The Girl in the Steel Corset

Chapter 6



Finley was still half-asleep when she was “summoned” to Griffin’s study late that morning. Her memories of the night before were somewhat foggy—as they always were when the darker side of her nature took over. She vaguely remembered Whitechapel and the enigmatic Jack Dandy—the thought of his dark eyes sent a tremor to the base of her spine. What had she been thinking going to such a place to see such a man?

She had to get this under control or someday her other half would get them—her—killed.

So it was with some trepidation that she entered the study, wearing an embroidered silver-silk dress of Oriental design—one of the more sedate clothing selections in her closet. It was sleeveless and had knee-high slits on either side. Over it she wore a cherry-red corset with little silver dragons stitched on. The clothing felt appropriate—like armor for going into battle.

Where had the clothing come from? More hand-me-downs from the absent aunt? Or had the duke actually purchased the items for her? She hoped it was the former. She couldn’t afford to repay the latter.

Had he heard of her adventure and decided to turn her out? She’d been cast into the street before, so there was no need for this sudden chill of fear—except that Griffin had made her think he could help her and she desperately wanted that help.

She didn’t want to live like this—as though something crawled beneath her skin wanting out. It was getting worse. Last night, she’d had no control over herself and she’d walked boldly into very dangerous territory. Fortunately, the “other her” seemed to be right at home with danger and had managed to escape in one piece.

Griffin’s head turned at her arrival. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, dressed in a white shirt, dark plum waistcoat, black trousers and boots. His hair looked mussed, as though he’d been running his hands through it. He had a woman beside him. A pretty woman about Finley’s size but older, and much more refined in a silky gray gown in the latest fashion. She had to be family because she and Griff had the same eyes—like a spring sky about to be taken over by storm clouds. When she turned her head, Finley saw the fine chains that ran from her nose to ear. But it wasn’t until those stormy eyes met hers and she felt a strange sensation in her head that Finley knew this woman was anything but ordinary.

The thing inside her reared up like a giant hand and came crashing down on the buzzing in her brain, squashing it like a bug.

The woman flinched.

“I beg your pardon,” Finley said, a little shaken at having been protected by that shadow of herself—at needing to be protected, “but isn’t it a little rude to crawl about in someone’s mind without permission?”

Griffin’s expression was all surprise and censure as he glanced at his companion. “Aunt Delia, you didn’t.”

The woman rubbed two fingers against her temple. “I did, but I was promptly shut out.” She looked at Finley in a manner that was both distrusting and respectful. “Well done.”

Finley didn’t know what to say to that, and since there was no way to explain it, she kept silent. Griffin spoke instead, introducing her to the woman, who was his aunt Cordelia, Lady Marsden, recently returned to London.

“Cordelia is a telepath,” Griff explained. “And telekinetic. That is to say—”

“She has a very powerful mind,” Finley interrupted. “I’ve noticed.” Not only because the woman had tried to intrude upon her thoughts, but because she’d held out her arm toward one of the bookcases and a leather-bound journal had flown off the shelf into her hand.

“That must make you very entertaining at parties,” Finley said to the woman, a tad snidely.

“And at court,” Lady Marsden replied with equal bite. She passed the book to Griffin. “Tell me, Miss Jayne, is your mother’s name Mary by any chance?”

“It is,” Finley replied, trying not to look too shocked. “What else did you see inside my mind?”

“The only thing I saw in your head, my girl, was my nephew’s visage next to that of Jack Dandy. Might I say what interesting company you keep.”

Finley flushed as Griff stared at her, but she held the older woman’s gaze. It was obvious that Griff’s aunt neither liked nor trusted her. “Who I see is none of your concern, ma’am.”

The woman stiffened. “While you’re in this house—”

“She’s my concern,” Griffin interjected. “Not yours, Aunt, and this conversation is getting way off track. Why don’t you enlighten both Miss Jayne and me as to how you knew her mother’s name?”

Lady Marsden looked both mollified and embarrassed. She no doubt was not accustomed to her nephew speaking to her in such a manner in front of others. “It’s in the book,” she said with a lift of her chin. The book in Griff’s hands opened, the pages seeming to flip on their own, though Finley knew it was the power of his aunt’s mind that moved them. Finally, they lay still, open to a page of photographs.

