3 a.m.
(Awaking)
One last nightmare before I face the living nightmare and demand a reckoning.
But this time…My nightmares might be learning…
Running again. Pursued again. Perhaps by the demon Denbury, perhaps by only my own perceptions of shadows. Again the same dark, dank alleys in the struggling corners of New York that did, quite truly, terrify me. For good reason.
Again the door, again tumbling into Denbury’s study and swiftly being caught up in his hold, as if he were always waiting for me. I suppose he was.
And only in my nightdress.
I don’t recall what I’d been wearing in previous dreams, but our heightened awareness of one another’s bodies had us crossing further boundaries. He most certainly noticed.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said, low and aching. A kiss was inevitable. And wonderful. To feel him against me without the boundary bones of my corset, able to arch to him in ways prohibited by all the trappings of female fashion…it was exquisite to say the least.
But as he turned me so that I was cradled even stronger and deeper in his hold, breaking from me to sear my neck with kisses, I made the mistake of opening my eyes, there over his shoulder, and looking at the door from which I’d come and had been foolish enough not to close.
I pulled back with a gasp. Jonathon did not turn around. “What is it this time?” he asked quietly.
“The corpse, there on the threshold.”
I could not see her face for the mussed auburn hair obscuring it, but she was in the same lacy white shift, her gray-white arms exposed. And on the forearm, a name carved into the flesh dripped congealing blood down her wrist so that it fell on the threshold with a faint, tapping rhythm.
“Arilda.”
Jonathon turned to face the phantasm. “I suppose there’s a Saint Arilda.”
“There is,” I said quietly. “I need to stop this. No more women will die, because it stops with me. Now.”
And then the apparition lifted its head.
I choked back a scream.
It was me.
The corpse was me.
Jonathon was instantly on the move. He pushed me behind him, trying to shield me from a sight that should’ve undone my senses.
The eyes of the corpse—my corpse—stared straight ahead: vacant, dead, and yet still my body bled precious blood. My face was ashen, my lips were tinged blue, and the sight was everything one would expect in death, save that the lips moved.
Worse, it…I…began to murmur. I recognized the words. It was the phrase. The spell. The spell I’d been saying, practicing over and over again privately. The lifeless eyes, the blue mumbling lips, and the dripping arm were more than I could bear. I’d had enough. Denbury didn’t need to prompt me this time.
“Enough! All of this. I am done. We will win. I renounce thee!” I cried. “I tell you, I renounce thee!”
My corpse-self turned to me, its eyes suddenly as alive as if I were looking into a mirror. She seemed filled with relief, and that body began to fade, to step backward, all the while murmuring the spell. The corridor behind lit up with shafts of light.
One by one, pale and much like the white-silver halo I’d seen coming from Jonathon, glimmering threads surrounded my corpse-self and illuminated the corridor to make it an open, vast expanse. Out of that sparkling transformation came a familiar, stirring sight: Central Park, built by an engineer with the soul of a poet, my sacred place…
We gasped at the vista that had replaced my dead body. It was a view that I’d rhapsodized about when we had regaled each other with our cities; there was my angel of Bethesda, sanctifying the waters and gently touching down upon the fountain at the center of that beloved Central Park terrace, the boat pond and lush greenery beyond. My cruel mind had willed something beautiful for us instead. “That’s my park. That’s my angel!”
Jonathon pressed against my back, his breath warm on my neck. “Yes, Natalie. Banish the darkness and show me angels instead.”
I melted against him, grabbing for his hand. “Now I’ve an abundance of angels…”
Drawing him closer to that doorway, I yearned to make it reality, to bring him into that romantic place where we could promenade, blessed beneath those precious wings…
But on the edges of that beautiful terrace hovered darker threads amid the trees and shrubbery. Cords of light shifted amid the utter absence of light, and countless thin, vertical masses moved inside a fabric. The threads were like people, souls, moving energy, raw materials…They almost seemed to wrestle with one another like a jostling crowd fighting for space on New York City streets; they entwined, merged, parted, and disappeared—like brushstrokes of a painting come to jumping life, the picture never static but in progress.
Jonathon watched with intense fascination, drinking in something other than his prison. I drew him still closer to the door, testing the boundaries. The threshold crackled and snapped like a whip. The cuffs of Jonathon’s sleeves singed. I frowned, easing him back a step. Yet the aura about him was palpable, a coiled thread of silver light reaching up from him as if he were tethered there to something divine. It made him even more magnificent—which I’d hardly thought possible.
At the edge of the door, the shadows clung, trying to encroach on those places in my mind that had been so totally theirs. Yet the more we wanted that angel before us as we stood hand in hand, the clearer her statue became. But it was a struggle. The image began flickering, those lively threads swarming—as if a battle were being waged.
I closed the door. As wondrous as the view might be, it was all illusion. We needed to begin staring at reality.
But what of me? What of my own corpse lingering somewhere in that hall?
A sudden sharp and burning pain seized my arm. Gasping, I pushed back my sleeve. My arm was bloodied, carved with the name Arilda.
I was the next victim. But the beast did not have my name. That was the trick.
“Saint Arilda,” I murmured, blinking back tears of pain. Jonathon snapped his cravat from his neck and calmly began binding my arm. He was a doctor, after all. Even in a haze of pain I still managed to revel in how his undone collar offered me a glimpse of his naked throat.
“What of her?” he prompted with a smirk, noticing I’d drifted off in staring at him.
I coughed. “Of all the saints,” I explained, “my friend Mary and I were fondest of Saint Arilda. She refused to give her body to a tyrant of a man who would lay claim to her.”
Jonathon cleaned his fingers as he tied off the fabric and reached out to touch my cheek. “And so you shall.”
“Yet she died upon the tyrant’s sword,” I replied. “She was run through.” A new pain took me, and I doubled over, gasping and pressing my hand to my abdomen. It came away bloody. Dreaming. I had to remember I was dreaming.
“I renounce it,” Jonathon countered vehemently, his aura brightening with angelic fury.
I awoke with a shot, a pain at my abdomen. But no wound. No blood. No carved arm.
Only worry.
The dread thought that none of this will work, that this will fail miserably and a reversal may not occur, sits in my stomach like a rock. I may never be able to see Jonathon or touch him again. I may be harmed. I might be killed.
No.
I must not leave room for fear, for the shadows of my mind will only feed on it. I demand angels on my side.
Later…
I’m just back from an afternoon at the museum.
In desperate, strange times like these, the heart must be honest—or live to regret it. Lord Jonathon Denbury is a worthy man to be passionate about, and I’d best tell him so. Words wield power. Names have power because they are words. And there are three powerful words that I needed to speak.
I entered the painting, Father thinking I’d taken to sketching yet another wing of the museum.
I was caught in Jonathon’s arms as usual, and his pallor brightened at the sight of me. His smile was delicious as he said, “What a shame, I rather liked that nightgown. Now you’re all properly dressed.”
I blushed and laughed. “At least I’m not in men’s clothes.”
He didn’t let go as he continued: “You’re lovely no matter what. Ever since I first touched you, you’re the only thing that’s made sense. It’s as if we’ve always been friends or…”
“Lovers,” I supplied. He looked wistfully at my lips. “Mrs. Northe said when someone is meant to be in your life, it feels like that.”
“You are. Meant to be in my life. Was there ever a time when you were not a part of it?”
“Well, there won’t be from now on, if you’ll have it—” I nearly blurted my words right then and there, my oath, my declaration. But instead I spoke of the task at hand. “Tonight is the night. Be ready. And if something should happen…” I took a deep breath. “Please know that I…I care for you deeply.”
I was too nervous, too embarrassed to use the word love, even though that’s what I’d come here to say. How could I be so bold in some ways and so cowardly in others?
I had no idea how he would react to the declaration. The words might seem like another curse—like I was trying to wield more magic over him. Though powerful words were the best ones in times like this: words meant with care, hope, and affection—the opposite of the terror that could overcome us. Just as I’d sat with my father the night prior and wrote the words “I love you” on a note card, a gesture that had seemed to touch him more greatly than I’d expected, this was the time for such honesty.
“The Devil can’t win,” he rallied, touching my cheek. “We’ve angels and saints on our side.”
“I do hope you’re right.”
“I am right. In every fairy tale, love conquers all. Why should this be any different?” And here he took hold of me and stopped my breath with: “For I do love you, Natalie Stewart…”
I gasped, hearing those desperately hoped-for words. Tears sprang to my eyes.
