“You too. Try not to pick a fight with Tuffins as he lets you ou—!” But the final word became a yelp as a sharp ceramic edge drew a ragged cut over my palm, blood pooling up over the torn flesh.
Mr. Braddock was gone. I stared down at the glassy red coloring my hand, both nauseated and abstractly intrigued by the sight of my own blood. It welled into a small pool and dripped onto the wine-stained dirt below.
I carefully wrapped a handkerchief around my palm and headed upstairs to wash the cut clean. But when I took it off mere minutes later, only smooth, unbroken skin stared back up at me. I began to wonder exactly how much wine I had drunk. It could not have been enough for me to hallucinate, could it?
I hastened to my reticule, wildly grabbing a card—Mr. Kent’s, actually—and sliced at my finger, causing a stinging paper cut. Though the graze still smarted, I watched closely as my skin knit itself back together in a matter of seconds.
The room spun. The blood on the handkerchief was all I could see, mocking me. I could no longer ignore the evidence.
I truly had the ability to heal.
“I’M SORRY, MR. Braddock,” I forced out. “You were right. I believe you now.”
My reflection managed to keep a mostly straight face.
Close enough. It had taken at least fifty tries in front of the looking glass before I had steeled myself to the point where I wouldn’t gag during this. Though nothing could be done about the wince.
The only way I could even stomach an apology was by avoiding the fact that Mr. Braddock had been right and instead concentrating on my newfound powers. Powers. It still conjured up the same feelings it had hours ago—a sort of humbling awe at all the possibilities it opened up in the world. There was no word for it. It wasn’t just amazing. Spectacular did not fit, nor simply astonishing or fantastic. Everything seemed to be an understatement.
I stared down at my arm, holding it up to the light. If I were a normal girl, my arm would still be covered with all the small nicks and scrapes I had given myself throughout the morning. Instead, they had all closed up within seconds, my skin left as smooth as it had ever been. Not even the faintest scar.
In a daze, I peeked out of my bedroom window and concentrated on the street. There was no denying my body’s ability to repair itself, but it still felt wrong to think I had the power to heal others. That had always been Rose! Perhaps Miss Lodge had simply had a good day. But an irrepressible smile found its way to my face when I contemplated every detail. My hand ran along the chilly pane, the sturdy sill, and the soft drapes as I asked myself the same question I had been asking myself through the entire blur of a day.
No, I wasn’t dreaming.
A sudden knock at my door startled me and sent me across the room.
“Y-yes?” I asked through the open crack.
“Mr . . . Wyndham has arrived, Miss Wyndham,” Tuffins said softly. “He waits in a carriage outside.”
“Did Lady Kent hear?”
“She is currently occupied with Miss Kent in the parlor. I did not think it necessary to disturb them.”
“Tuffins, you are a delight.”
His head bowed, and his footsteps faded away. The time had come. I felt a certain giddiness and wondered what was more unexpected: these powers or the fact that I actually wanted to see Mr. Braddock.
With Laura distracting her mother and Tuffins keeping the rest of the staff busy, I slid on my mask, crept out into the quiet hallway, made a hasty dash down two flights of stairs, and flew out the door without anyone glimpsing my dress. In a flurry of red silk, I leaped into the hansom (and nearly onto Mr. Braddock), and we were off. I hoped to God no one was watching.
My breath returned as I observed my escort. He was wearing the same black coat and trousers from the evening of Sir Winston’s ball. No strange clothes, altered features, or even a false mustache. He cared not one whit about his reputation.
“Fine disguise,” I said.
He stared me up and down with wide eyes. He did not have to say anything—I knew I looked like a tart. But with Laura’s hideous and inappropriate red dress barely secured on my shoulders (it was as bosom bearing as I had feared), her ornately carved, gilded mask fit snugly over my eyes, and the makeup painted on my face, I was also virtually unrecognizable.
“What on earth possessed you to wear that?” he finally asked, voice terribly low, averting his eyes to stare at his hands.
“You’re all kindness,” I replied.
He frowned. “You completely disregarded my advice.”
“I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring my extensive mask collection to London in my trunk. I had to make do. And you said nothing about my dress.”
“That should have been self-evident. Instead of blending in, you will be the center of attention.”
“Well, it can’t be changed now. Do you want to pull out your copy of She Walks in Beauty and spend the next hour acting moody?”
“Why don’t—” He stopped abruptly and took a breath. “Normally I’m good at being polite, but with you, I have to try very hard.”