I could only gape, stung by her accusations. Stonily I climbed the stairs. She stared at me with the hugest eyes anyone had ever had as I stopped on the stair below and spoke ever so gently.
“Is that really what you think of me? I am sorry, truly sorry, that I upset you tonight. But my sister is gone, God knows where. And if you’re going to believe Miss Verinder over me, I am not sure what else we can do.”
With that, I left a pale Laura on the landing, marched to my room, closed the door, and fell heavily against it. If only I could slam it. Tentative footsteps shuffled outside. A very small knock came, but I was already undressing for bed. It had been too long a day to try and soothe Laura on top of it. The voices of stubbornness and exhaustion proved far more convincing than anything nagging me to her door.
THE NEXT MORNING arrived, but Mr. Braddock never did.
Exhausted as I had been, sleep proved to be impossible. From the moment the sun rose, I waited in the downstairs parlor, reviewing Miss Grey’s dream entries and trying to make more sense of the vague, fragmentary clues and images. None of the entries on Dr. Beck, Claude, or Mr. Hale gave a hint of where to go, and there was only one mention of Lord Ridgewood on Dr. Beck’s page. It read, “Difficult to contact, Whitechapel, spotted dog.” That was all. No description, no history, nothing more.
Tedious hours passed without any sign of Mr. Braddock. Two messages were sent to his home, but no response came back. I peeked out the window. A rare sunny day for London—no rain, snow, or processions delaying traffic. I didn’t know whether to be angry or worried (though anger was certainly winning out at the moment). Had he safely returned last night? Did someone discover him? Why could he not send a short message? Would my power keep me from murdering him?
In fact, everyone seemed to have disappeared. Mr. Kent remained silent, and Miss Grey hadn’t yet replied to my reminder to meet. Heavens to earth, I couldn’t sit here waiting all day. I’d already wasted last night at the Lyceum. At this moment, Dr. Beck could be moving to a new secret laboratory across the world, where we might never find it.
Some twenty-three minutes past noon, I discovered my breaking point. I had come to London to search for Rose. Why couldn’t I do it alone? Without Mr. Braddock trying to protect me or Mr. Kent acting jealous. That had been my original plan from the moment I left my parents’. I had to do something, even if I had no idea what that was.
It was in this state of desperation that I found myself skimming through the rest of the diary, reading descriptions of other powered people across the world. The information was fascinating but mostly irrelevant, until I noticed another spotted-dog owner in London. And then a third. Which meant either a citywide conspiracy against solid-colored dogs, or the words spotted dog had nothing to do with animals. The dictionaries and encyclopedias in the Kents’ library had nothing to say about either of my theories, but a guidebook of London did. The Spotted Dog was a small, unremarkable public house located in Whitechapel. That had to be where they meet.
I stilled my frantic pacing through the library. There was only one problem: I couldn’t go there like this. A lone woman in that public house would attract far too much attention, and if Dr. Beck did show up for a meeting, he would immediately recognize me. I shuffled through the cards in my possession, and as I pulled out the last one, a ridiculous plan sprang fully formed into my head.
Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of the cab somewhere in the East End. A derelict building towered in front of me, looking ready to tumble over in exhaustion onto the street. I made my way through the squeaking iron gate, up the dank stairs, and to a half-rotted door. Seconds after I knocked, a strangely exotic woman, draped in shawls and jewelry, greeted me. I promptly decided to go jump off the building.
“I’m sorry, I believe I have the wrong place,” I said helplessly.
“Who are you looking for?” the woman asked. It took me a moment to understand that English words had been spoken in the thick accent.
“A Miss . . . Camille,” I replied hesitantly.
She smiled and made a floating gesture of welcome. “Come in.”
She led me into a luxuriously decorated living room—an incredible change from the rest of the building—and disappeared into a back room while I gazed at my surroundings. She clearly had an odd love for the color violet. Hardly anything in the room was another color. Even lamps and bookshelves and tea things had been repainted with a violet layer.
“I’m sorry to be rude, but does Camille in fact—” I stopped talking as I realized how foolish I really was. There was no Persian woman—she was Camille.
“It is you, is it not?” I asked.
The woman returned with a younger, angular face and greeted me in her French accent. “ ’Ello.”
“I’m terribly sorry, I did not recognize you.”