Our lips met in a kiss full of promise. Promise for a brilliant future…
I breathed against him, a soft sound matched by his responding sigh. We had just made the vow I needed. I withdrew and saw that his cheeks were flush with health, his blue eyes never so piercing, and his scars lessened by our love. But not gone entirely. Still visible were signs of wear and aging, and strands of silver glistened in his youthful mop of black hair.
His eyes narrowed a bit and his jaw tensed as I pulled away. “And…you? You said you cared, but do you—”
“Oh! Yes, of course I love you too,” I gasped, giggling, a bit silly and certainly inelegant. But we kissed again. Fervently. His hands again roamed freely over me. Heaven.
“But it’s more than loving you,” I murmured. “It’s fate.”
He touched my cheek. “You are the angel your colorful light predicted,” he mused. “I wonder if I will continue to see such fateful omens outside the painting.”
“Perhaps it might give us an idea of whom to avoid in the future.”
“I’ll be grateful if I never encounter another supernatural event as long as I live.” His expression turned worrisome. “When, Natalie, when are you going to attempt your plan?”
“Midnight. Tonight. The ghosts of dead girls will haunt me forever if we delay.”
I shuddered. I now knew enough of ghost stories to fear far more than whispers and white lace.
I glanced at the door within the room, the one that should have led to the rest of the Denbury estate in reality, but that in my dream world revealed only the dark and unpredictable emptiness of my mind. He followed my gaze.
“That door opened onto a magnificent park, onto the New York you so beautifully described. You can change what haunts you. And you’ll show me that breathtaking view.”
“Yes,” I murmured, knowing he was right. I felt that the world could be ours, any world, real or imagined, that I had the power to turn my shadows into golden fields.
Overcome with emotion, I dragged him to our private corner of safety. “Touch me,” I said. It was my turn to reverse the demand he’d asked of me from the first, the demand that had drawn me in. “Give me another taste. Anything to forget the fear.”
Jonathon accepted his mission fastidiously, unbuttoning my blouse carefully. As each button was parted, he placed a kiss upon my bare skin. He slid the shoulders of my chemise aside, his fingertips on my bare shoulders sending coursing shivers of delight between us. The rigid bones of my corset made my already heightened gasps of breath even more difficult to capture. Though he was gentleman enough to keep my corset in place, I could still feel the press of his lips through the thin fabric, his breath gracing the swell of my bosom.
We sank to the floor, his body over mine, my head lolling to the side as he devoured my neck with kisses, supported fully lest I swoon in his covetous hold. His cravat, vest, and shirt lay open by the fumbling work of my fingers seeking his skin, brushing over the fine dusting of black hair and edging toward his heart. I needed to press my lips to his bare and pounding heartbeat. When I did, he sighed. “If I had ten hearts to give, I would. You’ve worked so hard to earn them all.”
We were a tangle of limbs and fabric, patches of bare skin and mussed hair. Waking raging fires, our curious touches crossed into foreign, hidden territory. I’d never been so gloriously undone; this exploratory passion was its own new world. This wasn’t how an unmarried lady purported herself. But if I was going to try to tempt a demon, I wanted the evidence of true, loving passion on my skin. To tell the true Denbury from the false one.
It was an unspoken knowledge that we both wanted as much as we could possibly have of one another, but we both knew we could not cross boundaries. To undo all my laces would have been to undo me entirely, and I did not think it wise to leave the whole of my carnal innocence, even the entwining of loving spirits, upon a foreign, magical threshold.
“Jonathon…You know I could lie with you like this indefinitely. But my body awaits beyond, as does our plan.”
“I’ll be with you. Just like the last time when you felt my hand on your shoulder. Promise me you’ll come back before—” he said.
“I’ll try.”
He helped me to my feet, his arms around me as we shuffled toward the portal wall. “Natalie, I…” He seemed to think further words were best offered physically so he gave me such a parting kiss so as there was no question.
I was Juliet bidding Romeo good-bye as I waved, stepping to the frame as if it were that famous balcony. “What’s in a name” indeed. His name was my quest. Two star-crossed lovers from two separate worlds. I’d bring him into my world again.
Or I’d die trying.
As I tumbled back into my whole body, I slumped down on the floor. I touched my lips and still felt him there.
“Hello, dear,” came a familiar voice that made me jump. Mrs. Northe awaited me in the room, and I was surprised but glad to see her. She helped me to my feet. Tumbling from one world to the next, thankfully I had two dear souls to help me up again.
I did not tell her of kisses, vows, or sacred touches. Those were my glorious secrets. She may have guessed from my flushed cheeks, being perceptive, to say the least. But she was rightly tempered by the gravity of the situation, and I could not revel long in girlish rhapsodies.
She closed and locked the exhibition door behind her and we were all business.
We discussed the plan, how I might appear within the basement of the Metropolitan. She insisted that “her man,” a Mr. Smith—the one who had dragged me up to meet her after my foray into the Five Points—would be on hand in case of emergency, there to deal with any of the beast’s entourage, though Crenfall was conveniently out of the way. Smith would remain hidden but on hand, and she herself would not be far. This was not negotiable, she said.
And so I would be at the mercy of the fiend until Mr. Smith came to check on me as she had demanded and, should it come to it, he would retrieve me back to this world if I’d gone too long into the painting or lend his hand in a brawl. The fact that Mrs. Northe trusted a grim person like Mr. Smith with something magical was shocking. But she said she paid him well and he never raised an eyebrow. Though it was disconcerting to entrust my life to a stranger, I did feel some relief in not having to be completely alone.
“Don’t think I’m being casual about your being put into danger,” she stated. “But I shouldn’t be the one there with you. Not if the fiend can sense…people like me.”
I raised my eyebrow.
“I have clairvoyant tendencies,” she explained.
I stared at her, wondering why she hadn’t told me, though I could have guessed as much.
“My gifts are very unpredictable, Natalie, and inconsistent,” she explained. “I didn’t dare tell you of them until I had something concrete to offer. When we met, I told you I knew you were important, but instinct is not clairvoyance. We’ve had to deal with this situation one step at a time. What if the beast sniffs something on me that he doesn’t like? He may have senses we do not; I can’t know. I could inadvertently put us all in danger.”
I furrowed my brow. But wouldn’t I set off some sort of similar alarm? Why was Mrs. Northe eager to see me do this?
“Why…if you know it is dangerous, are you not stopping me?” I asked, again hating how my voice sounded so different here than it did so softly against Jonathon’s cheek. But still, I muscled on. “You look at me knowingly. What do you see? There are things you’ve not been saying. Now is the time to tell me everything.”
She was reticent to speak of her gifts, as I suppose all persons gifted with something the world cannot accept seem to be. But my own fate rested in her hands, in a painting, and in an unpredictable, possessed body with a penchant for murder. I deserved answers.
“Do you really want to know?” she asked. Something in her tone indicated that perhaps I shouldn’t. But curiosity is a fierce creature. “Knowledge is power. Not all knowledge is welcome. I must be very careful what I say and when. I told you to steel your mind.”
I gulped. “It is steeled. My heart too. Tell me, please.”
She cleared her throat, her face masking deeper emotion. “I’m not stopping you because your mother told me not to.”
I stared. I felt my hands start to shake. My eyes watered, as they always did when Mother was mentioned, which is why our household never, ever, spoke of her. I could do nothing but wait for Mrs. Northe to continue.
“I didn’t…seek her out, Natalie. It doesn’t work that way for me. Every medium…every person deals with these…situations differently, and spirits deal with each medium differently.”
I let the tears flow. I was too afraid of missing a syllable to even reach up to dry them. Mrs. Northe paused.
“Is it all right to continue?” she asked. “These are delicate matters, surely, and I never know exactly how to broach them.”
“Please,” I murmured, gesturing for her to continue.
“I awoke one night, and there was a shimmering, transparent specter at my bedside, beautiful. You look just like her. She spoke your name and told me that I was to let your destiny unfold as it would.” Mrs. Northe smiled. “She was adamant, passionate. You must get that from her.”
I smiled and more tears dropped onto my hands.
“She said that the great and the magical, the mysterious and the wondrous, and yes, the truly terrible, would be laid at your feet. And that it would be best if the world left you to it. I know. It’s a bit vague. I thought she may give me some insight into our current problem, but it seems she speaks more grandly of your future.”
“With Lord Denbury?” My untried voice was hopeful.