Finley moved closer, drawn by her own curiosity. She stood beside Griff and peered at one of the tea-colored images adhered to the page. It depicted a small group of people standing next to a strange vehicle that looked like a metal carriage with a large drill on the front of it. The man standing closest to it with his hand on the vehicle looked so much like Griff he could only be his father, the late duke. Next to him was a beautiful woman she took to be the duchess. There were other people, as well, but Finley gave them little notice as her gaze fell upon the man and the woman farthest away. The man she didn’t recognize, but the woman she did. Though this photograph had to have been taken almost twenty years ago, she knew her mother’s face.

Astonished, she looked up and saw Griff’s aunt watching her warily. “This is my mother,” she said unnecessarily.

Lady Marsden inclined her head. “Yes.”

“Who’s the man with her?” Griffin asked.

His aunt smiled tightly. “That would be Thomas Sheppard. He was a great scientist.” Her gaze cut to Finley. “And Mary’s husband.”

The bottom of Finley’s stomach felt as though it had dropped to the floor. “But that would mean…”

Lady Marsden nodded. “Your father, yes.”

Finley had always despised those girls who fainted anytime something fantastic or surprising happened, but at that moment she felt as though her knees might give way. Her head spun and she clutched at Griff’s arm for support.

She had never seen a photo of her father before this day. He mother said she hadn’t any.

“My father’s name was Thomas Jayne, not Thomas Sheppard.” Even if she said the words, they tasted like a lie. There was enough of her own looks in Thomas Sheppard’s face to prove his indentity.

“Then perhaps we should call upon your mother,” Lady Marsden suggested, a note of challenge in her voice. “I had heard that Thomas and Mary had a daughter they named Finley Jane Sheppard. What a coincidence you made your way here after all these years, your parents having been so closely tied to my brother and his wife.”

Finley stared at her and finally understood. Her ladyship thought she’d machinated all of this to get into Griffin’s household. She believed Finley to be capable of throwing herself in front of a moving vehicle, risking injury to capture His Grace’s attention. Seeing Jack Dandy in her thoughts only solidified what Cordelia King-Ashworth already believed—that Finley was a liar, possibly a criminal and not to be trusted. That her being in that house was simply too much of a coincidence.

To be honest, Finley thought exactly the same thing. She’d never been much for believing in destiny or fate, but it certainly seemed as though she and Griffin had been connected long before they’d ever met.

“Yes,” she agreed, obviously surprising Lady Marsden. “We should visit my mother.” In truth, she’d rather stick pins in her eye. She didn’t want to hear what her mother had to say about the photograph and Thomas Sheppard, not because she thought her mother would lie, but because she was very much afraid of the truth.



Sam was sitting at the dining-room table, reading the paper and eating his usual breakfast of oatmeal, sausage, ham, eggs, fried potatoes, toast and coffee when Griffin walked in.

“Hello, Samuel,” Griff said, going to the sideboard and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Sam’s spine went rigid. Had Emily put metal in his back, too? he wondered bitterly, waiting for his friend to make some remark about it being closer to luncheon than breakfast time, or to ask what hour Sam had returned home. It was none of Griff’s business, and it wasn’t as though he ever felt the need to explain himself. Sam could come and go as he pleased, as well, but that didn’t change the little worm of guilt swimming uneasily in his stomach.

“Morning,” Sam replied somewhat gruffly.

“Did you sleep well?” the other boy inquired.

Here it came, thought Sam. An interrogation. “Yes.”

Griff nodded. “Excellent. Listen, Aunt Delia is back. She and I are taking Finley to visit her mother. Seems there may be a connection between Finley’s father and my parents.”

This was what he’d missed by being out late and sleeping the morning away. He knew there was more to Finley than they first thought, and now it seemed they were about to find out just what. Though he ought to thank her for taking Griffin’s attention off him.

“Do you need me to come along?”

“No need. Although, if Emily comes down, let her know what’s going on, will you?”

Emily. The thought of seeing her again filled him with a mix of eagerness and dread. He’d been so angry at her, so hurt and…well, he didn’t know what else. He was still angry, still hurt, but he knew he should apologize.

“I’ll tell her,” he said, noticing that Griff had been watching him, waiting for a reply.

His old friend smiled. To Sam, Griffin looked relieved. “Thank you. And, Sam?”

