Renegade (20 page)

She smiled. This was made by Christianized Picts.

Funny … in that era, even the Christian people had believed in her. She was a selkie-lamia, the mythical Lilith, whatever monster dwelled among the damned and took humans fated to be hers. But of course it had been science that had brought her mythological life into existence. So here she was, an immortal lamia, a beautiful nightmare living on the margins of human society.

She moved on, the rocky surface of the clifftops gradually softened by scattered twigs and pine needles before giving way to a nearby scraggly forest. She walked through the forest until she reached its end, the edge of a green meadow. The meadow was pale-green in the moonlight. Then, as there was a hush in the rippling evening breeze, she heard voices.

She saw a young couple in the corner of the meadow. They spoke, leaning against a pine tree. Although she could not hear their voices, she knew they were lovers. As she watched them, her thoughts receded back to her life before the change, to her closest brush with love.

She hadn’t known her fiancé well at all. To this day, she wondered if she might have loved him eventually. She also wondered if, at the age of eighteen, she had had any choice in the matter at all. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she had felt the vague excitement of doing something new, and of moving away from her cold home.

Tristan had been her father’s business partner. He was from London, and he was older than she was; she had not known his precise age, but she now assumed that he was somewhere in his thirties, about the same age as her keeper. Her governess, Maura, had seemed so excited for her, telling her over and over that she was so fortunate to be engaged to him. Tristan went on chaperoned walks with Maura and Seraphina, around the loch, whenever he was in Bromwell. And she still remembered walking into the parlor on the afternoon they had become engaged. She had worn her best dress, sleeves carefully covering her rash-covered arms. She remembered feeling warm and happy when he slipped the ring on her finger. Although she didn’t know him, she had been excited, wondering if her own marriage might be
better than her parents’ marriage—although she did not even know, exactly, what that had been like. Her fiancé, like her father, was kind but distant. A complete enigma. And yet she remembered trying to be hopeful … she had looked forward to marriage, asking Maura what a wife did.

And then …

As her memories of her father and Tristan returned in a painful onslaught, she shut her eyes and felt her long talons dig into her palms until they bled.

She came out of the reverie and observed the two lovers. The couple was so enraptured in their own hushed words and kisses that they had no idea of her presence. The boy was a fisherman; even from across the meadow, Seraphina smelled the scent of saltwater and fish upon his clothes. The girl, plainly dressed, looked as if she might have worked at one of the Bromwell shops, a millinery, perhaps, or a bakery. As Seraphina studied them—both no more than seventeen—she thought of her own chance at love so many years ago, and the emotions of that engagement arose full force inside of her: the betrayal, the scorn from Tristan when he saw her transform.

These memories felt as painful as a re-opened wound. Her torn feelings swelled, and Seraphina feared that they would become too much, that she would split apart. That hunger, that old hunger that could never quite be dispelled or conquered, returned.

She had to feed.

She crouched in the high grasses, easing forward, her eyes glinting on the couple.

As she swam back to her island, the night sky deepened. She was late returning and the animals would be hungry. But her stomach felt full, her body invigorated. She rose and fell in the water, plunging against the rush of currents, against the splash of waves.

Finally she surfaced, sensing her island in the distance. A blanket of night mist parted like drapes, and her heart leaped when she saw Max’s boat tethered to the rocky shore. She dove under and swam faster. Her keeper had returned to her.

I returned from work the next day, tired and exhausted beyond belief. However, Grandmother was angry at Lady Violet for some reason, and I knew that I would be expected to listen to her complaints during dinner.

“Violet knew better than to invite Lord Darton and his wife to dine the other night.”

“What’s wrong with them?” I asked wearily, only half-listening as I cut into my roast beef. I noticed that my meat was slightly bloody, a little undercooked. I liked it this way, but Grandmother would not be pleased.

She leaned forward, so close across the table that I saw the dust of her face powder upon her cheeks. “Why, I have no problem with Lord Darton, Arabella, only with his judgment in wives.”

When she sliced into her meat, a bit of blood seeped out. I saw the immediate displeasure upon her face.

“Do not eat that, Arabella. Ellen!” she called shrilly.

I sighed. I would have to wait to hear about Lord Darton’s wife while my meat cooked longer. I heard my stomach growl.

“Ellen!”

When the maid entered the dining room, Grandmother instructed her to take our meat immediately back to the kitchen to cook, and to bring us something else in the meantime. I argued this a bit, but then I saw Grandmother’s nose wrinkle and her jaw stiffen, and I realized instantly that the argument was not worth having. Grandmother was already in a poor mood; Richard had left London on vacation, and Grandmother had had to endure Ellen’s terrible hysterics.

She spread jam upon her roll. “Lord Darton’s new young wife is divorced. She left her previous husband a few years ago, charging him with cruelty.”

“It sounds as if she had good reason to leave him,” I heard myself say, distractedly. My mind was so consumed with Max’s return, with the news of Simon’s follower, that I felt frightened even sitting in this lovely Kensington cage.

