Dearly, Beloved (33 page)

The minute we climbed out of the carriage, I was sick in the gutter.

Inside we found Belinda and her crew at work on three new carriages for the Murder’s exploits. Each was cobbled together from pieces of stolen vehicles, traceable numbers and tracking technology removed. Belinda was a severe, kinky-haired woman, and she eyed us distastefully as we trekked into the oil-stained, tool-littered space. My limbs like jelly, I ignored her, seeking out Brother Green Jacket. I found him watching a pigtailed, betrousered girl climb about a carriage chassis with a welding gun. He was the only Brother still in attendance.

“Brothers,” he said, turning to regard us when we approached. His mask, as always, was on. “What’s the matter? Why aren’t you at the pub?”

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter.” The Brothers I’d gone out with stopped behind me as I tried to find the words. “He just went after his zombie—”

“Congratulations!”

“No! Not
‘congratulations’
! The zombie tried to catch us! Nearly unmasked him!”

Green Jacket went still. “What?”

“It’s true,” Brother Shooter said, his voice shaking. He was losing it. “I did it … but the zombie chased me. He saved me …” He gestured feebly at me. “But … I actually cut her. But I didn’t get him … oh God …”

“Cut her?”

“A girl,” I said. “Living. And before that, he shot the dead man right in front of her.”

“You did this out in the open?” Green Jacket looked at Brother Driver, who was, for the most part, still calm. “Take him into the
basement,” he said, and Brother Driver obeyed, leading Shooter away as he began to break down and cry like a frightened child.

“It’s over. I’m gone.”
I
was an idiot. The protection the Murder had offered me was void. If my father found out about any of this, I’d count myself lucky if I was only
disowned
.

“You can’t leave,” Green Jacket replied, the anger in his voice discernable even through the morpher. “This is a delicate time. We’ve been planning for months, and now we’re finally acting in earnest. Of course a few things are going to go awry. Eventually the news and the police will pick up on us. We
expect
that.”

“Like hell I can’t.” I tried to slow my breathing. “There are no leaders, and that keeps us safe—but it also leads boys to do things like that!”

“You did brilliantly. You got him out of there. That’s precisely how members of the Murder should act. Loyal to all in the mask.” Green Jacket approached. Over the scent of burning metal, I could make out his strong cologne. It smelled like something an old man would wear. “Our people, the aristocrats of this nation, have always been loyal to one another. We’re simply continuing that tradition.”

Collecting my thoughts, I forced myself to recall that I was there to kill, convince, and get out. I could put up with a little danger for that—and to see my deeds drown in a sea of black, never traced back to me.

“Remember: you are a plague doctor now. It’s your job to cure this sick world by killing the things infecting it. Have some pride.” And so Green Jacket left me, orange sparks showering his shoulders as he walked past the welder.

The carriage the girl was working on looked familiar. It took me a moment to identify it as a black Model V, one of its windows knocked out. The same sort of carriage Nora’s aunt drove. The day Nora’d been kidnapped I glimpsed it through the window
and pretended I hadn’t, invading my mother’s parlor just to see her.

I’d done all of this for her.

I had to remember that.

I wasn’t very gregarious. I had no one I’d count as a best friend. I had my circle, but I could take or leave them. My mother had always been determined to make me popular, and so she’d made sure I attended the right parties, held a few of my own. Nora might’ve come to the Christmas party my mother wanted me to hold in December. To see her, I’d been willing to own the planning, to act enthusiastic about it.

It was all for her. Everything I did. Every plan I made. Every word I didn’t say.

That night, around 3:00 A.M., I pulled a wooden box down from my closet and opened it. My mask and a bottle of bourbon at my knee, I fingered the mementos I’d been collecting of Nora since first meeting her at Vespertine’s twelfth birthday party. The way Vespertine told it, her mother insisted she invite every one of her classmates from St. Cyprian’s, even the scholarship and new money girls, in order to punish her for some infraction. That was why Nora and the plain, penniless Miss Roe were there.