“She didn’t say. But you’re meant to help him. You are meant for great things. I’m sure of it, and it’s confirmed from beyond the veil by your very own. Great things may not change the world, but they will change the lives around you. I think it has begun with him.” She gestured to the painting.
“You think we’ll be all right, somehow?” I said, staring up at Jonathon’s portrait, my body flooding with heat as I thought of how he’d just touched me in his alternate world. “Do you think luck might be on our side?”
“I don’t know that I believe in luck, Natalie. Of all the things that may be at work here, I’m not sure luck is one of the factors. You see, life is one grand transaction, a constant exchange of energy and purpose. Your mother gave you a weighty gift. A boon.” And here Mrs. Northe paused, and for the first time ever, she looked uncomfortable. “Do you know how she died?”
“A runaway carriage. Run down in the street,” I replied softly.
Mrs. Northe nodded. “Are you prepared for one more detail?”
“Yes. I’ve always wanted someone, anyone, in my house to speak about it, but no one ever has,” I muttered.
“She was pushing you out of the way.”
I felt as though I had been slapped. A sting upon my face, inside my heart, my lungs—I blinked slowly, heavily, as if trying to clear the fog of this news. It was no mere detail.
It changed everything.
Mrs. Northe allowed me the necessary time to catch my breath, and when I could look up at her again she calmly continued. Her measured control encouraged me not to get lost in a drowning tide of sentiment. For now was not the time.
“This imparted an energy to you. While some dare call this magic, it’s not spell casting nor witchcraft. It is the simple transference of sacrifice to your life. And that boon then indebted you. Your mother’s spirit lives on, in part to hope you’ll return that favor for another worthy candidate. And you have done so. You saved young Cecilia down on Anthony Street, and now Lord Denbury’s fate lies similarly in your hands. You were born for this, Natalie Stewart.”
“And my mother died for this,” I murmured. The tears would not stop.
“In that terrible moment she was not thinking of passing a burden or gift on to you. She was thinking only of the survival of her child.”
And so the trauma of my not speaking was far worse than I’d thought, more than anyone had dared say. I was surely too young, waddling along at the age of four, to remember—or else I’d blocked it from memory. But it had been shock enough to cut my voice right from me. Only now, with Jonathon’s help, was I able to find it again. He gave me gifts too.
“But how did I not know this?” I fumbled at my memories. “Did Father tell me and I merely forgot—”
“Your father adores you. Once the trauma robbed you of your voice, how could he add further guilt to your burden? He refused to allow himself or anyone to think the accident was your fault.”
I yearned to run to my father immediately, to reassure him and be reassured by him. But I’d promised Mrs. Northe—and Jonathon—that I’d steel my soul. I could not get sentimental now. I had to keep seated and calm the riptide of emotions that threatened to pull me apart.
“Forgive me for not telling you the moment I understood,” Mrs. Northe continued. “But these things unfolded in pieces the more time we spent together, not all at once. And the sad knowledge would do you no good unless you understood the debt and how you are to repay it. It isn’t about luck. More than luck, there are angels on your side that seek to enlarge your gifts. Exponentially. Instead of seeking to help one, they hope you’ll help many, while darker energies would seek to cut you to the quick.”
Mrs. Northe seemed to wrestle with something.
“What else?” I prompted, despite the fact my heart couldn’t take much more.
“When someone dies for someone else, a particular energy releases, a bond both mortal and ghostly. A kind of magic is tied to your body and to the spirit who gave herself for you. When someone dies because of malevolence, though, a different exchange is released. And that will tie the perpetrator to a darker coil. But still, both energies are powerful.”
“I am the former. The demon is the latter.”
“Indeed. And while he has his powers, angels are on your side, Natalie. You have their sort of magic. Lord Denbury sees your magic as light and colors, and this may yet be his gift. You have been granted gifts in your life, the two of you. Whether you make them gifts or burdens is up to you.”
I swallowed hard. I wanted my mother to come to me. I suddenly resented Mrs. Northe for explaining what I’d rather have heard from my mother, declaring her sacrifices in her voice. But Mrs. Northe deserved my love, not my frustration, and so I posed questions. “You believe in angels, then?”
“I believe in good spirits and evil spirits,” Mrs. Northe replied confidently. “I believe in God, and I believe that there are beautiful things I cannot see and terrible things I dare not see. And I believe in a space between where all might be glimpsed.”
Somehow, even if Mrs. Northe appeared to dodge a question at first, she always managed to answer it more sensibly than if she had merely said “yes.” I thought of those swarming threads of vibrancy and shadow from my recent dream and nodded. The world had ceased to have clear yes or no answers; the world was gray scale. Save for my mission—that was black and white, survival or failure against evil.
My heart was heavy but my duties were clear, and there was, frankly, no point in belaboring the issue further. I embraced Mrs. Northe and dried my eyes, and Father took me home. I gave him a very long hug good night that he seemed to awkwardly appreciate, chuckling softly and likely wondering what flight of fancy had made me sentimental. Part of me wished to tell him everything, to unburden myself of my fear, but that would have done him more harm than good. My fate was sealed, and no one else could help or stop me.
Later…
The strangest thing has just happened. Bessie ushered Maggie into our parlor. Father was holed up in his study, so I received her with a smile. I opened my mouth to speak but was too nervous I’d sound inelegant, and I didn’t want to have to explain my “cure.” It was all right because she clearly planned to do all the talking.
“Oh, Natalie, dear, I’ve only a moment. I’m expected at the Bentrops’ but I just wanted to invite you, this weekend, to my house. She leaned in and in a whisper said, “Fanny and I are staging a séance.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. She continued, giddy.
“I was given a book as a gift. It’s fascinating and full of incantations! Mr. Bentrop’s niece and I became acquainted at a ball. She had me over for tea, and we got on famously. Mr. Bentrop says that I might have particular talents, provided I study hard, but that I mustn’t ever let that book out of my sight because it’s one of a kind. It’s good to be in his favor. He’s richer than anyone can quite tally!”
I gave her a warning look. This sounded like the sort of thing Mrs. Northe would never have approved of. And how did I know that name? But in her rush, Maggie was off to her engagement in a whirl of turquoise taffeta before I could place it. When I did, a chill crept over me.
Bentrop. He was one of the men in line to buy the Denbury portrait. One whom Mrs. Northe had described unfavorably.
I’ll have to tell Mrs. Northe that the man was meddling with young, impressionable women. But later. I must now prepare myself for tonight’s dread deed.
Later…
I’m sitting at the desk by my bedroom window, waiting for the pebble to strike the pane to indicate that the hired carriage awaits me below. Then I shall slip away and to the task. I write this so I may again go over the plan, for in writing I find calm, focus, and purpose. Perhaps someday I’ll try fiction. Or, perhaps, I’ll merely publish this account instead. No one would believe it real.
I’ve dressed in a fine gown fitted to accentuate my femininity, my best dress from last year. I’m not fond of it anymore; it has too much lace around all the edges. I have altered the neckline so that it might plunge a bit too low. I have dabbed lavender oil upon my wrists and behind my ears. My hair is done winsomely, up but with a few stray locks curled around my ears and neck to suggest a style that’s nearly undone. Men seem to find undone hair a delicious tease. I need not practice blushes or looks of surprise, fear, or innocence. Those will come naturally enough, I don’t doubt. I needn’t hide my apprehension either; the demon will likely feed upon it.
I’ll act as though I am lost and think myself locked inside the building, yet am drawn to the painting, just as I was from the start. The demon knows he’s compelling. I will lock several of the floor’s exits from the outside, leaving less-known passages open. (I dare not block every means of escape.) But I think it hardly out of the question that a girl with no voice might have wandered below stairs and found herself lost, trapped, and without recourse to call for help. I would appear the trapped little lamb to Denbury’s possessor, a girl already associated with the painting. An offering.
I will scribble the plea of my situation upon a note card, and this will surely ensnare the fly—for I will declare my name. As foretold.
Arilda.
This should seal his interest in me as quite an unexpected catch. Arilda is an uncommon name. An uncommon saint. For an uncommon purpose.
Dear Saint Arilda, fighting to be taken by love, not by force. Mary and I agreed that the only way to give oneself to a man was to love him, and that the claim, while a man may suggest it, is ours to make and no two ways about it. Naming has power. So does the body.
