His hand touched the scar under his eye absently, and then fell away. “What other choice do I have? As long as the Beast is a part of me, he’ll keep killing. That blood is on my hands too, Juliet. I’ve no one else to help me.”
A thousand emotions warred in my chest. Some told me to run, some told me our goals were the same—finding a cure—and that we could help each other. Some told me to leave him to his fate. But it was my fate too, now. I’d played a hand in my own father’s murder to keep this from happening. And I wasn’t a fool. If Father’s colleague had Edward, it would only be a matter of time before they found out I, too, was one of Father’s experiments. If I wasn’t careful, it might be me strapped to an operating table one day.
I cursed under my breath, wondering if I was making a huge mistake.
“Then I’ll help you myself.”
ELEVEN
EDWARD AND I STOOD on the landing of my lodging house in Shoreditch while I fumbled with the key. Sharkey had been waiting outside the front door, hidden in the bushes, having escaped Joyce again and come here, where he knew I’d give him whatever meat scraps I had left over from my experiments. I’d introduced the dog to Edward and he’d carried Sharkey up the stairs in his arms. Seeing him act so gentle with the little mutt stirred something inside me.
For months I’d thought Edward was dead, though that hadn’t kept my mind from straying back to him. Edward had been a friend, possibly even something more, before I’d learned the terrible truth about the monster inside him. I think I would have felt more outrage or horror or betrayal if he hadn’t died. But in death I had absolved him of his crimes, blaming my father instead for having created him, and I had absolved myself of blame, too, for not seeing through his lies earlier. But here he was, very much alive, responsible for a string of violent murders, and yet also very much just a boy learning what it meant to be human. All he knew of the world he’d learned from books; the sights and smells of the city—even something as common as a street dog—must be a revelation to him.
I turned the lock and pushed open the door. This place was more than a workshop; it was my retreat from the world of fine china and straight-backed chairs and weak tasteless tea. I liked coming here alone, where I could hide from the world, tucked under the patchwork quilt on my bed. I had worried that by bringing Edward here, that precious balance would be upset. But as I watched him rubbing Sharkey’s head and leaning against the rough wood of the stairwell, he seemed to fit so naturally.
“Come inside,” I said softly. “No one knows about this place. You’ll be well hidden here.”
It took a lot for me to say that—to invite a murderer into my one private space. But in a twist of fate, watching him shift the dog from one arm to the other and brush back a loose strand of hair, I felt strangely safe with him.
Safe with a murderer. With Edward. Perhaps this was how madness started.
Sharkey jumped out of his arms and curled up by the hearth. Edward came in hesitantly, scratching the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable in a lady’s room. I lit the lamp and nodded toward the woodstove. “Will you stir the coals? I’ll put the kettle on.”
He bent to swing open the iron grate and add wood to the fire. While his back was turned, I chewed on a fingernail and tried not to steal glances at his frame, so much stronger than I’d remembered. Having him here triggered so many memories. A sun-scarred castaway on the Curitiba’s deck, clutching a crumpled photograph. A boy holding me close in a cave behind a waterfall. The one person beside me who wasn’t afraid to stand up to my father, when even Montgomery wouldn’t.
My left rib started to ache at the painful memories. Montgomery had the strength of a horse, and yet he’d been powerless in front of my father. I remembered being a little girl and listening through the laboratory keyhole as Father taught Montgomery how the circulatory system worked. It had hurt then, too, that Father was closer to a servant boy than to his own daughter. Perhaps I shouldn’t have blamed Montgomery. He’d had no other family; his father was a Dutch sailor he’d never known, his mother died when he was barely five, no siblings, no other servants his age. Of course he’d fallen under the spell of Father’s charms; any child that lonely would crave a connection wherever he could get it.
And yet I offered him love, I thought blackly. I chose him, but he didn’t choose me.
Edward closed the grate and rubbed his hands together in front of the fire with a boyish grin. I didn’t even consider trying to smile back. My heart was too shaken.
“Where did you get those clothes?” I asked. “They aren’t cheap, and neither is that gold pocket watch.”
He came to the cabinet, where the lantern tossed pools of light over his face. “The Beast keeps a room at a brothel in Soho—I wake there sometimes. He steals clothes and things from the wealthy patrons, always finds men close to my size . . . very thoughtful of the Beast.” The hints of a smile played on his mouth.
“This isn’t a joking matter.”
He swallowed. “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to make light of it. I’ve been staying in the Beast’s room and selling the stolen goods. I know it’s hardly proper, but a brothel’s good cover—I don’t know where else to go. People tend to overlook the screaming when I transform. . . .”
I shuddered at the thought. “You can’t go back there,” I said. “Sooner or later one of the patrons will report the theft, and if Scotland Yard comes to investigate and catches you, it’ll be all over the newspapers, and not long before Father’s mystery colleague gets his hands on you.” I nodded toward the bed, looking away before my cheeks warmed. “You can stay here.”