The Heartless City (5 page)

The girl, however, seemed quite unmoved. “Well, I’ll be returning shortly if you two need anything else.”

“No, wait―stay!” Elliot cried before he could think. The girl’s eyes widened as she turned in his direction, and his face burst into flames.

“Yes, please. Stay,” Cam said, rising from the table and gracefully pulling out a chair. “We’d very much enjoy hearing about America.”

The girl hesitated. “I’m not supposed to sit. I’m working.”

Cam glanced over her shoulder. Eddie, the manager, was now approaching the top of the stairs, gruffly informing the waitresses at the table their break was over. “Eddie!” he called, and the man’s head snapped in his direction. “Would you mind if this young lady sat and talked with us for a bit?”

“Not at all, sir,” he replied. “Iris, sit with the gentlemen.”

“But Mr. Dorset,” the girl―Iris―protested. “I have other tables. I’ll lose money if I―”

His eyes flashed as he crossed the room and angrily lowered his voice. “That gentleman there is Cambrian Branch, the son of the Lord Mayor. If he asks you to sit with him, by God, you are going to sit.”

He gave her another hard look before he walked away, shooing the other waitresses before him down the stairs. After a moment, Iris turned around and looked at Cam, and once again, Elliot felt the world grind to a halt. Her eyes were calm, her smile placid, her cheeks void of color, but flowing from her heart was the purest rage he’d ever known.

lliot doubled over, straining his muscles and clutching the sides of his chair. Iris’s wrath was murderous, dense, and completely overwhelming; he could hardly contain the raging fire that now consumed his blood. How could there not be a flush in her cheeks or quickness in her breath?

“El, are you all right?” Cam asked as Iris slid calmly and smoothly into the chair he had pulled out.

“Yes,” he said with a cough, clenching his fists and bringing them up to his knees. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure―”

“I’m sure. I think it’s just a stomach cramp or something.”

Cam looked wary but let it go and returned to his own chair. “Thank you so much for indulging us,” he said, turning to Iris. “I’ll gladly compensate you for any tips you might be losing.”

“There’s no need, really,” she said, her tone as smooth as glass.

“I must insist. You’re sacrificing your money and your time. It means a great deal to me, and I am truly in your debt.”

She blinked, momentarily betraying her surprise. The puzzlement she felt, however, did not abate her rage, which apparently stemmed from something other than losing her hard-earned wages. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

“It’s you who is doing me the kindness,” he said, his eyes alight. “I’d wanted to introduce myself, but as your manager already said, my name is Cambrian Branch.”

Her anger flared, and Elliot tightened his fists.

“Pleased to meet you, Lord Branch.”

Cam shook his head. “No, please. Call me Cambrian.” Her mouth dropped open a little, and he rushed to explain himself. “I don’t mean to be forward. It’s just that I find those rules to be unreasonable and old-fashioned. I’ll address you however you like, of course, but please don’t call me Lord Branch.”

Her bewilderment rose again, and this time it did ease a bit of her rage.

“All right,” she said slowly, “Cambrian. You can call me Iris.”

“What’s your real name, though? Not the one from
La Maison Des Fleurs
.”

“That is my real name: Iris Faye.” Her smile curled as she added, “I suppose I was simply born to be a waitress in this hall.”

Cam―unaccustomed to sarcasm not his own―cleared his throat. “Um, this is my friend, Elliot Morrissey. You can call him by his Christian name as well. Right, Elliot?”

Elliot nodded, afraid of the emotion his voice might convey. Her rage had not only flared again, it had sharpened to a point.

“Are you the son of Dr. Morrissey?” she asked, turning toward him.

Swallowing hard, he glanced away and murmured a quiet “yes.” He’d never been so uncomfortable or ashamed in his whole life. What must this beautiful, strong, mysterious girl think of him? He was sweating, half-drunk, inarticulate, and drowning not only in her emotions but also in his own.

“How do you know Dr. Morrissey?” Cam asked, knitting his brow.

A flicker of panic shot through Iris like lightening and then was gone, as if her heart had leapt and then immediately steadied. “Everyone knows who he is. He’s the most prominent doctor in London.”

“Oh, right. I suppose he is. Well, why don’t you tell us about yourself? Where in the States are you from?”

She smoothed her dress and tucked a charcoal curl behind her ear. “I’m from Kansas. If you don’t know where that is, it’s―”

“Right in the middle,” Cam said, beaming. “I’ve studied world maps. Were you born in the country then? On a farm?”

His enthusiasm was so pure it must have been disarming, because her raging fire simmered down to a steady glow, and Elliot let out a breath and rested his hands against his thighs.

“As a matter of fact, I was,” she replied. “Born on a farm, I mean.”

Cam nearly sighed with excitement. “Do you remember much of it?”

“I was three years old when we left, but I remember almost everything. We lived near a lake―a vast, clear lake that reflected the sky―and behind our house was a grove of pecan trees that seemed to go on forever.” Her gaze grew distant and wandered to the wall beyond their heads, as if she were seeing swaying branches rather than oil-stained lamps.

“So, why did you come to London?”

She blinked, regaining her focus. “My mother wanted to come here to work with English suffragettes. She liked that they were more radical than those in America.”

“Suffragettes?”