He had lifted his fork in an attempt to resume his rapidly cooling breakfast, and gritted his teeth as he raised his head once more. “What?”

The smile, and the relief were gone. All that he saw was Griff’s unapologetic face. “I told Emily to do whatever necessary to save your life. If you’re going to be mad at anyone, it should be me.”

Too stunned to say anything, Sam just sat there in stupefied silence. Coffee in hand, Griff left the room without a backward glance and all Sam could do was watch him go as betrayal and anger ignited in his gut and slowly set him ablaze.

Were he not so bloody hungry, he would have thrown his plate, but someone would have to clean that up. Instead, he finished his breakfast. Then, he got up and went to Griff’s study. He stood there, in the room he’d spent so much time in during the course of his life, and looked for something to destroy that hadn’t belonged to the former duke, that was solely Griffin’s.

His gaze fell upon the Aether engine Emily had built so Griffin could access the Aether without becoming part of it. It was a testament to Emily’s brilliance and Griff’s power. If he ruined it, both of them would be hurt by it. Both of them would feel as he did at that very moment—betrayed, bewildered.

It would be so easy. The engine was right in front of him now. His mechanical arm would reduce the entire rig to rubble in seconds. All he had to do was make a fist and swing.

“I replaced your heart.” The words rang in his head as his fingers curled into his palm. “If you’re going to be mad at anyone, it should be me.” The voices of Emily and Griff overlapped in his mind, creating a cacophony of misery he couldn’t silence.

They had ruined him out of love. Ruining this thing the two of them had built might ease his anger, but he wouldn’t feel good about it. He would want to apologize later. Neither Griff nor Emily would ever apologize for what they’d done to him because it had saved his life. To them that was all that mattered. Even now, knowing how angry he was and how much he despised the metal parts of himself, they would do it all over again because they would rather have him as a mess than not have him at all.

It wouldn’t even matter that he loathed them for it.

Sam lowered his fist and left the study. He wrote a note for Emily telling her where Griffin had gone and slipped it under her door. Then he went to his own room. He tossed some clothes and a few personal items into a bag before heading to the stables and climbing on his velocycle. He needed to get away. He needed to think.

Most of all, he needed to put as much space as he could between himself and the people who loved him.



Finley’s mother and her husband lived in Chelsea, which was just enough of a distance to make being stuck in a steam carriage with Griffin and his aunt uncomfortable.

Finley had never been in a carriage this fine before. The outside was a glossy black, the driver perched up high in a padded seat. Plumes of white steam rose from the shiny exhaust pipe that ran from the steam engine up the side of the carriage. The interior was all soft velvet, so dark a blue it was almost black. Though there were lamps on either wall for nighttime travel, it was dim inside the coach with the shades drawn.

They didn’t speak. There were a hundred and one questions she wanted to ask, but there wasn’t any point until they met with her mother. If what Lady Marsden said was true, then her mother had lied to her when she was a child and continued to lie until this very day. Why?

She sat next to the lady on the carriage seat. Griffin sat across from them, looking every inch the haughty duke in his pristine cravat, black jacket and dark gray trousers. He wore a long black greatcoat of soft leather over the ensemble, and carried a silver-topped walking stick. She had heard of gentlemen carrying swords concealed in their canes. She wondered if Griffin was such a gentleman.

Every once in a while she caught him watching her with absolutely no expression on his face or in his eyes. He must be a very good card player. It made her nervous. It made that other part of her nervous, too—nervous and indignant. Part of her wanted to slap him, even though she didn’t blame him for thinking the worst of her.

Finley opened the shade on her window just enough so that she could peek out at the passing scenery. She leaned her temple against the velvet-covered wall and watched hackney coaches, still pulled by horses, lumber past. Omnibuses, run by coal-fed engines cast grime-laden soot—like dark thunderclouds—into the damp air. Public transportation was nowhere near as luxurious as this vehicle. She doubted the Duke of Greythorne or his snooty aunt had ever seen the inside of an omnibus, or the third-class seating section in a dirigible—nor the second-class section, for that matter. They took this opulence for granted.

She didn’t know whether she envied them or pitied them. What must it be like to have all these fine things and not truly appreciate just how fine they were?

The rhythmic chugging of the carriage’s engine lulled her into a false sense of relaxation despite the questions gnawing at her mind. The rain had stopped but the day was still overcast and gray, making her long for a fire and warm bed to hide in. She would pull the covers up over her head and sleep until this nightmare was all over.

