The Heartless City (8 page)

Elliot nearly laughed. “Why? What could be so shocking and top-secret about penguins?”

Her discomfort grew, but her hands were calm as she reached out and took the books back. “I couldn’t say. And I’ve read them all at least a dozen times.”

She placed the stack on the desk, and Elliot shook his head in wonder. When it came to hiding feelings, Cam had nothing on this girl.

“I’m showing you these because you asked what it is I want,” she continued, her sea of yearning rising up and swallowing him again. “This is it. I want to be an ornithologist. I want to travel the world observing and finding new species of birds.”

“That’s wonderful,” Elliot murmured. “That is absolutely brilliant.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You don’t… think the idea’s mad?”

“Why would it be mad? It couldn’t be more perfect. Who better to brave the jungle and make new discoveries than someone who’s as fearless and intelligent as you?”

She stared at him for a long time and then quickly looked away, feeling too many conflicting emotions for him to discern them clearly. “Of course,” she said, masking her turbulent storm with a steady voice. “In order for that to happen, my other dream must come true first.”

Elliot nodded. She didn’t need to say what the other dream was: a cure and an end to quarantine. “That’s everybody’s dream.”

A cold wind of bitterness blew through her storm and she started to laugh. “Please,” she scoffed. “Of course that isn’t everybody’s dream.”

“What?” he asked, certain he couldn’t have heard her right.

“Why would Harlan Branch ever want the quarantine lifted? Before the Hydes, he was just a mayor, and now he’s the undisputed king of his own personal kingdom.” She sat up straight and met his gaze, her eyes beginning to burn. “And what of the knights and baronets? A decade ago they barely ranked above the middle class, but now that all the dukes and earls are gone, they’re London’s peerage, and those in Branch’s inner circle are practically royalty.” Her bitterness sharpened, and this time she made no attempt to hide it. “Like you, for example. You would have been just the son of another doctor, but now you’re a virtual prince, complete with a palace full of servants.”

Elliot’s mouth went dry. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough to know you’re better off without a cure.”

He gaped at her, anger spreading like venom through his veins. “Look, I know more than you can imagine about how hard others have it. No one deserves to be trapped inside this hellhole of a city, and even if you were right about me, I’d still want a cure for
them
.” He took a breath and shoved a trembling hand through his tangled hair. “Yes, it’s true―I’m fortunate. But if you think that London’s not a nightmare for me as well, you’re wrong. I want to escape as much as you, and I’d give up a hundred palaces to have my mother back.”

Iris blinked. “Your… your mother was killed by a Hyde?”

“Of course she was. Just like everyone else’s mother.”

He spit the words cruelly, parroting what she’d said at the music hall. His pain and anger were so overwhelming he simply couldn’t help it, and he found himself staring at her in a sort of heated challenge. But the bitterness was gone from both her eyes and heart by then, replaced by a sad and stunned remorse.

As well as pity.

“Don’t,” he muttered, rising from the stool and walking away.

“Don’t what?”

He turned his back and closed his eyes. “Don’t… pity me.”

“I don’t. I mean, well, of course I do a bit―I can’t help being sorry―but more than anything I’m surprised. I thought women like that were safe.”

He released a ragged breath. “She would have been. But she ran out of white.”

“What do you mean she ‘ran out of white?’”

Elliot turned back around, swallowing hard before he spoke. “My mother was an artist―a painter―and after the quarantine it was hard for her to obtain supplies. The Lord Mayor only requested a small amount each month, and he only did that because of his relationship with my father. One day, when I was twelve, my mother was frantic for white paint. It’s impossible to paint without it―white not only softens colors but adds the illusion of light. She’d been without it for over a week, and well…”

He sighed and took a step closer, struggling to explain. “For my mother, painting wasn’t merely a hobby. It was like… breathing. When she couldn’t paint, she felt suffocated. It nearly drove her mad. Normally, our servants brought her supplies when the shipments came in, but the next slated import day was at least two weeks away. Before the quarantine, she bought her supplies at a shop in the Strand, and even though it had likely closed, she was desperate enough to try. She didn’t trust anyone else to find the place or get just what she wanted, and since it was broad daylight, she decided to go on her own.”

