These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (13 page)

The room spun. The blood on the handkerchief was all I could see, mocking me. I could no longer ignore the evidence.

I truly had the ability to heal.

“I
’
M
SORRY
, M
R
. Braddock,” I forced out. “You were
right. I believe you now.”

My reflection managed to keep a mostly straight face.

Close enough. It had taken at least fifty tries in front of the looking glass before I had steeled myself to the point where I wouldn’t gag during this. Though nothing could be done about
the wince.

The only way I could even stomach an apology was by avoiding the fact that Mr. Braddock had been right and instead concentrating on my newfound powers.
Powers
. It still conjured up the
same feelings it had hours ago—a sort of humbling awe at all the possibilities it opened up in the world. There was no word for it. It wasn’t just
amazing
.
Spectacular
did not fit, nor simply
astonishing
or
fantastic
. Everything seemed to be an understatement.

I stared down at my arm, holding it up to the light. If I were a normal girl, my arm would still be covered with all the small nicks and scrapes I had given myself throughout the morning.
Instead, they had all closed up within seconds, my skin left as smooth as it had ever been. Not even the faintest scar.

In a daze, I peeked out of my bedroom window and concentrated on the street. There was no denying my body’s ability to repair itself, but it still felt wrong to think I had the power to
heal others. That had always been Rose! Perhaps Miss Lodge had simply had a good day. But an irrepressible smile found its way to my face when I contemplated every detail. My hand ran along the
chilly pane, the sturdy sill, and the soft drapes as I asked myself the same question I had been asking myself through the entire blur of a day.

No, I
wasn’t
dreaming.

A sudden knock at my door startled me and sent me across the room.

“Y-yes?” I asked through the open crack.

“Mr . . . Wyndham has arrived, Miss Wyndham,” Tuffins said softly. “He waits in a carriage outside.”

“Did Lady Kent hear?”

“She is currently occupied with Miss Kent in the parlor. I did not think it necessary to disturb them.”

“Tuffins, you are a delight.”

His head bowed, and his footsteps faded away. The time had come. I felt a certain giddiness and wondered what was more unexpected: these powers or the fact that I actually wanted to see Mr.
Braddock.

With Laura distracting her mother and Tuffins keeping the rest of the staff busy, I slid on my mask, crept out into the quiet hallway, made a hasty dash down two flights of stairs, and flew out
the door without anyone glimpsing my dress. In a flurry of red silk, I leaped into the hansom (and nearly onto Mr. Braddock), and we were off. I hoped to God no one was watching.

My breath returned as I observed my escort. He was wearing the same black coat and trousers from the evening of Sir Winston’s ball. No strange clothes, altered features, or even a false
mustache. He cared not one whit about his reputation.

“Fine disguise,” I said.

He stared me up and down with wide eyes. He did not have to say anything—I knew I looked like a tart. But with Laura’s hideous and inappropriate red dress barely secured on my
shoulders (it was as bosom bearing as I had feared), her ornately carved, gilded mask fit snugly over my eyes, and the makeup painted on my face, I was also virtually unrecognizable.

“What on earth possessed you to wear that?” he finally asked, voice terribly low, averting his eyes to stare at his hands.

“You’re all kindness,” I replied.

He frowned. “You completely disregarded my advice.”

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring my extensive mask collection to London in my trunk. I had to make do. And you said nothing about my dress.”

“That should have been self-evident. Instead of blending in, you will be the center of attention.”

“Well, it can’t be changed now. Do you want to pull out your copy of
She Walks in Beauty
and spend the next hour acting moody?”

“Why don’t—” He stopped abruptly and took a breath. “Normally I’m good at being polite, but with you, I have to try
very
hard.”

“Were you trying very hard the two times you’ve compared me to a prostitute today?”

He huffed and cleared his throat. “That was not my intention. I apologize.”

“It’s no matter, but perhaps it’s better if we discuss something less hazardous for the time being. Say something about the weather, or ask me about my day.”

He gazed out past the closed curtain. “The weather’s fine, and I already know how your day went. You searched at more shops and discovered nothing.”

Well, he was only somewhat correct. He didn’t know Mr. Kent and I had visited more science societies to find nothing, as well. He didn’t know that I hid tonight’s plans from
Mr. Kent, the idea of mentioning it flipping my stomach over and over. And he didn’t know that I believed his wild stories now.

“I discovered something,” I replied. “I have the power to heal. Myself, at least.”

He gave me a withering stare. “Very funny.”

Did I really have to convince him that he had convinced me? “Mr. Braddock, I—well, I am quite sure. Though there wasn’t much grandeur for such a momentous occasion. No dramatic
moment where I finally believed in myself and healed someone who was on the brink of death. I just cut my hand on that stupid teacup this morning, and it healed. So did the other cuts.”

Mr. Braddock studied me, daring to hope that I was not teasing him. “What other cuts?”

“I gave myself paper cuts—which still stung and bled, mind you—but after a few seconds, the wound would close and the mark would disappear.”

“That’s . . . remarkable,” Mr. Braddock said faintly, eyes wide with wonder.

“As the one who told me of this, you have no right to be shocked.”

“It’s just—still—hearing you describe it . . . it’s impressive. I had inklings, but I did not know exactly how it worked.”

“I was rather hoping you would be the one to tell me.”

“I’m still learning about these powers. The little I know has only come from others.”

“How many others are there?”

He shifted toward me, ensconcing me in the corner of the cab. I felt like it was just the two of us in all of London. “I couldn’t say. As far as I know, it’s rather
rare—otherwise the public would have noticed it. I’ve met several others, and that is only because I knew a man who was studying this phenomenon.”

“Who is he?”