She was almost asleep, just drifting in that weightless, careless world between waking and dreaming, when she felt a push inside her head. It was ever so faint, like the brush of a butterfly’s wing, but she felt it.

Lady Marsden was trying to get inside her head again.

This time Finley didn’t immediately terminate the telepath’s rude intrusion. Instead, it was as though some part of her mind got up off a sofa, walked calmly across the room and slowly, but firmly, closed a door to shut her out.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Griffin’s aunt turn her head toward her, so Finley angled her own head, still resting near the window, to meet the older woman’s gaze.

“What are you?” Lady Marsden asked, not bothering to hide her surprise. Obviously the lady was not accustomed to being caught snooping, let alone shut down twice.

“I have no idea,” Finley replied honestly. She started to turn back to the window but Griff was staring at her with a glint in his eye she found hard to ignore. He watched her as though she was some kind of exotic animal—one he thought might bite him, even as he was sticking his hand into the cage.

Why had he been able to soothe her so easily before? Why hadn’t she felt him in her head as she felt his aunt? Or was his “magic” something different?

What did he think of her now? More importantly how could her parents possibly have known his? They were from two different worlds. He was rich and Finley and her mother had been anything but before her mother’s remarriage. Even still, Finley had decided to go out on her own and support herself rather than be a burden.

Silas Burke’s bookstore was located in Russell Square. He and Finley’s mother lived in a set of comfortable rooms above the shop. Finley had lived there, as well, until eight months ago when she moved out to go work as a nanny. That post had lasted a little longer than the others, but once her mercurial moods began to frighten the children, she was let go. At least they gave her a good reference.

There were a few curious stares as they stepped out of the carriage, first Griffin who then stood to assist both his aunt and Finley. Silas Burke, Bookseller, did a good business and books were something only people with money could afford to purchase, but dukes were rare in the peerage and seeing one was always something of an event. Seeing someone they recognized as one of their own—in this case, Finley—in the company of a duke was even more exciting. More gossip worthy.

But as soon as Finley stepped inside the shop, her ire and anxiety eased as negative feelings always did when she caught the smell of paper, ink and leather mixed with her stepfather’s sweet pipe tobacco.

Fanny, the spindly automaton that assisted around the store, was at the shelves, placing a volume on the top of one of the many ceiling-high cases, her long arm extending even farther with a series of clicks and pops until it had the desired reach. The book slid easily onto the shelf and then Fanny’s arm retracted. The automaton needed a good oiling judging by the grinding sound that accompanied the movement.

“Hullo, Fanny,” Finley greeted with a smile, not expecting to hear a reply—Fanny didn’t have a voice box as some new metal did, nor was she programmed to respond. Still, Finley had always talked to the ancient android, and it seemed wrong not to do the same now.

She didn’t see either Silas or her mother, but it was luncheon time for working folk. Griffin and his aunt wouldn’t take their repast for another two hours, and they would still be enjoying their supper when Finley’s mother readied for bed. She didn’t feel any resentment for these differences, but they did make her wonder just what the devil she was doing in their company when it was so obvious she didn’t belong.

The bell over the door had chimed when they entered. By now, her stepfather would be on his way back down here. Finley blocked out all other sounds and listened. She heard Silas’s voice, and the opening of a door.

“My stepfather is on his way,” she told her companions, a bit of her nervousness returning.

Lady Marsden regarded her closely. “You can hear him.” It was a statement, not a question, so Finley didn’t bother to respond. It was almost as though the marchioness was accusing her of something nasty. She felt guilty just standing there in what was essentially her own home.

When the door that led upstairs opened at the back of the shop, Finley ran to greet her stepfather and was met with a pair of open arms.

Silas Burke was of moderate height and build. In fact, everything about him was moderate—his temperament, his income, his appearance. He was nothing extraordinary except to his wife and stepdaughter.

“Oh, ho!” he cried, practically sweeping off her feet. “Look who we have here! Mary, see who’s come for a visit!”

Smiling, Finley looked up into his warm brown eyes, framed by deep grooves that proved his good nature. When she heard her mother’s footsteps on the stairs, she stepped out from around Silas to greet her, as well. More hugging and laughing followed. It wasn’t until her mother stepped into the store for introductions that Finley remembered she wasn’t there for a pleasant visit. Her mother’s pale face as she stared at Lady Marsden made Finley’s stomach drop.

