These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (18 page)

Quietly, I approached Miss Lodge, planted myself in a bedside wicker chair, and attempted a diagnosis. Her breathing was heavy and labored, her forehead burned from a fever, and her nightstand
held a handkerchief spotted with blood. This wasn’t the Addison’s disease that I last saw. Something else ailed her, and it looked very much like the consumption she had survived
before. My goodness, was she the unluckiest girl in all of London?

I waited stupidly, hoping for a sudden, newfound understanding of my powers. No such luck. There was no reasonable explanation. Sometimes my healing worked. Sometimes it didn’t. There was
nothing to do but hope this would fall into the first category.

I clasped Miss Lodge’s hand, closed my eyes, and waited. One minute. Two. I opened my eyes. No change. I shifted my left hand to her arm, my right hand to her burning forehead, and
clenched my jaw, as if the strain might squeeze out my dormant power. Unsurprisingly, my orange-juice-inspired attempt did nothing. The persistent fever would not abate.

Neither would the thoughts and questions and doubts swirling about my head. How long did I have to sit here, futilely trying to cure her, before I was dragged away and declared mad? The last
time, I had held Miss Lodge’s hand for at least a half hour and sat with her for half a day. There was no telling how long was needed to heal her, or if it could even be done. I felt like
some sort of useless steam engine, lifting my hand up every minute, sucking in a hopeful breath, then returning my hand back to her body with a sigh. Until finally, the cycle broke, and a yelp
escaped my mouth instead.

Her face looked less flushed, and the sweat I’d wiped from her brow had not returned. And her breathing, it . . . looked more relaxed. Had her fever really decreased? I went absolutely
still, afraid to break the spell. For several more minutes I just sat there, a curious and astonished lump, holding Miss Lodge’s hand as she regained a healthy glow, steady breathing, and a
stable temperature—completely cured right before my eyes.

I had seen my own hand heal. And I had heard of Miss Lodge’s prior recovery secondhand. Nothing compared with this, though—I had helped save someone, restored their health in full.
Me, alone. Was this giddy surge what Rose felt every time she cured someone back in Bramhurst? It was as if pure light flowed through me. Energy, renewal,
life
. I paced around the room
several times in a daze.

How many people could we cure? Could Rose and I heal London? England? What would people say if we suddenly turned medicine on its head, performing miracles at every turn? I wanted desperately to
run to a hospital and heal every person I could. But that fantasy was not complete without Rose. It would have to wait until she was by my side once again. Then I could think about the future.

Back downstairs, I assured the Lodges that their daughter would be perfectly healthy after a little more rest. On my way out, I asked for the address of Mr. Braddock’s lodgings so I might
inquire about his recovery. And in the cab, I provided my driver that address, instead of returning to the Kents’.

I had to speak with Mr. Braddock, and I cared not one whit if I was unaccompanied. All the rules of society had flown out the window with the rational rules of the world.

B
ROKEN GLASS WAS
never a good sign.

Afraid to knock, I reached through the broken window, groping around the other side of the door for the lock. A click brought me inside the dark, empty Braddock household. The door closed behind
me with a faint rasp.

It looked as if no one had been here for months. Every piece of furniture in the entrance hall had a white sheet draped over its surface, with an extra layer of dust over that. The barest
slivers of light were creeping in through the closed drapes. I waited for a moment, listening and hearing nothing but the sound of my heartbeat. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or
not.

I tread a few steps forward, wincing and pausing at the creak of the first stair under my weight. Nothing else stirred. I continued upward and reached the second-floor landing, finding three
rooms before me. I chose the first bedroom to my left, the only open door, hoping I’d simply find a resting Mr. Braddock in there and I could finally get back to breathing.

An oak four-poster bed proudly stood in the center, with soft wallpaper and opulent furniture announcing the Braddocks’ wealth. The weak gas lamps along the wall barely lit the room, but I
could tell it had been used since the servants packed up the house. The bedsheets were a rumpled mess, there were bloodied bandages on the ground, and—

A strong arm wrapped tightly around my neck, pulling me against its owner’s body. A warm, bare chest pressed hard against my back, and the sharp scent of mint-like medicinal salve and
leather filled my nose.

In a panic, my elbow jerked back into the body, but I regretted it the moment it made contact, recognizing that familiar glow wherever my body met Mr. Braddock’s. Whether it was my elbow
or the same realization, he loosened his grip and staggered back, taking labored breaths as I tried to regain the use of my lungs, as well.

“I’m . . . sorry . . . Miss Wyndham,” he said. “I thought you . . . an intruder. Are you hurt?”

I tried to respond but was immediately distracted by the picture of Mr. Braddock, braced against the wall for support. A large patch covered his forehead, one cheek showed some minor abrasions,
and the other had the blue tint of bruising to match his black eye. His half-naked torso had fared better, but the looking glass behind him revealed a red, bandaged streak across his back, sending
a shiver down my spine. I tore my gaze away and forced it back up toward his less confusing face.

“I . . . saw the glass broken downstairs,” I finally said. “I didn’t know what to think.”

“I should have cleaned it. I had no other means of getting in when I first arrived.”

“Where is your house staff?”

He pushed off the wall and closed in on me, trying to steer me out of the doorway. “You should not be here,” he said. “It’s not . . . proper.”

“And you should not be out of bed.” I sidestepped him and took a seat in the room’s only chair. “It’s not healthy.”

He frowned, refusing to come closer.

“Mr. Braddock, from what I can tell, there’s no household staff to make a fuss. Not that it should matter, seeing as I’m simply playing the part of nurse. So come. I’ve
already healed Miss Lodge today, and I don’t intend to leave until I do the same for you.”

