomery tensed. “You mean to drown Radcliffe and his men?”
I knew he wouldn’t like the idea of more bl
oodshed. Violence wasn’t in his nature, but he’d slaughtered the beast-men when he’d been given no choice. We had no choice now, either. I would try to reason with Radcliffe, but if that didn’t work, there was no way I was letting him harm a single one of those girls.
I shook my head. “We’re going to electrocute them.”
THIRTY-SIX
ON THE WALK BACK to Ballentyne I explained my idea.
“Jack Serra—Ajax—flooded the road when he broke the levees to slow down Radcliffe. It flooded the manor’s courtyard as well. There must be three inches of water soaking the gravel, deeper in places. The entire manor’s wired with electricity. If we can trap Radcliffe and his men in the flooded courtyard and introduce an electric current, it would electrocute anyone touching the water.”
For a few moments, Montgomery said nothing. I couldn’t tell if he was considering my plan, or if his silence came from disapproval. “That’s true,” he said at last. “But I think we owe it to Lucy to reason with him first. If we try to negotiate and he is still bent on bringing us harm, then I suppose we haven’t many other choices. The problem is that someone would have to connect a metal line to carry the current. There isn’t enough rubber in the house to insulate someone’s entire body against a current that strong. That person would be electrocuted, too. It’s suicide.”
I hesitated. “For a normal person, yes. Not for someone who can’t die.”
Ballentyne blazed in the distance, reflecting in Montgomery’s eyes. “You mean Edward.”
“Exactly. Elizabeth said the reanimated can’t be killed unless their bodies are destroyed beyond repair, which is how Hensley burned to death. A simple electric shock wouldn’t hurt Edward any more than the tree branch harmed Hensley. He might need a few small repairs, but he wouldn’t die.” I paused. “At least, I don’t think he would.”
“Is this why you brought him back? Because he’s useful to you?”
I stopped in the road, and Montgomery stopped as well, as Balthazar and Sharkey continued toward the flooded courtyard. I lowered my voice.
“You make me sound as ruthless as Henri Moreau. I didn’t bring Edward back to serve some purpose. He’s a person. A friend. I brought him back because he had been wronged, and I had the power to help him. If you died, I’d bring you back as well. Not because I wanted to use you, but because I love you.”
His face softened in the light of his lamp. Montgomery had destroyed the truth about my past. About my very identity, even. And yet as I looked into his eyes in the lamplight, I remembered how Henri Moreau had manipulated and abused Montgomery as a child, making him adore Father like a god, only to treat him like a slave. And Montgomery had gone along with it all those years, just for the chance of having a father.
“We’re married now,” I said. “No more secrets between us. Agreed?”
He held my hand in his, our gold rings glinting beneath the stars. “No more secrets.”
BY THE TIME WE returned to the library, McKenna had put the little girls to bed and was waiting with Carlyle and Jack, and Lucy and Edward, discussing how best to strengthen the front doors against attack.
A floorboard squeaked under my boot and they all turned. Edward stood.
“Montgomery,” Edward said. His skin had gained some color, though he still moved with just the slightest bit of stiffness.
Montgomery held up a hand to silence him. “No. Let me speak first. It was wrong of me not to accept that you were back. It caught me by surprise, but I shouldn’t have raised my pistol. I’ve played a hand in my fair share of experimentation, and I’m not one to judge how we are brought into this world, only our nature as we are now.” He absently rubbed the scar on his thumb where his blood had been drawn to make Edward. “I’m glad to see you standing here, and I’m proud to call you a brother.”
He held out his hand, and after only a slight hesitation Edward stepped forward to take it. Lucy squeezed her pocket watch tight, beaming to see them no longer at odds.
“I suppose, if we’re making amends,” Edward said in a lighter tone, “I should apologize for all the times I tried to kill you. Don’t take it personally.”
Montgomery gave the hint of a smile. “As I recall, I also tried to kill you a few times.”
“Then we’re even.”
They broke apart, and I smiled to think of the four of us on friendly terms: no more misunderstandings, no more sickness or anger. Our friendships had even overcome death itself.
Now we just had to overcome Radcliffe.
I went to the windows, looking down on the flooded courtyard and the road beyond. For all I knew, Radcliffe was already in Quick, just waiting for the road to drain. “We don’t have much time, and there’s much to be done. I have a plan that involves all of you. I want to know your thoughts.”
