The Retribution of Mara Dyer (13 page)

We wove among the people, somehow not touching a single one. The trees were green, but a few still blossomed. It was spring, almost summer. A strong wind shook a few of the steadfast flowers off the branches and into our path. We ignored them.

Noah led me into Central Park, which teemed with human life. Brightly colored picnic blankets burst across the lawn, with the pale, outstretched forms of people wriggling over them like worms in fruit. We crossed the reservoir, the
gleaming sun reflecting off its surface, which was dotted with boats, and then Noah reached into his bag. He pulled out the little cloth doll, my grandmother’s. The one we’d burned. He offered it to me.

I took it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as my fingers closed around it. And then he slit my throat.

I woke up gasping. And wet. Hot water splashed around me. My clothes were on and soaked, and the water was tinged a dark, deep pink. My fingers grasped the cool cast-iron lip of the antique tub, and I felt hands tighten around my wrist.

“You’re all right,” Stella said, kneeling by the bathtub. She was also clothed, and also soaked. I had no idea what she or I was doing there.

I whipped around, or tried to. “What’s—what’s happening?”

“You were—” She measured her words. “A mess.” She looked down at my shirt, the one we’d gotten from the tourist shop. That much I remembered. “The blood—it seemed to be upsetting you, but you couldn’t—you couldn’t get to the shower.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her hair was curling from the steam and the heat, and her skin was pale. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

I closed my eyes. “We checked in. I remember that. We came up here to the room—and I found my sketchbook in Noah’s bag.”

Whatever happened next had slipped out of my mental
grasp; the harder I thought about it, the hazier it became.

Stella inhaled slowly. “One second you were fine. Then you just—went limp.”

“I passed out?”

Stella shook her head. “No. Not at first. Your eyes were open but staring at nothing. And you kept trying to take off your clothes.”

That, more than anything else she’d said, scared me.

“I tried to talk to you. You were
aware
, that’s the thing. Your eyes followed me when I spoke. When Jamie spoke. It was like, like you were listening but you didn’t respond. We coaxed you in here, and I thought maybe, if I could get the blood off, you’d come back. So we put you into the bathtub, but then you passed out.”

“That’s . . .” I didn’t even know what to say, except, “Fucked up.”

“It’s okay,” Stella said, squeezing my hand.

No, it wasn’t. I looked down at myself. I was a mess, outside and in. “Thank you,” I said to Stella. “For everything.”

Her brows drew together. “Thank
you
. I know I freaked out in the truck after . . . after. But I heard what he was thinking. He would’ve murdered us. If you hadn’t . . . ”

Killed him. Butchered him.

“I wouldn’t be here right now.”

I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to thank me, but the words tangled on my tongue.

“Can I—can I have a second?” I asked hoarsely. “I can’t stand these clothes anymore.”

She braced herself against the tub and quickly stood. “Of course. Do you want me to stay outside? If you need me?”

If I needed her. If I needed her to help me
bathe
. We barely knew each other, but without her help, who knows how long I would’ve been out?

“I think I’m all right. But thank you. Really.” I heard the door close behind her.

I stared blankly at the beadboard wall, huddled in the bathtub. The water had started to cool. I pulled the plug with my toe and drained it, stripped off my clothes and took a real bath. Without help.

When I was done, I looked up at myself in the mirror shakily, wondering who would be staring back. But it was just me. My eyes looked wide and round in my pale face, and my collarbones were sharper than I’d remembered them. The heat and steam brought some color to my cheeks and lips, and I looked better than I had at Horizons, but still. I didn’t really look like myself. I didn’t really
feel
like myself. It hit me then that this was the first time I’d really been alone since Horizons.

Wrapped in a white towel, I stepped out of the tiled bathroom and into my room, the old wooden floorboards creaking under my feet. Noah’s bag, still open, sat on the lace-covered four-poster bed. My sketchbook was next to it. Closed.

I approached his bag cautiously, staring at it like it might lash out and bite. I sat down on the bed and ran my fingers over the black nylon fabric. I needed to look inside. There might be something that could help us figure out where Noah was, why he wasn’t with us, whether he was really—

I closed my eyes and bit my lip to stop myself from thinking it. I didn’t open my eyes; I just let my hands wander over his things, feeling his clothes, his laptop . . .