Elliot snapped his mouth shut as soon as he realized he’d spoken. He hadn’t meant to, but something about her voice had drawn him in, causing him to forget his shame, her rage, and everything else. He liked the way she spoke, the soft yet sturdy feel of her accent. It was comfortable and clean like cotton―bright and clear like the sky and lake she’d longingly described. The sound of her voice matched the pure, fiery beauty of her spirit; it sparkled and bubbled with light and made him feel almost… happy.

But the spell of her voice was only part of the reason he’d suddenly spoken. He’d never heard the word “suffragette” and didn’t know what it meant.

“Suffragettes were women who campaigned for the right to vote,” Cam explained. “I’ve read about them before.”

“They still exist, just not in London,” she said, her eyes suddenly burning. “What use is fighting for suffrage in an absolute monarchy?”

Elliot’s blood went cold even as her anger flared. What she’d said was true; there were no longer legislative bodies or votes in London. The Lord Mayor was the ultimate and only authority, but no one would dare to criticize that, especially in front of his son. He didn’t need to look at Cam to know he was stunned as well, but when he spoke, it was clear he’d been surprised for another reason.

“You’re extremely well-educated,” he said. “I don’t mean to sound insulting, but most girls―I mean, most waitresses―”

“The brightest men in this city―in this
world
―couldn’t match my mother. She attended prestigious schools in America, and she taught me well.”

Her pride swelled, but as it did, Elliot’s chest caved in. What must it be like for women like her and her mother to be trapped in London? A place where education, passion, and pride did women no good?

“She did at that,” Cam nodded, smiling. “What does she do now?”

Iris’s face became placid again. “She was killed by a Hyde a few years ago. Like every one else’s mother.”

Elliot clenched his fists and closed his eyes, preparing for the terrible wave of grief…

… that never came.

Confused, he lifted his head again and slowly uncurled his fingers. He hadn’t expected her grief to be as raw and fresh as Andrew’s, but he’d expected
something
. His own mother was killed over five and half years ago, and the thought of her still conjured memories that tore at his insides like claws: her reading to him before bed at night, laughing and running her warm, paint-stained fingers through his hair… her body covered up with a makeshift shroud in the cobblestone street, tubes of paint crushed flat and brushes stained red―not with paint, but her blood.

If Iris’s mother was killed like that, she was either callous or lying, and Elliot already knew how much she was capable of feeling.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Cam said. “Is your father still alive?”

The shame that flooded her chest would have caused most girls to avert their eyes, but she stared at them, unflinching, as she said, “I have no idea. It’s always been my mother and me. I don’t even know who he was.”

After a moment, the shame dissolved, unable to withstand the fiery pride that burned at her core. An emptiness remained, however―a longing for something unknown―and Elliot knew this story, at least, was absolutely true.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Cam said, tactfully changing the subject. “Since you remember your home so well, do you also recall your journey? My whole life, I’ve wanted to know what it’s like to see the ocean.”

She sat back in her chair, her face growing soft and distant again. “I do, and it was beautiful, but also a little scary. I remember one night my mother and I went out onto the deck. I don’t know why―perhaps we were seasick and needed a breath of fresh air. I’d imagined the sea would be glittering with reflections of the stars, but the sky was cloudy that night, so everything above and below us was infinite and dark. The ocean went on forever, even farther than the fields back home, and its waves were constant and rhythmic, like an ancient, endless song. I felt so small and frightened out there, but also strangely soothed. There’s something almost…
hopeful
about being dwarfed by something so big; it makes you feel like there’s more to the world. Like there’s… possibility.”

For a moment, none of them spoke, moved a muscle, or even breathed. This time, Elliot wasn’t enthralled by her voice but by her words, and he wasn’t the only one. All three of them were feeling the exact same thing at that moment, a phenomenon he hadn’t come across since his affliction. They sat in silence amid a cloud of longing and desperate wonder, sharing the same audacious dream, the same perilous hope.

It was Iris who finally broke the silence, shifting and tossing her hair back as if shaking off the memory. “I’m surprised you two even knew what an American accent was. One of the other waitresses here thought I was from some backwoods part of Ireland for a week.”

“Well, we’d heard it before,” Cam replied. “Back when we were children. Remember,” he said to Elliot, “that woman who was friends with your mother? Her name was Miss… Ferrell, I think.”

“Carroll,” Elliot murmured, clearing his throat. “Virginia Carroll.”

“Right. I remember her and Lady Cullum coming over for tea. It didn’t happen often, as Lady Cullum was rarely on good terms with the Lord Mayor. Of course, that was before… well, before things went bad with her shelters.”

Elliot recalled the Lord Mayor’s tirades against Lady Cullum’s shelters. He thought the Hydes were criminals who didn’t deserve to be “coddled,” and claimed that protecting them was a risk too dangerous to take. As it turned out, he was right: One day a Hyde broke loose in one of the shelters and killed Lady Cullum. After that, the Lord Mayor closed the havens and changed the law, declaring all infected Hydes to be enemies to the city. Active or not, infected people were now to be killed on sight, as were any who harbored, helped, or failed to execute them. Then, only a few days later, Virginia Carroll died as well, killed by an explosion in Dr. Jekyll’s old laboratory. This led to the second law that changed the city of London: Only those appointed by the Lord Mayor could seek a cure, as experimentation was simply too perilous, especially for women.