Chapter Eighteen

Journal waits for me near the door.

His note, delivered by Handkerchief, burns in my pocket. Upon opening it, the sight of his loopy, elegant handwriting made my heart feel like a living organ again. Meet me at the river. I was so excited that my grip tore the paper. With Journal helping me, it was almost certain we’d find answers.

The portly messenger couldn’t possibly know what the note said, but that didn’t stop him from giving me a look as he left. It was a look that spoke volumes, and Handkerchief’s warning echoed in my head. Be careful, miss.

Halting at the edge of the maze, I see Journal’s silhouette. The torchlight casts his outline against the wall like the finger-shapes children make when they’re supposed to be in bed. Something in his stance changes, and I know he must have spotted me, as well. Journal doesn’t say a word. He just waits.

After another moment of hesitation, I begin the climb over. Halfway across, though, one of the roots snaps. Gasping in panic, I grapple for another one to hold on to. Journal rushes forward, shadows dancing over his skin as he holds his hand out. Trembling and trying to maintain my balance on a much thinner branch, I look down at it. There’s no time, yet I foolishly study the lines of his palm. If only there were some way to read the events of the past in them. I’ve no interest in the future, for it only holds death.

But no matter how long I look, I just see lines. Relenting, I swallow a sigh and take his hand. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I let go. Journal seems unsettled; his hand clenches into a fist. “Thank you,” I mutter.

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a pause. Then, grateful for an excuse to put my back to him, I find the hole and fit the key inside. We both duck through, making certain to shut the door tightly behind us, lock it, and begin the trek to the surface. It’s far easier this time with the flame to guide the way. But I keep thinking about the bat and peeking toward the low ceiling. On the tenth or eleventh glance I don’t see the path slanting up and nearly trip again. Journal offers his hand, but I’m already straightening. I yank at my skirt and we continue on.

Silence hovers in the air. There was once a time when we would not stop between sentences, arguing and enthusing and supposing about whatever book he had lent me. It’s unbearable, how awkward I feel around Journal now. Thinking of the reason for it, a hot ball of shame swells in my throat. However inevitable the courtship with Smoke felt, however powerless I was against my passion for him, it still left someone I loved in pain. I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to, and we go the rest of the way with the crackling torch as the only sound between us.

Journal steps past me to shove the heavy door open. The mausoleum is undisturbed, glittering with frost and frozen dust. I hasten to the outer door and step into the cemetery. Wind whispers through the trees and headstones. The instant Journal appears beside me, we head for the road, ice cracking and shattering beneath our shoes.

We’re nearly to town when he attempts conversation again. His voice startles me. “Have you remembered anything else since our last conversation?”

The question swirls in the air like a snowflake. Thinking about it, I feel Kathleen’s breath on my cheek as she asks, How was your afternoon with Mr. Wisely?

My mournful answer seems to come from every direction, agonizing and unavoidable.

He barely said a word to me, the stars murmur.

I just wanted something different, the tree branches whisper.

We are ghosts, but we are the ones being haunted.

With a jolt, I realize Journal is looking at me, still hoping for a response. We’ve reached the outskirts of town. To avoid drawing attention, I take us along a quieter road that goes around everything. “No, nothing else,” I say, feeling as though he can see the truth in my face.

There’s a pause, and Journal continues appraising my expression. When I refuse to speak further, he purses his lips. Nodding, he then quickens into a pace that is impossible to keep up with. The lights of town beckon ahead. I keep my gaze on them and half walk, half run, pretending not to see the tense line of Journal’s shoulders. But the beetle whispers to me, so deeply nestled that I can’t ignore its reason. The memories belong to him, too. If circumstances were reversed, wouldn’t you want to know?

Blast. Gritting my teeth, I halt in the middle of the road. “Wait.”

He doesn’t seem to hear me, or perhaps he’s just ignoring me. I run after him, cursing beneath my breath some more. The moment Journal is within reach I impulsively grasp his sleeve. He faces me with a questioning look, and I lick my lips. My instincts war with each other, a bloody battle between keeping the knowledge secret and doing what’s right. “Your name,” I blurt, shifting from foot to foot. The voice in my head goes quiet. “It’s Henry Wisely. As you know, you asked for my hand. And I… I wasn’t pleased about our union.”

