“He’s too dangerous, Lucy,” I said at last. “I know you care about him, but his dark half is gaining more power, and I don’t even trust being around him myself. That’s the reason I’ve told you all of this. To warn you.”
“Even knowing the terrible things he’s done, I can’t bear to think of him alone out there. Being hunted down like an animal. No one to turn to . . .” She leaned into her hands, sobbing gently.
From the hallway outside, the grandfather clock chimed again. Lucy looked toward the door. “Dash it all, the party’s starting,” she said, drying her eyes. “They’ll expect us. Come on—help me into my dress. Hurry.”
We picked up the green silk dress and pulled it over her head, as I hurried to do up the buttons on the back, and then I dressed in my own. I had to turn my back on her while I adjusted the dropped neckline over my shoulder so it hid the Beast’s scratches from sight.
“I don’t see how it’s helping him to leave him alone,” she continued. “Surely he’d be able to control himself better if he had a proper shelter, and food, and medicine. . . .” She went to the mirror and started pinning up her hair with quick, well-practiced moves.
“He can take care of himself, I promise. The best thing you can do to help Edward is to show me those letters. What floor is your father’s study on?”
“Oh Juliet, surely not now, with everyone arriving!”
“Your father will be distracted. We might not have another chance soon.”
She bit her lip, then went to the table and grabbed our masks. She shoved a handful of pins at me and said, “All right, but fix your hair, for the love of god; you look like some sort of savage with your hair down.”
She twisted the key in the lock and peeked out. The hallway was quiet, with the only sounds coming from the party starting downstairs. I fumbled to twist my hair up in the pins as we darted across the hall. The shoes pinched my feet, but there was nothing I could do about that now. We climbed down the narrow servants’ stairs quiet as mice in our elegant ball gowns, until they opened to a long hallway lined with doors. Lucy tiptoed to one and pressed her ear to it, then twisted the doorknob.
Mr. Radcliffe’s study was everything my father’s wasn’t. Father had been meticulous in his organization, so his desk was always cleared at the end of each day, save a single container for fountain pens and a ream of fresh paper for note taking. In contrast, Mr. Radcliffe’s study was covered in a mess of crumpled papers in all manner of disorder, as well as boxes and deliveries stacked on the floor and in the single chair. Gilded framed portraits hung on the walls, the illustrious Radcliffe ancestors, no doubt.
“I found the letters in one of these piles,” Lucy said, rushing toward the desk. “I remember what they look like. If they’re still here, I’ll find them.” She started combing through the piles with about as much disorder as her father. My heart thumped as the papers rustled. I dug through a few but there was no order to them—useless pages of ledgers and accounts from his railroad business. Quite large orders for automobile engines to the French government and some research company in Holland and a private citizen in Germany who must have been richer than Midas. My hand fell upon a stiff leather folder stamped with the King’s Club crest, and I drew in a quick breath.
Inside the folder, however, I found nothing of use. Only correspondence about the orphanage the King’s Club sponsored, along with a roster of the association’s current members and their charitable contributions for the year. The list contained twenty-four names. Radcliffe, Dr. Hastings, and Isambard Lessing, the German historian I’d caught the professor arguing with. Far more recognizable names too: Arthur Kenney, the London Times owner, Ambassador Claude Rochefort of France, a few lords and titled men, and several members of Parliament. A queasiness began in the pit of my stomach. I’d had no idea the King’s Club’s membership was so prominent, so far-reaching, with connections into France and Germany and beyond.
I finished sorting through several stacks but didn’t find Father’s letters, so I turned to the boxes instead, deliveries from an expensive tailor. I lifted the lids. A box full of crisp white shirts still smelling of tailor’s chalk. A smaller box of handkerchiefs monogrammed with the Radcliffe crest. I moved those aside and opened a tall blue hatbox.
Just a single peek inside made me jump up, silencing a scream. Lucy’s head jerked up from the papers at my alarm. I pointed a trembling finger to the hatbox, the urge to scream still rising in my throat.
“Inside that box,” I said at last, breath strained. “It isn’t a hat.”
She stepped around the desk cautiously, starting to bend down to open the lid before I grabbed her hands away and started to pull her toward the door.
“But the letters . . . ,” she started.
“Blast the letters, we’ll come back for them later.” When she still protested, I leaned forward. “It’s a brain.” I whispered.