Her Dark Curiosity (The Madman’s Daughter #2)(37)
Author: Megan Shepherd

The man turned his gaunt face to us.

Mr. Radcliffe.

Seeing his face turned my stomach. A man I’d known since childhood, yet a total stranger now. The entire time Mother and I were practically starving in the streets, he’d known Father was alive. He had corresponded with him. Sent him money. Even now he kept preserved organs in his study for who knew what purpose.

His eyes shifted to mine. They were a blue so light they were almost as white as the hair at his temples. It was all I could do to keep breathing beneath the mask. “There you are, Lucy. Your mother’s been looking all over for you.”

“Sorry, Papa,” Lucy stuttered. “Juliet had a bit of a hairpin emergency.”

He stood stiffly at the top of the stairs, still eyeing me.

“Is that you beneath that mask, Miss Moreau? Still causing trouble, are you?” His voice was light and teasing, but he didn’t smile. He offered us each one hand. “If I may. My daughter and our guest of honor shouldn’t enter a ball without an escort.”

I dared a glance at Lucy. We had no choice but to obey.

I slid my arm in his, and Lucy did the same, and arm in arm with a monster we joined the masquerade.

NINETEEN

THE MASQUERADE WAS IN full swing as Mr. Radcliffe led us down the sprawling spiral staircase. The music swelled to meet us, bringing with it delicate notes of laughter and the smell of cinnamon and fir boughs. I stepped carefully, squinting through my mask’s small eyeholes, trying not to step on my hem. Lucy was more practiced in these things and seemed to glide on air. No one would ever know she’d just learned that the man she loved was a monster, and that her father kept brains tucked away in hatboxes.

Halfway down the staircase, the full view of the ballroom swept out like a colorful sea. Masked couples in glittering gowns danced to the string quartet’s waltz beside tiny glowing candles on the Christmas tree. The swarm of partygoers was so dense that my head spun.

My fist tightened on the handrail instinctively, as the joints in my hand stiffened. The vertigo, the joint pain . . . my illness was coming, induced by stress. I nervously bit the inside of my cheek, trying to overcome the symptoms through willpower, until I tasted blood. A sudden high note from the violin made me gasp.

Mr. Radcliffe turned to me, his unmasked eyes like two microscopes on my thoughts. I cleared my throat and let him finish leading us down the stairs. At the base he kissed Lucy on her cheek and gave me a gentlemanly nod. The moment I could take my fingers away from his, I grabbed Lucy’s hand and dragged her into the chaos.

“Juliet, what will we do?” she hissed.

“Promise me you’ll stay close to Inspector Newcastle,” I whispered, searching the crowd for him. “I know you don’t care for him, but he’s an officer. You’ll be safe with him. Don’t leave his side for a moment, and then tomorrow come over to the professor’s house. We’ll figure out what to do when we can speak privately.”

She nodded, and we plunged into the deep of the partygoers. Couples swept together in their waltzes, separating us. I tried to ignore the vertigo creeping into my head and spun, looking for Lucy, but all I saw were masks. My too-tight shoes slipped on the polished floor, and I had to catch myself against a window.

A beautiful girl stared directly at me.

I started—it was a mirror, not a window. The girl was me.

In the red silk dress and mask, I hadn’t recognized myself. The girl in the mirror looked like a happier person, who belonged in this crowd. Her mask—my mask—was split down the middle, white on one side, a deep red to match my dress on the other. That was how I felt—half a person. The other half I’d left behind on the island. That was the stronger half, who knew how to move silently through jungle underbrush, who had fought a beast with six-inch long claws, who had stood up to my father.

The other half would know what to do.

Behind the mask my lips were trembling. It was too much. I pushed into the crowd, my breath moist and hot beneath the papier-mâché mask. The flour paste and newsprint tasted thick in my mouth. Newsprint . . . headlines . . . my mask might be made out of reports of Edward’s murders. I was suffocating. The lace around the edges of my mask irritated my skin and made me want to rip it off and fill my lungs with fresh air.

Where was Lucy? Was the crowd growing, or was it just in my head?

From the corner of the eyehole I saw the glass-paned balcony door and stumbled toward it. The handle was slick in my sweating palm. I twisted it and went out into the cold night and the solitude of the empty balcony. I caught myself against the railing and tore at my mask’s ribbon until I could rip the thing off, gulping fresh air, making a mess of my hair.

The stars were out.

It was rare to see the stars in London, where the soot from coal chimneys and factory lights polluted the sky. I rubbed my bare shoulders for warmth. Snow covered the hedges and empty flowerbeds of the garden below. Lucy and I used to play hide-and-seek in those hedges, a lifetime ago.

I turned the mask over to look at it. The red paint had bled a little and a few of the sequins had fallen off when I’d ripped the ribbon from my hair.

Is this how Edward feels too—half a person, split in two?

I heard the door open and footsteps behind me. I turned to find a tall man in a golden mask and instinctively stepped back, afraid my thoughts had manifested Edward into reality.

“Hello, Miss Moreau.” The man removed his mask to reveal a familiar sweep of chestnut hair and white teeth. John Newcastle. Two weeks ago seeing a police officer would have terrified me; now I had far greater worries than an inspector besotted with my best friend.

“Inspector,” I said.

He motioned to the party. “Needed some fresh air, did you? You’re not the only one.” He offered me his glass of champagne, but I shook my head. Intoxication meant lowering my guard, which I didn’t dare do, especially now that he and I, the two people best suited to protect Lucy, weren’t by her side.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be with Lucy? I think she was looking for you earlier.”

“Truly?” He had been looking up at the stars, but at my words faced me with surprise. “I thought she never cared to see me again. She told you about the proposal, no doubt.”

I nodded. “You shouldn’t lose hope,” I said, hoping for a glimpse of her green silk dress through the glass door. “Perhaps a proposal was too strong. Don’t press so hard this early.”

He leaned casually against the brick balustrades with the champagne flute in hand. “I must say, Miss Moreau, I had the distinct impression you didn’t care for me. That makes your advice all the more surprising, but I’m grateful.” He tipped the glass back and downed his drink in one swallow, then set it on the balustrade next to him. “Perhaps you’ve also changed your mind about helping to solve your father’s case? I realize this isn’t the proper place for such a conversation; you must forgive me. . . .”