‘It may not behim...’ I can’t say his name. It’s like Shakespeare’sMacbeth; if I say it, something bad will happen.
‘No, it may not be. But if it is ...’
‘Don’t say it,’ I warn her. ‘Don’tsay his name.’
‘Alexander,’ she intones, and I groan. Shit, she said it. Now we’re all doomed!
A knock sounds from downstairs, and Sadie angles her head sharply towards the noise.Who’s that?
I start backing away from her one step at a time while she’s distracted.
Ah, gotta go. My dentist has arrived. Thanks for the drink.
Sadie scowls. But before she has a chance to remind me again of my vampiric responsibilities, I’m flying down the staircase that leads to my lair. As soon as I’m out of her presence, my mood picks up, and anticipation skitters down my spine. Carpe diem. If my vengeful sire is close to discovering my whereabouts, I may as well have some fun before he does.
Chapter 5
Florence | London, 1888
‘It has been said that the East End is a “terra incognita for respectable citizens”. But I think parts of it are rather underrated,’ remarks Dr Dryden. ‘And especially pleasant for strolling around on summer evenings.’
My interview has reared off on a tangent. I have no idea what ‘terra’ whatsit is, but I don’t need a gent telling me that the East End isn’t all that bad. It’s autumn now, so the worst of the London heat is over. But Spitalfields still stinks—morning and night, in any season.
‘Since you like the East End so much, maybe you should try living there and not in Belgravia, sir,’ I can’t help saying stiffly, which earns me a low chuckle in reply.
I’m surprised that, yet again, he’s amused at me speaking my mind and that he has a sense of humour—even though it’s so dry you could use it for kindling to light a fire. Remarkably, for my latest snide comment, he doesn’t throw me out for impertinence but suggests showing me around the house instead.So does that mean I’ve got the job? I haveno clue.
‘My aunt said the position is live-in. Is that the case?’ I enquire as we start down the hallway.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ he clarifies, throwing open a door on the right. ‘This is the parlour.’
I peer inside. It too is a dim room like the rest of the house, thanks to heavy black velvet drapes being partially drawn. The only interesting furniture is an overstuffed emerald-green sofa that looks comfortable to sit on.
He pulls the door shut, and we continue down the dark nondescript hallway without any family photos until we reach the end, which has a door. He gestures for me to open it. ‘The kitchen is through here.’
‘Oh,’ I say, wondering why he’s showing me the kitchen. Would I have to clean it?
The kitchen, I’m relieved to discover, is pristine and has a gleaming row of copper pans. But it doesn’t look like it’s ever been used. The range is stone cold.
‘I don’t have a cook at present,’ says Dr Dryden from behind my left shoulder. ‘It’s difficult to get good help these days.’
He’s standing so close to me the air between us seems to tighten, and my skin hums with awareness. I step away, pretending to study some teacups with a tiny pink-and-gold rose pattern, though I can still feel him, like a shadow at myback.
‘What do you do for meals then?’ I ask, turning to look at him.
The corner of his mouth quirks. ‘My son and I tend to dine out.’
I glance up at the ceiling.His very quiet son.
‘I’m used to cooking for myself. A bit of cheese on toast suits me,’ I tell him, hoping to sway his mind and give me the position.
‘An independent spirit, I see. Good, good. That’s what I’m looking for in a governess.’ From that, it seems I’m still in the running. But there’s something about the way Dr Dryden’s looking at me that is shiver inducing, and the fine hairs on my arms rise. I would go so far to describe it as a ‘hungry look’, but I did just mention cheese on toast, and it’s nearly time for lunch.
‘After you, Miss Hughes.’ Dr Dryden stands aside to let me pass, and as I do, he rocks forward and sniffs me. Only slightly, but it’s definitely sniffing. Shame courses through me. Do I smell bad? I had a good wash before I came here.
He doesn’t offer to show me upstairs and walks towards the front door. It seems the tour—and the interview—is over.
The thought of going back to Aunt Ivy, to our rickety flat with its peeling wallpaper and communal outhouse,makes me panic when we’re standing by the door.