It was the first time I’d seen Nora, ever. Her eyes had taken mere seconds to capture mine, to cause something mysterious and then unknown in my body to thrum. Our introduction was brief, but it had been enough to open a whole new world to me, a world filled with yearning.

The other girls were content to gather around the towering white cake like a bunch of clucking hens in training, terrified of getting anything on their clothes. Nora would have none of it, though. And none of me. She ignored everyone except for her
anxious-eyed friend. I couldn’t get a moment with her, and I was half mad by the time her aunt, Mrs. Ortega, saw her out.

As I’d watched her go, one of the white ribbons fell from her curly hair. I ran forward to catch it, thanking the angels, but before I could return it to her my own mother came to collect me.

My father was in the carriage. He asked me if I’d met anyone interesting. I told him I had. When he heard Nora Dearly’s name, he looked at me so hatefully it almost hurt. I hadn’t understood it then. I barely understood it now. It was her father he despised.

It was her I loved.

Her hair ribbon, a button from her boot, fringe from her parasol—these were the scraps I had of her. Each one collected at a party or gathering where I’d done my best to impress her, only to get the brush-off. How long I’d stared at them when she was kidnapped, and then when she’d been gone.

Gone because Griswold, a dead man—an
object
, like that pearly button was an object—had taken her from me.

She had to
see
. Had to see the lengths to which I was prepared to go to demonstrate my devotion.

Running the ribbon under my nose, I shut my eyes and pretended it was her hair. I tried to enter again into the violent, operatic fantasies I’d been weaving for months.

The fantasies that were going to come true.

In a few days it would all be over. I just had to keep my cool.

At Allister Genetics the next day, as I walked the mahogany paneled halls of my father’s office, all I could think of was ravens. Coco had brought a single note that morning. It said,
Saturday. 11:00 P.M. Sewer under Delreggio’s. Leave the money there ahead of time
.

There was a date.

My phone beeped. Figuring it might be Vespertine, I reached for it. I had yet to tell her anything, though I knew she was waiting for me to do so. As I recalled the previous evening, as I briefly entertained the idea of sharing anything about it, I suddenly wished I’d eaten breakfast in order to have something to actually be sick with.

I needed her to ground me.

Hello. This is Nora Dearly. I was wondering if you might have time to talk?

I stopped in my tracks. I’d never expected her to contact
me
. A bit thrown off, unsure how to respond, I bought time with a simple reply.

Perhaps. Am I going to be punched this time?

There. Bitter, but open. Willing to forgive, but not forget the past. While I waited, I labeled her number with her name.

No. Do you like Lapin Innocent?

A coquettish invitation-not-an-invitation? Tea? It was the last thing I expected, but knew I’d be stupid to pass up the chance. Playing along, I asked her to meet me there in a few hours.

Fine. You did the asking, you bring the eyes.

Directly after Nora confirmed our meeting, Vespertine actually did join the texting party.

Are we meeting today? You were going to tell me about your plans.

Suddenly nothing in the world seemed more stultifying than gushing to Vesper about my grand designs. I told her no and continued on my way.

Are you sure? I’m literally bouncing around. I want to hear. Please?

Let her bounce.

Outside the interior office doors stood two black-clad Allister Genetics guards, members of my father’s extensive private security force. They parted to make way for me, and I continued through the lofty Art Nouveau office building toward the elevators. There I swiped my wrist over a sun-shaped reader on the button panel, freeing up access to every floor save the twelfth—that was the animal growth facility, and perhaps ten people were permitted up there. Saturdays my father devoted entirely to work on the twelfth floor, shutting out all distractions, including his family. He called it “Code 12.”

I hit the eleventh button, for the main lab. The elevator opened directly into what was known as “casual” decontamination, which involved a mist of disinfecting spray, a harsh blast of air followed by a powerful suction, and a pair of stupid blue elastic booties and clear gloves. I left my satchel and jacket behind in a locker, subjected myself to the process, and stepped out into the blinding white laboratory, pulling on a lab coat as I went.

