The Diabolical Miss Hyde (5 page)

Snap!
Too loud in the silence. Her heart skipped. She unfolded the paper, pushing her spectacles up.

As always, his handwriting was rough, untidy with crossings-out, as if he scribbled in a hurry and didn't care too
much for his spelling. The paper was smudged with grime or coal dust, as if his hands were dirty, like a laborer's. An odd sort of gentleman.

your Servant
            

A.R.
                

And beneath his initials—what did they stand for?—a little sketch of that same jester's crown. Wicked, unhinged, the sly wink of a madman.

She swallowed, excited yet fearful. A little dizzy. Was it the fever? Why did he want to see her? Their meetings were scarce, and always shrouded in darkness, shadows, secrecy. As a girl, she'd been afraid of him, his strange rough voice behind the curtain, his masculine scent of tobacco and leather, once a hesitant hand on her hair that made her whirl, only to see no one. Now, as a woman grown . . .

Rap-a-rap!
A knock at the door. Swiftly, she tucked the letter away in one of the desk's many secret drawers. “Come.”

Molly, pretty and blond, carrying a dinner tray. “Shall I set it down here, Doctor?”

“Thank you, Molly.” The plate held hot pork pie, potatoes, warm bread, a steaming pot of tea. Her stomach swam, as if
she'd swallowed seawater. Mrs. Poole's pie was invariably excellent. But Eliza had lost her appetite.

For food, that was. For anything except the elixir, bitter and delicious, stinging her throat like salt, that glorious fire-burst in her belly . . .

Molly busied herself turning down the bed and fluffing the pillows. “Everything all right, Doctor? Mam says you weren't feeling well.”

“Nothing a cup of tea and a good night's sleep won't remedy.”

“You know,” Molly remarked, “when I was just a scullery maid, I broke a cup in the kitchen, and I was too scared to tell anyone.” Her skirts billowed as she worked. “Ate away at me, it did. Never got a wink of sleep, until at last I owned up. As if a load of bricks tumbled off my back. Ever since then, if something's bothering me, I find it's best to talk about it.”

“I'll take that on board.” Eliza tried a smile, but it stung false. Mrs. Poole had kept house for Henry Jekyll, and though she made a point of pretending ignorance, her sharp wits missed nothing. Molly was Molly Poole, Mrs. Poole's daughter—or granddaughter?—and cut from the same practical cloth. Molly and Eliza were of an age, and though Eliza's secrets were never spoken, such a clever maid had surely heard enough strange happenings late at night in the Jekyll household to realize something bizarre was going on.

But Eliza could not make a confidante of Molly, no matter how tempting. She could have no friends. If she were discovered—if that intolerable Captain Lafayette of the Royal had his way—her servants would suffer along with her.

“Shall I help you undress?”

“That won't be necessary . . .” She sighed at Molly's expression. Keeping up appearances was important. But so very tiresome. “Very well. Thank you.”

She unlaced her boots and eased them off with a sigh, wriggling her pinched toes in the fire's warmth. She fidgeted as Molly helped her with her gown, unclipping the dove-gray fabric and stiffened corset, and soon she stood in only her linen chemise, pale hair tumbling around her face.

She peered at herself in the polished dressing table mirror. Her cheeks flushed pink, her hair hung damp. Shadows gleamed sickly beneath eyes aglow with fever. Her stomach ached as if she'd not eaten for days. And an ugly pressure swelled in her blood, beneath her skin, in the secret places between her legs. She wanted, hungered, thirsted for . . . satisfaction. Completion. A bold kind of . . . release, something urgent she didn't fully understand.

Escape . . .

Molly reached for the hairbrush, but Eliza tossed her head impatiently. “I can do it meself,” she snapped, and flushed. “I mean, that's all for tonight, Molly,” she amended hastily. “I shan't need you again. Good night.”

The girl's eyes narrowed, but she nodded. “Good night, Doctor.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, Eliza sprang to her feet. Turned the key in the lock,
click-clack!
and tossed it onto the bed, out of reach of prying fingers. Ran to the fireplace, grabbed the left-hand sconce, and yanked it downwards on its secret hinge.