However, I hope not to follow in young Arilda’s footsteps as a martyr slain on a tyrant’s sword. It is bold to use such a telling name, but Mrs. Northe and I are wagering that the demon has grown too proud not to think me a fortuitous gift rather than a trap.
Oh! I am startled. The pebble strikes! Mrs. Northe’s hired help is at the door. The hour is at hand. I’ll need all the prayers I can muster.
Later…
(Upon the bench in Denbury's exhibition room)
Dear God.
Imagine my surprise when Mr. Smith escorted me down to the exhibition room and there I found Maggie staring up at Denbury, the curtain of his painting drawn to reveal him. She was murmuring up to him, a black book in hand and with a pentagram marked on the floor in chalk.
“Maggie,” I choked. I actually spoke her name.
She whirled to face me. Her face flushed furiously, and her jaw dropped. She glanced in horror at Mr. Smith and then again at me.
“What are you doing here?” We both spoke at the same time.
“You’re speaking!” Maggie cried.
“I work here,” I declared, ignoring her exclamation. I glanced at Mr. Smith. He was expressionless, but if I wasn’t mistaken, a part of his mouth curved as if he was amused.
“This late at night? Who’s this? Isn’t that one of Auntie’s servants?”
Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow and walked away. I’m sure he didn’t consider himself a servant; that much was clear. Maggie rushed up to me. I pushed her inside the room and closed the door.
“Maggie, what are you doing?” I demanded.
“I had to do this,” she blurted. “I hid upstairs in the museum until closing. I’ve been studying. This is what I’ve been given.” She lifted the book, which bore a golden goat’s head on its black leather cover. I didn’t recognize the volume offhand from Mrs. Northe’s library, and I was fairly sure that she and Bentrop didn’t share the same reading list.
“I can’t get him out of my head or my dreams!” Maggie exclaimed, rubbing her head as if it ached. “I’m trying a summoning spell to bring Denbury’s spirit here, to talk to him—”
“Maggie, this is dangerous, a man like Bentrop and a book like that. You don’t know what you’re doing. That pentagram—”
Her eyes flashed. “And what would you know about it? All the time spent with my aunt…Has she been teaching you all the things she’s denied me? What makes you think you’re so special? Tricking me into thinking you’re mute—”
“No, that isn’t true,” I said. My voice, nervous, was inelegant. Surely Maggie could see I wasn’t entirely cured. I blushed furiously, ashamed at the sounds. “I could speak all along, with some work. I just suffered trauma when I was young so I never did. Your aunt has been helping me regain speech.” It was partially true.
“Because she likes you better than me.”
“That isn’t true. Maggie, listen to me. Something very bad is about to happen, and you need to get out of here.”
“Why? What do you know? Why do you keep things from me?”
“I’m here because I’m helping the museum with a problem. And you need to go,” I stated.
I had to clean that pentagram off the floor. I threw the exhibition-room door open again and stalked to a nearby supply closet. Maggie followed me as I grabbed a towel. Mr. Smith was standing patiently in the hall. His fiercely sharp eyes and quiet manner made him a man not to be questioned. Maggie gestured to him.
“Why is Mrs. Northe’s man here then, and not your father—”
“Maggie, please…”
I reentered the room, knelt, and began to rub the yellow chalk off the floor.
“What are you doing? I made that for the spell—”
“Maggie, listen to yourself. You sound mad. You can’t go around drawing on museum property. And certainly not something like this.”
“Something’s going on, and you’re going to tell me. I’ll tell Aunt Evelyn you drew the pentagram. I can make her take my side!” It was incredible how an entitled, wealthy girl could rely on threats. I stared up at her.
“I’m sorry. I really do like you, Maggie, but you have to go home.” I moved into the hall. “Mr. Smith, I desperately need you to make sure Miss Hathorn gets home safely. She is not part of the equation.”
“Natalie,” Maggie called, “what are you—”
“And please keep her quiet,” I added.
Mr. Smith advanced to the open doorway with a look on his face that made Maggie take a step backward.
“You’ll be sorry, Natalie. I could ruin you in society.” Maggie was such a pretty girl. But ugly when angry.
“I’m not trying to be in society,” I replied. “I hope to explain one day, Maggie. I really do.”
“Don’t touch me,” Maggie hissed at Mr. Smith as he reached for her arm and exited. “I have a driver outside.”
I watched as Mr. Smith followed her anyway, to make sure of it.
It hurt to lose the only female friend my age I’d managed to gain.
Flustered, I was shaking horribly as I wiped the floor clean. But I had a task to do. Lives depended on it.
After securing every obvious door to make it seem as though I truly was trapped, I stowed a small bag with a few amenities and every piece of my jewelry—the only valuables I had—in a darkened alcove just past the exhibition room. I pulled out a small vial. Oil used in blessings. Mrs. Northe had given it to me. I took a dab onto my finger. I wanted to counter the pentagram. Its marks were gone, but anxiety still hung in the room. While I knew a pentagram could be used for a sign of luck and blessing, I couldn’t credit Maggie for knowing which direction to draw it, as the direction changed the meaning from good to ill.
And so I countered the pentagram with a small mark of the cross upon my forehead: an act of blessing and forgiveness, of cleansing, hope, renewal, and the power of the Holy Spirit. I needed angels on my side tonight, and so I called upon that sacred vow granted me as a baby, a vow I renewed now as a woman in this moment, a vow to reject the Devil.
Of course I had to go in and see Jonathon. Just one moment. We’d said good-bye earlier, but it was not enough. Not that I would ever have enough of seeing him. Even from looking at the portrait, I could tell he was in fading health. He was pale, and his fine cheekbones looked even more pronounced. The beauty that so enticed me was turning harsh.
He was loath to let me out of the embrace that I fell into, as I always did when I fell into his world.
And I was loath to let him go as I watched him brighten. Some of the pallor reversed, to my great delight, as he caressed my cheek.
“You look so lovely, too lovely,” he murmured.
“No I don’t. The lace is absurd.” I chuckled and gestured to my neckline. “You like that it’s cut low.”
He tried to offer a smile, but his flirtatious nature was fading. Only weariness remained. “Natalie, someone was here. I think it was that friend, the girl—”
“Yes, Maggie. She’s out of the way now, not a trouble. She was being foolish and…well, trying to summon you as if in a séance. She’s quite…taken with you.”
Jonathon sighed. “Even now? I’m sure I look quite the fright.”
“A ghost of yourself, but still, even the Devil can’t take the beauty out of you,” I exclaimed.
“So you are then too?” Denbury asked.
“What?”
“Taken with me?”
“Oh, helplessly,” I breathed. This compelled him to seize me and to steal one last kiss. I was addicted to them.
“Natalie,” he murmured against my cheek, “you know you don’t have to do this—”
“Too late,” I replied, “You and I are in this madness together, thick or thin. This must be done. The women of Five Points—or wherever he strikes—will bear his torment no more.”
His expression was complex, but he murmured, “God be with you.”
“And also with you,” I replied, as in my Lutheran liturgy, a comforting structure amid the events that had torn our realities apart. “And he will be. He’s on our side, you know,” I replied with false bravado. Our eyes were honest; we each knew how terrified we were.
“I’ll be on guard, ready to drag him in here forever,” he growled. “I beg you to be careful. If you are in too much danger, leave. We will find another way.”
I moved to the edge of the frame, hand outstretched toward my body in the museum.
“Natalie, look at me.”
I turned.
“Swear you’ll abandon this course if you’re in grave danger.”
“I swear,” I said to assuage him. “I love you,” I murmured, wanting love to be the last thing we said before facing battle.
“And I you,” he replied, his voice shaking a bit. I stepped out and down into myself again, trying to hide my own fear.
I sit now upon the bench, practicing the phrase upon which lives hang. Lives should never be down to mere words, but I suppose they always are. Whether declarations of war, law, or treaty…words ever determine lives.
I hear noises above. Subtle, quiet noises. Likely the fiend is in the building. I cannot pretend I am not terrified. I am, most assuredly, terrified. I feel Jonathon’s phantom hand at the small of my back, bolstering my courage and reassuring me that I am never truly alone. I yearn to feel that touch in this life, in this reality. It is the only thing helping me keep my wits. The sounds grow closer.
I must look distracted, unaware. I’ve closed the curtain, having given Denbury a kiss upon the air as I drew it. He could not move to acknowledge it but kept staring at me until the last. Forgive the trembling, telltale jagged edges of my writing that betray my fear.