“What are you doing here?” her mother demanded of Lady Marsden, drawing a shocked glance from her husband.

“Mary!” he exclaimed, his face flushing. It was terribly rude to speak to a lady of rank in such a tone, but Finley’s mother wasn’t about to apologize.

“I told you people to leave us alone.” Her mother practically trembled with rage. “Edward said we were safe—that we would never be bothered again.”

“You know each other?” Not that Finley needed an acknowledgment, but she wanted to hear it all the same.

It was Lady Marsden who answered. “We used to. Although, Mrs. Burke and I haven’t seen each other since I was but a girl. Edward was my late brother. How are you, Mary?”

Finley frowned. For Griffin’s aunt to refer to her mother by her Christian name, or for her mother to refer to the late duke in a similar manner, they must have known each other very well indeed at one time. Her only consolation in this confusion was that Griffin didn’t seem any more aware of what was going on than she was.

Her mother, back stiff as a board, replied, “I was very well until a few moments ago.”

There could be no mistaking the insult this time. “Mama, we need to talk to you,” Finley said, taking control before her mother did something foolish like toss the marchioness out of the shop. “May we go upstairs where it’s more private?”

Her mother looked as though she’d rather swallow rat poison than go anywhere with Lady Marsden, but the gentle slump of her shoulders signaled defeat. That innocent gesture formed a cannonball of dread in Finley’s gut. She wasn’t sure she wanted to have this conversation anymore, no matter how much she wanted to discover how to fix what was wrong with her.

The lot of them climbed the stairs in single file, Finley’s mother leading the way and Silas at the rear. He’d even gone so far as to flip the Closed sign over and lock the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed.

Burke’s home was a comfortable space—certainly not as grand as the Duke of Greythorne’s mansion, but welcoming and warm. Fitzhugh, the family cat, trotted over to Finley and twined himself between her ankles before rubbing his head against Griffin’s calf. To his credit, the duke bent down with a smile to pet the fluffy orange tom.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” he spoke, rising to offer Silas his hand. “It’s just that I discovered a strange connection between our families and I’d like to learn more. I’m sure Finley would, as well.”

Mary’s eyebrow rose at the familiar use of her daughter’s name, and Finley blushed a little. She straightened her shoulders. “Mama, how is it possible that you and my father knew His Grace’s parents?” She couldn’t help but sound incredulous. It was too strange to fathom. “Is it true that my father was Thomas Sheppard, not Thomas Jayne?”

Her mother looked as though she might be ill. Surprisingly, Lady Marsden came to the rescue. “Perhaps we should sit?”

Mary nodded. Her face was pale, but she led the way to the small parlor where Finley had often lain about and read on a Sunday afternoon.

They seated themselves almost as if preparing for battle— The Burkes on one sofa, Griffin and his aunt on the other. This left Finley to sit by herself in a high-backed chair. How appropriate that she be odd man out, as that was actually how she felt.

“I’m not certain where to start,” her mother remarked, a hint of anxiety in her voice.

Silas reached over and took her hand in his own. “The beginning is often a good place.”

Mary smiled at him. For the first time in her short life, Finley was jealous of their relationship. She wanted someone to look at her like that—like she hung the moon and stars.

“Thomas Sheppard—your father—and I met the previous Duke of Greythorne more than twenty years ago. It was at a scientific lecture your father was giving on the dual nature of man. The two immediately struck up a friendship despite the difference in social stature. The duke became something of a patron to Thomas, funding many of his experiments.” As she spoke, a faint smile curved her lips.

Finley stared at her mother. How could she not have heard any of this before? Why had Mama lied about her true surname? Her father must have been a brilliant man, an important man, and yet her mother rarely spoke of him. She didn’t ask this, however, but allowed her mother to reveal what she would.

“Thomas often experimented on himself when no other subject was available. He believed man’s evil side the result of an imbalance in the humors. Purity was the balance of the four—sanguine, melancholy, phlegmatic and choleric. By creating an imbalance in any number of the four, he believed he would discover a way to treat not only criminal behavior, but madness, as well.” Mary shot a pointed look at Lady Marsden. “Greythorne agreed and sanctioned further research. He even gave Thomas compounds to work with. One night, I watched as he took one of the new potions himself.” She stopped, but no one made a sound. Even Lady Marsden was watching with noticeable sympathy in her eyes.