Grandmother’s lips narrowed into a small slit. Before I could stop myself, I felt my eyes glance toward Mother’s portrait on the wall near us. It was a painting done when she was my age, nearly eighteen, shortly before she eloped with Jacque Sharp. I wondered how she had reacted to Grandmother’s lengthy tales of gossip.

Fortunately, Grandmother seemed not to notice my inattention. “The young woman might very well have had reason to leave her first husband. Nonetheless, she is a divorced woman, and to marry so well, when she is so disgraced … it is unheard of.” Grandmother clucked her tongue. She began muttering. “Violet would never have invited such a woman, but with her husband’s … ” She looked at me shrewdly; I think she knew I was aware of Lord Bertram’s laudanum addictions and debt. “Indiscretions,” she continued, “with his costly habits. They are in desperate need of money. They need this friendship with Lord Darton. Nonetheless, why would she invite
me
to a dinner party with a woman so eschewed by society that she cannot even attend Court? Violet might have at least warned me that notoriety herself would be at her dinner table. I would not have attended.”

After a bit, Ellen returned with a more fully cooked platter of roast beef. Grandmother sanctimoniously unfolded her embroidered napkin. As we began eating, she said, “I don’t receive such people in my house.”

“Ma’am.” Ellen stood in the doorway red-faced, flustered. “Miss Christina Rossetti is here. She most urgently would like to speak to Miss Arabella.”

Grandmother groaned. “Now? At this time? What does the woman want?”

“Most certainly I will see her,” I said, rising and wiping my lips with a napkin. I felt myself blush at Grandmother’s rudeness.
Disgraced women. Bohemian families.
I despised the way Grandmother’s world doled out kindness so discriminately.

Seventeen

I
stepped into our parlor to find Christina Rossetti’s frail figure pacing in front of the fireplace. She still wore her coat. When she looked up at me, her expression was absolutely panicked. Her face seemed paler than usual, her eyes almost the size of small saucers.

“What is the matter?” I asked, alarmed, shutting the parlor door behind me and advancing quickly toward her.

Christina gripped my upper arms tightly. “Oh Abbie,” she said quickly. “I have not seen William in three weeks, and I haven’t the slightest idea where he might be!”

“What?” I’d assumed, as Simon did, that William was at home with his aunt, hopefully resting.

Christina began pacing again as she talked quickly. “The first few days, I was not worried. I thought he might be so busy he was simply sleeping at the hospital. He has done that a few times. Then I became concerned. We have a place near Avignon, and he has been so distraught, I wondered if he had gone there. He took off there alone once after his exams in medical school. I wrote to one of our friends in the area, asking her to visit the house. She did, and replied promptly that it was unoccupied. And then … ”

She lowered her voice and looked at me with pity. “You do know that he was engaged? It happened immediately before his disappearance.”

“Oh, no … ” I whispered, feeling my stomach. How could he do that? Move on like that so quickly. I had lost him. It must have happened a day or so after I last saw him, that evening of the attack on Abberline. My world spun a bit, and I sat down on the sofa.

Christina sat next to me and placed her hands on my shoulders. I felt shocked. Too shocked to even cry. But I could not speak.

“Abbie … ” she whispered, soothingly. She removed her gloves and took my face in her hands, her palms cool and gentle upon my cheeks. “I helped my brother raise William; I know him very well, and I do know that his feelings for you are true. I didn’t say anything earlier because I truly don’t believe the engagement will last.”

“One of the cousins?” I heard myself say, distantly. He could not love either of them. I couldn’t believe it.

“Lottie,” Christina said quietly. Then she bit her lip, “Or perhaps it was Lettie … I don’t know. They’re both ridiculously similar and remarkably stupid.”

She paused.

I swallowed, folded my hands upon my lap, and stared into the fire. “Go on, please.”

“I wondered if he might have eloped, but when I contacted the family, neither of the young women had heard from him. In fact, Lottie—or perhaps it was Lettie—blast, I wonder if William can even tell the difference—was furious with him for not contacting her in so long.”

My head swarmed with so many thoughts at once. I became dizzied with jealousy, fear, rage, and worry. In spite of all of my conflicting and confusing feelings, I knew, beyond anything, that we had to locate William. I remembered his troubled face, how much he had been drinking.

“Do you think he might have hurt himself? Or that he might be hurt?” I asked. At Christina’s expression, I saw that I had suggested one of her worst fears. I felt my chest tighten. “Max,” I whispered in horror.

“Excuse me?” Christina asked, her eyes widening.

“Did William not tell you?” In that moment, I felt my anger at William rise. I’d simply assumed that he would tell his aunt all that Simon had told him—that he would warn her of Max’s return.

Quickly, I told Christina about the attack on Abberline, about how my vision had led me to it.

“And William knew of this?” she asked.

“Simon drove back and told him. Simon told me that he had been apathetic, that he had not really cared … ” My voice drained off.

She had her hand on her stomach as if she was about to be sick. “He truly was not thinking clearly. And now I am even more terribly frightened.”