Her Dark Curiosity (The Madman's Daughter 2)

Lucy plucked another grape, eyeing me strangely. She changed her mind and set it back down in the bowl. “The truth is, and I know this must sound absurd coming from me, but I actually think I might grow to admire him. Not much, of course. Only a tiny bit. Perhaps it’s just stuffy in here.”

I shot her a look. I couldn’t imagine anything that chilled my blood more than the idea of Lucy enamored of a boy with a monstrous other half who had already killed four people in London—for me. I clutched her hand suddenly. “He seems a bore to me. I think you should forget him. Really. Now I must go, Lucy. I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes went wide. “You’ve only just arrived. I thought we might be able to talk, here, while we’re alone. Didn’t you want to speak to me privately?” She leaned in, her voice dropping. “I have things to tell you, too. I’m not certain Papa’s been fair in his business dealings, and when I mentioned it to Mother, she didn’t seem to care.”

“Blast, I’m sorry, I really can’t stay to hear about it right now. I’m a terrible friend, I know, but I really must go.” I paused in the doorway. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you—Inspector Newcastle is going to propose. I thought you should know. And I really don’t think he’s that terrible; perhaps you should give him a chance.”

I squeezed her hand and hurried from the room, down the stairs, waving to Clara as I ran out into the street.

Guilt gripped me for leaving her so suddenly, but part of this was for Lucy. I could hardly explain that her suitor—who she actually fancied—had a murderous other side to him, and it was either cure him, kill him, or have her end up dead.

A chill was settling into the shadows of buildings as late afternoon approached. I turned toward the sun in the west, in the direction of the Royal Botanical Gardens, where palm trees stood like ghosts within the captive heat of the greenhouse.

A thousand places to kill. A million reasons not to trust.

I started running toward Kensington.

MY FEET ACHED BY the time I arrived. The tired-looking ticket collector glanced at his pocket watch.

“Palm House closes at sunset, the gardens at six. You haven’t but a few hours.”

“That’s all right,” I said breathlessly, shoving my coins at him. I dashed through the gardens to the bridge that stretched across the frozen lake. From there, I could see the greenhouse, where rays of light caught on the thousands of glass panels.

I felt as though I’d crossed some invisible boundary and was no longer in London. Gone were the city crowds, the smoke and the soot, the noise of carriages and yelling street vendors.

Clouds rolled in as I crossed the bridge, bringing winter’s wind and frigid temperatures. A lamplighter tipped his hat as he passed, lighting the ring of lanterns around the lake.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the Palm House’s ironwork door. A flood of warmth escaped the crack, filling my lungs with steam as I entered the domed central atrium.

I slid out of my coat and left it hanging over a branch, then fumbled to open the top buttons of my dress. Sweat was already forming on my inner layers. Somewhere, the line between this world and another blurred.

I was back in the jungle.

The hiss of steam jets replaced the ocean tides. Machinery squealed like jungle birds. Steam filled my lungs with memories: Jaguar, with his flicking tail; the smell of burning refuse and unwashed animals in the islanders’ village; the salt in the breeze. In a strange way I missed the island terribly, heartsick for a place I’d hated and a father I’d wanted to die.

No—a father I’d helped murder.

“Edward?” I called as loud as I dared, uncertain if it was an enormous mistake to come here.

A chain rattled overhead. Iron catwalks spanned the ceiling where visitors could walk among the treetops, and a well-dressed figure now descended the spiral staircase. Edward stopped a few feet from me, as quiet as the steam at our feet.

“Hello, Juliet.”

Being here, in this place so reminiscent of the island, beastly things stirred inside me, taking me back to the island where we had learned to move through the trees quiet as animals, where he’d kissed me behind the waterfall. My pulse quickened, hungry for those things again despite my better sense.

He stepped forward, toying with his gold pocket watch, and I stepped back. “I told you, for the time being I’m still stronger than him. I can fight him if I feel him coming on. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What about that thief girl, and Annie, and the others? You were quick enough to kill them.”

“I’m sorry for them, truly. When the Beast does take over, I lose myself to him.”

“Why only kill people who have done wrong to me?”

A flicker of confusion passed over his features. “You’ll have to ask the Beast that question; he’s the one who chose them.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“He seems to know my memories, but I only share slips of his. The next day I read the newspaper headlines about three slashes to the chest, and I assume he was responsible. I knew the solicitor was an acquaintance of yours, but not the others. I had assumed they were random.”

“Random? Each one of them committed a crime against me.”

Edward’s face softened. “That explains it, then. I hadn’t realized why he was so intent on those particular kills. He’s trying to protect you, in his own way.”

“Protect me? Why?”

He regarded me strangely for the space of a few breaths, where I wondered if I was crazy to be here and not to try to kill him on sight. He said, “Because he’s as much in love with you as I am.”

My lips parted, though no words came. I paced over a path between soft spring-green ferns, trying to process everything. Emotions had never come easy to me, and they now threaded themselves in knots I couldn’t possibly unravel. “Killing is a choice. Can’t he just stop?”

“You wouldn’t ask that question if you understood how powerful he is. He’d like to kill everyone who crosses his path, but he’s tried to restrain himself and, I suppose, kill only those who sought to harm you.” He paused. “I try to keep him contained—look.”

His wiry fingers went to his shirt cuff. I couldn’t help but notice how his knuckles were swollen and knobby, so like my own when a bout of illness was coming on. He unbuttoned his cuff and rolled back his sleeve over his forearm, revealing dark bruises.

I gasped. The bruises ranged from dark blue to purple to a yellowing gray, a rainbow of pain mixed with fresh cuts. I could barely tear my eyes off of their strange beauty when he reached for his shirt buttons. “I chain myself if I feel him coming out, but sometimes I’m not fast enough, or he breaks the lock.” He opened his shirt to reveal his bare chest. Welts and bruises slashed his skin. I traced them with my eyes, entranced.