A Cold Legacy (The Madman's Daughter 3)

My robe rustled as I entered, and Elizabeth gave her crooked smile. “Feeling better?”

“Yes—well, I think so.” I glanced toward Hensley, not sure such young ears should overhear talk of near-death and police chases and murder, but he played with his rat silently, ignoring us. “I’m much more worried about what’s on that paper you’re trying to keep hidden in your coat.”

Lucy and Montgomery sat straighter. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and took out the paper. “You’re nothing if not observant, Juliet. I suppose you’d have found out sooner or later.” The paper was crumpled and worn, too thick for a letter and the wrong shape. As she unfolded it with her elegant hands, my heart shot to my throat. I knew that lettering across the top.

“A special memorandum poster,” she said regretfully. “The kind advertising rewards for escaped criminals and fugitives. In this case, I am dearly sorry to say, it’s for you.”

She handed me the paper, which I scanned in one glance. Lucy jumped up to read over my shoulder. My own face looked back at me, an inky portrait done by a police artist who had never seen me. They’d captured my eyes but the jaw was too wide, the brow too heavy, making me look like a degenerate.

I started to feel light-headed. Montgomery took the poster from me. “One thousand pound reward,” he read, “for information leading to the capture of Juliet Moreau of London, wanted for murder. Age: 17. Last known residence: Dumbarton Oaks . . .”

The rest of his words faded as my head started throbbing. Lucy put her hands on my shoulders, shaking me back into reason, but it was all I could do to keep breathing.

“This is impossible,” Montgomery said, his voice on edge. “They’ve no way to prove Juliet was responsible for those deaths.”

Even though I was.

Lucy had gone white. “It was my father, wasn’t it? He told the police.”

“No, it wasn’t him.” I answered in a rush, relieved at least to put her worries to rest. I took out the article and handed it to her. “I found this newspaper article in Quick. He denounces his role in the King’s Club and talks about how sad he is you disappeared. He doesn’t blame us for what happened, at least not publicly.”

Lucy clutched at the newspaper. “He’s worried about me?” She sank into the chair, poring over every word of the article.

Elizabeth sighed. “Inspector Newcastle was the one who told the police, I’m afraid. He was taken to the hospital with fatal burns. He died within hours, but not before he recounted what had happened. You killed some very important men, Juliet. Someone associated with them is scouring the country for you, but it doesn’t matter. They won’t find you as long as you stay hidden here. The police don’t know the location of this manor, and don’t even know it’s in my family. It’s under the name of a distant cousin in Germany. It would take them years to go through the paperwork, and they wouldn’t even know to look for it.”

Elizabeth reached for a glass of gin on the side table, pouring each of us one, but Lucy waved it away, and so did Montgomery. He stood, tucking the poster into his pocket. “I’m going to show this to Balthazar, but I’d prefer to keep it hidden from the rest of the staff. It’s best they don’t know our pasts.”

He strode out of the room.

Elizabeth drank the gin he’d left behind, and then Lucy’s, too. “I know it’s a terrible shock,” she said, “but I assure you that you’re quite safe here. It seems our more pressing concern is Mr. Prince’s health. McKenna told me he’s still alive, in and out of consciousness, which is a miracle itself. With the amount of arsenic he took, a normal man would be dead in days.”

“Yes, about Edward.” I exchanged a glance with Lucy, and then dropped my voice. “There’s something rather pressing we must discuss. He had a moment of lucidity a few nights ago. He told Lucy and me that the Beast was caused by a disease in the brain, and was curable if we could drain or transplant the diseased organ.” I knit my fingers as I explained the rest of what Edward had said and why we’d kept the information to ourselves.

“We thought with your advanced medical knowledge,” Lucy added, “there might be something you can do.” The lights from the fire reflected her desperation.

“I see.” Elizabeth was quiet, thinking, as the fire cracked and popped. Hensley crawled along the floor by Elizabeth’s feet, laying out bits of dried cheese for his rat. The rat tried to scurry away and Hensley grabbed it hard, hugging it to his chest, stroking it fiercely.

“Don’t run away,” he whispered. “It isn’t safe.”

Elizabeth murmured something in his ear about giving his pet some bread to calm it down, and Hensley relented and handed her the rat. She quickly slipped it into her pocket and buttoned it closed, but I couldn’t help but notice the rat wasn’t moving. I dared not ask her about it now, though, with so much hanging in the balance for Edward.

Elizabeth let out a deep sigh.

“I can tell how hopeful you both are about this new development, but I’m afraid I shall have to be the bearer of bad news. Organ transplantations are possible, in some cases. I transplanted a liver, and I’ve heard of it done with lungs and kidneys, even a heart once—they kept the blood flowing during the procedure with artificial pumps. However, the brain is central to life. If the spinal column or cranial complex is severed or even badly damaged, death is immediate. There would be no way to perform a brain transplant on a living person. It’s a paradoxical situation, you see. The procedure might cure him, but he would have to be dead for us to perform it.”

The fire crackled more, as the hope slowly drain out of Lucy’s face. Her bottom lip started to tremble.

“I can make his days as pleasant and comfortable as possible,” Elizabeth said softly. “That’s all, I’m afraid. If he is to defeat the Beast, he will have to do it on his own.”

“But he isn’t strong enough on his own!” Lucy cried. She pushed off from the sofa, tears streaking down her face, and ran out of the room. I stood to go after her, but stopped. What could I possibly say to her to make things better?

Elizabeth picked up a sleepy Hensley in her arms. It was hard to reconcile the two sides of her—I had always thought of her as a brilliant and cold surgeon, not unlike my father. Now I saw her as a mother, too.

I swallowed. “How do you do it?” I asked quietly. She cocked her head in question. I explained, “How do you ignore the voices in your head? The ones that won’t let you just be happy. The ones that want more out of life. More like what men are free to do—study what they want, go where they want, be who they want.”