The other half would know what to do.
Behind the mask my lips were trembling. It was too much. I pushed into the crowd, my breath moist and hot beneath the papier-maché mask. The flour paste and newsprint tasted thick in my mouth. Newsprint . . . headlines . . . my mask might be made out of reports of Edward’s murders. I was suffocating. The lace around the edges of my mask irritated my skin and made me want to rip it off and fill my lungs with fresh air.
Where was Lucy? Was the crowd growing, or was it just in my head?
From the corner of the eyehole I saw the glass-paned balcony door and stumbled toward it. The handle was slick in my sweating palm. I twisted it and went out into the cold night and the solitude of the empty balcony. I caught myself against the railing and tore at my mask’s ribbon until I could rip the thing off, gulping fresh air, making a mess of my hair.
The stars were out.
It was rare to see the stars in London, where the soot from coal chimneys and factory lights polluted the sky. I rubbed my bare shoulders for warmth. Snow covered the hedges and empty flowerbeds of the garden below. Lucy and I used to play hide-and-seek in those hedges, a lifetime ago.
I turned the mask over to look at it. The red paint had bled a little and a few of the sequins had fallen off when I’d ripped the ribbon from my hair.
Is this how Edward feels too—half a person, split in two?
I heard the door open and footsteps behind me. I turned to find a tall man in a golden mask and instinctively stepped back, afraid my thoughts had manifested Edward into reality.
“Hello, Miss Moreau.” The man removed his mask to reveal a familiar sweep of chestnut hair and white teeth. John Newcastle. Two weeks ago seeing a police officer would have terrified me; now I had far greater worries than an inspector besotted with my best friend.
“Inspector,” I said.
He motioned to the party. “Needed some fresh air, did you? You’re not the only one.” He offered me his glass of champagne, but I shook my head. Intoxication meant lowering my guard, which I didn’t dare do, especially now that he and I, the two people best suited to protect Lucy, weren’t by her side.
“No, thank you,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be with Lucy? I think she was looking for you earlier.”
“Truly?” He had been looking up at the stars, but at my words faced me with surprise. “I thought she never cared to see me again. She told you about the proposal, no doubt.”
I nodded. “You shouldn’t lose hope,” I said, hoping for a glimpse of her green silk dress through the glass door. “Perhaps a proposal was too strong. Don’t press so hard this early.”
He leaned casually against the brick balustrades with the champagne flute in hand. “I must say, Miss Moreau, I had the distinct impression you didn’t care for me. That makes your advice all the more surprising, but I’m grateful.” He tipped the glass back and downed his drink in one swallow, then set it on the balustrade next to him. “Perhaps you’ve also changed your mind about helping to solve your father’s case? I realize this isn’t the proper place for such a conversation; you must forgive me. . . .”
I folded my arms tightly, suddenly very aware of the cold. “I’m afraid I haven’t. Some things are best left in the past.”
“It isn’t wise to let something like this go unresolved. Until the case is closed, your father will be in your mind—and in the mind of the public. His death has never been more than a rumor. A dead cat was found in Cheshire six months ago, vivisected alive. A distasteful prank, we believe. But rumors could start so easily. Who’s to say Henri Moreau isn’t back in England, picking up where he left off—”
“He’s dead,” I said, unable to hear more. The thought of that cat, prank or not, filled me with malaise. I raised my hand to my aching head but it grazed the champagne flute, which slipped and fell to the ground below with a shattering of glass.
Inspector Newcastle didn’t flinch. “How do you know that? Have you had contact with him? Am I to believe—”
“Believe what you like,” I interrupted, angry with myself for the slip. I shouldn’t have let a mere mention of Father get under my skin. I picked up my mask and headed for the door. “I assure you he’s dead. You can close your case and stop asking me about it.”