A whistling wind is the only response. I wait for bitterness or anger. Instead, Journal walks toward me. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The tips of his boots come into view, stopping only a breath away from mine. I tense.

“What else?”

Something makes my gaze flick toward the horizon. A sense that something isn’t right.

“Oh God,” I whisper. We’re closer to Victoria’s than I realized. Otherwise, I would have noticed it earlier. Journal twists to see what has my attention, and his mouth thins in a grim line.

The house has been burned to the ground.

…

Neither of us speaks the entire way back to Under.

The image of those blackened ruins torments me more than the dark. Was it coincidence, just an accident? Somehow, I don’t think so. There were answers in that house, and we’d been so close to unburying them. The killer must have followed Journal and me that night, all the way through town and to the old woman’s home. The sounds I heard were more than a confused bat.

We make our way through the tunnel, and once again I lock the door behind us. Journal accompanies me to the alley where I live. Smoke and Doll are nowhere to be seen. As we reach my doorway, I pray that Mrs. Room survived. It’s encouraging that there were no new graves in the cemetery. “Thank you for walking me to my room,” I say to Journal, frowning at the ground. Thoughts buzz in my skull like a hornets’ nest, still consumed by Victoria’s destroyed home and how someone else in Under has now been topside.

He doesn’t give the polite, expected response. “Key, I’ve been thinking,” he begins. Still distracted, I try to focus on him. Journal rushes on. “Perhaps you should go back through the door…and lock it behind you once and for all. Just stay topside, where it’s safe.”

I’m already shaking my head. The thought of everyone else trapped and burning causes a bitter taste in my mouth. “I won’t abandon all of you,” I say, digging my fingers into the dirt wall.

“Don’t think of it as abandonment. Think of it as survival,” he growls.

Survival. The word makes me remember running through the dark, the smell of burnt flesh, listening to the rise of frightened shouts. Then, instead, I think of Smoke. The magic trick he showed me in a shadow-filled room, our banter in the passageways, that heated dance in the tavern. And I know that I don’t want to survive; I want to live.

But there’s no point in telling Journal any of this. When I finally respond, my voice is soft. “I’m already dead, you know. You don’t have to protect me.”

The truth of it makes his eyes darken. Looking away, Journal clenches his jaw. In the few seconds of silence between us, there comes the distant sound of singing. “Something tells me I’ve always done a shoddy job of it,” he mutters, ignoring Shilling’s sweet voice. “Why else would you be here?”

I listen to the sad words of the girl’s song. “We both made mistakes,” I whisper, more to myself than him. Something in my tone makes Journal frown, but he doesn’t ask any questions. Instead, he takes my arm and tugs. I allow it to come away from its hiding place behind me, and Journal stoops to brush a feathery kiss over my cheek. Then he lets me go. I watch him turn and walk in the direction of the tower. A wild desire comes over me to call him back, to ask him if we can ever repair the friendship that once meant everything to me. But fear of his answer keeps me from making a sound.

As soon as Journal is gone, the familiar feeling of a memory descends. I stand strong against the wave of nausea. The alleyway quivers. Then, in the space of a blink, it’s gone. To distract myself from the urge to vomit, I gaze around.

Four walls stare back at me, rough and wooden. There’s a narrow bed in the corner. The covers are rumpled and tossed aside, as though the sleeper had been eager to face the day. Clothes are scattered over the floor, among them, many that I recognize. There’s also a smell in the air that causes a tightness in my chest, like the heart within is torn between overwhelming anxiety and incandescent anticipation.

Something creaks to my left. Already knowing who I’ll find, I turn. It feels like a pillow has burst inside me and all its feathers are drifting down, down, down. I forget all the fear and frustration of Under and exist only here. Only now.

James stands in front of a desk, making adjustments to an oil lamp. There were no fights for him today—the cuts on his knuckles are scabbed over. His hair is too long; it spills over his white collar. I admire his long fingers, hardly able to believe I’m really here. Standing in an American’s room, unchaperoned, in the middle of the night.