I hear a slow and sauntering step down the hall. I’ll turn the page and write something benign, lest he see damning script. I must act surprised…demure…everything he expects. Dear Lord, be with me now. Steady my resolve to do what must be done. I shall turn the page and fold the cover over. The fiend closes in!
• • •
And I think, dear diary, I’d like to travel to Italy, where I could see fine art and where perhaps the men are as beautiful (and perchance as scandalous) as legend would have them…
I must pause, someone seems to be at the door of this chamber where I sit, trying to pass the time while locked away. Am I saved at last?
Half an hour later, if that
(Oh, Time, you are unreliable, and Terror, you affect it.)
I write this as the visage of Lord Denbury is being cut into pieces. Oh, gruesome sight, oh, harrowing night—a poet of such unnerving talent as Baudelaire could not even begin to pen an account of this. I can hardly believe it as I sit here to recount it. I begged Jonathon’s leave to write this, to sort out the tumbling mess of my thoughts and my senses, struggling to comprehend these last moments…
The demon was dressed as a lord every bit as beautiful as mine, but with that darkness, that pallor, that hollow-eyed terrible mask, those reflective eyes that make him not my dear Jonathon but a devil. He slid into the room like a snake.
His lowered head fixed me with a gaze I thought might asphyxiate me in the instant. “Oh! Hello, pretty thing. Why, you look familiar…” His voice was a terrible purr. “What on earth are you doing after hours in the basement of a museum?”
I bit my tongue and gestured to my ears, nodding, and to my mouth, shaking my head.
“Oh, that’s right, my mute beauty!” he exclaimed. Now for the next snare…
I shook my head. I ripped a page from the diary and scribbled a plea, placing myself entirely in his hands…
I tucked the diary beneath the bench and held the paper out to him. He read. His eyes widened.
“Arilda? Lost and locked in? Your name is Arilda?”
I nodded and gave him a quizzical look—as if why on earth should that matter? Though I knew very well why it did. I tried to appear as if I was falling into his trap when in fact it was the other way around…
I practically could see his mouth water. “Perfect,” he said, in a tone that made me shudder. “Oh, you are a treat indeed.” I suppressed a violent shudder and instead smiled with what I hoped was a look of charming enticement, rather than a grimace.
“I don’t have to go out hunting tonight, Denbury,” he called in delight. “The prey has come to me!”
My eyes flickered to the curtain, to the painting, to the man inside. Thinking of Jonathon, I was bolstered. He loved me. He loved me. And this…form…before me was not my love.
The demon advanced. “What a rare and succulent gift. My powers increase. Subjects laid at my feet, my quest opens unto me! Have you ever been with a man, fair one?”
Now I did allow myself to shudder. Part of the act, I looked appropriately horrified. The demon wanted to defile a lady. I wanted to spit in his face. The look on my face seemed to satisfy him, for he laughed. I didn’t need to fake or stage a blush; my cheeks were scarlet from his forward talk.
“No, of course not! You are a virgin saint…” He approached closer. “Perfect. Do struggle, will you? Act your part. It will add to the effect. And who knows, perhaps someday they’ll canonize you too!”
Horrifying, so terribly horrifying, yet he was mesmerizing, it was true, for he still was Denbury—in the flesh. Something of his otherworldliness, something of his demonic nature had a sort of intoxication, a drug to it, beyond his handsome trappings. I recalled how Jonathon had been immobilized, and I watched the demon’s hands to see if they contained some weapon.
The fiend’s eyes were now luminous with an eerie quality beyond their animalistic bent and clouded. Reddened. Blood pooled in the tear ducts. I took his untoward approach as my cue and backed away.
I prayed that his base nature would not make him hesitate in coming closer to the painting. How could he know our plan? He was so clearly focused on how my violent death would aid his power. The devil hadn’t remembered how the real soul of Denbury, my hero, had been watching me from the first.
I reminded myself of the knife tucked at the edge of my bodice and knew that if worse came to worst, I would defend myself. I would not go easily into that good night. Opening my mouth, I demonstrated my inability to speak with a small squeak of protest.
“I can be as rough with you as I please. You can’t make a noise. And so the powerful preys upon the helpless. You and countless others…I will carve your names in blood on your own flesh. Names written in the Book of Death. And when your name is called, you will follow me. The society will rest upon the shoulders of the restless…”
He grabbed me by the throat, just like the first nightmare featuring him had foretold. My breath choked out. Good God…a society. Seemed the Devil had an institution after all.
As he scraped his thumb along my collarbone, his breath was hot against my neck. I loved nothing more than being held close by Denbury. But not like this. Again, this was not Jonathon.
His tongue traced the hollow of my throat, and it felt like the forked kiss of a snake. I shuddered again. He snickered. “Like that, do you? A shiver of delight, perhaps? The angel of a girl will fall to her demon, and I grow ever powerful in the depths of our sin. The more I take—” He raked a hand over me. A cold, deathly hand. Hardly the caress of the lover I knew and cherished. He stepped back so that he could watch my body react. “The more I gain.”
His hand had released my throat to fumble at his clothes, at his pants. I felt hysteria tickle at my nerves. I’d practiced the words. I prayed then, harder than I’d ever prayed in my life. I reached out and took his face in my hands, as if begging his mercy.
His eyes lit with delight. I struggled a bit closer to the painting. I needed our weight on my side…
His eyes looked into mine, deeper. I stared into cold-blooded inhumanity, into sulfur, hell, and death. I stared into eyes that would see me dead, if they could, and I feared his very stare might kill me. But my panic overcame his dread gaze and made my body leap to action.
In a fluid, violent motion, I threw back the thick red curtain over the portrait. Then I spoke. My voice had never been so authoritative. The angels were on my side, surely…
“Ego transporto animus ren per ianua…Beelzebub the Devil!”
In the moment that his horrible eyes widened, he stared up at the painting, now revealed, and then back at me. He began to snarl and gripped me painfully tightly. I did not fight the violent momentum of his grasp. Instead I threw my weight to the side as if we were on the edge of a cliff and I intended to take us both down, the watery sensation of a trip inside the painting washing over me like a cool wave. His surprise allowed for my slight frame to succeed in dragging him into the terrible magic of his own making.
I heard Denbury—both of them—cry out. I felt hands clambering over me. I was on the floor of the study. I couldn’t tell at first which hands were which. But I gasped as a hand reached beneath my skirts, pawing with claws and scrabbling to get at me. My God, it would seek to take me even in the agony of defeat. It was an animal…Red and gold light crackled all around us, the throes of his hellfire.
The demon became a morphing form, shifting and flickering like a candle, one moment wearing the handsome face of Denbury and the next a gray and horrid shifting silhouette of ghastly forms from legend and nightmare. It was too terrible to describe, and I turned away from it lest I go blind or turn to stone, like in ancient tales.
The struggle over me continued. The beast was gurgling things in other languages—foul, terrible things, surely—and his clammy hands were suddenly on fire. A claw against my bosom scalded me.
In a shriek I repeated the curse and took my chance to spit in his face. The demon threw his arms up as if my fire had countered his. I could now see the colors Jonathon had described: my green and violet halo fighting back the flamelike light of the enemy, while other threads of light swarmed over us like helping hands. Glancing at the portal that was the painting’s frame, I could see that it was no longer cloudy. It was crystal clear, and I prayed this meant the space was literally open for us to retake the world as we knew it.
Denbury, my Jonathon, had never been so full of life and force. He threw the demon off me, lifted me into his arms, and did not hesitate at the frame’s threshold. He leaped with me out and down just as the most horrific cry sounded in the air, a swelling, keening cry of every death knell and warrior’s wail, furious and devastated.
While I wanted to know what the beast meant by “society,” wanted to know if we’d yet be cursed and haunted by more such terrors, there was no time to inquire of the beast. There was no chance to see what else it may be connected to, to investigate if its works of evil were a coordinated effort, or even how it might be an omen of a new dawn of terror upon our land. Having these questions answered might have been good, but in the moment, most importantly, only our lives were at stake. The rest, I shudder to think, may yet be revealed.
The threshold separating body from soul seemed unstable. There was smoke as if the whole painted study was about to ignite, the red and gold light swirling and sparkling, the magic and devilry a potent, unwieldy force.
One might think that after having just been accosted by a nearly identical man, I’d hardly want similar hands to be upon me, seizing and holding me protectively close, but these were the hands and the arms of the man I loved, and they carried me away from destruction.
