He didn’t deserve a response.
“You attend church, yes?” he asked. “Of course you do. Why is it acceptable that martyred saints and even ‘the Son of God’ can sacrifice themselves all for a set of beliefs? The actual results from those sacrifices are still up for debate, while the possibilities that stem from Miss Rosamund’s are as clear as day to anyone—and you cannot accept it.”
There was nothing else to do, nothing to say. I could hear people from the street below, but could they hear me? Could I call for help without Dr. Beck knowing? Backing up to the edge of the roof, I lashed out the way I knew best. Loudly.
“Even with your power, you’re still a terrible scientist! There’s a reason your fellow scientists ridicule you,” I yelled. “It’s because they—”
“—know my work is going to accomplish nothing and help no one?” Dr. Beck finished calmly. A look of mild amusement unfurled across his face. “I’m sorry, I took the words out of your mouth. Please, continue.”
Oh, God. A frightening revelation struck me. It explained how he could block my attacks, how he responded to unfinished sentences, how Arthur and William saw that he never made mistakes, how he always had a plan. Was it possible? It existed in myths, but . . .
“You—you . . . can see—”
Dr. Beck smiled serenely at me. “The future, yes, Miss Wyndham. I am impressed. Now you know I am not exaggerating when I tell you I am one step ahead of you. I was born to be one step ahead of you. I will know if someone is coming through this door before he himself even knows. And I can assure you with complete confidence, no one noticed your plea for help, no one cares, and no one is coming.”
I didn’t know how it felt to have the life sucked out of me, but his words managed a close approximation. He could see the future, and he was only admitting everything because he knew I was going to be dead in less than a minute.
Dr. Beck met Claude’s eye and nodded in my direction, and the giant stomped closer. Dear God, this was really the end of me. What a stupid way to go. Strangled, stabbed, bones broken, maybe all three at once. I had to do something. Anything. And then I saw it. As I moved toward the corner of the roof, another building came into view. It was right next to us, one story lower, a manageable jump, an actual escape.
“Stop her!” I heard Dr. Beck yell.
I took off in a sprint.
My shoes smacked across the thick stone roof and crinkled over the small gravel pits. The steady rumble of Claude’s tread followed me doggedly. I could feel him moments away from grabbing me, but I caught sight of the ledge, a few long strides away, and the simple plan burned into my mind. Just run, jump over it, and live. That’s all I had to do.
So I leaped, my glimpse of heavenly freedom on the opposite building moving closer, closer, within reach. My stomach floated up weightlessly as my jump became a drop. My chest hit the edge of the roof hard, knocking out my breath. As I slid back, my hands scrambled to grasp brick, rock, anything, for God’s sake, please.
And I fell.
A rush of air and a blurry procession of bricks streamed by me and cut out with empty thuds and cracks of pain spiking through my legs and across my side. I tasted bitter metal, and a sudden numbness took over. Carriages clanked, a baby cried, bells rang, a woman screamed, and then it all quieted down to final thoughts (so this is what dying is?) before even those faded away into a blissful shroud of nothingness.
A STARK ROOM greeted me when I awoke.
With a groan, I sat up and rubbed the blur out of my eyes—it felt like I had overslept by several years. The glow of gas lamps shone through the room’s tiny window, and drops of rain pattered against the pane.
I rolled and twisted off the bed, feeling a shudder when my feet touched the cold floor. Instinctively, I rubbed my leg: no lingering pain, no scar, no mark at all. My last memories were hazy, but I could distinctly recall the falling, the utter fear, and the peculiar understanding of pain. The reality of being fully recovered instead of fully broken sent goose pimples prickling up all over my body.
At the sound of my sheets rustling, a nurse, slumped over in a rickety chair by the corner, stirred and shot straight up. “Miss Bradent, one moment, I’ll go fetch him,” she said, already halfway out of the room.
Miss Bradent? I glanced around the room, noting the white stone walls and the dreary lights. I wasn’t in an asylum, was I? What other place on earth could look this depressing? It was too dark to see out the window and not quite tempting enough a prospect to wait and find out for myself. In a hurry, I slid off the stiff bed and tiptoed to the door. I pulled it open, and there stood Mr. Braddock on the other side of the threshold, his breath drained and his person drenched.
“Miss . . . Wyndham . . .”