Page 42 of Sinister

13

PETRA

20 March 1896

The violence in the square continues. The crowd erupts into chaos. A loud cry rises above the din—constables. Within seconds, the onlookers scatter, panic spreading as people flee in every direction. The constables begin arresting bystanders at random, only intensifying the confusion.

I glance around, searching for my friends, but they’re gone. Not a single veiled figure remains. I turn, looking for Mrs. Jenkins, but she, too, has vanished.

Someone slams into me, nearly knocking me over. Another jostles past. I stumble, but then strong arms catch me. A hand grabs mine, steady and firm, pulling me away from the crowd.

Without a word, I’m led into a shadowed alley, tucked into its dark corner, hidden from the chaos outside. Shouts and scuffles echo in the distance, but here it’s quiet.

And then I see him.

Him.

Even in the dim light, the blood on his face is stark—dripping down to his mouth, staining the collar of his white shirt.

Instinctively, I reach into my reticle and pull out a handkerchief. He watches me, puzzled, but doesn’t resist as I dab gently at the wound. Then he catches my hand and holds it to his cheek.

My arm softens, my gloved palm pressed against his face. He leans into it. And though our skin doesn’t touch, the moment is unbearably intimate.

I try to pull away.

“Stop,” he says. “Just stay like this . . . for a moment.”

I swallow, stunned, as he continues to press his cheek to my hand, breathing slowly, deeply, as if he’s memorizing the feel of me.

Then he moves, pressing his lips to my glove, then lower, to the bare skin at my wrist. A kiss.

A sharp inhale escapes me. A shiver ripples down my spine. Every nerve in my body sparks alive.

Frightened by this strange reaction, I yank my hand back.

“I never gave you permission to do that,” I say, trying to sound stern despite my shaking voice.

He smiles, unfazed. “I’d be a fool not to take the chance when I had it.”

“Why are you smiling? You’re bleeding.”

He shrugs. “That doesn’t matter. You’re here. Next to me. That’s reason enough.”

“Really? If I’m the reason you’re smiling, then why haven’t you written to me? It’s been weeks⁠—”

But I stop myself. Don’t let him see how much it mattered, I whisper inwardly.

And yet, I can’t help it. I need to know if I meant anything, or if it was all a game.

He smirks. “Did you miss me, my beautiful Petra?”

“What?”

“Did you miss me?”

“Was that your goal?” I shoot back. “To make me miss you? To toy with my emotions?”

His smirk fades. “Never. I would never do that.”