Worlds of Ink and Shadow (19 page)

“Oh!” cried Emily, scrambling away on her knees.

The person who had arisen from the sofa was not their brother. It was a woman. In the dimness, Emily couldn't make out the details of her face, but her dress was torn and dirty, and a mass of matted hair fell down her back. Emily's first thought
was that some lunatic had taken refuge from the storm in their dining room, but then the woman opened her mouth and began to laugh. There was something preternatural in the sound, something not of this world. It seemed to mix with the wild wind that screamed and sang outside.

Charlotte shrank away, candle shaking in her hand. Emily wanted to go to her, but fear froze her to the spot.

“Get back,” Charlotte said. “Begone!”

“Sister,” the woman replied, her voice laced with false sweetness, “do not cast me out into the cold.” She raised her arms to Charlotte as if for an embrace.

“You are no sister of mine.”

“Don't you know me?” She stepped forward as Charlotte backed away across the floor. “I am Maria. This is what you've always wanted, isn't it? I lived. I am grown to womanhood.”

“No!” Charlotte's voice was high with fear. Emily's eyes darted back and forth between the two. “My sister is in heaven.”

The woman laughed again. Emily tried to think why the sound filled her with such dread. It made her want to run to the safest place she knew—but the safest place Emily knew was her own bed, with Charlotte beside her.

“What did you think it was like to be haunted?” The woman dropped her too-sweet tone, her voice thick with anger now. “Did you think I would wear white and float by your window?” She was much taller than Charlotte, and she seemed to loom over her, over the whole room.

Charlotte was visibly shaking, but she took a step forward. Emily was impressed with her bravery. “You are not a ghost. You are not my Maria. You are some creature of Old Tom's. He has created you to plague me.”

“
You
created me,” the woman insisted, and her tone was so firm it seemed to brook no argument.

“Go up to your room, Emily,” Charlotte snapped, but Emily stayed where she was, staring at the strange apparition.

Then her curiosity overtook her fear, and she stood, leaving her candle on the floor. The woman had called herself Maria, but was this their sister's face? It was so gaunt and misshapen, so sallow in the flickering light—and yet it
was
familiar. Her unkempt hair was the same chestnut shade as Anne's, and her eyes, though lit with madness, were gray like Charlotte's.

Charlotte edged protectively in front of Emily. “I know what you want, creature. You want to hound me back to Verdopolis—but I shan't cross over.”

“Insipid place, Verdopolis,” the woman said. “I prefer to be with you.” She grinned widely, showing yellowed teeth. “In the bosom of my family.”

“I tell you, you are not my family! Maria was a shining girl, a sweet and mild and brilliant girl.” Charlotte's voice quavered, but she pressed on. “If she had lived, she would be nothing like you. She would be happy. She would be married.”

“But, Charlotte, my dear, I am married. To Zamorna.”

Charlotte frowned and raised her candle to peer at the woman
more closely. “Ridiculous. Make up your mind. Are you my sister or my heroine?”

“You made me live again in Verdopolis, but only half of me.”

Emily saw it now. The resemblance to Mary Henrietta Wellesley. This woman had looked familiar not because she reminded Emily of her eldest sister—whom she could barely picture—but because she was like some horrible, twisted version of Charlotte's duchess.

Maria—if Maria it was—held out her arms and made a parody of a fine lady's curtsy. “When I return to Verdopolis, this self will be nothing but a fading nightmare. I shall wear my pretty clothes. I shall sigh.” Maria put the back of her hand on her forehead. “I shall face my troubles with
insufferable
forbearance.” She stepped toward Charlotte again. “But I will know in my bones that a part of me is missing.” She jabbed Charlotte in the shoulder with a dirty finger. “There is no room for imperfection in Verdopolis—but where do you think we go, all the imperfections that you squirrel away? Down to the basement?” She jabbed Charlotte again. “Up to the attic? We are knocking, sister. Let us out!”

Charlotte had backed up into Emily, and Maria began to circle around them both, the candle on the floor casting strange shadows on her face.

“Emily, go to your room,” Charlotte said again.

