“Montgomery, I think . . .” But my words faded, breathless.
He grabbed me around the hips and pulled me onto the bed. I thought of all the things we should say to one another—asking permission to touch here or there, crawling under the sheet for modesty’s sake, discuss the lengths we intended to take this. But as soon as his lips were on mine, those thoughts vanished. Words? I could barely think. All I could do was feel, and each one of my senses was so flooded that I doubted I could even manage that for much longer.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he whispered, surprising me. “We can wait until we are properly wed. I won’t rush you. But I don’t want to be away from you, Juliet, not now. Please.”
I wasn’t certain if I was relieved or not. Part of me longed to feel him; another part of me felt it was best to wait. As we kissed in my old wooden bed, I thought of how society said intimacy was supposed to be gentle, and quiet, and tender. There was nothing tender about the way Montgomery had his lips all over mine.
And yet he was good to his word; and so was I. I fell asleep in his arms, still dressed in my combination and he in his trousers, and for those few hours it didn’t matter that I was being hunted by Scotland Yard; it didn’t matter that my fate was as uncertain as Edward’s, it didn’t matter that I was parentless once more.
Montgomery and I had each other, and our love could survive anything.
WHEN I WOKE IN the morning, Montgomery was already packing my collection of scientific equipment into a crate to take back with us. “We should be able to sneak back into the professor’s now,” he said. “Balthazar’s waiting outside.”
I untangled my limbs from the old quilt and dressed slowly, taking my time to notice all the little details of my attic I’d taken for granted: how the window let in warm rays of light, and how the woodstove looked like a squat old gnome.
“I’ll never return here, I imagine,” I said.
I let my fingers run over the bedpost, worn though it was, and trail along the cabinet where I’d stored the mint tea that had warmed my bones after many a long night’s walk to get here. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend nothing had changed: Sharkey curled by the warm flames at the hearth, pot of tea ready to boil, the old chair waiting for me.
The professor had given me everything a girl could desire—a sea of pillows, forests of silver candlesticks, mountains of books. So why did my heart clench at the thought of leaving this broken-down little room?
I glanced over my shoulder at Montgomery, who knew nothing of the war raging in my heart. He had told me that these odd tendencies were a symptom of my illness. Once I was cured, no longer would I have such strange sentiments.
I went to the worktable, where Montgomery tucked my canisters of phosphorous salts into the crate. My finger ran along the spine of Father’s journal.
“That was your father’s,” Montgomery said in surprise.
The book found its way into my palm. I flipped open the cover carefully, tracing my hand down the worn paper. “I found it on the dinghy, among the other supplies. I assumed you’d put it there.”
“If I did, it was by mistake. I was in such a rush to pack that night. May I see it?”
I surrendered it to him hesitantly. He handled it rougher than I had, flipping through the pages haphazardly.
“Half of it doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “He used a personal shorthand I could never decipher.”
“Yes, I recall. Although it wasn’t shorthand; it was a code he’d developed. Blast if I could ever figure it out.”
“If we could decipher it, it might say something about a cure for Edward.” I paused. “Or for me.”
The idea seemed to energize him. He flipped through pages of nonsensical letters and numbers strung together, smiling almost fondly. “Your father used to curse like the devil when he was writing in code. Rambling on about church and religion. He would curse the books in order. ‘Goddamn Psalms! Blasted Proverbs! Cursed Ecclesiastics!’” He shook his head and closed the book, then stowed it in the crate and started to pack my burners.
I frowned and picked back up the book. “I don’t recall Father being religious in the slightest. I can’t imagine he would even spare a few words to curse it.”
“He was insane, Juliet.”
But the words nagged at me. I flipped open the journal to the coded letters and numbers, imagining Father writing them, thinking of the books of the Bible. His interest hadn’t been of a religious nature, so what use did he have for it?
A thought ruffled my mind like wind through dried leaves. “My god,” I said, as my heart began to thump. “That’s it. The Bible! He used a Bible cipher based on the books in the Bible because it’s the one volume every King’s Man would have in their home.”
“A Bible cipher?”