“You should have asked who it was before answering,” I managed to say.
The smell of roses and camphor spilled out around him. I could hear the woodstove crackling and the tea kettle rattling on top, beckoning me in. My stomach felt suddenly very hollow, and I was overwhelmed with the idea that the only place I belonged was this little room, with this boy who knew me so well when no one else did, and I was immediately ashamed of those thoughts. What would Montgomery have thought of that?
“I know your footsteps,” he said. “Or rather, the Beast does. I don’t share all of his memories, but a few things bleed through. Information that relates to you, most of all.”
He stood back to allow me entrance, and I came in almost feeling like a stranger in my own home. Edward seemed to fit so perfectly among the twisted rosebushes and frosted glass windows that it was hard to believe he had only been here a day.
I caught a glimpse of Sharkey curled on the hearth, fast asleep and dreaming, and that place in my stomach felt a little less empty and yet even more hollow at the same time.
“I’ve been working on the serum,” Edward said, nodding toward the worktable. He picked up some yellowing pages that still had the earthy smell of the island. “These are your father’s letters that I took from the compound before it burned. I doubt you’ll find anything useful; he was careful to hide his tracks.”
I devoured the letters in a matter of minutes. My father’s handwriting felt so alive that it was hard to imagine I’d never see him again. They discussed bank transfers and lists of surgical equipment, and a few philosophical ramblings, but Edward was right—nothing concrete to tell me who Father had been working with.
I set down the letters, and as if sensing my disappointment, Edward said, “I’ve gone through your father’s journal and pieced together what I could. I performed two variations on the formula, but neither held longer than a few seconds. The phosphorous salts you’re using are quite old. I thought I might go out and get a new batch.”
“No!” It was my instincts speaking. “No, don’t leave. I’ll get the salts. You promised me you would stay here.”
“Stay near the chains, you mean.” There was a certain edge to his voice.
“Can you blame me? Edward, you’re a murderer.” I pulled the heavy padlock out of my pocket. “I had this made at the blacksmith’s. It’s created after one of Father’s designs. Call him what you will, but he was a genius when it came to mechanical locks. No matter how strong the Beast gets, he won’t be able to break through that.”
I set it on the worktable with a thud. He picked it up quickly, as though its mere presence disturbed him, and stashed it in a drawer.
As I watched him, it struck me how truly handsome he was, despite the scar beneath his left eye. How could Lucy not have fallen in love with him? He was another creature entirely from her other stuffy suitors, who all dressed alike, spoke alike, made her the same tepid promises. Everything about Edward spoke of a different world, one richer in detail somehow, as though the waking world was merely a dream and he the only thing clear in it.
I cleared my throat and pulled out the worktable stool. He dragged over the chair from the woodstove, and together we started working on the serums. We spoke little, because little needed to be said. He and I had an understanding that didn’t need words. I’d gesture to the salts and he’d hand them to me. He’s make a notation in the original formula and I’d take the pencil and tweak the amounts.
The desk chair had a rigid back, and I found myself constantly shifting so the stays of my corset didn’t dig into my skin. After an hour of this, Edward glanced at me and asked, “Is it the cold bothering you? I can add more wood to the fire.”
I had another fork buried in the seams of my dress to itch the corset, and I paused. Edward watched me keenly, seemingly unaware that scratching oneself with dinnerware was frowned upon. That was one good thing about his limited past—he never seemed to know, or care, how strange my actions could be.
“The temperature’s fine,” I said, setting the fork aside and focusing instead on measuring the draught before me. “It’s this bloody corset. Be glad you’re a man and don’t have to deal with anything more constricting than a pair of kneesocks.”
I finished measuring the amounts, though from the corner of my eye I could still feel his attention on me. I shifted again.
“Why don’t you take it off?” he asked. I turned to him in shock, but his face was blank. “If it’s bothering you, I mean. Take it off.”
Take it off. As though removing such an intimate undergarment in a room alone with a young man was as commonplace as making a cup of tea.