We stayed up until dawn discussing how to prepare for Radcliffe’s arrival and the logistics of trapping his men in the courtyard to electrocute them. Montgomery said that he and Balthazar would dig a trench around the rear of the house to force Radcliffe into the courtyard, while Edward and Carlyle reinforced all the doors and ground-floor windows, and Lucy agreed to work with McKenna to stock the barn cellar with supplies to keep the girls warm and well fed during the siege.
Rain fell against the windows. “Let’s hope the rain holds until we’ve prepared the house,” I said. “The longer it rains, the longer it will take for the road to drain.”
Montgomery squeezed my hand. “We’ll be ready for him.”
The following day was a flurry of activity. The rain continued, steady and cold, turning the gardens into a soggy mess. We laid out thick wooden planks along the courtyard to walk across as we went about gathering weapons and ammunition. To my surprise, when I handed Lily and Moira each a rifle and started to explain how to fire, they just laughed.
“Mistress, we’ve been hunting foxes since we were three years old,” Moira said, and took the rifle with a well-practiced hand.
By midday, when we took a break to eat some sandwiches McKenna had prepared, the trench was dug and most of the windows were boarded up, and I was starting to feel like we might have a chance after all.
“I’ve been thinking about the secret passageways,” I said. “In case Radcliffe’s men do get into the house, the passages could be extremely useful to help us move around unnoticed, but I only know a handful of them.”
McKenna arranged the sandwiches, thinking. “I have the previous mistresses’ ledgers in my study. One of them tried mapping the passages in the 1770s, though the map’s been damaged. Parts aren’t readable, but it might be a good place to start.”
She fetched the map and brought it back to the library, where Montgomery and I pored over it. “You and I already know how to travel through the passages without getting hurt,” he said. “It won’t take but a few hours to fill in the blank sections of the map.”
Frowning, I looked outside in the direction of Quick. The rain was already lessening, and there was still so much left to do. But the passages could save our lives. “Let’s do it, then.”
While everyone else continued readying the house, Montgomery and I went upstairs to the second floor hallway, to a watery portrait I’d never given much thought to before. Amelia Ballentyne, read the plaque. Her hair was a fair shade of red, but otherwise she looked very much like Elizabeth: her defiant stance, the crooked smile, the mischievous glisten in her eye.
Montgomery raised his hammer and smashed it into her face.
I flinched as the canvas and wooden frame shattered, reveal the gaping chasm of a secret passageway beyond that had been long sealed away.
“Poor woman,” I muttered as he used the hammer to pull away the remaining bits of wood and debris, giving us access. “All this was hers once. She entrusted it to Elizabeth, and now to me. She’d be disappointed if she knew.”
Montgomery took my hand before I could continue down that dark line of thought. “You must stop doubting yourself. Come on.” We climbed through the broken portrait.
The only light came from seams in the walls. Montgomery’s presence was nothing more than a shadowy figure until he lit a candle.
“If only Hensley were here,” I said, picking my way carefully along the uneven brick floor. “He could have mapped these passageways with his eyes closed.” I ducked under a jagged broken post. “I keep thinking that if Elizabeth could have gotten away from him and crawled into these passages, she might have survived.”
“It would be a death trap to be caught in here in a fire, with so few exits and so little ventilation.” He studied the map. “This way.” He turned left and climbed a flight of rickety stairs. We wound around a brick fireplace to continue down the branching hallways. I tried to ignore the thought of the hundreds of spiders that must be there and I didn’t see. Montgomery found a crack and peered through.
“What do you see?”
“It’s nothing,” he said, straightening a little too fast. “We should keep going.”
I bent down to look myself and jerked in surprise to find lifeless eyes staring back at me. A deer—one of the white statues from the winter garden. Behind the statuary, Lucy and Edward sat on the wall tucked between the stone fox and stone wolf, speaking in low voices I couldn’t make out. Edward’s pocket watch glinted in Lucy’s hand. She was trying to give it back to him, and he was folding her hand around it, insisting she keep it. His hands stayed wrapped around hers for quite some time, as though he didn’t quite want to let go. She suddenly leaned in and kissed him, and his initial surprise gave way to an embrace.
My cheeks went red.
“We should give them their privacy,” Montgomery said softly. “Let them have their happiness wherever they can find it. They might not have too many chances once Radcliffe gets here, even if we do manage to defeat him.”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated. “If you or I can’t kill Radcliffe ourselves, then Edward stands the greatest chance of . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Of killing the father of the girl he loves,” I answered.
Montgomery looked away; the tension was too high, reminding me that I’d as good as killed the man I’d thought was my own father, a man who’d been like a father to him, too.
A Cold Legacy Page 24