We lost our balance and fell out into the empty museum room, onto the floor together, Jonathon turning and falling so that his body hit the floor first and I landed safely atop him. His breath was knocked from him in a whooshing swoop, but after a wince of pain and a moment to regain himself, he breathed deeply, relieved.
And then all was silent except for our ragged breaths. Silence meant triumph.
And then Jonathon kissed me. It was gentle and he cradled me fondly, erasing the touch of hell with a touch of heaven. He kissed my whole face, part by part.
“Natalie, my angel. My salvation. My brave, brave, dear one…You have won me back. I am forever in your debt. I love you, dear girl.”
Terror was overcome by joy. All Jonathon’s imperfections were gone, his hair no longer graying, the wrinkles of aging vanished. His eyes regained their brightness and his color was restored. He was just as intoxicating as ever, all youth and vigor, as he should be. And now our two worlds were one.
But what of the demon?
We turned to the painting, and my hands clapped over my mouth to stifle the cry that was strangling my throat.
In that golden frame now stood a monster. He wore the suit of Denbury, but his beautiful face was disfigured, as if melted, scarred and horrible—his eyes a demonic red and black, his teeth jagged and fanglike, his lips curled back in a snarl. His face was cracked, and bone shone through. His hands were giant claws, meant for tearing flesh. The picture was somehow even more terrible than the shifting creature that had held me within. Sometimes a picture of a moment captures more than the moment itself. Horror made manifest.
“My God…” I murmured. My voice was awkward, but it was present and accounted for. And it had withstood the greatest test. I would speak more often. I had spoken to a devil and my voice had not failed. I would speak more to the world, and I would never stop.
“Indeed. God most certainly blessed us.” Jonathon plucked my diary from beneath the bench and handed it to me. My shaking hands took it and clutched it to my chest. “I have a feeling your accounts will do us both great credit”—he looked at the devil we had trapped—“for I’m sure we’ll wake tomorrow hardly believing any of this. I stand here having lived it, and I cannot believe it.”
He took the painting from the wall and flipped it over, and we gasped again. All the markings on the back were wet, as if the carved runes dripped paint. But the red paint had become like blood, spattering onto the floor. I didn’t hazard to pick up the substance in my fingers; the vague coppery scent told me that there was, indeed, blood in this infernal mixture.
I withdrew the knife from between my corset and bodice and handed it to him. He smirked, taking it. “Good girl…Thank you.”
Grimly, Jonathon accepted the gore dripping onto his boots as he leaned the top of the painting against the wall, pierced the top with the knife, and tore at the corner of the canvas. Slowly, painstakingly, cutting every few inches, he tore the canvas from top to bottom. There was still a bit of hazy red and gold glow, the magic still ripe and fresh, and I feared for him.
“Jonathon…the light…” I murmured, gesturing to the veritable halo the painting wore. “Be careful.”
He nodded. “But we cannot leave it whole. We cannot leave this as an accessible doorway.”
I could not argue with him. He set to work ripping apart the two-dimensional object that had inexplicably held his soul prisoner.
I wish I could describe the sounds that came from the canvas, but they are too wretched to put to paper. I know that sound will haunt me to the end of my days, so I needn’t immortalize it here. Imagine the terrible. Then give it soft whispers. And it is more terrible still.
Mr. Smith ducked his head in, glancing and narrowing his eyes at Jonathon, taking stock of him before turning to me. “I didn’t hear you call or cry out, Miss Stewart, though I did hear some mighty awful noises of animals and such…”
“Indeed,” I replied, my voice still breathless. “All is accounted for, Mr. Smith. We are victorious, and all is well. I thank you for being on guard.”
If Mr. Smith had seen the particulars of the dreadful tumult, and if he had an opinion about it, he didn’t show it. His face was, as ever, impassive. He nodded to me and then to Jonathon with formal politeness. “I’ll be in the carriage out front when you’re ready, Miss Stewart, Lord Denbury. Mrs. Northe is desperate to see you.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Smith,” Jonathon said, bowing. “I am blessed to have such friends. I’d take your hand but…mine is a bit soiled.”
Mr. Smith nodded again and made a face as he turned away. I had to clap my hand over my mouth. An ungodly stench had begun to waft from the frayed threads, as if putrefaction was setting in immediately. And the slats of the painting that remained showcased a face that was rotting away. Terrible upon terrible.
We laid the waste in the center of the room, piling it in the middle of the frame laid upon the ground. The red fluid that had begun to drip from the runes was now a thin film of greasy liquid that smeared and streaked the floor around where the remnants were laid.
“I’d like to set fire to it. But it is too much of a risk to the museum.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Just let it be. We can undertake only so much risk. Lock this horror behind a closed door. There’s beauty outside. While you may need a while to regain art appreciation, I could give you a tour. I know this place intimately.”
Jonathon looked at me, and his striking face was full of apprehension. “Oh, Natalie, I want to revel in my newfound freedom, but how much freedom can I have if everyone suspects me of committing those horrible murders? Surely, I cannot stay in this city, but if I’m dead in England…” He raked his hands through his hair. “I don’t know where to go.”
“Mrs. Northe first. Plans later. She’ll want to know everything, and she’s the most sensible woman in the world, so she’ll know what to do.” I then indicated my diary. “And I must continue this dread retelling. These pages are my friend, and nothing calms me or engages me as much as writing in them. Except…” I gave him a beguiling look.
He grinned and we even forgot the disgusting particulars at the center of the room, forgot what he would do with himself again in the world as we indulged in a particularly questing embrace. His hands were bolder than ever before and I rejoiced that in this outside world, he still seemed to find me lovely in every way. Our passion managed to cross the threshold and still live. I pulled away, gasping.
“Now that I have to write down.”
And so I do.
Later…
I sit in Mrs. Northe’s study, her being better than her word, as always.
What on earth will the museum do when they discover what remains of their troublesome masterpiece? Will I be blamed? Will Mrs. Northe? But I couldn’t worry about that at the moment. The more troublesome fact was that Lord Denbury was a wanted man. He’d have to flee. No jury would believe this.
The only account of the truth lies in these pages. As much as I commend my narrative style, I can hardly believe my own eyes, let alone trust a jury to take the words written here as fact. But I swear upon my mother’s grave—a thing I would not do lightly as my mother’s spirit yet lives—this is our truth.
Mrs. Northe was wonderfully kind to Jonathon, better than I’d hoped. She greeted him like a long-lost son and indicated where Mr. Northe’s old room and his clothes remained.
“You might think it morbid for a woman to keep her dead husband’s clothes at the ready,” she told Jonathon with a winning smile. “But I have learned that having spare clothing on hand, of every kind, comes in frightfully useful in times of crisis.”
Indeed, no one is quite as useful as Evelyn Northe. I brought my small bag with me, not making mention of it and stowing it unobtrusively by the door.
“Surely, if for nothing but dear Miss Stewart’s sake,” Jonathon began, “you’d like to hear the events. Please trust me that I never meant the girl harm, though you see those bruises—” He grimaced, examining marks I’d yet to see. “It was a demon, I assure you, though that sounds utterly mad—”
Mrs. Northe hushed him with a wave of her hand. “You’ve been through harrowing experiences the likes of which I have never seen. I expect you, Lord Denbury, to tell me all about them over tea, coffee, or hard liquor, whatever your preference, once you’ve changed and refreshed yourself. Natalie, the same.”
I checked my face in the nearby foyer mirror and was in for a shock, having not realized that I bore such telltale signs. There were little burn marks around my throat, likely where the claws had gotten me. I shuddered, violated. My torn skirts were enough to remind me that a demon’s hands had been where only Jonathon’s bold caress had gone during one bout of mutual passion, and I burned with sudden shame. My emotions were as tumultuous and unwieldy as a thunderstorm.
Mrs. Northe was studying me. She noticed my blush and the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks.
“Lord Denbury, would you mind helping yourself? I didn’t keep my staff on tonight as I expected we’d be in for odd fortunes and I hate countering housekeeper superstition. But I do believe our valiant Miss Stewart needs a bit of tending to,” she said, coming closer.
“Of course.” Jonathon approached me and held out his hand, his questing, gentle eyes asking permission. I gave him my hand. He kissed it gently. “Miss Stewart was a heroine like I’ve never seen. I tell you, Mrs. Northe, there is not a more incredible woman upon this earth than her,” he said quietly, as he released my hand and bowed.