Clunk!
Hot wax spilled over the back of her hand. She didn't care. Thirst tore into her belly. The sharp-clawed beast had to be sated.
Come on, come on . . .

Agonizingly slowly, the section of wall beside the wardrobe swung outwards. Silently, without a whisper or a creak. She kept it oiled for that purpose. A dark passageway loomed. Her secret cabinet.

Before the door had even fully opened, she dived in. On her knees, shaking, fumbling the little cupboard door aside. Yearning, sweating, trembling with anticipation yet gripped by terrible fear that she'd miscalculated, there'd be nothing inside . . .

There it sat. Mr. Finch's black glass flask, gleaming evilly in firelight. Bulbous at the bottom, narrow neck, flaring at the mouth. It seemed to snigger like a living creature, hungry for mischief.

Yes.
Her mouth watered, and her eyes drifted closed. She gripped the flask's warm neck—always warm, this bubbling hellbrew, a vile heat of its own—and flicked off the cork.
Pop!
Tiny drops spattered, and
that
smell drifted out, intoxicating like opium, delicious like bitter chocolate, velvety and delectable and oh, so alluring . . .

A desperate feather of reason tickled the back of her neck. Startled, she opened her eyes.

The long mirror on the cabinet wall reflected her, stark and pale in her white chemise. Her reddened eyes were demented. She breathed deep, shuddering, sweating, the fever sprinting madly under her skin, a dread curse she couldn't escape.

She shouldn't. She mustn't.

But she had to.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the fire's glare and tipped the flask to her lips.

Molten gold, rolling down her throat. Thick salt stung her tongue, coated the inside of her mouth, sickening yet delicious. Thirst ripped her raw, and she gulped, mouthful on mouthful . . .

Fire erupted in her guts, sweeter than any caress. She groaned in pure abandon. Spreading outwards through her belly, tingling along her limbs, a shivering shock wave of delight . . .

Agony, hacking every nerve ragged. Muscles contorting, bones twisting, red mist descending like poison, it's torture, it's being dragged apart on the rack in some rat-infested Tower chamber, beyond endurance, no one can take this, no one. A scream crawls up her throat, she's yelling,
I'm
yelling, she's clawing at her face but it's
my
face,
my
hands,
my
nails catching in her hair. We throw our head back, arching our spine, joints grating, our muscles shudder and squeal and thrash one final time . . .

Suddenly, the pain falls silent. The red mist dissolves . . . and in the mirror, dark eyes flash, wicked and alive with intent.

Sharp intelligent face, crooked seducer's smile, a body with lush, dangerous curves. Long curly hair tumbles over the white chemise, no longer fine and blond but dark, lustrous mahogany.

And here I stand.

I
LET OUT A LAUGH, RICH AND RAUCOUS, AND I HAVE TO
cover my mouth or they'll hear me. Wouldn't do to make a fuss.

Then again? To hell with it. My blood's up. The rage burns like venom in my belly. My muscles are strong, my body's alive and hungry and full of fire.

Lizzie's out, my friends. And she intends to make the most of it.

I unhook Eliza's spectacles—my eyes is just fine, thank you—and toss 'em away. The empty flask is still in my hand, and I fling it aside. It hits the floor and smashes, but no matter. Eliza can clean it up later. This elixir lasts only a few hours. No time to lose. I flick the cabinet lamp on—fancy electric lights, this house of ours—and head for the wardrobe.

My
wardrobe, that is.

I hang my clothes in here, behind the locked secret door where the servants won't see. Eliza can keep her drab gray doctor's frocks, her high collars and chest-flattening stays. Me? I like to stand out. I flick through my dresses, frowning.
The red, the scarlet, the crimson, the ruby, the cherry, the claret, or the rose?

I settle on the cherry, a flounced satin thing with a deep lacy neckline, and pull on
my
corset, the one that hooks in front and shows off my womanly advantages. Oop, suck it in, shove 'em up there, yep, that's it. I snap the last hook, pull on the dress, petticoats 'n' all—I don't go for no stupid crinolines, that's one thing Eliza and me has in common—and button it up.

