I smiled grimly. Before I could stop myself, I threw open the glass cabinet and grabbed the jar with both hands, struggling to unscrew the lid. The squirming thing snapped at me ravenously. I hugged the jar to my chest and tipped the contents onto the floor. The glutinous liquid splashed against my feet as it puddled in the center of the room. The thing caught in the jar’s neck and I shook it loose. It fell to the floor with a squish.
I ground the heel of my boot into the fleshy center of the flopping thing. Something crunched. I dug deeper until I cut the unholy thing in half.
Madness overcame me like a whirlwind. I threw the jar to the ground with all my strength, letting it shatter into hundreds of sharp pieces. I pulled out another jar, this one with a graying heart floating in blood-tinted liquid. The liquid poured out like a torrent, puddling on the floor, the heart coming last, like a heavy and dead afterthought. The smell of the chemical preservative made me light-headed. My lungs burned for air, but I smashed the empty jar to the floor anyway. Dozens more jars of all sizes shone in the light of the lantern, each containing gray, twisted bits of organ. Nearly a decade’s worth of work.
My hands were slick with the viscous fluid. It soaked through my dress. Remnants of animal tissue tangled in the lace hem. I unscrewed the next jar, my fingers leaving wet streaks on the glass. Inside, the aged tissue came off in gossamer sheets like a spider’s web. It was almost beautiful. I recognized what half the jars contained—spleen, large intestine, brain. But then there were ones I didn’t know. Those both disturbed and fascinated me the most.
The floor pooled with fetid organs and slick preservatives as I emptied jar after jar. I drew the back of my hand across my forehead, leaving a slimy trail. The chemicals choked my pores. I smiled, reaching for the next preserved organ. Ready to smash its glass case to the ground.
“Juliet, stop!”
Edward appeared at the door, rushing toward me. He grabbed the jar before I could drop it. My liquid-covered hands left dark stains on his shirt as he tried to wrench the jar away.
“Let go!” I yelled. My vision was black with rage. “I have to destroy it!”
“Juliet, calm down! Stop! It’s done.”
The jar slipped from my hands, shattering on the ground. One final act of destruction.
Edward didn’t flinch at the crash. “It’s done now,” he said, breathing hard.
I swallowed, suddenly aware of the slime on my face, the bits of graying organ clinging to my skin. I’d laid waste the laboratory in a whirlwind of insanity. A trembling panic clutched the back of my brain.
“He could have saved my mother,” I said. “He thought his work was more important.”
Edward brushed his knuckles against my cheek, wiping away grit and slime, his eyes deep and strong. “You don’t have to explain,” he said.
I swallowed, searching his eyes. Of course I didn’t. Edward was scarred, too. Whatever he had done, whatever he was running from, we weren’t so different. Edward didn’t care that I was a little mad, that I could slip and slide away from reason. Just as I didn’t care what he had done that made him flee England. We both had ghosts in our pasts that let us understand each other on a deep level—a level Montgomery never could. Montgomery might be capable of wicked things, but he wasn’t wicked, not at the core. No matter how much Father had twisted him, he would always be that hardworking, kindhearted boy who couldn’t tell a believable lie if his life depended on it. Edward and I were cut from different cloth. Maybe we weren’t wicked, but there was something stained, something torn, in the fabric of our beings.
Something warm and wet seeped into my boots—fluid from the specimen jars. Edward’s hand tenderly took my own. There was something not right about a boy who could survive twenty days at sea and didn’t blink when a half-mad girl covered herself in broken glass and rotting organs.
He’s pretending to fit in, just like I pretend. And he was good at it—better than me.
I curled my hands into his shirt. “What happened to you?” I whispered breathlessly. “What are you running from?”
For a moment his gold-flecked eyes flickered, and he knew I wasn’t referring to his overbearing father. I meant what he truly ran from—the source of his deep-seated scars. He shook his head, almost violently. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll go back to London and none of it will matter. It’ll just be you and me. Juliet …”
I knew what he wanted to say. He loved me. He loved the half-mad, filthy girl standing in a pool of formaldehyde. But he would come back to his senses once we were in London. He’d hide his scars, as he was so good at doing, and find a girl like Lucy—sweet, rich, sane. And that’s how it should be. Besides, I’d already made my choice. Montgomery.
But then why did I still think about the cave behind the waterfall? Why did my thoughts slip from Montgomery’s face to Edward’s late at night, in the instant before sleep overcame me?