The tears fell from my eyes. I found that in his gentle stare, I could smile, though the terrors of the night were gnawing at me, the rush and shock of the moment fading into a cold chill.
“I don’t doubt it,” Mrs. Northe replied. “Come, sir.”
Once she showed Denbury to his refreshment, she came back to lead me into a boudoir to get out of the torn clothes. She brought a cool ointment to ease the sting of the burns left by the demon’s touch and said nothing, but her face was warm and gentle as she waited for me to speak when ready. Everything I didn’t want to have to say was explained by the physical evidence that Mrs. Northe examined like any good detective.
“The wretch didn’t get far,” I spat, my voice hard and sure. The night’s events had emboldened my words like nothing before could have done. I indicated the torn bloomers Mrs. Northe held as I slipped fresh undergarments onto my legs. “But it was far enough,” I added, and there my voice broke.
I fell into helpless sobs, trying to exorcise the terror with a good cry. Mrs. Northe held me and made no effort to stop the flow. She let it run its course. Her empathy was genuine. Likely her gifts had her feeling exactly what I was feeling, and that was a blessing, for my mind was a complex knot I was having difficulty untangling.
“Would you like to speak privately to me? Or will you and Lord Denbury give me an account in the parlor?”
I wiped my eyes, my muscles willing themselves back to control again, their helpless tremors abating. “I’d like to have his hand to hold while recounting the horrors, if you don’t mind…” I blushed suddenly. “Unless you find that inappropriate. These events have taxed all propriety—”
Mrs. Northe smiled her best sister-conspirator smile. “If what I’ve sensed is any indication, you and he will do far more than hold hands in time to come, and I’d hardly begrudge you the contact. My, he is quite breathtaking in person.”
I chuckled. My blush reignited and I wondered what sort of psychic glimpses Mrs. Northe had seen of us. I would have pressed her for details of our future, giddy like a girl at her first ball, had the night not so sobered me.
A new wave of sadness hit me, and I clutched at Mrs. Northe’s arm. “Maggie was there when I arrived. She…somehow stayed on after hours. She drew a pentagram on the floor in chalk and she had a book that I believe came from one of those men you despise—”
Mrs. Northe’s eyes flashed. “The fool,” she hissed. “Forever tampering with what she cannot grasp. Mr. Smith had her marched right to my waiting carriage. I gave her quite the talking-to and threatened her with the histrionic ward. Our friendship might be damaged, that of the three of us, but she knows her mother would kill her if she found out about her little stunt, so I maintain leverage. I will have to ask about that book, though. Here, I’ve a dress I can adjust to fit you. Step in.”
I’d never been in so fine a dress, and when I glimpsed Jonathon awaiting us in the foyer below, looking perhaps more dashing than I’d ever seen him, we smiled broadly at each other. Though tired, he looked as if fresh clothes and fine toiletries had renewed his spirit and made him feel human again after being trapped in his portrait clothes, marred, torn, and unkempt. Before me now was the portrait of the lord whom I wanted forever in my mind. We both stared at one another, drinking in our freshly composed selves, and I do believe he liked what he saw of me as much as I did of him.
In our stares was such relief. It had been as if any time that we weren’t present with the other, we were convinced we knew each other only in the dreams we shared. But here he was, fully in the flesh and still pulling on my heart. What did Mrs. Northe see for us? Would we marry? That’s what people our age did; they found love and married. My heart raced at the thought. No, what was I thinking: he’d have to flee; he was a wanted man. I most certainly couldn’t go on flights of fancy at this time. Most likely, I had to prepare a good-bye. But I loved him…
My heart careened back and forth as we were ushered gently into the sitting room. Mrs. Northe bade us sit side by side so that he could take my trembling hand in his steady one, as I’d hoped.
As we told our tale, Mrs. Northe was patient and grim faced, as if she were reliving it with us and seeing it with her own eyes. Our hands were white from grasping one another too tightly. As our tale came to a close, Jonathon voiced the fresh horror.
“And now, Mrs. Northe, what am I to do? No one knows that demon as Lord Denbury, but Lord Denbury is dead and I wear the face of a killer. I would hope my solicitor was sensible enough to maintain some sort of provision—if I could simply get hold of him without alarming or alerting—”
“Allow me to intervene on your behalf in terms of your estate. As for who may take the fall in your body’s place, I have my ideas. I think we’ll find a dead French artist in your crypt in your stead. I have contacts in London who will find out. But you should, for safety’s sake, go into hiding, not only because of police pursuit but because of evils that may yet seek you out as a vulnerable vessel. Magic will hang about you both. I can see and feel it, a paranormal aura like a perfume that can attract those gruesome muzzles that sniff out the most revolting of odors and pounce like hungry animals…”
Mrs. Northe’s eyes were cold, and in that moment, I wondered if she had seen more darkness in her circles than she cared or dared tell. “Do you have any contacts, Lord Denbury, say, out West—as suitable a place as any to wait out a storm?”
He thought a moment before nodding. “I do. I have a dear friend, a man I’d trust with any life of value. I met him in England at medical lectures. We bonded because we were often the ‘children’ in the room.”
“Then you should go there. There’s no better time in one’s life for good friends than when one has been lifted from the jaws of hell. In the meantime I believe we may implicate Crenfall in this insidious matter. The timing would suit, and he was an accomplice. He must be brought to justice, though the real culprit remains trapped in shreds of canvas.”
While I wanted to see Jonathon safe more than anything, the idea of him going away, now that he was real for all of us, was a knife in my heart. I’d dreamed of adventures by his side here, showing him all the glory of this greatest of American cities, of coming out from the shadow of tragedy and into the light of courtship, just as I’d dreamed there beneath the wings of an angel…
My face must have given away my sentiment. Jonathon and Mrs. Northe turned to me.
“I’ll not forget you, Natalie—I mean, Miss Stewart.” He glanced at Mrs. Northe. “Forgive the familiarity—”
“I expect us to be on familiar names here, all of us. The inexplicable breeds familiar family,” Mrs. Northe stated, absolving any impropriety.
“I-I’ll write. I want you in my life—need you in my life. I’ll come for you…” He trailed away and I saw how overwhelmed he was, as if his instinct to flee and his desire to stay at my side were equal.
“I want what is best and safest for you. You…” I stared into my lap. “You know my heart.”
“And you know mine,” he countered. He turned to Mrs. Northe and embarked upon discussions of business, and I felt flattered that he did not wish to keep me from them. After they had spoken of solicitations, attorneys, and other matters, Jonathon turned to me again, a bit sheepishly.
“Why is it, Mrs. Northe, that out of all the impossible things, here we sit, the three of us, new friends. Yet Natalie is so familiar to me, like an old friend—full of light, color, and magic that she didn’t even know she possessed. You have such a way of accounting for the strange, Mrs. Northe, can you tell me why us?” He reached toward me, touching my cheek.
“Is it past lives?” I breathed excitedly.
Mrs. Northe rolled her eyes. “Don’t put stock in past lives. It’s this life that makes the difference. And in this life there may be certain destinies, people you’re meant to meet. We three have been meant to meet. But there is no sole person for another’s heart. Souls cannot be broken and then completed by another. That’s not healthy, nor wise. There are infinite possibilities as there are infinite people and some matches better made than others. Your magic was what was called for at this time in your current pass around the globe.” She made a face.
“Just don’t say that you’ll die without the other one or that you’ll never love again or that you’re not whole—” She batted her hand. “That’s the stuff of Romeo and Juliet, hasty nonsense, and you know how well that turned out. There’s magic about the two of you, yes. Just don’t be desperate about it. That’s where souls go wrong, when they think they don’t have choices. The heart must make choices.”
She looked to both of us, as if waiting for us to affirm that we understood. We nodded.
“Tell me, Lord Denbury, do you see other colors?” she asked. “Other lights around persons, other auras?”
He nodded. “Yes. You, for one. I sometimes see you with a slow and steady white haze about you, up from your head, almost like a thread. Calm, unruffled.” He smiled but his smile quickly faded. “The girl, Maggie. Red and a bit of yellow. Natalie, green and violet. But not everyone.”
Mrs. Northe nodded. “Likely you’re sensing abilities or picking up on those whose energy might have an effect on you. It will be interesting to track your progress or to see if the ability hones itself. Did you see these things before your…incident?”