The carriage rumbled and creaked over a rocky road, and he steadied himself. “The originator of the saltation theory. And from the others, I learned that everyone who develops the power
does so between the ages of fourteen and sixteen.”

“We started nursing when Rose was fourteen and I was fifteen. . . .”

“And when they do start to appear, it is a weaker, more haphazard form of the ability. I would guess it took longer for your patients to be healed when you first started.”

“We thought it was because Rose was still learning.”

“That is the period when the ability is still developing. It does not appear consistently, and when it does, it is weaker— not quite as noticeable. From that moment on, one develops
their power consciously or, in your case, unconsciously until it levels off.”

I couldn’t help but stare at my hands. Two years. Two long years of treating nearly every person in Bramhurst, and neither of us realized it. “What about you?” I asked.

“It took me some time to realize it, as well,” he said vaguely and seemed to retreat into the corner of his seat.

“But what exactly is it? The power to locate missing sisters?” I asked with a smile.

He didn’t find the joke amusing. Or perhaps he didn’t find it at all. He blinked as if he were coming out of a dream. “No . . . it’s a sort of physical protection. I can
take a person’s energy, put them to sleep.”

“Ah, from your scintillating conversation?”

He shook his head uncomfortably. “Direct contact. My presence, to some degree.”

“So that . . . sensation, it comes from you?”

“I had thought it was you,” he replied, looking at the ceiling. “Maybe it is both of us.”

“Who else is out there?” I asked. “What other sorts of powers have you seen?”

“Many of them are talents you might have even seen and not realized. It’s sometimes hard to tell. There’s Claude with his strength. Another who could not feel pain. One with an
astonishingly quick mind for calculations. And two men, acquaintances, with gifted sight and hearing. They are the ones I spoke of before, who run the gambling den and make a living off the
information they collect. They pointed me to the Argyll.”

“Then you’re convinced Rose is here,” I said.

His hand raked through his dark hair. “We should be prepared.”

“At this point, I might even be hoping it is her, just to be rid of this uncertainty. But if it is, I don’t know what I will even do.”

“If you’d like to wait outside while I speak with her—”

I interrupted. “I don’t need you to play hero and protect me.”

The corner of his mouth flicked up. “If I recall correctly, I have already saved your life once. Please let me know if the assistance is needed again.”

My mouth let out an annoying squawk, so I shut it and settled for glowering at the man. Before I could say anything intelligent, the cab groaned to a stop at a crowded corner.

“Closest I can take you, sir!” the driver shouted.

Outside, droves of men and women alighted from their rides and converged on the establishment at the end of the street. We would have to walk half a block in public to get there. Splendid.

One deep breath later, Mr. Braddock was leading me down the sidewalk. It was a struggle to keep up in my dress, the tight bosom designed to treat breathing as an afterthought. Most of the women
around me wore dresses in the fashions I’d seen during the season. The colors weren’t as garish as I had expected, the cuts were more modest, and the trimmings tasteful, which only made
me feel more naked as cool breezes nipped at my bare shoulders. Men leered at every woman who passed, and their eyes greedily lapped up any flash of skin. My skin crawled as the memory of the
drunkards chilled through me again, and I stared stiffly ahead, blocking out everyone.

Finally, signs for
THE ARGYLL ROOMS
and
THE WHITE ROSE
welcomed us at the elaborately draped and gilded entrance. A few shillings gained us entry
inside, down the marble stairs into a striking, airy hall furnished with lush red carpeting, polished gas chandeliers on high ceilings, and purple velvet sofas scattered about the room. More stares
greeted me every step of the way. Mr. Braddock turned to me with a self-righteous look. “Still pleased you came?”

“Quite. I may just start coming here regularly,” I said, hoping he missed the quiver in my voice.

He paused at the edge of the vivid crowd. A large band played on an elevated stage while couples waltzed scandalously close on the open dance space in front. The scents of perfumes and fresh
flowers mingled in the air with the waft of liquor. Still, for all the supposed debauchery, the entire scene seemed oddly similar to Sir Winston’s ball.

Rather than join the chaos, we found our way around and upstairs to a balcony area, where unaccompanied women scanned the dance floor with bored looks on their painted faces, sipped their
champagne, and tapped their fans to the music. Behind them were a number of poorly painted scenes from Greek and Roman mythology, and I nearly gagged in disgust at one atrocious rendering of a
disproportionate Hades (with a head as big as the rest of his body) and a one-legged Persephone. This was more offensive than anything else we had seen this night.

At an upstairs bar, Mr. Braddock abruptly stopped and ordered two glasses of champagne. When the pretty barmaid delivered the drinks, Mr. Braddock shouted something to her, inaudible to me over
the din.

“Downstairs near the floor!” she said with a lascivious grin, leaning in intently.

Mr. Braddock shied away and nodded in thanks, maintaining a gentlemanly distance. He turned around and found a place at the chipped gold railing overlooking the dazzling display on the dance
floor.

“Rose?” I asked.

“No.”

“Who are you looking for, then?”

“A person.”

He was infuriating. “Can we please go back to the full, honest answers?” I asked.

“They can wait till we have the time.”

Knowing I would learn nothing further, I gulped the champagne, the delicious fizzle traveling down my throat, warming my chest, settling in my stomach, and hopefully steadying my nerves for the
night.

Leaning on the railing, I glanced up at Mr. Braddock. He stood perfectly still while his eyes swiveled left and right, inspecting the crowd and inspecting them again. Between the tightness of
his set, determined jaw and the hint of dark stubble under his chin, he looked like an intense gambler with too many cards to watch. The veins in his neck seemed to be under constant duress, and I
had the childish impulse to poke at them.