He would’ve taken that with him if he could have, wouldn’t he? Which meant he couldn’t have, which meant maybe he—

Stop it. Stop it. I let go of the laptop, but my fingers caught on something else as I withdrew them. It was his T-shirt, the white one with the holes in it. I filled my hands with the fabric and brought it up to my face.

I caught the barest, faintest scent of him, soap and sandalwood and smoke, and in that moment I felt not loss but
need
. Noah had been there for me when I’d had no one else. He’d believed me when no one else had. He could not be gone, I thought, but my throat began to hurt and my chest began to tighten, and I curled up in bed, knees to chest, head to knees, waiting for tears that never came, and sleep that did.

20

BEFORE

London, England

M
R. GRIMSBY WAS FORCED TO HIRE
a tattered, worn carriage driven by two old mules and an old man to match, after teams of horses refused to bear us. He huffed as he climbed in and extended his hand to help me up. When I took it, he shivered.

Neither of us spoke as the carriage wound through the streets. I bit my lip to keep it from trembling, and the smell of rot invaded my nostrils until we were far from the docks, when it was replaced by the sting of smoke. I coughed several times.

“It’s the coal fires,” Mr. Grimsby said. “Takes a bit of getting used to.”

I peered out the window and watched my new world
unfold before me, the slow pace of the mules allowing me to take everything in. Every person we passed was white, their skin the color of fish bellies. The men dressed in tight coats and pants, while the women were swallowed by voluminous fabrics in every color. That must have been how they kept warm. I held my arms across my chest.

Soon the stink and crowds gave way to gardens dotted with trees, and rows of grand buildings that towered above our heads, made of stones and bricks. The shoddy carriage stopped before one of the grandest.

Mr. Grimsby got out and exchanged coins with the driver, who gaped and stared after us as we walked up to the gate. A uniformed man nodded at Mr. Grimsby and opened the gate for us without looking at me, and Mr. Grimsby led me up to the house.

The house was the color of stone, the front of which seemed to be held up by white columns. It towered several stories into the air. Mr. Grimsby gracefully ascended the front stairs and stopped before a gleaming wooden door. It opened immediately, as had the gate.

Mr. Grimsby held out his hand. “After you, young Miss.”

I stepped in. The lamps were lit, though it was only midday. Mr. Grimsby led me down a short dark hall, then showed me into a large room.

Dark gray light filtered in through the windows, which were skirted by heavy drapes the color of cream. A magnificent fixture
hung from the center of the ceiling, dripping with crystals and lit candles. Flourishes curled in the plaster around it, and a white stone fireplace so tall I could step into it anchored the center of the room.

A woman holding a candle appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She was dressed in brown, her gray hair tied loosely at her neck. A strip of black cloth encircled the upper sleeve of one arm.

“Ah, Mrs. Dover.” Mr. Grimsby nodded at her.

“Mr. Grimsby,” she said. “You’ve returned with the ship’s cargo, I see.”

He cleared his throat. “Is the lady in?”

“She is not yet returned from church,” Mrs. Dover said, examining me. “Let me get a good look at her. Step forward, girl.”

I looked at Mr. Grimsby. He nodded. I took a step toward Mrs. Dover.

“Pretty,” Mrs. Dover said approvingly. “Though in dire need of new clothes and a good washing up.”

“Please prepare the young miss for the lady’s arrival.”

“Yes, Mr. Grimsby,” she said, and beckoned to me. “What’s your name, girl?”

I hesitated.

“She’s a bit shy,” Mr. Grimsby said.

“Of course,” Mrs. Dover said. “I’ll have one of the maids set your things in your room. Come then. Let’s get you washed up.”

My shoes
thunked
on the wide-planked wooden floors. She walked me to the back of the house, where a hound of some sort stood at the foot of the stairs, baring its teeth at me.

“Dash,”
Mrs. Dover scolded. “Shoo.” She waved her hand at the dog. The dog did not move.

Mrs. Dover looked at me queerly, then called out, “Miss Smith!” A harried-looking young girl with soot on her cheeks appeared, brushing her palms on her skirt.