The main research floor was almost completely open, and yet segregated from the outside world—few interior walls, no exterior windows. Scores of scientists were at work within, either at one of the many long, stainless steel tables, at one of the vast computer banks, or inside one of the isolated quarantine areas. Most of the walls had holographic projectors aimed at them, the results of supercomputer-created rat and monkey colonies playing out before the scientists’ eyes—thousands of virtual reality
animal simulations testing new drugs, new therapies, new gene combinations. The fake animals bred, were subjected to variables, and died at an astounding rate—up to fifty generations a minute.

I found my father standing before one of them, his expression drawn. “My lord.”

He looked at me and cleared his throat. “Son. What brings you up here?”

“I’ve just received an interesting invitation. Tea in New London. I thought I’d ask permission to leave for the day, and to take your carriage. I’ll put in the hours tomorrow.” The main AG building was located in the northwest corner of the preserve. It’d be a bit of a drive to New London and back.

My father waved me off. “Go. And while I appreciate the initiative, next time just text me?”

“Of course,” I said with a bow. I lingered as I straightened, wondering if I ought to just unburden myself of everything. It wasn’t guilt that made me wonder, merely self-preservation. My father could find this Ratcatcher fellow, call him off. I could still walk away.

“And while you’re at it, email your mother.” When I looked at him in confusion, he added, eyes and attention elsewhere, “She keeps calling me, asking after you. You need to cut the cord. Even though you’ve acted like an imbecile of the highest caliber, keeping you close to home forever would do nothing but turn you into a pale, dithering little woman. Tell her you no longer want her hovering. You’re finally acting like a young man, like an Allister, and I’m glad for it.”

Resolve disappearing, I bowed again. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I recalled his earlier entreaties not to make him regret giving me latitude, and instantly berated myself for even
thinking
about opening my mouth. He’d disown me, embarrass me on an even larger scale—and he’d never respect me. Ever.

As I turned away a plump man in a tight white coat hurried up to my father and said, “My lord, the results are ready. This combination
is extremely promising. I think I’ve managed to find a way to suppress several necessary proteins, although some problems remain.”

“Let’s see, Dr. Elpinoy.” My father turned to follow him.

At the mention of his name I glanced back, memorizing the fat man’s face. So he was the one my father spoke of earlier—the defector from Team Dearly. Interesting.

Half an hour later I left Allister Genetics, surrounded by four of my father’s elite security guards. They escorted me to his carriage and saw me off with a salute.

Lapin Innocent was a popular tearoom located in the rear gardens of the New Victorian Museum of Natural History. It was open to the public, accessible by a series of fanciful brass gates. Small signs warned: BEWARE PICKPOCKETS AND FANCY WOMEN.

I found Nora standing beside a stone fountain designed to look like a circle of dancing fairies, water jetting from their puckered mouths. With both hands, she held a leather lead, and at her feet sat a battle-scarred Doberman pinscher. She appeared to be alone.

As was I.

Before Nora could notice me, I allowed myself to enjoy a moment or two of voyeurism. Although I couldn’t help but imagine outfitting her more grandly, I still admired the relative plainness of her current gown and gloves, her small pieces of jewelry—they set her natural features off to perfection. Her hair was her crowning glory, and, I would argue, the only ornament she would ever need if she was in my bed. And what crime was there in wanting her there? She was obviously beneath me, classwise, but I could overlook that. I could forgive her everything, anything.

“A dog? Are you afraid I might try something?” I said when I finally abandoned my reverie and drew nearer.

Her eyes met mine and narrowed deliciously. The dog stood and growled at me, and she reined him in. “No. I’m hoping you do.” She looked around and asked, “Didn’t you bring a chaperone?”

“No.” Looking into her eyes, I almost lost my train of thought. “I need to talk to you alone.”

Nora looked uneasy—which I enjoyed, honestly. “About what?”

“What do you need to talk to
me
about?”

“Things that could be said in front of an adult.”

“I assure you, I want only privacy. And I’m willing to risk scandal to get it.”