Finley stared at her mother, who had dropped her gaze to her own trembling fingers. “That night I watched as my husband became…” She pressed her fingers to her mouth as her voice broke. Her other hand still held tightly to Silas’s. “He became a different man, in every way. His appearance changed and he became like a wild thing, base and crass. I didn’t know what to do so I sent for the duke. He made Thomas drink another potion that turned him back to his former self. The two of them laughed and celebrated—congratulating each other as though my husband’s turning into a monster was a good thing!” At this point, Mary’s attention jerked to Griffin, as though pleading with him to understand.

And Griffin, it seemed, did. “They continued with the experiments, didn’t they?”

Mary nodded. “Thomas continued to use himself as a subject oftentimes, with varying degrees of results. There were nights that I left the house altogether for fear of what he might become.”

Finley made a small sound low in her throat. Things were becoming all too clear now. “Did he… Was he conducting these experiments before I was born?”

Her mother could barely look at her, hesitated, then nodded. A hot, prickly sensation raced from the top of Finley’s head straight to her stomach. For a moment, she thought she might actually swoon.

She was the way she was because her father had been experimenting on himself when he impregnated her mother. He had made her this way. How could she ever fix what was wrong with her when it was in her blood?

She looked at Griffin, who had an almost apologetic expression on his face. Of course he would look that way—his father had encouraged hers to become a monster. But Lady Marsden’s expression was almost triumphant, satisfied—as though she’d forced Finley to own up to a lie.

She believed Finley had known this all along. That Finley had been using Griffin to get revenge.

Rage washed over her with the swiftness of a sudden wind, tearing down the delicate walls she’d built inside herself to protect what she considered the “good” side of herself from the bad. In an instant Finley went from sitting demurely in her chair to seizing Lady Marsden by the throat, lifting her, the fingers of her right hand like claws, itching to tear out those damnable mocking eyes.

Behind her, her mother and stepfather cried out, but neither made a move to stop her.

“Would you like to know what I’m thinking now?” Finley asked, almost fully controlled by her darker nature. She could snap this woman’s frail neck.

Lady Marsden’s eyes widened, but she made no other move. Finley felt a slight push against her mind—a sweet voice cajoling her to let go. Mentally, she squashed it like a bug beneath her boot. Crunchy.

The marchioness winced. One would think the silly woman would know better by now.

Finley smiled. “You annoy me, your ladyship. In a most vexing manner.”

And then a strong hand gripped her arm—the one poised to strike above her ladyship’s face. “She’s not the one you want to hurt,” Griffin said in that melodic voice of his.

Finley turned her head, but she didn’t let go. “No? Because I have to tell you, this feels pretty good right now.”

He reached over and took hold of her other wrist, as well. Gently, but firmly, he pulled her hand from his aunt’s neck. Finley let him do it. She knew she was physically stronger than he was, but there was something about his voice and the way he spoke to her that took the anger out of her and made her want to do what he said. That terrified her even as the darkness eased from her soul. What else could he make her do if he wanted?

She whirled on him, but he kept his hold on one of her wrists. His other hand, instead of coming up to defend himself as she thought it would, circled her waist, pulling her against him. He hugged her. Letting go of her wrist, he cupped the back of her head, holding her so her face was in the crook of his neck. He smelled warm and spicy—like cinnamon and cloves. Safe, and comforting. As he held her, he murmured soft words. She wasn’t even sure if any of them made sense, but she listened all the same, too shocked by this display of concern—of trust. It would take little effort for her to hurt him right now. She could hurt him badly.

But Griffin King could hurt her, as well, and he hadn’t. Instead of using force or violence against her, he used patience and understanding. She had no defense against that.

When he let her go, she was shaking. Tears filled her eyes as she turned to her mother who stood staring at her in horror.

“My sweet little girl,” her mother whispered. “I didn’t know. I would never…” Her words faded into a choked sob. Finley crossed the short distance between them on quivering legs and wrapped her arms around the shorter woman. She didn’t care if Griffin or his nasty aunt saw her tears. If anything was worth crying over, the discovery that her father had made her a monster had to be one.