Her Dark Curiosity

Her eyes went wide as she backed away from the box. “Are you certain?”

 

 

“I know what a human brain preserved in a jar of formaldehyde looks like,” I said. “We’ve got to get out of here. Go to the party, act as though nothing’s happened. He can’t suspect that we know.”

 

“How can I act like Papa doesn’t have a brain in a hatbox?”

 

“You must, Lucy. Come on.”

 

I threw open the door, grabbing our masks on the way out, and we raced toward the spiral staircase. The music was louder here, as I put my own mask on and told Lucy to do the same. We hurried to the landing above the ballroom, where a tall man stood at the top of the stairs, presiding over his party.

 

The man turned his gaunt face to us.

 

Mr. Radcliffe.

 

Seeing his face turned my stomach. A man I’d known since childhood, yet a total stranger now. The entire time Mother and I were practically starving in the streets, he’d known Father was alive. He had corresponded with him. Sent him money. Even now he kept preserved organs in his study for who knew what purpose.

 

His eyes shifted to mine. They were a blue so light they were almost as white as the hair at his temples. It was all I could do to keep breathing beneath the mask. “There you are, Lucy. Your mother’s been looking all over for you.”

 

“Sorry, Papa,” Lucy stuttered. “Juliet had a bit of a hairpin emergency.”

 

He stood stiffly at the top of the stairs, still eyeing me.

 

“Is that you beneath that mask, Miss Moreau? Still causing trouble, are you?” His voice was light and teasing, but he didn’t smile. He offered us each one hand. “If I may. My daughter and our guest of honor shouldn’t enter a ball without an escort.”

 

I dared a glance at Lucy. We had no choice but to obey.

 

I slid my arm in his, and Lucy did the same, and arm in arm with a monster we joined the masquerade.

 

 

 

 

 

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

 

HarperCollins Publishers

 

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NINETEEN

 

 

 

 

THE MASQUERADE WAS IN full swing as Mr. Radcliffe led us down the sprawling spiral staircase. The music swelled to meet us, bringing with it delicate notes of laughter and the smell of cinnamon and fir boughs. I stepped carefully, squinting through my mask’s small eyeholes, trying not to step on my hem. Lucy was more practiced in these things and seemed to glide on air. No one would ever know she’d just learned that the man she loved was a monster, and that her father kept brains tucked away in hatboxes.

 

Halfway down the staircase, the full view of the ballroom swept out like a colorful sea. Masked couples in glittering gowns danced to the string quartet’s waltz beside tiny glowing candles on the Christmas tree. The swarm of partygoers was so dense that my head spun.

 

My fist tightened on the handrail instinctively, as the joints in my hand stiffened. The vertigo, the joint pain . . . my illness was coming, induced by stress. I nervously bit the inside of my cheek, trying to overcome the symptoms through willpower, until I tasted blood. A sudden high note from the violin made me gasp.

 

Mr. Radcliffe turned to me, his unmasked eyes like two microscopes on my thoughts. I cleared my throat and let him finish leading us down the stairs. At the base he kissed Lucy on her cheek and gave me a gentlemanly nod. The moment I could take my fingers away from his, I grabbed Lucy’s hand and dragged her into the chaos.

 

“Juliet, what will we do?” she hissed.

 

“Promise me you’ll stay close to Inspector Newcastle,” I whispered, searching the crowd for him. “I know you don’t care for him, but he’s an officer. You’ll be safe with him. Don’t leave his side for a moment, and then tomorrow come over to the professor’s house. We’ll figure out what to do when we can speak privately.”

 

She nodded, and we plunged into the deep of the partygoers. Couples swept together in their waltzes, separating us. I tried to ignore the vertigo creeping into my head and spun, looking for Lucy, but all I saw were masks. My too-tight shoes slipped on the polished floor, and I had to catch myself against a window.

 

A beautiful girl stared directly at me.

 

I started—it was a mirror, not a window. The girl was me.

 

In the red silk dress and mask, I hadn’t recognized myself. The girl in the mirror looked like a happier person, who belonged in this crowd. Her mask—my mask—was split down the middle, white on one side, a deep red to match my dress on the other. That was how I felt—half a person. The other half I’d left behind on the island. That was the stronger half, who knew how to move silently through jungle underbrush, who had fought a beast with six-inch long claws, who had stood up to my father.