“You have made a prison for me in Verdopolis, but I have no blood there.” Maria's voice was choked with resentment. “There
is nothing under my skirt! That's not truth. That's not life. No wonder I can never coax a spark out of Zamorna.”

“Stop it!” Charlotte cried. She was hanging onto Emily's shoulder as if she needed it to keep her standing.

“Why are none of Zamorna's wives angry at his infidelities?” Maria said, close enough for Emily to smell her sour breath. “Wouldn't you be angry, sisters? Wouldn't you want to stab him in the throat with a pair of scissors?”

“Emily!” Charlotte said into her ear. “I am telling you for the last time. Please go to your room.”

“I won't leave you with her!” Emily hissed.

Maria turned abruptly and sat on one of the dining chairs, her knees pulled up and her calves showing. Now Emily could see how thin she was—a frail creature lit with rage. Her feet were black with dirt.

“Let me tell you the worst part,” Maria said, lowering her voice. “The unforgivable part. Come closer.” She beckoned to Emily with a crooked finger, and Emily did take a step, though she was aware of Charlotte behind her, trying to hold her back.

“When Charlotte is done with her heroines,” Maria said, picking idly at a scab on the top of her foot, “when she is done with us, she lets us waste away on velvet sofas, dabbing at our brows with silken handkerchiefs”—she looked up—“and yet she knows better. I wasted away, and it was not so pretty.”

“Emily, look away from it, please,” Charlotte said behind her. Her voice sounded weak and breathy. “Be careful.”

“She's not an ‘it.'” Emily couldn't help but give the person before her the same pity she would give an injured animal.

“How dare she?” Maria's voice was piteous now, though full of madness still, and her eyes were full of pain. “How dare she make my death ethereal and touching? Death is an ugly thing. How could she make it . . . presentable?”

Emily stepped forward again. “She knows better now, my dear.” She tried to make her voice calm and soothing. “You must forgive her. You must leave us.”

Maria smiled, and Emily suddenly knew how foolish she had been to get so close. A hand flew out and caught her by the wrist. “Where shall I go?” Maria said, her fingernails digging deep into Emily's wrist. “Charlotte has made no other place for me.”

Emily pulled away, creating an angry scratch across her forearm. Maria threw back her head again. “Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .” A slow, mirthless sound, hardly a laugh at all.

“Help me,” Charlotte whispered.

Emily wheeled around to see her sister teeter and sway, then collapse onto the floor.

“Charlotte!”

Emily knelt and took her sister by the hand, but Charlotte's face was slack. She had fainted. When Emily glanced up, Maria's chair was empty. Without Charlotte's mind to create her, she was gone.

BRANWELL

A
GROUP OF MEN—FLASHMEN, THIEVES, AND
other unwholesome sorts—lounged by the entrance of the Elysium Club, playing games of dice on upturned barrels. Their presence wasn't unusual—wealthy members of the club often had need of such men when there were dark errands to be run—but the way they all looked up when he passed and followed him with their eyes made Branwell uneasy.

Inside, the secret meeting rooms looked seedier somehow. Tarnished. The velvet curtains were dingy with tobacco smoke. The mirrored bar no longer gleamed. Branwell assumed this was his mood coloring the story. At the back of the room, Rogue sat at his usual table with S'Death and Zamorna's young friend, the Viscount Castlereagh. The three had obviously been playing
cards, but the game was over now. As Branwell drew closer, he saw that S'Death was tallying numbers in his little black book. The viscount looked on nervously, cheeks flushed with too much wine.

“Why, Castlereagh, have you won again?” Branwell said, slapping the young man on the back. He knew the answer already.

“I'm afraid not,” the Viscount Castlereagh replied. He was trying to speak lightly, but there was a quaver in his voice. “I was just explaining to the earl that I can't pay him at the moment. I'll have to go to my bank when it opens. I . . . I don't know what induced me to bet so much on that last hand. I've lost a terrible amount . . .”

Rogue sighed, stubbing out his cheroot. “Listen to him moan. You won Thursday night, didn't you?”

“Yes, but hardly enough to pay back what I owe you and S'Death—Mr. King, that is. I fear I shall have to liquidate some of my assets . . .”

