Alec spent two more days in Dr. Couch’s surgery. On Tuesday afternoon, he walked out the door, leaning heavily on his cane but otherwise operating under his own steam. Dr. Couch, who taught at one of the colleges, tried to convince Alec to stay on for another week or two. He wanted to write a paper for The Lancet about Mr. Lawrence’s remarkable recovery.
Couch was disappointed at Alec’s polite refusals, but clearly delighted with his own skill.
“You’re the case of my career, Mr. Lawrence!” he declared with a grin. “I don’t suppose you’d agree to a portrait?” He blushed. “I’d like to hang it on my wall.”
Alec agreed, and Dr. Couch found a photographer. They posed him sitting on a tasseled footstool with his top hat on and chin propped on his cane.
He’d told Vivienne everything that happened atop the tower except for the part about slipping on the ice; that his infirmity had betrayed him. She would feel guilty, as she always did, but it was simply the price of the bond. The cuff took a piece of you. In Alec’s case, it was a bad knee. For Cassandane, it was a malformed ear. Each daēva endured a different mutilation. Alec would have a limp until the day he died or their bond was broken. He hoped it would be the first.
Back in London, they both stewed. Dr. Clarence hadn’t resurfaced. An exhaustive search of Summersbee’s shop confirmed that the Ptolemy pages were gone. Blackwood’s men confiscated Mr. Crawford’s single folio, despite vociferous complaints and threats to sue. He seemed to believe it was all a plot by Mr. Summersbee to steal his clients. That Summersbee was dead failed to persuade him otherwise.
Vivienne sent a cable to Cyrus and Cassandane informing them of the latest developments. Cyrus responded that he would continue searching the archive for anything of use, particularly as it related to the Greater Gates.
And so they waited. Vivienne spent her time prowling around the house, or overseeing her various charities for women and girls. Alec worked in his laboratory, but he was unable to lose himself the way he normally did. He blamed Vivienne. He rarely chafed under the bond, but he did now. No matter how far apart they were, he could sense her growing frustration, like the maddening hum of a fly.
On Wednesday morning, Alec shaved and dressed in a suit of charcoal grey. His woolen greatcoat had been too blood-soaked to salvage, but he found an old ulster that ought to keep the rain off. He placed two objects in the pocket. The first was a stone, the second a shell. He put his top hat on and made his way into Green Park. Stately oak and plane trees framed long, sweeping vistas and acres of manicured lawns.
On fine summer days, people would set out picnic baskets. But it hadn’t always been so civilized. Alec remembered passing through on horseback with Vivienne a couple hundred years before. They’d been set on by some luckless bandits with bayonets and terrible teeth. Vivienne had wanted to chop their heads off, but Alec scared them away with a display of witchcraft.
London had been far worse then. A city of plague and decay, suffocating in its own stench. They hadn’t lingered.
Alec took Constitution Hill to Knightsbridge and entered Hyde Park. The waters of the Serpentine shimmered a dull grey. Two swans glided along the shore of the lake. Fortunately, the water hadn’t frozen over. He slipped a hand into his pocket. The talismans dug into his palm. One for Traveling, one for Locking.
Alec took a quick look around, saw no one, and waded into the lake, his reflection absorbing itself. The substance he entered was more like smoke than water. His clothing remained dry as the gloaming closed over his head. Beneath, a twilight world stretched in all directions. Alec followed a gentle slope leading down. Tall grasses undulated to either side. Within a minute, he saw the luminous glow of the Gate.
A doorway, perhaps twelve feet high and five wide. Had it been open, the surface would flow like a swift river. Alec circled it. The Gate looked frozen, although shadows flickered behind it. Most definitely still locked.
Alec watched the shadows for a moment, battering futilely at the bars of their prison. Shades trapped in the Dominion. If they escaped and found a living host to prey on, they would become ghouls. Undead creatures with the ability to assume the form of their victim. A ghoul would go on killing and changing until it was stopped, either by fire or iron.
The Greater Gate of London was the last of the twelve he and Vivienne sealed. It had taken them centuries to find, which was the primary reason England still had a ghoul problem. So many had come through while they were hunting. But Alec knew now that Clarence had not entered the world this way.
A well-heeled matron was pushing a pram down the shore path when he emerged from the lake. She gave him a startled look. Alec tipped his hat with a smile, and she hurried off.
He didn’t want to go back to St. James yet. So he exited the park at Alexandra Gate and walked south, past the Royal Horticultural Society and the Natural History Museum, into the tangle of streets past Old Brompton Road. A light rain began to fall. He turned his collar up.
You ought to go home, he thought.
But his legs kept walking, despite the growing ache in his knee. Alec looked up and realized he was on Symons Street. No, realized was disingenuous. Part of him had meant to come here all along. It was why he’d worn a nice suit. He stood on the doorstep, hesitating. Then he rapped twice with the knocker. A moment later, the door swung open. An attractive woman stood on the threshold.
Catherine de Mornay had thick brown hair that she wore in a loose chignon. A velvet gown of deep purple clung to her generous curves, its appeal only enhanced by the high neck.
“Mr. Lawrence,” she said coolly.
