These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (20 page)

Once I regained my ability to walk, Tuffins showed me into the drawing room, where I once again lost it.

“Evelyn,” the visitor breathed. It was her in the flesh, not another apparition in a dream. Her footsteps ruffled the carpet. Tears streamed from her face, splashing down onto her
blue dress. She rushed over and embraced me, looking worse than she had in my dreams: sallow, bruised skin framing her bloodshot eyes; nose and cheeks a bright pink; loose strands of her red hair
messily stuck to her brow. She was only twenty-eight, but whatever she had been through seemed to have stolen away that last bit of youth. Frantically, she clutched my shoulders and pleaded,
“Where is Rose?”

I could not answer. My hesitation seemed to nearly destroy her. “Evelyn!”

“She’s . . .” I wanted to tell her, but I lost the words.

My governess closed her eyes with a sigh. She sank gracefully into the nearest settee and clutched her hat in painful meditation. “He still has her?” she asked, looking back up at me
steadily.

Surprised, I peered deep into her grave eyes as I collapsed next to her. I nodded, and she pushed herself back up to her feet, pacing to and fro, weaving around the tables and chairs until I
broke the silence. “Miss Grey?”

She stopped and looked at me, her eyes wet. “P-please, please forgive me—I am so sorry!”

I gaped up at her, unable to imagine what she could have possibly done.

“I—I tried to send warnings about Rose! I truly did!” The words poured out of her mouth so fast she started to cough on them. “But there was no way! They intercepted
every letter, and no one would help me.”

“I saw you,” she continued, back to wildly pacing, hands in the air. “In your dreams. We spoke. You could discern me, Evelyn! Do you remember? Oh dear, I’m not describing
this well at all. This must all sound absolutely mad!”

“I have been well acquainted with the mad lately, believe me,” I said. “I remember the dreams, although I only heard fragments. Are you saying you had the same
dreams?”

Miss Grey sighed in apparent relief and gingerly sat back down. “It’s more than that. I’ll explain everything. All I ask is that you listen first, and
then
call me a
lunatic and send me on my way.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“I didn’t believe my parents would, either. That was the last time I told anyone about this, and it—well, it did not go as I wished.”

She cleared her throat and clenched her hands in her lap as her eyes met mine. Her breathing slowed. She began much as Mr. Braddock had. (Not that I was thinking of him.) Her tone had the same
sad resignation: “Since I was fifteen years old, I’ve had an affliction. Whenever I fall asleep, I have very particular dreams about people I’ve never met. I used to believe they
were parts of my imagination or characters from stories, because I would witness them perform extraordinary feats. Things no human can conceivably do.”

“I dismissed them for years until one evening, I had an encounter while I was awake. When you girls were about thirteen and fourteen, I traveled home to visit my parents for Christmas
holiday, and while I was waiting at Victoria Station, a number of familiar faces caught my attention. They were all in a group, and I found it strange that I couldn’t recall how I knew any of
them. Then I saw a dwarf of a man and had an even stranger realization: They were from my dreams. I had memories of them performing in a traveling exhibition. . . . They called themselves human
curiosities.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I followed them, but I wish I hadn’t. I was curious to see if my dreams were true, and when my cab followed theirs to a small theater, my curiosity only grew. I watched them perform
acts that seemed to take advantage of the powers I’d dreamed they had. A man who could create fire was a fire eater on stage. A woman with a powerful voice broke objects with just her song.
And the longer I stayed, the more I hoped something would contradict my dreams, prove they weren’t all true. But nothing ever did, so I just kept watching.

“I watched from the street as they left the theater, I watched one of them get caught pickpocketing a man, I watched the man lunge at the pickpocket with a punch, I watched the man
disappear through a door in the air before his punch hit, and I watched him reappear in the middle of the street, right in front of a moving carriage.”

Dear God. This sounded like the same man from last night. “Did he . . . kill him?” I asked, wincing.

She nodded steadily, her eyes distant and stuck in the past. “That was the most horrifying truth to realize. Not the fact that these powers existed, but the fact that there were people who
did such awful things with them. When I returned to your home, I tried to pretend the nightmares weren’t real, but the harder I tried, the more vivid they became—it nearly drove me
mad.”