No, he’s not just an American, I think. He’s strong, adventurous, funny. A bit mysterious, perhaps, but we’ve only known each other a few weeks. He challenges me. His conversation is thought provoking. He makes it seem possible to achieve more than what’s expected of us in this life.

And he occupies my every waking thought, along with every midnight dream, in a way no one ever has before.

James lifts his head and catches me staring. His lips quirk in the beginnings of that smile I so love. “Would you like to—”

In three strides, I’m across the small room. I take hold of his shirt and pull him to me, then I claim his mouth like I’ve wanted to do almost since the moment we met. If I feel any nervousness, it’s pushed out by the thrill of tasting him again. James recovers quickly and responds with a fervor that makes all thought leave my head. Instinct takes over. We move backward, never pausing in our frenzy. My spine hits the wall. His hands are in my hair, making it come hopelessly undone, and mine are buried in his as well. It’s as soft as it looks. He smells like soap and sweat, but somehow it’s a pleasant combination.

I’ve never felt like this before. As though time were never invented, as though I’ve lost myself in another person. There’s also an ache deep within me. A desire for more.

Without warning, James draws back. I make a sound of protest, but he holds me firmly, his palms two hot spots on my skin. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side and presses his lips to my neck. My breathing intensifies. I grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it free, catching a glimpse of the firm stomach beneath, and can’t resist skimming my fingers down it. Muscles clench in reaction to my touch, and James inhales sharply. He grabs my wrists.

“Are you certain?” he asks. We both know there are so many reasons why this shouldn’t happen. Scandal. A child. Henry.

No, I don’t want to think about Henry. Not right now.

“Don’t stop,” I whisper. James gives me that melting smile of his. Slowly, much too slowly, he bends down. This kiss starts out leisurely, as though we have all the time in the world. We taste each other again and again. Heat and need build inside me, until I’m almost rough with my explorations. He responds in turn, but he seems to be having trouble with my clothes. Should I be helping him? How on earth will he manage without looking? At the exact moment I have the thought, James steps back, most likely to see the laces better. In doing so, his shoe catches on the edge of my gown. Something tears with a jarring sound, and I can’t stop a surprised gasp. James pulls away completely, this time with merriment in his eyes.

I cover my face and wish I would vanish into thin air. “Blast these wretched layers. Now you know why so many families employ a lady’s maid.”

His laughter makes my heart do strange things. James tugs at my wrists and I peek at him. “You’re looking at this the wrong way, darling,” he says soothingly. That stubborn strand of hair has fallen in front of his right eye. “We’ve been given a delicious opportunity.”

“Opportunity?” I echo, nonplussed.

James nods. I still haven’t the faintest idea what he means. But, as he proceeds to make a torturous game of undressing me, I do understand. One by one, he removes an article of clothing. As he does so, he touches an exposed bit here or leaves a kiss there. My blouse, skirt, and bloomers land on the floor in a careless heap. After these come my garters and stockings.

The sensations coursing through me are so overwhelming that I forget to be embarrassed. By the end of it, I’m biting my lip to hold back a moan. James turns me around so I face the wall. I brace myself against it, no longer trusting my legs to keep me upright. He nips me playfully on the back of the neck before he kneels. A moment later, I feel his fingers on my waist, and I nearly buckle from the anticipation. But more seconds tick past and nothing happens—James has stopped.

Confused, I glance over my shoulder. James is glowering now, locked in a fierce-looking battle with my corset. “Damn it, woman,” he growls. I utter a brief, giddy laugh. It’s comforting, somehow, knowing he’s not quite as experienced with laces as I would’ve thought. Eventually, though, he triumphs over the knot and pulls them free. The corset falls away.

The air seems to still. Breathing should be easier, but instead, it’s suddenly impossible. I stand there in nothing but my chemise as James straightens. He turns me again, and I know everything I’m feeling shows. His emotions are a bit more difficult to discern; he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile. My heart pounds harder as I realize he’s giving me the chance to undress him, just as he’s done with me.