Branwell caught a look that passed between Rogue and his right-hand man. “Tut, tut, we can't have that. S'Death will lend you the money, won't you, old fellow?”

S'Death grinned like a skull, and a paper was produced. Poor young Castlereagh signed it without reading it. “You've been so kind. I hope you don't hold any grudge against me because of my friendship with the Duke of Zamorna.”

“Nonsense,” Rogue said with almost-believable geniality, helping Castlereagh to his feet. “Our rivalry has been much
exaggerated.” He gave Castlereagh a little push toward the door. Branwell took the vacated chair as Castlereagh staggered out to find a carriage for hire.

As Rogue sat down again, his expression turned to storm-cloud black. “That horse-leech!” He banged his fist on the table, so hard the barman looked over. “He acts the go-between for Zamorna and my wife, and he thinks I don't know it. Does he take me for a fool? Does he think I have no spies?”

“Don't fret,” S'Death said, leaning back with smug satisfaction and patting the paper in his breast pocket. “We shall own him by the end of the month.”

“It's his pretense of friendship I cannot abide.” For some reason Rogue glanced at Branwell when he said this. “At least with Zamorna I know where I stand.”

A waiter came to the table, distributing three glasses and leaving a bottle. Branwell poured them all a brandy, though the thought of drinking turned his stomach. He was still feeling the effects of his aunt's beer, and he was tense and agitated from all he had just seen back home. He wished he could forget Elizabeth—paint over the image of her the way she had painted over his. Usually coming to Verdopolis helped him shed his real-world cares, but now he kept expecting to see her gaunt face peeking out from behind the velvet curtains or reflected in the mirrored bar.

“Well,” he said, forcing a brightness into his voice that he didn't feel. “What is the next part of the plan? How shall we
use Castlereagh to our advantage and bring Zamorna down for good?”

A look of anger Branwell didn't understand crossed Rogue's face. It chilled him to the guts. He was already accustomed to Rogue's younger appearance and his larger frame, but this new malignity in his eyes made Branwell uneasy.

“You tell us, Lord Thornton. You are the architect of all our schemes.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” Branwell said with a nervous laugh. He glanced at both men, but they picked up their glasses and avoided his eye. “Have I done something to offend you, sirs?” He, too, picked up his brandy and took a sip for form's sake.

Rogue began to shuffle a deck of cards that had been lying on the table. He dealt a card each to himself and S'Death, leaving Branwell out of the game. When he spoke, he addressed his remarks to S'Death alone. “Have you ever noticed, old fellow, that there are plenty of flashmen in Verdopolis, but no brothels?”

Branwell choked on his drink and felt a blush rise to his face.

“I'm too old for that sort of thing,” S'Death said. He squinted at his card. “I'll take one. What are the stakes? You know I don't play for sport. My filly, Bess, for your new stallion.”

Rogue nodded, agreeing to the wager. “Think on it, though.” He dealt S'Death another card, this time faceup on the table. “The term is used to mean a bully for a prostitute, am I right? There were four flashmen by the door when I came in, but
I have walked the streets of Verdopolis up and down and found neither whore nor brothel.”

“Is that how you take your exercise?”

“No jokes, man. How do you explain it?”

“Well, don't ask me.” S'Death waved a hand to the exit. “Go ask
them
their place of business if you're so interested.” He tapped the table. “Another, please.”

Rogue turned up one more card. “I
have
asked them,” he said. “And they only look at me as if they don't know what I'm talking about.” He looked to Branwell. “What do you make of that, Thornton?”

“I don't know!” Branwell insisted, hot with embarrassment. Truth be told, he
had
thought of making such a place. But if Charlotte found out, he'd simply have to take a shovel to the graveyard and bury himself, because he'd never be able to look her in the eye again.

“Look at him blush,” said S'Death. “I do believe you're embarrassing the lad.”

“Doesn't it concern you that we are living in a universe created by adolescent virgins?” Rogue asked. “Makes it difficult to be a dissolute reprobate, don't you think?” He picked up his brandy, then frowned at his glass and threw it across the room, where it shattered against the bar. “I can't even get drunk.”