Excerpt:
As I thought about how to begin, I finally
understood why Sebastian had been so awkward when he tried to explain
everything about these powers to me. It was a ridiculous thing to tell someone.
With her pragmatic nature, there was only one way to convince Catherine. The
same way I had been convinced.
“Catherine,
I am going to show you something very strange. You must promise not to scream.”
Her
round eyes narrowed. “I never scream.”
I
padded over to my writing desk and took up a letter opener, shiny and new and
quite sharp. I sliced it across my index fingers. I thought it a small slit but
there seemed to be enough blood to alarm Catherine, as she gasped and came
over.
“Evelyn!
Why would you do that?” She pulled out her handkerchief and hurriedly grabbed
for my finger, but I pulled away.
“Just
watch,” I said, taking a moment before wiping the blood off and showing her the
healed finger.
She
stared at it, frowning, at a loss for words, then searched my eyes. “Are you
playing a trick on me?”
I
shook my head and put the letter opener down. “No trick. No joke. I know this
sounds utterly mad, but while I was trying to—to find Rose, these few months
past, I discovered something else. I can heal any wound, any illness in me or
others.”
Catherine
stared hard at me, looking for a laugh that wasn’t there. “Evelyn, I’m sorry,
but you must be mistaken; this is impossible.”
“You
try doing it to me,” I said, handing her the letter opener, which she
reluctantly took while protesting.
“This
is silly—”
I
grasped her hand with the letter opener, pressed down hard, and dragged it
across my palm. Blood dribbled out onto the rug and I winced more at the mess
than the light stinging. I was getting better with pain. I’d tested my healing
quite enough these last months.
With
a gasp, Catherine dropped the letter opener and fumbled again for her
handkerchief.
I
stepped out of her reach and simply wiped away the blood so she could better
see the miraculous healing.
“This
sort of cut usually takes a few seconds,” I said. “Just watch.”
She
did. She watched as the blood flow ebbed and my torn skin gradually closed and
stitched itself back together. Besides the faint bloodstain, there was no sign
my hand had even been cut.
“Good
morning, miss.” A knock came from the door—my maid. I shoved my hand behind me
and positioned my feet over the bloodstains.
“Come
in,” I called, eyeing Catherine warily as she stared into nothing with a rather
dazed expression.
Lucy
opened the door and set down a tray. A long moment of silence reigned as she
turned, curtsied, and shut the door. I decided to let Catherine continue her
contemplation as I wiped the rest of the blood onto my handkerchief and poured
the steaming chocolate into the two cups the maid had left.
I
almost moaned after the first sip. If my parents were going to use their
new wealth, I had to be glad for their cook.
Catherine
didn’t move for a long while. Then she pinched herself. “I . . . am having a
lot of thoughts and questions right now.”
“I
imagine you must be.” I poured myself another cup and led her to the chairs in
front of the fire. “I will tell you everything. First, have you ever heard of
something called ‘saltation’?”
And
so I explained. The theory that these powers were a jump in evolution. Dr.
Beck, his associates. The people—good and bad—who had helped me. Mr. Braddock
and Miss Lodge.
Catherine
began to pace the room as I haltingly finished explaining Rose’s death. She
poured me another cup of chocolate and sat next to my chair, on the floor, as I
told her about Belgium, Emily Kane, and the Society of Aberrations.
As
if on cue, a slight crackling sounded and a piece of paper appeared in my hand.
I opened my palm and Catherine gasped.
“This
must be from them—our rescuers from the asylum,” I murmured to her. I unfolded
the note to read the short line. We would be so grateful for your
assistance, Miss Wyndham. There is a sick little girl who does not deserve to
die. Please meet Mr. Redburn in your back garden as soon as you can. It was
signed by Captain Goode.
“Was
that—did someone just . . . ?” Catherine was peering around the room
suspiciously. We both jumped as a knock rattled at the door.
“Come
in,” I said, crumpling the piece of paper and shoving it behind me.
Lucy
entered. “Um, miss, there is a Mr. Kent downstairs and he—well, he said to tell
you that if it is at all inconvenient he is happy to come up here.”
I
rolled my eyes. “I apologize. He thinks himself very amusing. Please tell him
Miss Harding and I will be downstairs shortly.”
She
bobbed a curtsy and left. I moved the gaudy fire screen and threw the missive
into the flames. The sick girl was surely some play on my sympathies since
their other approaches hadn’t worked. I had told them I did not wish to be
involved, and uninvolved I would stay.
“Catherine,
will you help me dress?” I asked, taking off my wrapper. “Oh, and I should
probably tell you, for all the time we’ve known Mr. Kent, he’s had the power to
reveal anyone’s secrets.”