My shyness returns, but I don’t let it spoil the moment. Instead, reminding myself to breathe, I put my hand under his shirt and learn the ridges and planes of his body. At my touch, James’s eyes go hazy; his lips part with want. His clothing is simpler than mine, and removing it should take only a few moments. Like he did, though, I linger with every piece of it. Savoring the sight of moonlight on his bare skin. Admiring the taut muscles that react to my touch. He is beautiful, much more beautiful than I, and I keep waiting to wake up from what must be a dream.

At last, we have bared ourselves completely. James stares with frank appreciation—his gaze makes me feel like a spring flower beneath a ray of sunlight—but only allows us to look for a smattering of seconds before he takes hold of me. I close my eyes, expecting another shattering kiss, but he stops a hairbreadth away. I look at him questioningly.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathes.

No one has ever looked at me that way before.

Just as I’m about to demand another kiss, his mouth is on mine. I’m not frightened by the intensity of it or the knowledge of what comes next. No, it only fans the flames crackling all around us. I wrap my arms around James’s neck and, following some instinct, jump up to wrap my legs around his waist. He groans. We move swiftly to the bed, and he sets me gently on my back. The mattress springs creak.

“Leah,” he whispers. I freeze, certain that I haven’t heard him right. I pull back slightly, looking into his bright, earnest eyes. He hesitates at my expression. “Leah, is everything all right?”

My mind roars. I want to cry and scream and dance. My name, my name, my name. The piece of me that I’ve been missing, like a lost limb or a precious heirloom. It feels so right, fits so perfectly. I am Leah. It echoes through me again and again, more powerful and permanent than any song, memory, or feeling.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Smiling, I pull James back to me. As our kiss goes on, his knee parts my legs. The core of me is aching, yearning for more, and I open wider. James lifts his head, a question in his eyes. I don’t let him ask me if I’m sure a second time; I let my body tell him. It moves against his in a way that proper girls would never do.

James hesitates only a bit longer. Then, reaching down, he makes sure to enter slowly. I’m surprised by the pain—my old governess told me it was that way for many girls, but somehow I’d forgotten—and I must grimace, because James freezes. I cup his face in my hands and quirk a brow. “What did I tell you earlier, Mr. Alistair? Don’t stop.”

After that, neither of us speaks again.

…

We must sleep, but it’s the sort of sleep where one doesn’t remember doing it. Before I know it, morning pours through the window. I awaken gradually, disoriented by the unfamiliar room. Then, all at once, last night comes roaring back like an ocean tide in a storm. I jerk to look. Yes, James is there. Or, rather, I’m here. In his room.

I hold the scratchy blanket against my chest, instinctively hiding my nakedness in the brightness of day. James doesn’t stir. My alarm fades as I study him. The sunrise turns one side of his face luminescent, his hair tousled from sleep. Those long lashes cast lovely shadows upon his cheeks. I drink in every detail, knowing I should be taking my leave but unable to make myself move.

Though I’ve always heard that what we did would change me forever, I don’t feel very different. I’m also not ashamed, not yet. I wanted this. But…what if one night of passion was all James wanted? What if he moves on to the next girl and acts as though last night never happened? What if I’m just a gullible fool?

My smile dies. Panic flutters in my chest.

Then there’s a knock at the door. I jump and, recovering, glance wildly at the window. I immediately dismiss the possibility—someone would see me. Thankfully, James hears the sound and begins to wake. Before he’s fully conscious, I close my own eyes. Coward, that small voice whispers. I ignore it and roll toward the wall. This way, whoever is waiting in the hall will only see that the American has some floozy in his bed.

James leaves our warm cocoon, dons the trousers he’d been wearing the night before, and crosses the room. He opens the door strategically, keeping me hidden. He speaks so quietly I’m unable to catch anything. The door closes again and, seconds later, something clatters. I dare to twist my head and look. James stands in front of the desk—there’s a tray on it now, laden with breakfast and tea. He turns around to lean against the edge of the desk and takes a large gulp of the tea. Before I can move, he notices me.

“Good morning,” he says with a smile. “Are you hungry?”

