Her Dark Curiosity

“These are the only murders? Annie Benton and Penderwick and an unidentified body?”

 

 

“So far,” Joyce said. “I’d like to think there won’t be more, but Scotland Yard don’t have much to go on.”

 

The creeping sensation ran up the backs of my legs. Was it coincidence that I’d known two of the victims?

 

My vision started to go foggy as blood pooled in my extremities. I gripped the butcher’s stand to steady myself and accidentally brushed against one of the glassy-eyed pig’s heads. I jumped and cried out.

 

“You feeling all right, lass?”

 

“Yes,” I stuttered. “Here—some coins for this package, and to keep the dog fed. I should go.”

 

“I’ll see you next week for the usual?”

 

I nodded before leaving. I still clutched Joyce’s newspaper, along with the meat. It wasn’t until I was halfway to Highbury, and the sun had dipped behind the skyline, that I realized I’d taken the wrong road.

 

I’d wandered into the seedy end of Whitshire, where rats outnumbered the people ten to one, and more gaslights were broken than not. The hair rose on the back of my neck, reminding me of my altercation with the girl thief earlier. I’d been lucky that time to escape unharmed. I might not be lucky again.

 

I took a deep breath, as I mentally worked out a map for the direction I needed to go to get me back to a well-lit street. I hurried past a dress shop full of headless mannequins, taking care to avoid the open street, but a foggy feeling crept upon me.

 

Stay near the lampposts, I told myself. Stay near the light.

 

I turned the corner onto a shadowy street with only a single streetlight glowing at the far end, and my heartbeat sped. After a few minutes I felt the neck-tingling sensation that I was being followed, and considered reaching for the knife in my boot. But as I strained my ears I made out only the sound of little footsteps that stopped when I stopped, and when I whirled around to face my pursuer, the little black dog was behind me. He wagged his tail.

 

“Oh, Sharkey,” I gasped. He ran over and I gave him a good scratch. “You weren’t supposed to follow me! I haven’t time to take you back to the market now—I’ll be late getting home as is.” I sighed. “Well, come on.”

 

It was a quiet evening, save the wind that ruffled the strands of hair that had come loose from my braid. I hurried through the streets with Sharkey at my heels, though I hadn’t a clue how I’d explain him to the professor. Lock him in the garden, perhaps, until morning. It was impossible to think about anything but the murders, until I nearly stepped on a white flower on the ground in front of me.

 

I stopped.

 

A flower itself was rare enough in winter. I knew all too well how much care and tending they needed to stay as fresh as this one was. It lay all by itself on a patch of sidewalk wiped of snow as though someone had left it for me, creamy white petals radiating from a gold center, a delicate stem no thicker than a bootlace.

 

There was a rustle in the alleyway to my side—a rat, no doubt—and the dog took off after it. I knelt in front of the flower. Five petals. A tropical flower, not unlike the ones that had grown on Father’s island. Montgomery had picked one, once, from the garden wall and tucked it behind my ear. The memory of Montgomery made the place around my rib throb with familiar hurt.

 

He loves me, he loves me not. . . .

 

My heart twisted at the memory, and I turned to go. I should get home, before I was late for supper and the professor grew suspicious. But the flower was so beautiful, delicate as a whisper there in the snow, that I couldn’t leave it.

 

I pulled off a glove and reached down to pick it up.

 

As soon as I did, I knew something was wrong. My bare fingers touched something wet beneath the flower. I held my fingers up to the faint light from the lamppost.

 

Blood.

 

Blood spotted the back of the flower, as though it had been pressed into a pool of it. It was still fresh.

 

 

 

 

 

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

 

HarperCollins Publishers

 

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FIVE

 

 

 

 

FLOWERS DIPPED IN BLOOD, Joyce’s voice echoed. That’s his mark.

 

In a blind panic I stumbled to my feet, screaming for Sharkey. His little face peeked out from the alleyway.

 

“Come here, boy!” I cried.

 

He took a few shaky steps toward me, and my eyes went to the tracks he left in the snow.

 

His paw prints were bloody.