“Catherine.” Alec tried on a smile. “It’s good to see you.”
“You ought to have sent a note,” she said. “I might not have been home. Or I might have been otherwise occupied.”
“But you are home.” He held her eyes. “Will you invite me inside?”
She waited just long enough to make her point, then stood aside. Alec took his hat off and entered the well-kept brick townhouse. He stood in the front parlor, unsure if he should remove his coat.
“If I’m disturbing you, I needn’t stay.”
“It’s fine. Would you like a drink?”
“Some tea, if you don’t mind.”
Catherine laughed, a rich, hearty sound Alec had missed very much. “I’d almost forgotten how few vices you have, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Alec. Please.”
She grinned. “I prefer to call you Mr. Lawrence. It’s such a proper English name. Although I doubt that you’re an Englishman, despite your addiction to tea. May I take your coat?”
“I’ve got it,” he said, hanging it on a hook by the door. “You make the tea.”
He sat down in the front parlor. After a few minutes, Catherine returned with a tray. She poured the tea and settled herself into an armchair.
“How’s Sarah?” he asked.
“Much better since you visited. Whatever you did worked wonders. She’s still in hospital, but the doctors expect her to make a full recovery. They’ve never seen a case of consumption pass so quickly.”
“I’m very glad,” Alec said, although he’d known the child would survive. He’d given her some tablets for the doctors’ benefit, but it was a subtle weave of elemental power that had cleansed the sickness from Sarah’s lungs.
“You haven’t come to see me since. I think I know why.”
She’d always been direct. When she admitted a few months before, as they lay tangled together, that her eleven-year-old daughter was dying, Catherine’s eyes had remained dry. Even then, she hadn’t wanted his sympathy. Just someone to listen.
“Catherine—”
“You think I’ll feel I owe you a debt.”
Alec said nothing.
“I’m a free woman, Mr. Lawrence. The way I conduct my affairs is my own business. And while I am grateful for whatever you did for Sarah, it has nothing to do with us. You enjoy the pleasure of my company, and I happen to enjoy the pleasure of yours. Is that clear?”
“Yes. I’m sorry for assuming otherwise.”
In truth, she was entirely correct. Alec felt some of his tension dissipate. Catherine de Mornay made a handsome income from her gentleman callers, enough to live independently in this house and decide who she chose to entertain. She lived life on her own terms, and would despise him if she thought he pitied her in any way.
Catherine smiled and kicked off her slippers. “Now that that’s out of the way, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask. Where were you born, Mr. Lawrence? Your grammar and idioms are impeccable, but your accent….” She frowned. “It’s not quite French or Italian. Certainly not American.” She blew on her tea, the steam blurring her features. “Let me guess. Say something.”
Alec took a sip of his own, felt the warmth blossom in his belly.
“I can smell your perfume.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “I’m not wearing any perfume.”
“Your soap, then. Something with lilacs.”
“You have an excellent sense of smell. I bathed hours ago.”
Alec was distracted by a brief image of Catherine washing her long hair in the tub.
“I thought you were guessing where I’m from,” he reminded her.
His hostess closed her eyes. “There’s a softness to your vowels. Almost musical. Someplace warm, I think. With palm trees and white sands.” Her green eyes flew open. “I’ve got it. One of the Colonies. The West Indies?”
What would she think if he told her the truth? That he was born in a desert prison more than three hundred years before the infant Christ took his first breath?
Throw him out on the street, if she didn’t call Bedlam and have him committed.
Alec smiled. “You’re right. My family is from St. Kitts.”
“How exotic.” She studied him for a moment, then set her cup aside. “Your hair is quite disarranged, Mr. Lawrence.”
“I’ve been working in my laboratory all day. I tried to make myself presentable, but I can see I’ve failed miserably.”
She scrutinized him. “The frock coat is elegant, but the hair simply won’t do. Would you like me to comb it for you?”
Alec let her take his hand and lead him upstairs to her bedroom. Heavy drapes covered the windows. The décor was expensive and tasteful, like Catherine herself. He was aware she had other rooms where she sometimes entertained other gentlemen. But this was her bedroom. He knew because there was a framed photograph of Sarah next to the ornate four-poster bed. She was a solemn child, with her mother’s dark good looks.
Alec had visited Catherine four or five times in the two years since they’d met at one of Vivienne’s parties, and she’d always brought him here. He found it touching.
“Sit, please,” she said, patting the bench of a vanity.
Alec sat down facing an oval mirror. He rested his cane against the table. Pots and brushes crowded the polished surface, although Catherine wore little make-up. She picked up a silver comb and began running it through his hair, still slightly damp from the mist outside.
“Most men like to look at themselves,” she said, smoothing a lock back from his forehead. “You never do. Why?”
“I’d rather look at you.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. The comb paused, then continued its journey around his ear and down the back of his head. Alec closed his eyes. Her fingertips brushed his nape, just above the starched collar of his shirt.
“There’s something different about you, Mr. Lawrence. Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” She felt him tense and laughed softly. “I don’t mean you frighten me. You don’t in the least. Well, I suppose I’m not sure what I mean. Just that you seem like a person with secrets. Are all gentlemen from the Colonies so enigmatic?”