Jonathon shook his head. “No, but I’ve always been an uncanny judge of character. Save for the demon. He took me utterly unaware.” He blushed, and I knew he was again regretting the opium den. There was no need to mention it.
“Part of his magic. Put to rest. Good work, friends, and now on to your next adventure.” Mrs. Northe turned to me, a curious look in her eyes. “Natalie, you and I have discussed many things. I’ve laid treatises at your feet, and you have listened patiently. I have done so to lay a foundation. The things that we’ve discussed will not pass as easily out of your life as they so suddenly came into it. And so it’s my duty to arm you as best I can. For I believe you two have been drafted into a most uncommon war. There is, after all, a ‘society’ to attend to,” she said ominously.
There was an awkward silence as Jonathon and I shuddered. He was going away. Yet, what of me? Were we, as Mrs. Northe indicated, soldiers meant to fight side by side or separately? Was our joint magic now to go two separate ways?
I would have followed him anywhere. And he knew it, surely…Mrs. Northe cleared any chance for further discussion by rising. “We’d best get you to the depot, Lord Denbury. I’ll pack you a bag. I had Martha make some soup. Go into the dining room and have some. You look hungry and cold, the both of you.”
We did as we were instructed and said nothing. Please kiss me, I thought, yearning for some reassurance. But this was Mrs. Northe’s home, and privacy was not ours. Nerves, exhaustion, and worry for the future had taken a grievous toll and we kept silent.
Dazed, he and I were trundled into a carriage, Mrs. Northe beside us. Looking at Jonathon, so elegant and dashing despite the night’s terrors, made me ache, but I couldn’t force my eyes away. He was in my world now. My world was bursting at the seams. Mrs. Northe gave him some money, tucking it quickly and firmly into his palm. “I know you’ll repay me when you can, but don’t refuse my gift.”
His eyes poured volumes of thanks upon our gracious, incredible benefactor.
He turned conflicted eyes on me and I had no words, only the widening ache in my heart. I felt with hard certainty the knowledge of what I would have to do. His hand would clutch mine and then pull away. A maddening cycle.
When I saw Grand Central Depot, a behemoth mass of tracks and steam engines, my heart leaped to my throat and I had trouble breathing. I couldn’t say good-bye to him; I just couldn’t. It would be wrong if I did. All my life I’d had keen instincts. And my instincts said it was wrong to part—not yet, not so suddenly free. I had taken pains to make sure that when we’d left the museum, my small bag was with me. I knew what I had to do. But he’d likely not accept my coming along, as he chafed at my making sacrifices for him. I had to make an argument, but I had no words.
“This isn’t good-bye, Natalie,” he reassured me. “I’ll come again. I’ll write to you sooner, via Mrs. Northe.”
I opened my mouth, and it was as if I were as mute as I had been before I’d met him.
He hopped out of the carriage, just north of the depot’s platforms. The steam and the noise of the rails were intrusive and maddening, the air gritty and unpleasant.
He reached for my face through the carriage window. I leaned out to him. “Pardon me, Mrs. Northe, I must—” he murmured, and kissed me passionately. He murmured in my ear that he loved me. I clutched his forearms as if I could hold him to me by force.
After an interminable moment he pulled away. “Thank you for everything, Natalie. You will hear from me, and I will be whoever you would wish me to be, anything you wish of me…” He fought tears in his eyes and walked away before either of us could exchange more vows or even before I could manage a word.
I couldn’t keep the tears at bay as I watched his figure, striking in a greatcoat and wide-brimmed hat, disappear into a crowd of passengers.
Mrs. Northe was staring at me with a curious expression as my feet nudged the cloth bag I’d stowed behind my heels.
“I know that’s a bag you’re fiddling with,” she stated casually. “I assume since he didn’t invite you that you’re too proud and stubborn to invite yourself along. So instead you’ll steal into a separate car and announce yourself only when it’s too late to turn you back around.”
I blinked at her. That was exactly what I was planning to do.
“Clairvoyant tendencies ruin all the fun of surprise,” she pouted. “But they are most certainly useful, just like changes of clothes, in times of crisis. I didn’t think you’d be able to bring enough without making a show of it so I packed another bag and had it waiting here for you,” she stated, sliding a small case from beneath the seat.
I knew my mouth was agape, but I couldn’t seem to shut it.
“I think I know your heart sometimes before you do.” She chuckled. “That, and as I told you, I’ve premonitions. But let me be clear, I’m speaking not in the interest of young love, but in the interest of your safety. I’d never recommend a hasty trip such as this, because it seems desperate. However, there’s something else. There’s residual, powerful magic lingering about him, as I’d warned. And it’s most certainly lingering on you too. It will be there hanging about the Metropolitan, perhaps even about me. What I’m saying is this residual echo may make you a target as well—”
“But are you safe?” I gasped finally.
“I’ll make sure I am. And I’ll have to convince your father this is for the best, for now. But you might want to catch that train.”
“Good God, how I’ll miss you! Please tell my father that I’m sorry and I love him—”
“I will, don’t worry. And you’ll not get rid of me easily.” She grinned and descended from the carriage to help me out and hand me the bags.
“I should hope not. I adore you,” I cried, throwing my arms around her once my feet hit the cobblestones.
“And I you, dear girl. There’s an extra bill in your case. With that, be sure to get a sleeper car and ally yourself with a few respectable-looking women until you’re brave enough to confront Denbury on that train,” she instructed, pointing a finger. When she pointed her finger, I knew it was of grave import. I nodded.
The train’s whistle screamed.
While surely we both could have listed thousands of reasons why what I was about to do was a terrible idea, I was a woman of decision and I’d made mine, though Mrs. Northe had managed to say it before I did.
“I’ll write. And I promise to pay you back for everything, somehow,” I called as I retreated. Out on the air, the words on my tongue were still heavy and awkward, still getting used to themselves. Mrs. Northe was again inside the carriage and at the window, her face betraying the first conflict I’d yet seen. While she knew the situation and knew she wouldn’t have been able to stop me, she, like any good substitute mother, would think that getting on a train unbeknownst to the young man you loved might be a terrible idea, all supernatural events aside.
And still she let me go. Just as she had let me stare down death and the Devil. Likely because whispers from my real mother had told her that my present destiny lay with Jonathon and that I was, perhaps, safer with him. Or so I hoped. Now to convince him of it.
I sit now at the back of the train, and here is where I’ve been relaying all of these events.
When I boarded the train, I helped myself into a seat next to three generations: a grandmother, her daughter and granddaughter. The Wills family took instantly to mothering me so that I needn’t have worried about being without a chaperone. I’ve learned that if you just look a little lost and appeal to well-dressed older females, and you yourself are well-dressed, they generally are a beneficial, generous species, if not a bit opinionated.
New York is rolling away from me in all her massive mess and glory. Beloved and familiar lanes, clutter, congestion, and horse dung. Gorgeous palaces of homes, churning industry, smoke, fire, and gaslight. “I love you,” I whisper to my city as it chugs away and the steam engine gains speed, my breath on the glass and a new darkness ahead as the train veers west.
Onward! What an adventure! It is not every day that a young woman runs away from home after a handsome man and sees the country by rail. My nerves are mixed with a growing excitement. However, exhaustion sorely tempers me.
“Pardon me,” I said to the ladies around me. I laid my head upon the glass, not even bothering with the sleeper car, as I’ve never been so exhausted. I’m sure I’ll be asleep in a mere moment. A new world will await me when my heavy eyelids open at dawn.
Later…
I slept. And I dreamed.
In that dream was a dark, long, smooth corridor. Much like the corridor of a train aisle.
Somewhere in the distance was a pale light, like dawn. Moving. Perhaps that shifting movement was from the threads of light that were so like people, as when I’d dreamed of such tumbling, shifting forces against the backdrop of my city. Perhaps this is what Mrs. Northe meant by there being another existence entirely…
There were doors at intervals on each side of me, with beveled glass knobs like the one on Jonathon’s painted study door.
Out from one of those doors far ahead walked Jonathon.
He turned and looked at me. There was a long silence.
“You’re on the train,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
He laughed and then held out his hand. I bit my lip, hardly able to contain myself.
I moved forward, reaching out to he who is my angel in waking and in dreams.
I opened my eyes.
There, awake, at the door of my train car, was Lord Jonathon Denbury, real and in the gorgeous flesh, holding out his hand for me. I stared at him. I was the girl he’d asked for.
“Yes, you,” he murmured with an irresistible grin.
And here I conclude.