Page 36 of The Scarlet Ball

It wasn’t a thing you heard with your ears. Instead it was something that came through your skin, through my fingertips pressed to the warm tile underneath me, through the soft hairs at the back of my neck, and a subtle vibration that made me grit my teeth together. It breathed with the house—you could mistake it for the hot air forced through the vents or the rumble of the great brazen boiler in the basement.

That’s what it wants you to think, I realized.

It wasn’t the house. It was the sound, low and menacing, of some great beast that waited and wanted and—

“It’s him,” I said, and in that moment, it seemed like a laughably inadequate word for what he was and what he meant.

“Yes.”

“Are we in danger? Is he angry?”

She shook her head, rubbing my hand between two of hers. It was like she had forgotten she was holding it, and that was a fascination in itself, to see her forget a thing.

“Always, and no. That’s not anger. They do not bother with anger. For them, there’s only satisfied and hungry.”

When I drew my fingertips from the tile, they buzzed numbly, evidence of movement where there was none I could truly see.

“Is she not feeding him enough, then? What a bad zookeeper she is.” I tried to keep my tone light.

“There is no enough with something like him. There never will be. The only grace is that we are not what he wants to eat.”

I laughed at that. It was a strange thing to please me.

“Well, then, what shall we do?”

“Well, then,” she said, just a shade off of mimicry, “we shall get you ready for the Poor Helen’s Ball this evening.”

MY DRESS THAT night was honey-yellow velvet that had been appliquéd all over with scrolling silk ribbon. Black detailing around the bodice kept me from looking too much like a demented buttercup, and the shoulders were further adorned with stiff tulle flowers, one of which bore a tiny jeweled bee, its body formed from alternating bands of amber and jet. A chiffon ruffle taped under the hem gave it a satisfying rustle when I walked, and my hair was skewered with tiny amber-headed hairpins that glinted like eyes in the gaslight.

“It suits you, or rather you suit it,” Mrs. Howard said. Her words were still as crisp as ever, but there was something perfunctory about them, as if this endeavor no longer had her heart or her focus.

“That was very nearly a compliment. Are you feeling quite well?”

“That is none of your affair. Stand up straight. How much tighter does that dress have to be before you stop slouching?”

We left Howard House in a swirl of snow, pure white and lovely before it settled into the muck of the street. Inside the carriage, it was an icebox, and I couldn’t snuggle under a rug for how it would crush my dress. Instead I sat upright as a ruler and watched the space between the Howards.

Mrs. Howard stared determinedly ahead, even though the baize curtain was drawn and there was nothing to see but the walls of the carriage. She kept her hands folded in her lap, and from time to time, Mr. Howard would reach over as if he would very much like to take one before sighing and retreating. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. That thrum that had been so evident in the house was softer, but it was still present, and I thought of what Mielle had said, that his kind were hungry or satisfied. He did not look satisfied at all. What startled me was the sorrow in his eyes, as if it was the denial as well as the hunger that hurt him.

We rode in uncomfortable silence down the street toward Richmond Hall, where the ball was being held, and the only reason we had to suspect that anything might be amiss was a faint roar that I at first took for the train. The roar grew louder, and just as I reached for the curtain, the carriage tilted as if some great fist had struck it from the side. I swore, hitting the carriage door hard, and Mrs. Howard tumbled straight into Mr. Howard’s arms, a soft hiss her only concession to the discomfort.

“What in the world—” she started to say, but I was faster, flipping up the curtain to see what had happened, or more accurately as it turned out, what had come for us.

It was a mob packed shoulder to shoulder, a teeming mass of bodies that together moved like the sea and would hardly be less dangerous. They screamed and shouted, and when they saw me at the window, their faces distorted, flooding toward us like hounds picking up a scent. I dropped the curtain, but it was too late, and the carriage rocked like a boat in a storm.

“They’re going to tear us apart,” I gasped.

“Surely not. They would not dare,” said Mrs. Howard, but there was a tautness in her voice that gave the lie to her confidence.

There were several ear-splitting cracks from above, the coachman lashing out with his whip over the heads of the crowd, a few pained cries when it kissed them. He was shouting and the horses were screaming. They would have run wild if they could—as it was they threw themselves forward, making the carriage sway wildly. Another moment, and it’d crack open like an egg. Another moment after that and we’d be torn to pieces by the crowd. Then Mr. Howard leaned in close to his wife, and in the darkness, I saw smoke spill from his mouth. When he spoke, there was the hiss of steam underneath it. I smelled burning wood.

“Command me,” he said, and Mrs. Howard hesitated. Then the carriage shook again, the shouts louder and cruder, and she nodded.

“Yes. Clear our way.”

I imagined he must have smiled. I never caught it. All I saw was Mr. Howard reaching for the carriage door and pushing it open as if there was no weight behind it at all. He swung it out and came through in nearly the same motion, and as he did, a rush of heat blew back into my face, making me cough.

He jumped down from the carriage, and I don’t know what the mob saw in his face, but it was enough to send them running, enough that they trampled each other to get away from him. There was a yellow-white sear, fire and heat that could explode the heart of an oak. It nearly blinded me, left tears in my eyes, and the screams turned to shrieks diminishing in the distance.