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

He brushed his hair behind one ear, just missing the patch of sand. An urge overcame me to wipe it off with my thumb. But my hand would have shaken, knowing what I was about to ask him to do. I tangled my hands in the folds of my skirt instead.

“What is it?” he asked.

I took his hand and led him into the corner where we couldn’t be seen from the window. His tired feet dragged, but his eyes were alert.

“I want to know why my medication is so similar to theirs.”

He let out a pent-up breath. “Is that what has you worried? I told you, it isn’t the same.”

“Close enough to make me need more proof.”

He touched my shoulder tenderly, like he’d done to Alice. “It’s impossible. You look too much like your mother to have been created in a laboratory.”

I tried to read the unspoken words in the lines of his face. His concern was deep and genuine and honest. He didn’t believe I was anything like the creatures. But he could be wrong.

“It’s more than that,” I said. “I feel odd sometimes. Like there’s something not entirely right about me, as if I’ve inherited some of Father’s madness. Only now I wonder if it’s something more. . . .”

His thumb rubbed small circles against my shoulder. “Everyone feels like that at some point or another. A little mad. Besides, your mother would know if you came from her own womb. She wouldn’t have lied to you about that.”

Thunder rumbled outside. The sky was on the verge of spilling open. I twisted a lock of hair, unused to having it long and loose. His fingers tightened, pulling me almost imperceptibly closer. He was right about Mother. She may have believed in denial, but her strict morals wouldn’t have let her lie outright.

“And you’re forgetting,” Montgomery continued. “That was sixteen years ago. He’s only recently been able to make anything close to the human form. And you’ve seen them. They look abnormal.” His eyes glowed. “You look . . . perfect.”

I tried hard not to confuse the reason we were alone in my bedroom. “But there are anomalies,” I said. My hands drifted to the row of buttons at the back of my dress that hid the puckered scar. “Like Jaguar. You said Father did something to his brain that he hasn’t been able to replicate. Couldn’t the same thing have happened to me? A fluke?”

Montgomery touched a calloused hand to my cheek. Outside, lightning cracked. The smell of coming rain swelled. “This is nonsense, Juliet. You’d at least have scars. But you’re beautiful.”

His thumb brushed my burning skin. The tops of my br**sts rose and fell quickly beneath the dress’s tight bodice.

“That’s just it.” I swallowed, trying to keep my reason. “I do have scars.”

The wind blew in the first drops of rain, and I pulled him deeper into the corner away from the window. “You know his work better than anyone,” I said, breathless. My fingers drifted to the fabric covering the base of my spine. “I have a scar on my back from surgery. He says I was born with a spinal deformity. I can’t help but think . . .”

He shook his head, almost laughing at my worry. “This is ridiculous.”

“Just look!” I said. Too loudly. We both glanced at the door. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Please. Tell me if it looks like the procedure he uses on them.”

I started to untie the ribbons at the back of my skirt, but he grabbed my hand with an iron grip. “Don’t,” he said. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

“We aren’t in London anymore. Who’s going to gossip?” I hissed. “The birds?”

“If your father finds out—”

I shook off his hand and pulled the ribbon loose. I stepped out of my skirt and began unbuttoning my blouse. “I’ll only lower my chemise’s collar in the back.”

He started to object, but voices came from the other side of the wall and I pulled him closer, resting a finger over my lips. We waited until the voices passed. I finished the last button and removed my blouse, setting it over the chair. My fingers trembled. I told myself it was a medical examination, not some secret tryst. But I’d never taken my clothes off in front of a man before. And Montgomery wasn’t just some nameless doctor in a cold examining room.

“It’s an old-fashioned corset. You’ll have to help me with the laces,” I said, turning around. I gripped the back of the chair to keep steady.

“Juliet—”

“Please. I need to know.”

He tugged at the laces with the ungraceful hands of a man. At last they loosened. I dragged the chemise’s wide collar down over one shoulder. I kept my arms folded, holding the corset against my chest.

“Just look,” I whispered, feeling exposed. His hand brushed the hair off my back, sending shivers along either side of the scar. I hugged the corset tighter. Bit my lip. Worries drove me mad. Mother lied. I am some creature, a cat, or a wolf, or . . .

He withdrew his hands. I pulled up my chemise, feeling the warmth rise to my cheeks. He loosely retied the laces of my corset. I smoothed a hand over the whalebone ribbing, waiting.

“Well?” I asked.

“You’re crazy,” he answered. His face broke with the traces of a smile. “It’s just as he said. A spinal deformity fixed by surgery.”

My eyelids sank with relief. “Are you sure?”

“Beyond doubt.” He wet his parched lips. “I know you, Juliet. You’re no monster.”

I studied him closely. The sand still clung to his ear, and I reached up on impulse and brushed it off. His heartbeat sped at my touch. I wanted to believe him. But even if he was right, I knew that one didn’t have to be a creation to be a monster. My own family history proved that.

For a few moments he stood a breath away. His fingers found my wrist and traced along the edge of my arm. He cleared his throat and looked ready to say something, but then he shook his head.

“Good night, Juliet.” He left slowly, as if he had to pry himself away before he did something improper. A growing part of me wished he’d stayed.

Twenty-eight

FATHER AND MONTGOMERY LEFT at dawn the next day. The set-in clouds threatened a tropical storm, but Father was convinced the murderer was Ajax and must be hunted down and brought to justice, despite the weather.

The clouds broke and heavy rain stretched into the afternoon, driving the rest of us indoors. Edward kept to his room with complaints of a headache, a throwback to his time in the dinghy. I spent the day helping Alice hang laundry to dry under the portico’s covered eaves. She was quiet, but that suited me.