Then there was Mr. Chubais. Henry needed to know about my last night in the Colonies, how I had been attacked and nearly killed by the unnatural creature. That was, of course, if James hadn’t already shared the sordid details as he had promised.
Though the only witness to the attack, James’s version would be greatly lacking as he had failed to see that the albino and the beast were two forms of the same being. Nor did he know about the terrible cold that had somehow subdued the summer’s heat, leaving me to shiver in the darkness.
I frowned at the memory of a more recent chill and the red welt that continued to mar the underside of my forearm. My recollections of the young wretch were hazy at best, and faced with the impossibility of frostbite, I began to second-guess my initial impression from our brief interchange at the docks. To be sure, I would have gladly forgotten the episode altogether, except that the mark had shown no signs of improvement this morning, and if anything, appeared to have spread during the night. The subtle sting persisted as well whenever my sleeve brushed against the damaged skin. A salve may have helped, but my last jar went to the Callisto’s cook who had spilled a kettle of scalding water down his front a few days before we arrived in London. I scanned the various jars and bottles Beth had placed on the tabletop, hoping to find something of use for the wound.
A soft knock skimmed the door, and I glanced into the mirror as Cate came into the room. “Good morning, Selah,” she said, walking over to the dressing table. “That shade of blue is most stunning against your skin. It’s a pity I won’t be here to witness Henry’s expression when he sees you. Then again, maybe it’s best since I spoiled his surprise. Men can be so particular about those things.”
“I’m sure he’ll understand,” I said, flattered by her compliment. “Are you going out?”
“Yes, and I shall not be home until late this evening. If you need anything, ring for Sophie. She will take good care of you in my absence.”
While she spoke, I uncorked a glass pot and began to rub some cream on my arm.
Cate took a hold of my wrist, lifting it up slightly. “What is that?” she asked. “It looks like you’ve been burned.”
“I don’t know. A young girl grabbed my arm yesterday and left me with this mark. All I can guess is that she was either carrying something hot or had a substance on her hands that caused a different sort of burn.” Both explanations settled poorly in my stomach, but wild horses could not have dragged the word frostbite from my lips, regardless of how precariously it perched itself on my tongue.
Cate studied the mark for a moment longer, then released my arm. “I’ll have one of the maids bring you a salve,” she said, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “It will help more than that cream.”
“Thank you. I usually have some on hand, but my last jar went to the ship’s cook. After the voyage we had, I’m lucky to have anything left to even bind it.” Pulling a linen strip from the drawer, I started to tie it loosely around my arm.
“Blessed saints,” Cate said, so quietly I almost missed the words.
I lifted my eyes just in time to see her pick up Brigid’s blade, which Beth had left on the dressing table amongst the pots and jars when she unpacked my trunk yesterday afternoon.
“What an interesting knife.” She turned it over in her hand. “Brigid Burdach, is that Gaelic?”
“I believe so,” I said with just a touch of uncertainty. “It translates to something like Brigid victorious.”
She moved her attention from the blade to the bone handle. “It looks very old. How did you come to possess it?”
“My grandparents brought it to the Colonies when they emigrated from Ireland. I’m not exactly sure when it came into my family.” Smooth as silk, I delivered another half-truth.
“Such a beautiful blade,” she said. “I came across something similar years ago in a small shop in Copenhagen. I intended to buy it when a gentleman bribed the purveyor to sell it to him before I returned with the necessary funds. A most unfortunate loss.”
My brows rose up in surprise, eliciting a smile from Cate. “I am a collector of antiquities,” she explained, “and a devoted student of history. If you don’t mind I would like to bring your knife into a blacksmith to get a better idea when it was forged.”
I hesitated, not entirely sure what to say. Brigid’s knife was much more than a family heirloom, and I didn’t care to let it out of my possession, even for a day.
“We can go together,” Cate suggested. “Since the knife belonged to your grandparents, you’re probably just as curious as I am about its origins.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, relieved by the invitation. If nothing else, a trip to the blacksmith would be diverting.
She turned the knife over once more, ran a finger along the flat side of the blade.
“Be careful, the edge is sharp as the dickens.”