That's better. I wiggle my toes into silky black stockings and tie them at the top with a lacy pair of garters. Some boots—shiny dancing ones, that is, with pointy toes and buckles and proper heels that make me tall, not the clunky sensible things she wears—and I'm done.

I check myself in the mirror and grin my saucy grin, tilting my half-bared shoulders. I say, Miss Lizzie, you're a fine-looking woman. I clip on my favorite necklace, a beaded jet choker, and pin my hair up loose under a little red hat. None o' that actress face paint for me. Just ask the flash gents down at Seven Dials, and they'll tell you, so they will. I'm far too classy for that.

Sweet. I shove a fistful of coins in the secret pocket deep in my skirt and toss a long black cloak around me. Wouldn't do to be seen around here, after all, not in Eliza's snotty neighborhood where the crushers strut by every hour and chase away anyone who don't look rich enough to breathe their air.

Last of all—best of all—I slide open a drawer and pull out my little darling.

She sparkles in the firelight, four inches of shiny stiletto steel on a blackwood handle. Hello, sweet sister. I give her a
kiss, and she's cold on my lips. My breath frosts on the metal for a moment, then vanishes like a ghost.

I hike my skirt above one knee and snap her into my garter. Sleep now, sister. Won't be long.

And down the dusty back stairs like the red satin harpy of vengeance I prowl.

It's cold outside, the late winter night closing in, and I wrap the cloak tighter and walk on. Down the back alley, where rats lurk in the nightman's wagon tracks, and out onto Southampton Row. Moonlight drenches the smoky sky with blood, and mist drifts, a yellowing specter that haunts the blue-glowing electric lampposts and iron fences.

A cold finger trails down my spine. I whirl, in case anyone's following me . . . but ain't no one there. Just shadows.

It takes me a good quarter hour to walk to New Oxford Street. Carriages and hansoms rattle by, electrics flickering purple and green in the night with the stink of thunder and hot iron. Costermongers yell their wares—
sweet strawberries, ripe!
—and expensive whores strut like duchesses in fine gowns and feathered hats. Beggars of all ages weep, bleed, shake with faked palsy. Children ramble and scatter, selling matches, picking pockets, dancing like hurdy-gurdy monkeys under spinning carriage wheels.

Square-rigged gents in fine coats and gloves stroll in pairs and threes, flicking their canes and tipping their lids to ladies. Unless you're like me and have an eye for these things? Ain't no telling who's quality and who's the swell mob, stalking
through the crowd to relieve 'em of their purses and jewels and fancy tie-pins.

On a corner, an Irish ballad-chanter sells his latest tale of woe, scraps of paper with the words printed on jabbed onto his pointed stick.
“Gold watch, she picked from his po-cket, and shyly placed into my hand . . .”
He tips his hat to me as he sings.
“The hair hung down on her shou-l-der . . . tied up with a black velvet band . . .”

Aye. You fell for a pair of pretty diamond eyes, and got yourself transported to the colonies for seven years. Such is life.

I duck along a narrow street beside a broken churchyard wall, where crumbling gravestones loom and the shadows reek and thicken with
weird
. Down a twisting alley, beneath an overhanging doorway, and suddenly I've left civilization behind and I'm deep in the Holy Land.

People teem, filthy dresses and torn coats, feet bare on the freezing cobbles. Blank eyes slide over me and away. In a shitty gutter, two dirty children gnaw on the same bone. A skinny girl soaked in gin burps loudly in my ear and hitches up ankle-cut skirts to show me her goat's feet.

Yells and drunken laughter chime through the night. All kinds of accents; Irishmen, to be sure—it's where the name
Holy Land
came from—and these days they can hang your sorry carcass for an Ave Maria but it still ain't no crime to be Irish. Scots accents, too, Welshmen and Geordies and guttural Rom, Chinamen and Turks and the dense dialects of navvies and coal diggers.