“You would have lain down for me,” he said softly. “You have been ripe for it for years. All you want is the right man to say the right words and you will open like a well-oiled lock.”
I said nothing. The accusation was too crude to merit a response. It was only later that I acknowledged that he knew me better than I ever suspected. I did not like to admit it, but it was possible that I would have lain with him, only just possible, but it was there. I had been lonely and unappreciated. Who was to say what I might have done, if the circumstances had been just so? If he had caught me at a vulnerable moment, if he had looked at me in just the right way, with murmured words of love and seduction, his hands gentle but eager, urging me…I like to think I would have had the strength to resist that. But I knew better.
“But I could not do it,” he said regretfully. “My quarrel was with Edward, and there I kept it.”
“When did you prepare the poison?” I asked curiously. This might well be the only time I would have to question him, and I wanted to ask everything. I did not want to wonder later.
“The autumn before he died.” He laughed at the memory. His voice was softer than it had been, a little thready. “I nearly killed myself in the process. But it was easy enough. A few books, a few basic precautions, and the thing was done. Too easy, really. It’s a wonder more people don’t do it.”
“And you put the sheaths into the box and left it in his room.”
He nodded, his gaze distant.
He had been cautious, and yet audaciously bold, I thought with some admiration. It had been cleverly executed and brilliantly conceived. He had gotten away with it for a year. How much longer might he have kept his secret had I not gone meddling? And, more to the point, how long would I live, knowing what I knew?
As if reading my thoughts, he stroked the side of the lamp, studying the flame, and said, “You were a brave girl to come here and plan to accuse me of murder. And braver still to hear my confession.”
I watched him watching the flame.
“I am tired,” he said suddenly, the drug having spent itself quickly. “I wish I could play with you a bit longer, but I am tired now.”
I made to rise. “You should rest now. You are not yourself. I will go.”
“No,” he said sharply, and the sheer power of his voice held me to my chair. “We must finish this. I cannot live,” he cried, “not now. I don’t even want to live, not without him.”
“You are not thinking clearly,” I said, edging to my feet. “You are ill and tired. Sleep now.” And, thinking to reassure him, I added, “I will tell no one.”
His eyes flashed and I knew I had made a critical miscalculation. “No, you will not tell. Not now. Not ever.”
With his last words, he picked up the lamp in both hands and hurled it at me. I ducked, shielding myself with the chair. The lamp crashed against it, breaking and spilling oil and fire over the silk and wood. Flames rushed to the floor, racing over the carpet to the bed and to the hem of my skirts.
I screamed and batted at the fire licking my skirts. It extinguished immediately and I turned to where he stayed, smiling at me, though the fire was rising between us.
“Will you save me, Julia? And risk your own life? Or will you run away?” His voice was mocking, even now. I reached for him. God help me, I would have saved him even then. But the smoke and the fire were rising hotly and I was thrown back. I turned at the door and saw the bed, engulfed in flames.
“Simon!” I screamed. But there was no reply.
I took the stairs of Grey House two at a time, my scorched skirts high in my hands. My lungs, constricted with stays and smoke, were screaming by the time I gained the ground floor. The servants were gone, sent away for the evening at my insistence, and the empty house echoed with the sounds of the fire, the taffeta rustle of flames, and the shriek of shattering glass. The hall was filling with smoke and I could barely see my way.
Suddenly, above me, a black shadow swooped from above. In my terror I thought it was Simon, risen from his burning bed, but it was not. I nearly sobbed in relief as the raven wheeled before me, leading me on to the door. He screamed, flapping in front of me as I followed him. I reached the door, but the locks were fast, secured for the night as the staff were still out. I wept as I struggled with them. The smoke was billowing down the stairs, blackening the hall in a thick, sooty fog. My hands were slippery on the locks and I could not manage them.
Behind me, the raven continued to wheel and scream, scolding me, I thought. I cursed as I turned the first lock, snicking the bolt back. I moved on to the second, both hands wrapped around my skirt to grip it better. I took a deep, choking breath of the black smoke and nearly swooned. I was light-headed with it, scarcely able to see the lock in my hands. The raven screamed and I tried and failed, tried and failed again.
I took another breath and felt myself grow suddenly dreamy and tired. Another breath and I would not keep my feet. If I did not turn the lock now, I would never do so. Panting out the suffocating smoke, I tightened my grip one last time and the lock turned in my hands. I stumbled back in relief, yanked at the doorknob and felt the rush of sweet, cool, coal-gritted London air. My clothes and face were streaked with soot, my skirts charred where they had been afire, and I was red-faced with weeping and panic. But I was alive, I thought to myself exultantly. I staggered out onto the front step, feeling the rush of wings as the raven passed me to light on the iron railing.
I clung to the railing next to him, weeping and coughing. I felt a hand, slapping hard at my back, and looked up, straight into the face of the Ghoul.
“Good Lord, Julia, you look a fright. What is all the smoke about? Did Cook burn dinner? I just heard about Simon’s bad turn. Am I too late?”
I stared at her, from her neatly flowered hat to her trim little boots. She had a carpet bag in one hand and a hatbox sat on the ground. She was freshly arrived from Twickenham, unexpected, and so much more than welcome. She was perfectly, utterly normal, and I felt laughter, hysterical and sharp, bubbling up as I looked at her.
I opened my mouth to speak, but I could not make the words happen. Instead I watched as the street, dotted with soft, glowing lamps, began to spin about me. I let go of the railing, my feet floating free of the earth. I heard a voice say, “Oh, dear, I believe she is going to faint.”
And I did—straight into the arms of Nicholas Brisbane.
THE FORTY-FIRST CHAPTER
But whether Julia to the task was equal