The memory sharpened, twisting like a dagger in Elliot’s stomach, but he found himself unable to stop the story from pouring out. “Hours later, she hadn’t returned, so Cam and I went out to find her; my father was at work and I remembered the shop’s location. We found her in an alley near the church of St. Mary-le-Strand. A small crowd had already gathered and someone had covered her chest and face with a rough scrap of canvas, but I knew it was her as soon as I saw the tube of paint, crushed flat and staining her hand and the street beneath it white.”

He took a breath and sat back down on the stool, rubbing his brow. “My father blamed her death on art. He called her passion a malady and locked the room she’d used as her studio at the palace. I knew where he kept the key, however, and for a while I snuck inside to paint when he was out; I’d found two tubes of white unharmed inside her reticule.”

Iris searched him silently, and for once, he was glad for the pain that came with his mother’s memory. It muffled the pity he knew she must have been feeling for him then.

“So, you’re a painter as well?” she finally asked, her voice grown soft.

“No. I mean, I was… once. Or rather, I wanted to be. My mother used to say she would take me to Paris when London was free, so I could study painting in the capitol of art.” He ran a hand through his hair again, swallowing a hunger he hadn’t felt in years. “But I couldn’t paint for very long after she was killed. I tried, but I suppose the memories made it all too painful.”

He glanced back up and looked at her through the dim and flickering light. Their eyes locked, and something strange stirred inside his chest, something sharp but also sweet, like the clang of the bells at St. Paul’s. It was so unfamiliar and overwhelming he wasn’t even sure to whom the feeling really belonged, and he rose to his feet and walked away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“It was for the best, however,” he said, pacing before the door. “Medicine was the practical profession to undertake. Although,” he added, nearly, laughing. “I can’t even do that now.”

“Why not?”

He froze where he stood and cleared his throat. “It’s a long story.”

“I don’t mind long stories. You’ve been listening to me all night.”

“Yes, but the things you have to say are actually interesting. You’re hopeful and bright and alive, and I wish…” He swallowed and turned away. “I wish I could be more like you.”

In spite of the heat of his feelings, he shivered, chilled to the bone in the frigid room, and Iris rose from her chair and took a hesitant step toward him. “Maybe we should go into the aviary. It’s warmer.”

Elliot turned to look at her. The coat she wore was thinner than his, and her petal-pink dress was sleeveless. “It’s strange,” he said, furrowing his brow. “You don’t seem cold.”

Panic shot through her body like the snap of someone’s fingers, and she rubbed her hands together, shivering just as fiercely as him. “Of course I’m cold. It’s freezing in here. Come on, let’s go back out.”

“Wait,” he said, raising his hand as she moved toward the door. “I haven’t been much of a gentlemen tonight. Please, allow me.”

He opened the door and stepped out into the warmth of the aviary, descending the single stair and turning to offer her his hand. She looked at him for a moment and then slowly extended her own, and he held his breath, preparing for the jolt of physical contact. But then the hostile gander from before flapped onto the stair and snapped at Iris’s skirt, sending her stumbling into the doorframe. She reached for the open door in an attempt to regain her balance, but her hand slipped from the jagged edge and she fell.

Into Elliot’s arms.

She crashed against him, her arms flying up around his neck, and his hands slid up beneath her coat as he caught her around the waist and staggered back against a tree. Fire tore through his blood, and he swallowed a guttural cry; their bodies were touching at almost every possible point of contact. Her dress was so thin he could feel the warmth of her thighs against his own, as well as the intricate lacing of her corset in the back. Smoke and beer clung to her hair, but her skin smelled healthy and clean, and her fresh, full lips were slightly parted in a gasp. He stared at her mouth, a heavy ache spreading through his chest, and when he looked up, he saw that she was staring at him as well. Their hearts beat together, creating a tangible heat between them, and this time he was certain that it wasn’t all his own.