I remembered mornings when she came downstairs pallid, exhausted, and reticent. She would assign Rose and me work that required plenty of writing and little talking, then spend hours looking out
the window, endeavoring to keep awake. It finally made sense.

“Eventually, it became too much. Your mother was concerned for my health, and we decided it best that I leave.”

“Where did you go? We wrote you many times.”

I could see her withdraw into her memories as she rose again, walking stiffly to a streetside window.

“When I was sent back home, my parents demanded an explanation, so I poured out everything. They sympathized and told me all would be well.” There was a cold anger lacing her words
that made me freeze, almost frightened to hear more.

“But they had decided I was mad,” she continued, shaking her head in disappointment. “My two sisters also work as governesses, and my father could not risk my condition
becoming known. I don’t blame them, but I can never forgive them. They bundled me off to Belgium and shut me in a place worse than a prison—an asylum.”

“No! They couldn’t have!”

She clutched the windowsill to slow her trembling. “I cannot tell you the particular horror it is in such a place. Surrounded by strangers, treated like a dangerous, deranged criminal, I
was made to drink vials of concoctions that kept me sick and sleeping most of the day. Of course, as I slept, I was forced to dream more. Sometimes it was pleasant. Mostly it was not. I did not
know what I hated more, my waking moments or the dreams. I wanted to escape from both. But then, I dreamt of . . . I dreamt of you and Rose, Evelyn.”

“Of course,” I said, nodding.

She whirled to face me, the light from the window turning her into a silhouette.

“I’ve recently become aware of my healing ability,” I said. “Rose’s, as well.”

The smallest bit of tension seemed to leave her body. “I was afraid I would somehow have to prove your abilities,” she said with a slight laugh.

“No, there have been many chances for that over these last days.”

Again, her eyes filled with guilt. “I am so sorry, Evelyn.”

“It is not your fault!”

“When I saw the two of you healing patients, it was the first time I had seen someone using their gift for good. I felt the slightest bit of hope and clung to it. I made an effort to
better understand my power. I kept a diary of my dreams to remember more details. I discovered that when I dream of someone who is sleeping, I enter their dreams instead. I even found I could
sometimes control whom I dreamt of. But then I dreamt of
him
.

“The scientist. The one I dreaded most. Cold, empty, heartless. In my dreams he sought others with powers, convinced them to aid his experiments, and performed atrocious tests on them
without remorse, all in the name of research. And in my dream, he was discussing Rose with his two partners: a giant and the murderer I’d seen in London.”

“Calvin Beck,” I said, strangled breath wrenching itself from me. “He . . . has a power? What is it?”

Miss Grey shook her head. “I never witnessed it. I dread the possibilities. Perhaps it is the lack of a conscience.”

My head felt cloudy, stormy. Not only did Claude have an abnormal amount of strength and the other man the ability to travel anywhere, but Dr. Beck had a mysterious advantage, as well.

“I tried to warn you,” Miss Grey continued, “but the caretakers refused to send my letters, and it was impossible to escape. Out of desperation I tried what I assumed was
impossible. I entered your dream, Evelyn, and endeavored to speak to you. But I lacked the proper control.”

“No. You have been wonderful. I simply didn’t realize.” It was my turn to stand and pace, trying to push away thoughts of
what if
. “How did you come to me
now?”

“I met Emily Kane. She was a young girl recently transferred to the ward. You see, the asylum itself held a number of gifted patients who were also deemed mad by their families. Emily and
I were not friends—not exactly. She was almost as insane as they wished her to be. She was too scared to leave, no matter what I said, but she used her fascinating ability to help me, God
bless her.”

“What did she do?”

“She could move objects without touching them. When one of the nurses fell asleep, Emily managed to acquire the keys to the gate and pass them to me. Unfortunately, they caught her. When
they questioned the poor girl, she had a wild fit that nearly destroyed the entire building—fires, crumbled walls and ceilings, flooding. With the distraction, I was able to make my
escape.” A long silence settled as Miss Grey collected herself. She wandered to the pianoforte in the corner, gently running her fingers along the ivory keys without pressing them.
“Although it seems I’ve arrived too late to be of any help. I failed you and Rose,” she muttered.