She cupped his cheek and he rested it there for a moment, smelling her lilac bath soap and the pleasantly bitter hint of tea on her breath.
“I don’t think so.”
“How sad for the ladies. Say something else. Recite some poetry for me.”
Catherine knew she could make him say anything she pleased. And she found it romantic that he knew so much verse by heart. Volumes and volumes.
Alec thought for a moment.
“Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily’s leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said:
I wist not what, saving one word – Delight.”
Catherine laid the comb down. “That’s lovely.”
“The man who wrote it was a tortured soul.”
“It’s still lovely.”
“Yes.”
“Did you choose it because you’re a kindred spirit, Mr. Lawrence?” The question was spoken lightly, but there was an intensity in her expression.
“A tortured soul, you mean?” He laughed. “Not like Swinburne. I don’t wish to be flogged, thank you.”
Catherine didn’t smile. “Who is she, Mr. Lawrence?” she asked quietly.
The sudden change of topic caught him off guard.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
She didn’t answer. Alec turned his face so his mouth pressed against her palm. She slid her hand to the curve of his jaw, lifting his chin.
“No one, Catherine.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She turned her back on him. “Help me with my buttons.”
“Perhaps—”
“No. I’m being ridiculous.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t leave. I want you to stay.”
Alec used the cane to lever himself to standing. One by one, his nimble fingers undid the long row of tiny pearl buttons. Catherine wore no corset beneath. The smooth lines of her bare back unfurled before him like a gift.
He kissed the skin behind her ear. “You’re very beautiful, you know,” he whispered.
She turned and helped him take off his shirt and waistcoat, running her hands across the plane of his chest. She’d never asked what was wrong with his leg. How he’d injured it. Alec was grateful for that.
“You’re beautiful too, Mr. Lawrence,” Catherine said. Then she noticed the shiny pink scar tissue on his stomach. Her breath caught. He kissed her before she could speak.
When he pulled back, they looked at each other. Catherine’s gaze was steady. She would not ask about this either. She would let Mr. Lawrence keep his secrets, as she kept hers. He kissed her again before she could change her mind.
Her gown fell away, puddling in a velvet shadow around her bare feet, and for the first time in many long weeks, Alec forgot about Vivienne, and dead things that still walked, and the endless river of time he drifted in. There was only Catherine, and the faint smell of lilacs.
He left her sleeping hours later, and he left a stack of bills on the vanity. If she’d been awake, she might have tried to stop him. Or she might not have. One couldn’t be sure with Catherine De Mornay. But despite her great affection for him, Alec would never presume to think he was more than a client. Truthfully, he didn’t wish to be more. Anything else was impossible.
He let himself out and returned to St. James Place. It was quite late, but the lamps were still burning in the front parlor. Vivienne lay on the carpet in her silk dressing gown, listening to her new phonograph. She rarely opened a book, but she loved music. The tinny strains of Handel’s Israel in Egypt broke the silence.
“Where have you been?” Vivienne asked, as if she didn’t know.
“I went for a walk.”
“And how was your walk?”
“Invigorating, thank you.” He tossed his coat on the sofa. “The Gate in Hyde Park is still locked. I checked.”
She gazed up at him, head leaning on one hand, her expression unreadable. Alec waited to see if she would pursue it. His relationship with Catherine was none of her business. Vivienne had made her choice a long time ago. He understood and respected it, but he wouldn’t live like a monk.
“Hand me my Oxfords, would you?” she said.
Alec spotted them on the mantel. He watched her flick the lighter, felt the pull of the tiny, wavering flame. If he ever grew tired of life, he knew how he’d choose to end it.
“A message came from Blackwood while you were out,” Vivienne said. “They found Dr. Clarence.”
“What?” He stared at her. “Where? We need to—”
“His body,” she clarified. “Fished it out of the Mersey River up north. Throat slit.”
“Self-inflicted?”
“Appears that way. The daemon has moved on, Alec. Taken someone else. Could be anyone. Man, woman, child.”
He sat down on the sofa. “Damn it.”
“Yes. Cyrus has agents watching all the Gates. They’ll be ready if he shows up. But at least none have been opened. Not yet.”
“The daemon would need a talisman. As far as we know, ours is the only one in existence.”
“As far as we know.”
“If his victim was reported missing, we might be able to track him that way.”
“Blackwood’s already looking into it, but Lancashire is a big county. It could take weeks to cover.”
Alec felt a wave of weariness wash over him. His brief respite with Catherine had been a balm, but such moments were always temporary. He hadn’t yet healed, not completely, and needed more rest than usual. But it wasn’t just physical exhaustion. It was a sickness of the soul that weighed on him now. A fear that their best efforts weren’t good enough, and never would be.
“I’m going to bed,” Alec said, grabbing his cane. “We can talk about it in the morning.”
Vivienne blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.
“I’m going to find this daemon and I’m going to kill it, Alec,” she said. “If it’s the last bloody thing I ever do.”
He heard her softly humming along with the Oratorio as he climbed the stairs.