The Madman's Daughter (The Madman's Daughter 1)

The burning color in her cheeks made me uneasy. She was thirteen, maybe fourteen. The age when most girls can’t think of anything but first kisses and true love. She was infatuated with Montgomery. I could hardly blame her. But it felt wrong to just sit and listen to her gush about him, knowing he’d just had his lips all over me.

“Yes, he’s very talented,” I said.

“And you’ll never hear him complain. Even the villagers”—her voice dropped—“even they do as he says. They obey the doctor out of fear, if I may be so bold to say. But they listen to Montgomery because he’s kind to them.”

“Indeed.” I pulled too hard at a pink stitch and ripped the thread. A curse slipped out as I reached for another spool.

“In fact, Montgomery told Balthasar he’d like to teach him to read. Can you imagine, miss? Balthasar with a book in his hands? And Montgomery will do it. He always keeps his promises.”

“Does he?” I asked, focusing on threading my needle. The trees outside trembled and shook. Something scraped against the side of the building. I glanced at the window, but outside was only darkness and leaves shimmering in the moonlight. I wished she would talk about something else. Anything else. The feel of Montgomery’s hands lingered on my waist, so powerful that I thought it must be obvious with one look at my face. And yet she didn’t seem to suspect a thing.

“Oh yes. He promised to take me to London one day. I know he will. He’s told me all about it—the tall buildings and the people and the flower markets.” Her eyes were big and dreamlike.

The needle slipped from my fingers. I patted the duvet until I felt the stiff metal against my thumb. Why would he make such a promise? A man and an unwed girl couldn’t travel alone without rumors. I certainly knew that. It was one thing for him and me to travel together—I didn’t have anything to lose, not even a reputation. But Alice did.

So did he have some affection for her? Had he even considered marrying her? The thought made me blanch. But it was logical. Before I came, she was the only girl on the island. He certainly wasn’t the type to care about her harelip. And she was a sweet girl. The kind a man married. Not like me, a girl who’d just as soon scratch a man as cook for him.

Could I just be a passing fancy to him then? Something new, like the prostitute in Brisbane?

A loud thump at the window made me gasp. I’d been deep in my head. Alice trembled in fright, her needlework forgotten. Even Montgomery was forgotten.

“A coconut fell,” I said quickly. “The wind blows them down. I hear them occasionally.” I hoped she was too distracted to remember there were no palm trees anywhere near the compound.

She tore her eyes from the window to see if I was serious. I swallowed the fear creeping up my throat. There was no telling what was on the other side of those iron bars. Jaguar, perhaps. A pack of half-regressed islanders. If only the window had a screen or shutters to seal off that awful darkness.

Another thump sounded. We both jumped. And then a long scraping sound, as if something were running a knife against the side of the building. Alice’s small hand found mine and squeezed. My mind raced. I needed to devise an explanation to keep the fear from blooming in our hearts.

“The wind,” I muttered. It was a poor answer, and it didn’t soothe either of us. Her breath came in quick little gasps. Something tapped against the iron bars. Tap. Tap. Tap. As if the darkness were knocking.

Alice’s mouth fell open. I clapped my hand over it to keep her from screaming. She struggled but I wrapped an arm around her, holding her tight, like Montgomery did to calm the rabbits.

“Quickly. Get on the floor,” I whispered.

We tumbled off the bed, hiding behind the mattress, where anything outside couldn’t see.

“What’s out there?” she asked, squeezing my arm as though she was afraid I would leave her. No explanation came to my lips. It wasn’t the wind, that was for sure.

“Stay low. You’ll be fine.” I crawled across the floor to the dressing table. I pulled the rusty shears out of a drawer and hid them in the folds of my nightdress. Seeing them would only frighten her more.

My heart thumped painfully. Slowly, I pulled myself up and approached the window with careful steps. The wind whistled outside, a thousand malignant whispers.

The shears felt small but powerful in my hand. Heavy clouds blocked all traces of moonlight. Whatever was outside, it could be standing three feet away, face inches from the bars, and I wouldn’t know.

Lightning flashed. Fear shot up my throat, making me gasp. I had a quick glimpse of the valley. Shaking leaves. The stormy ocean beyond. No face, not unless I hadn’t seen right. The island played tricks on my eyes.

I stepped closer to the window. My face almost pressed against the bars. I held the shears to my chest, ready to strike.

Lightning flashed again. There was nothing out there but the island, erratic and tumultuous. Yet I felt watched.

“Hello?” I called. My voice was hoarse. “Is someone there?”

“Miss, don’t!”

I turned toward the bed. The tip of Alice’s head peeked above the mattress, her eyes wide and glassy.

“Get down!” I breathed. Her head disappeared faster than a blink. I tightened my grip on the shears. Maybe the traces of Father’s madness in me had its uses—if it made me able to chop a rabbit’s head off and maim Dr. Hastings, it made me able to fight whatever was lurking outside.

I turned back to the window and forced myself to do what I feared most. Grabbed the iron bars.

“Hello?” I called again.

Only the howling wind answered. What lurked out there, watching?

I heard the scraping sound again, just outside the window. Inches away. My body went rigid. Something screamed inside me to run, but I gritted my teeth, ready to thrust the shears into those watching eyes. Hungry to do it.

Alice was forgotten. It was only me and the monster and the rolling thunder. Tap tap tap. Coming from so close. The thrill made my blood flow backward. I was ready. I squeezed the bars, knuckles white. In the pit of my stomach I knew that not even iron bars would keep us safe from the thing outside.

The wind howled, blowing cracks and wrinkles in the dark clouds. Faint moonlight broke through and glistened off three long, black claws on the other side of the bars.

Stretching close enough, almost, to graze my fingertips.

Thirty-one

A JOLT OF FEAR nailed my feet to the floor. The claws found the stone windowsill, grazing gently, scraping at the rusty bars. Then three slow, sinister taps. Tap, tap, tap. Asking for entrance.