Whatever he saw there locked the breath in his chest.
“Camellia?” He reached for me, but my body jerked away.
“Don’t touch us,” the voice said, flinching in disgust.
He stilled, then spread his hands, palms open in a non-threatening gesture. “Who is ‘us’?”
The laughter that escaped me was cruel and sharp. “Do not pretend to be so foolish,Nicholas.” My companion turned my face toward him, the movement too smooth. “We are the monster you created.”
“I did not—” he began.
“Shut up!” The voice screamed, the words tearing from my throat. “No more lying!”
My hand crept up my body slowly. Dr. Ambrose followed the progression as my fingers slid over my breast,then trailed further up to my throat, caressing the green velvet ribbon.
His posture went rigid, his breathing coming in shallow, rapid gasps as his jaw clenched so hard that I heard his teeth grind.
“Tell her the truth.” The words fell from my lips sweetly, but tasted bitter and rotten. “Or perhaps I will show her.” My fingers tugged threateningly at the tail of the ribbon.
“No!” Dr. Ambrose lunged forward, his fingers wrapping around my wrist in a tight, painful grip.
My head tilted and my lips curved as I stared into his panic-filled eyes. “Say it. Let her hear it from your own mouth. Tell her what you did.”
Behind my own eyes, I was forced to watch the scene unfold as he slowly released my wrist, the pain in his features twisting my heart as he pressed his lips into a firm line, refusing, or unable, to speak the words.
My companion made a sharp sound of disapproval from the back of my throat. “Very well. I will show her.”
Dr. Ambrose’s eyes widened, his throat moving as he swallowed and reached out for me. “No, wait,” he said, his voice roughened with fear. “Mellie, I am so sorry—”
The words broke apart as my vision swallowed me, dragging me into a pit of darkness, back to where it all began.
Chapter 23
SIX MONTHS BEFORE
The room is warm.
I am in our bed. My bed. Nicholas’s bed.
The scent of fresh roses fills my nose as I open my eyes and stare up at the familiar ceiling above me. I have studied every crack and watermark through the hours lying too long and too still in this bed. The curtains are drawn against the afternoon light, which means Agnes has been in and decided I needed sleep more than sun—which means it has been a bad day.
By now, I have lost count of how many bad days there have been.
I count the cracks in the ceiling plaster again. Seven.
The cough, when it comes, arrives as it always does, gathering in my chest, rising up through my lungs, entirely indifferent to whether I am ready for it. I press the handkerchief to my mouth and breathe through it until thespasm passes, then lower the cloth and look at what it has collected.
Crimson blood stains the white fabric.
More than yesterday.
I fold it and set it on the nightstand face-down so Agnes will not have to see when she comes in.
I am dying.
Nicholas refuses to believe the truth, but I see it in his face each time he listens to my lungs. He manages the devastation carefully around me, but I catch it sometimes when he looks at me with that expression that already contains grief.
The consumption is ravaging my lungs, starving my body of oxygen. Each time I breathe, I feel it burning through the tissue, hot and searing.