But then a bolt of pain shot up his leg, and he stumbled away. The blasted gander was back on the ground and nipping at his trousers. “Bloody hell!” he cried, smacking his head on a nearby branch. “Get the hell away from us, you bloody disgusting bird!” He shooed it away, kicking a wild foot in the creature’s direction, but Iris stopped him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him up the stair.

“Let’s go back inside. There is no escaping that beast.”

She hauled him into the office, released his wrist, and closed the door, and Elliot rubbed the place where she’d touched him, confusion cooling his blood. Her heart had been pounding as violently as his a moment ago, but when she seized his wrist, his fingers had closed around hers as well, and even though her feelings hadn’t changed, her pulse had steadied.

“I suppose adoring birds does not ensure they’ll adore me back,” she said, turning around to face him. “Although, I must admit, I detest that sort of goose. It’s nothing like the wild geese I remember from back home. People call them Canada geese, but they live in America, too, and every summer they filled the lake just north of my family’s farm.” She strolled to the desk, her wistful voice masking her nervous tension. “They’re elegant birds with long, black necks and a splash of white on their heads, and I used to love watching them take off from the water and fly through the air, forming a perfect arrow as they soared above our pecan grove.” She brushed her hair back over her shoulder, and something caught Elliot’s eye.

“Iris―I mean, Miss Faye―look at your hand. I think you’re hurt.”

He took a step toward her, and she opened her left hand. A dark streak of blood smeared the center of her palm.

“Did you cut it when you―” he began, but then his voice dissolved. The blood was new―fresh and wet.

But there was no wound beneath.

She jerked her hand away and wiped it off inside her pocket. “I think it’s only dirt. From when I tried to grab the door.” She turned around and crossed to the opposite side of the room. “We should get some sleep before the birds’ caretakers arrive. They’ll be here in the morning, which is just a few hours away, and I don’t want to be miserable and exhausted at work tomorrow.”

Elliot’s stomach turned; he had to work tomorrow, too. When his father refused to continue his education, he gave him a job―a grim, disgusting business he tried not to think about.

“You’re right,” he said. “We should get some rest.” He approached her, removing his overcoat. “Please, take my coat.”

“There’s no need. Really, I’m fine.”

“I insist,” he said, holding it out. “You’ll freeze in that.”

She let out a breath and took the coat. “Thank you, Mr. Morrissey.”

“Please, call me Elliot.”

She looked at him, her eyes burning embers in the darkness, but then she turned away and wrapped the coat around her shoulders, murmuring “thank you,” again and crouching down against the wall.

Elliot rubbed his arms and crossed to the other side of the office. The floor creaked as he lowered himself against the opposite wall, but other than that, the dim, frigid room was utterly silent. He closed his eyes and took a breath, wondering how in the world he could sleep with Iris a few feet away, but then her bright, sparkling voice rang out across the room.

“Elliot?”

It was as if he’d heard his name for the first time in his life. “Yes?”

For a moment, she didn’t speak, and her face was lost in the shadows, but then she finally said, “If you want, you can call me Iris.”

A smile spread across his face. “Goodnight, Iris. Sleep well.”

Eventually, exhaustion overpowered his excitement, and he curled up against the wooden floor and drifted off. At first, his dreams were as empty and cold as the freezing boards beneath him, but then a heavy warmth began to creep inside his brain. He saw Iris standing in a grove of golden trees, watching a flock of wild geese soaring above the branches. She turned to him, smiled, and reached out to take his hand, and when he clasped her fingers, he could have sworn the touch was real.

The next thing he knew, however, he was waking up in the cold, feeling as though he’d slept beside a fire that had died. His overcoat was draped over his body like a blanket, and when he sat up and rubbed his eyes, he saw that she was gone.