“Yes, Mrs. Dover?”

“Take Dash outside, please.”

“Yes, Mrs. Dover.” The girl reached for the dog’s collar. He snapped at her, but she didn’t flinch. She just fixed a grip on the dog’s thick scruff, and he yipped as she ushered him away from the stairs. Mrs. Dover went up them, and I followed behind. I glanced behind me. The dog watched me as I ascended the stairs.

At the third landing Mrs. Dover led me down a hall bracketed by carved woodwork. “Each room’s named for a color—the blue room, the red room, the lavender room, the gray room, and so on. The green room belongs to the lady. The blue room is to be yours, I believe.” She showed me into it. It was precisely the same color as the clothes Uncle used to always wear. I nearly gasped at the familiarity of it. A large copper basin waited for me in the corner. Steam curled from the lip.

I let Mrs. Dover undress me, let her scrub me without mercy in the scalding water. I gritted my teeth and did not
make a sound, even as she tore a comb through my knotted hair.

When she finished, she dressed me and opened my trunk.

“Hmm,” she said disapprovingly as she picked through the clothing I had purchased for myself in India. Then she lifted up my doll with her thumb and forefinger. “What’s this?”

“It’s mine,” I said.

“So she speaks, does she.” Mrs. Dover looked amused. “Well, we can wash it, though there might be no saving it, I’m afraid.”

I snatched my doll from her hand.

“Mrs. Dover,” a crisp, brittle voice said from behind me. “Is there a problem?”

A look of surprise transformed Mrs. Dover’s face. “No, of course not, my lady.”

I turned to face a figure draped in black. Her face was veiled by black fabric that reflected no light, the same fabric as her gown. It rustled with each tiny, delicate step she took toward me. She seemed to be floating, gliding over the floor.

“I should have a look at the girl my husband brought from across the world,” the woman said, and swept the veil from her face.

My memories of her husband painted him as old and frail, but this woman was neither. She had ash blond hair that was braided in a crown around her face. Jet-black earrings dangled from her ears. The stones glittered in the dim light.

“You are older than I thought you would be,” she said. “How old are you, child?”

I lowered my eyes to the floor. “I do not know, Lady.”

The woman clapped her hands together. “How darling! You speak as if you were born and raised in the West End and not in the jungles of India. My husband purchased you a fine education, it seems.”

I thought of Uncle and Sister. “Yes, Lady.”

“If only he had lived to see it,” she said queerly. “He wrote a great deal about you in his papers.”

I did not know what to say to that, so I remained quiet.

“Well, you are in my care now, and I will treat you as if you were my own daughter. I would have insisted Mr. Bray draw up the paperwork to officially make you my ward, as my husband desired, except you would then be expected to mourn for him as well, and I would not mar your arrival with such darkness.”

I bowed my head.

She looked at the room we stood in. “My husband instructed me very clearly to place you in the blue room, but I think a different one would be more suitable. Come, child.”

I followed the woman in black, and she led me to an even larger room. The walls were painted a pale mint color, ornamented with gold candleholders in the shape of flowers. A cream-colored bed with a full canopy and skirt stood in the center of the room. No wonder I’d been scrubbed so harshly.

“Yes,” she said, looking around. “This room is much more suitable for a young girl. So much lighter! Mrs. Dover, the curtains?”

Mrs. Dover busied herself about the room, throwing them open. Dozens of arched windows emerged, broken up into wavy panes of glass. The lady smiled.

“You can see the gardens from up here. Come, dear, look!”

I followed her, and peered out the windows. The gardens were brown with the season, and one of the leafless trees was choked with blackbirds.

“Before supper I shall introduce you to everyone in the household. The boys, Elliot and Simon, are with the nanny at present, but I shall have Mrs. Dover send word to the cook that they are to dine with us tonight so they might meet you.”

Mrs. Dover inclined her head. “Yes, my lady,” she said, and left.

The lady approached me and smiled. “And tomorrow your new tutor shall arrive, at my husband’s direction. I admit that if he had not asked it of me on his deathbed, I wouldn’t think of it, but I will honor his wishes, no matter how unorthodox. No one must know, however. Do you understand?”