“Indeed, and unfortunately, I knew the man. A Mr. Daniel Penderwick, solicitor for Queensbridge Bank.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Not a friend of yours, I hope.”
The professor seemed absorbed by the article. “A friend? No, I’d hardly call him a friend. Only an acquaintance, and a black one at that, though I’d never wish anything so terrible upon the man as murder. He was the bank solicitor who took away your family’s fortune all those years ago. Made a career of that dismal work.”
Uneasiness stirred at the mention of those darker times. “Have they caught his murderer?”
“No. It says here they’ve no suspects at all. He was found dead from knife wounds in Whitechapel, and the only clue is a flower left behind.” He gave me a keen glance above his spectacles, then folded the paper and tossed it to the side table. “Murder is hardly proper dinner conversation. Forgive me for mentioning it.”
I swallowed, still toying with the fork. The professor was always worried that whenever an unpleasant topic of conversation arose, I’d think of my father and be plagued by nightmares. He needn’t have worried. They plagued me regardless.
After all, I had helped kill Father.
When I looked up, the professor was studying me, the laugh lines around his eyes turned down for once. “If you ever need to discuss what happened while you were gone . . .” He shifted, nearly as uncomfortable with such conversations as me. “You know I knew your father well. If you need to resolve your feelings for him . . .” He sighed and rubbed his wrinkles.
I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated his efforts, but that he would never understand what had happened to me. No one would. I remembered it as if it had happened only moments ago. Father’s laboratory burning, him locked inside, the blood-red paint bubbling on the tin door. I feared he would escape the laboratory, leave the island and continue experimenting somewhere else. I’d had no choice but to open the door. A crack, that was all it had taken, to let Jaguar—one of my father’s creations—slip inside and slice him apart.
I smiled at the professor. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Elizabeth is better with this sort of thing. You’ll feel more comfortable with another woman in the house, someone to speak with freely. What would a wrinkled old man know about a girl’s feelings? You’re probably in love with some boy and wondering what earrings to wear to catch his eye.”
He was only teasing now, and it made me laugh. “You know me better than that.”
“Do I? Yes, I suppose I do.” He gave his off-balanced smile.
It wasn’t my way to be tender with people, but the professor was an old curmudgeon with a kind heart, and he’d done so much for me. Kept me from prison. Given me elegant clothes, kept me fed on French cuisine, and did his best to be the father figure I should have had.
On impulse I stood and went to his end of the table, where I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and kissed his balding head. He patted my arm a little awkwardly, not used to me showing such emotion.
“Thank you,” I said. “For all you’ve done for me.”
He cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “It’s been my pleasure, my dear,” he said.
After dinner I climbed the stairs, jumping again as the cuckoo clock sprung to life in the hallway. I considered ripping the loud-mouthed wooden bird out of its machinery, but the professor adored the old thing and patted the bird lovingly each night before bed. It was silly for him to be so sentimental over an old heirloom, but we all have our weaknesses.
I went to my room, where I locked the door and took out the silver fork I’d stolen from the dinner table, admiring the sharp tines. The professor had set up accounts at the finer stores in town for me to purchase what I required, but what I needed was paper money for my secret attic’s rent, for the equipment and ingredients for my serums, few of which came cheaply. Grafting roses only paid so much. I stared at the fork, regretting the need to steal from the man who’d given me a life again. But as I looked out the window at the dark sky and saw the snow falling in gentle flakes into the garden outside, flashing when hit by the lights of a passing carriage, I told myself I was desperate.
And desperation could lead a person to things one might never do otherwise.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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THREE
THAT NIGHT, LIKE MOST nights, I lay in my big empty bed, staring at the ceiling, and trying desperately not to think about Montgomery.
It never worked.
When I had moved into the professor’s home, he had wallpapered my bedroom ceiling in a dusky pale rose print. As I lay in bed my eyes found hidden shapes among the soft buds, tracing patterns, remembering the boy who would never give me flowers again.