I walked over to her and forcefully hugged her, as if to squeeze away that lingering guilt. Somehow I became the optimistic one. “Don’t say that. Heavens, you did everything
possible, and you have been through too much.”

That did little to rest her spirits. Neither did telling her about my many mistakes over the past few days. The missed opportunities weighed heavy on both of us as we tried to find a
solution.

Then the obvious answer hit me. “Miss Grey, could you not dream of Rose and find her?”

“I have tried,” she said, her shoulders slumping even more. “If I think of the specific person before I fall asleep, it sometimes works. But my perspective is limited. Rose
would likely be confined to a room, and that is all I would see. Even when I dreamt of Dr. Beck, I rarely saw him leave his laboratory. I never learned where it was.”

“What about Claude or . . . that man who can create doors, what do we call him? The door man? My God, we don’t even know their names.”

“Gabriel Hale, I believe,” Miss Grey said. “But he often travels straight to his destination with his own doors.”

I felt a strange fear of breaking a fragile memory with too direct a question. “Can you remember anything else about them? Do they have homes or families?”

She shook her head, displacing stray wisps of hair. “I wish I had paid more mind. I cannot recall. My dreams are fragmented like anyone else’s, and it’s hard to remember
details. All I have is my diary from the recent months, but I don’t know if it will be of any use.”

She handed me a small, ragged notebook from her reticule, and I skimmed through the delicate thing, finding the pages for Dr. Beck, Claude, and Mr. Hale. They were filled with brief, horrible
memories and unfamiliar names. A couple of names were labeled as patients, but the unlabeled ones piqued my curiosity. Were they colleagues of Dr. Beck? Patrons? Camille had mentioned his funding
last night. Surely Dr. Beck would need to meet with someone if he were moving to a new laboratory. Could this be our way of finding him?

“Miss Grey, do you know who these men are?” I asked, pointing at the names. A pang of guilt struck me when I looked up. She had taken several steps back, as if she did not wish to
relive those memories with me.

But she stepped forward, glanced them over, and shook her head. “No, I only heard them mentioned in Dr. Beck’s conversations. I’m sorry.”

I closed the diary. “No more apologies, Miss Grey. This is a very promising start,” I said. “I’m sure Mr. Kent and Mr.—will recognize a name, and we will find her
soon.”

She smiled and looked like she was starting to believe me. “What happened to that cynical pupil of mine?”

“Oh, don’t worry, she’s usually here.”

“Well, you’ve grown since I last saw you—” Miss Grey broke off with a yawn. “Oh, dear. I’m terribly sorry!”

“No, no, you’ve had a long day,” I said. “We will continue tomorrow.”

With evening fast approaching and the many stresses, memories of horrors, and guilt pressing on her, Miss Grey needed her rest. She gave me her lodging information, and a footman escorted her to
a cab. As I waved good-bye, I couldn’t help but wish, despite all she had gone through, that she might continue searching in her dreams.

I had three wonderful seconds to myself before Laura leaped out from around a corner. “Evelyn!”

My heart stopped. An embarrassing scare, considering everything. “Heavens, don’t frighten me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You promised this morning we would talk! Who was the woman who came to visit? I thought of eavesdropping, but the last time I tried was positively
dreadful. I got trapped in a cupboard for hours!”

“My former governess. She heard I was visiting London, and she wished to see me. Not worth getting trapped over,” I said, unable to imagine Laura sitting still for minutes, much less
hours.

She bounced across the entrance hall and to the next subject. “And what happened last night at the . . .” She trailed off, coyly lifting her shoulders and pouting awkwardly, which I
could only take as the universal sign for
brothel.

“It wasn’t Rose who was there,” I said and gave her the abridged version of the tale as we climbed the stairs to my room.

“You’ll find her soon! I’m sure of it,” she said with an optimism she must have learned from her stepbrother. “But there must be something more! You spent an entire
night there! Was anyone’s virtue . . . compromised?”