I realize I’m staring at his mouth and pretend to be fascinated by the pink flowers painted along the rim of the cup instead. “Good morning,” I murmur. “No, thank you. In fact, I should probably go home.”

He comes back to bed. Is this the part where he dismisses me? Breaks my heart forever? I sit up, avoiding his gaze. James leans forward and presses his forehead to mine. The smell of him wraps around me, thrilling and painful at the same time. I brace for words dripping with pity or condescension.

“Marry me,” he whispers.

My eyes fly to his. For an instant, I’m convinced I couldn’t have heard him correctly. But James sits there and grins. I make an odd, strangled sound that could be interpreted as a shocked laugh. All my fears melt like frost beneath the sun. “You’re mad!” I manage.

He nods. My head moves up and down with his. “Maybe so. But you can’t tell me you want to stay here for the rest of your life. Not you.”

I lean back and raise a brow. The blanket slips and James’s gaze darts down to take note of this. His eyes darken. “Has it ever occurred to you that I needn’t marry in order to leave?” I ask, a bit breathless. “That I can do so whenever I please?”

“And it would be my honor to be part of your journey,” he says. My regard of him rises even more when he doesn’t mock me or talk about the impossibility of a girl venturing out on her own.

“I thought you had no honor,” I point out.

“Right. Mustn’t let anyone think so. Might ruin my reputation.”

I cover my mouth to smother a laugh. Sounds come from the hall and through the wall, clear indications that the rest of the house is awake. James watches me, his expression unexpectedly tender. I know he still awaits an answer, and my mirth soon fades. “May I… May I think about it?” I ask. Inevitably, Henry invades the space between us.

“Of course. But don’t take too long.”

I frown. “Why?”

James clutches his chest and flops back on the mattress. The entire bed shudders. “Because the suspense might kill me,” he cries.

This time, the laugh won’t be contained. It bursts out of me and bounces off the wooden walls. James jerks upright and claps his hand over my mouth, but then he starts laughing, too. We sit there and try to shush each other. Despite our mirth, I can’t stop my attention from lingering on his glorious chest. James goes quiet as he, too, admires me.

“I really should go,” I whisper. The spell between us breaks when someone walks by the door, singing loudly about an Irish girl named Eileen. I clear my throat and cast a wary glance at the pile of clothing on the floor—it will be nigh impossible to put back on. “The house will already be waking. I’ll be lucky if I can sneak in without anyone noticing.”

James’s eyes twinkle. “I can help you dress, at the very least.”

“You would make an excellent lady’s maid, sir,” I say primly.

He pretends to consider this; his expression becomes speculative and he rubs his chin. “That’s good to know. Perhaps my days in dusty cellars are at an end.”

I grin and finally leave the bed. James doesn’t look away for a second. Suddenly bashful, I hurry into my chemise, a furious blush crawling up my neck and into my face. The breakfast tray beckons from its place on the desk, offering a distraction. I move to inspect its contents. The fare is simple: just bread and butter. As I pick a piece up and bite into it, I notice a match on the desk.

“Oh!” I exclaim.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, something just completely slipped my mind. I got you a present when my friend and I went shopping the other day.” I abandon the bread, return to my discarded clothing, and search for a hidden pocket in the skirt. My hand reemerges with a small package. I thrust it toward James, who sits up fully. The blanket pools around his narrow waist. He looks at me questioningly and, feeling silly, I shrug. “You can open it whenever you’d like.”

He makes quick work of the wrapping, and within seconds it falls away to reveal a cigar tucked into a new holder. Part of the holder looks like marble. The pearly portion is carved into an intricate design, something akin to vines or snakes. I fumble over an explanation. “The cigar itself is insignificant, really, but the holder is made from meerschaum. Or so I was told. I saw it and thought of you. Anyway, will you assist me with the corset?”

“Wait.” James catches my hand with the one that isn’t holding the gift. His voice is different. Strange. I face him, and by now, I recognize the look in his eyes—it’s probably reflected in mine. I feel that stirring again. That warmth rising within me. “Come here,” he growls throatily.

Smiling, I allow James to pull me back down.