He took an eager step forward and almost fell. “With your power?”

I nodded. “Her symptoms disappeared within ten minutes, and she looked perfectly healthy when I left.”

Mr. Braddock’s expression changed from one of surprise to surprising warmth. “Thank you, Miss Wyndham,” he said. “I believe I owe you two sisters in return now. Though I
. . . I’m sorry I have been unable to deliver the first.”

“The sooner we sort out your injuries, the sooner you can,” I said, gesturing to the bed.

He gingerly took his seat, ramrod straight on the edge of the bed, as if he didn’t quite trust it with his weight. That would not do.

“Lie down,” I told him. “You really don’t know how to rest, do you?”

His face was drawn and his lips thinned. Accepting help was obviously not something this man often did. But finally, he begrudgingly lay down.

I dragged the chair closer, wood squeaking against wood. As he squirmed slightly and adjusted, I severely misjudged where to set my gaze and found myself staring again at his uncovered skin. A
very annoying blush warmed my cheeks. I had seen a torso here and there while helping Rose, but this was different. There was no emergency, and no Rose, to distract me. I could safely say that this
was the oddest situation I had ever been in: trying to use a magical power to heal a strange, half-naked man in his bedroom.

“Your hand, please,” I said, pretending to have some logic to what I was doing. As I grasped his hand, my blood warmed, but I held on tightly. His hand trembled in mine. Maybe it
would work better directly touching a wound. The cut on his forehead or on his back? Forehead. Definitely the forehead first.

My left hand swept back his silk-soft hair and settled on the pale forehead, fingers brushing gently over the small contusions. The air grew heavy and thick around us while we waited, as if all
the world’s miraculous potential were building up right here in the room. Neither of us took a breath, afraid to suck it away.

“Is it healing? Does it still hurt?” I asked after a long minute.

He poked his forehead patch and grimaced. “I’m not certain. There is that same . . . sensation from your touch.”

I took his hand, placing it between both of mine. “I never felt it when I healed Miss Lodge, though. Only you. I can’t help but wonder if it’s connected to why I couldn’t
heal you last night.”

“I suspect it has something to do with my specific ability. I must confess, I haven’t been honest with you about it.”

“How so?”

With the slightest wince, he repositioned the pillow propped behind him. “When—when I was sixteen . . . my father and—” He inhaled sharply, and a cold mask seemed to
descend over his face. His words came out clipped, sharp, and detached.

“Three years ago, within a few months of each other, my father and mother both suffered from what the doctors said was consumption and passed away. At first, I thought it a horrible
coincidence, but the doctors worried it was contagious or an incurable sickness passing through my family. They advised me to leave the country for some time to protect my health and to get out of
that unbearable house.

“So my friend Henry Lodge, Miss Lodge’s brother, accompanied me on a trip around the Continent, happy to follow wherever my fancy or grief dictated. But before we could even settle
in our first lodgings in France, Henry fell sick—from the same illness. We called for different doctors, but nothing ever seemed to work, and he grew worse and worse—much faster, too.
The night he passed . . . I—I was with him. He asked me to promise him a number of things. He—he died before I could finish.

“It was during those moments I saw his eyes, and I—he made me see the truth about myself. It was me. There was a spark, a realization: We both knew
I
was responsible for his
illness.” Mr. Braddock let out an exasperated, humorless laugh.

“I developed an ability to . . . hurt others. My touch is like infecting someone with an illness . . . or . . . draining the life out of them. And this power, I cannot control it. When it
first emerged, I was too foolish and blind to realize it, until I killed my parents and my closest friend.”

“How could you
possibly
know it was you?” I spit out.

Mr. Braddock reached for a glass of water. He gulped down some (and spilled the rest) before speaking again. “I didn’t at first. Because of the development period, sometimes I was
hurting them; sometimes I was harmless. There was no clear pattern. Until I returned to the city for Henry’s funeral and spent time with Miss Lodge. Within the first day, she, too, fell sick
with the same symptoms. That was proof enough for me.

“So I left and hid in the city, cutting off all contact with society. I wish I could say it was because I knew that would fix everything, but I . . . I couldn’t bear to be there and
feel responsible.”

“And she recovered because of your absence?” I asked.

“Within a few days of my leaving.”

“What are the symptoms?”

“It starts with coughing and a fever, which quickly intensifies, leaving the person light-headed, weak, and coughing up blood. Then they fall unconscious until death takes them.”

I dropped his hand by instinct. If he even noticed, it didn’t seem to bother him. “And your touch is what causes it?”

“And my presence, to a lesser extent. When I am within ten feet of anyone, the symptoms emerge after two hours, and if I do not leave by the twelve-hour mark, they will die.”

My every question felt like the twist of a knife. “And what happens if you make direct contact?”

“A few seconds at most for the coughing and fever. Twenty seconds to lose consciousness. Thirty for death.”

There was nothing I could possibly do but look down at his hands in disbelief. I took them back in mine, feeling a little ashamed for stopping my healing when those symptoms clearly did not
affect me.

His teeth were clenched together, his jaw protruding from behind his cheeks. His words came out strained. “Gloves and clothing help dampen the effects by a few seconds, but no matter what,
I must take precautions and keep these times in my head to be sure I never do permanent damage. If I am with someone for more than an hour and notice their health deteriorating, I leave
immediately. As far as I know, they are able to make a slow but full recovery when I am gone.”

“Does Miss Lodge know any of this?”

Alarm crossed Mr. Braddock’s face. “No—I don’t know how I would ever tell her. How can I look her in the eye and say that I was responsible for all her pain and her
brother’s death?”