Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely Страница 4

Her face paled, but other than that she was surprisingly calm. It was . . . odd. And so very, very different from Mama’s reaction. “You are handling it all quite stoically,” I told her.

Allison’s eyes flicked to the window. “I would hardly call my reaction stoic. But I do not deal with my grief through hysterics.” She spat the word.

“My mother does not have hysterics,” I said sharply. “Mama has melancholia. For days I could not get her to eat, to leave her bed, or even to speak to me. Her mind—her will to live—simply vanished.

And Kirkbride’s,” I tried to say in a gentler tone, “was the only solution I could conjure.”

Allison gave no response, and I was grateful when, moments later, we rattled to the end of the street—to where Kirkbride’s famous hospital for the insane stood. I scooted to the edge of my seat.

“We’re here.” I pointed at the wrought iron fence, behind which were gold-tipped trees and an enormous white mansion. With its long, ever-growing wings and cupolas, and its beautiful grounds and gardens, the hospital was meant to be a soothing place for the mentally disturbed to regain their wits. A haven of peace and beauty right in the middle of Philadelphia’s hustle.

I set my hand on the door as the carriage slowed to a halt before the entrance gate. “Thank you for the ride.”

Allison’s lips puckered. “I am not finished with you yet.”

I hesitated. “I told you what you wanted to know.”

“And I want to know more. Now shut pan and get out. I’ll come with you into the hospital.”

“No!” I lifted a pleading hand. “It’s dangerous. Please, Allie—”

“Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t you ever call me that. That was his name for me.”

Shame seared through my face, hot and heavy. I turned away. Of course I had to use Clarence’s nickname right when Allison’s heart was no doubt aching. But it was too late for apologies or for begging that she stay. I had lost the argument, and Allison was already pushing out the carriage door. I hurried after her.

We strode through the gate, where the guard bobbed his head at me in recognition. I spared a quick glance for the wide, grassy front lawn—sometimes Mama liked to sit there—but all I found were vacant benches and the bronze statue of William Penn standing guard.

“My mother is probably in the back,” I murmured to Allison, waving to a gravel path that circled the huge hospital. Despite more than a hundred acres of gardens and forest to entertain the mental patients, Mama was always on that front lawn or beside the same azalea bush in the back. There was a low fountain there that kept the summer heat away.

We set off, our feet crunching on the gravel.

“So what,” Allison said with carefully flat inflection, “does your mother do here? It seems like a holiday resort.”

“It’s meant to be that way.” I glanced at her, but it wasn’t until we reached the end of the white mansion that I added, “My mother needs calm, not violence and straitjackets.”

Allison’s eyebrows lifted. “And has it worked?”

No, I thought as we passed a wisteria bush. But I do not think anything will work. . . . I took in a breath to tell her this, to explain that I had tried everything, when a long, throat-rattling shriek rang out—a shriek I knew well.

Fright burst inside me, and I broke into a sprint. My heels kicked up gravel, and I could hear

Allison running just behind.

We bounded past azalea bushes when another scream ripped out. With it came shouts.

I skidded around the last bush beside the fountain, only to find struggling figures on the other side of the low pool: my mother, screeching and wrestling with two nurses. I surged to the fountain’s lip.

“Mrs. Fitt, settle down!” shouted one nurse, her uniform rumpled and her hat missing. She held

Mama’s hands clasped.

“Let go of me!” Mama shoved and tugged, trying to free her arms.

The second nurse spotted me. “Miss Fitt, thank heavens! Help us get her back to her room! We’ve dragged her across the entire grounds.”

I stepped forward just as Mama whipped around. She yanked once, and her hands broke free of the nurse’s grasp. My mother was a powerfully built woman—it was a wonder the two small nurses had managed to contain her this long.

“You!” Mama thrust a pointed finger at me. “You!” Her gray hair was falling from its usual bun, and her walking gown was covered in dust and twigs.

“Mama!” I moved to her. “What’s wrong?”

“How dare you show your face here,” she yelled.

“What?” I turned to the nurses. “What is she talking about?” They only shrugged. I glanced back at

Allison; she waited by the azaleas, her face pale.

“Do not look away,” Mama hissed. “Do not pretend you do not know.”

“Know what?” I stepped toward her. “I don’t underst—”

“You told me Elijah was a necromancer,” she cut in, her voice gaining in volume and speed. “You told me that he killed Clarence Wilcox and those other boys. You told me he was dead!”

My mouth went dry. “He is dead.”

“Do not lie to me!” Her chest heaved, and her fingers curled into fists. “I do not know why I believed you when you had no evidence but a handful of Elijah’s letters. There was no corpse!” Her eyes raked over me, more lucid than I’d seen in months.

“The newspapers were right,” Mama went on. “You were working with the Spirit-Hunters to destroy the city. That criminal, Daniel”—she spat the name—“murdered Clarence.”

A cry shot over the water. It was Allison, a gloved hand to her mouth. But did she believe my story or Mama’s?

At that moment the nurses broke off and scampered toward the hospital. I forced my attention back to my mother, praying the nurses thought her words gibberish.

“Mama,” I said, clenching my skirts with my left hand. “I told you the truth.”

“The truth! The truth?” She shoved her face in mine. “I will tell you the truth, Eleanor. A truth I was too blind and heartbroken to see. You are a licentious, lying daughter. A harlot!”

My jaw dropped, and outrage coiled in my chest. “How can you say that to me? After all I’ve done to keep our family alive—”

“By consorting with criminals? By sneaking from the house?” Mama’s eyes thinned. “You were seeing that criminal boy, were you not? You planned to run away with him, but then he and the Spirit-

Hunters left you.”

“Stop.” My voice cracked out like a whip. “You have no idea of what you speak. I could have left the city—could have abandoned you—but I stayed. I sold all of my things to pay your hospital bills because you spent our entire savings.”

“I will not listen to this!” She threw her hands over her ears.

“Then don’t listen.” I advanced on her. “But Elijah is dead, Mama. You have to accept that. I saw him die—”

“Lies! Elijah is not dead. He’s not, he’s not! I saw him today, and he was most assuredly alive.”

I stared at her, speechless. It couldn’t be. . . .

“He came to see me,” she went on, clearly pleased by my horror, “dressed in the latest Parisian fashions and wealthier than you can even imagine. Yet most importantly, Eleanor, he was alive — alive!”

No! I clutched at my chest, suddenly unable to breathe, unable to think. Marcus had found my mother, and that meant it wasn’t simply me or the Spirit-Hunters he was after.

“Oh God,” I wheezed as the gravel blurred before my eyes. I staggered to the fountain rim and dropped to a seat. Allison was nowhere to be seen, but I was too stunned—too horrified—to care or even consider.

Mama stalked toward me, puffing out her chest. “It was only a matter of time before Elijah came to save me, and he will return for me again. He has promised to take me away as soon as I help him.”

“Help him?” I gaped up at her. “Help him with what?”

She crossed her arms. “Help him find the things you stole.”

“Stole?” I repeated, startled.

“Oh, do not pretend you do not know. You stole his book—and wherever you have hidden it, I intend to find it. Elijah has promised to take me away if I do.” She stomped closer to me. “Tell me where you put it, Eleanor. Where did you hide his book and his notes?”

I backed away from her. If Marcus wanted a book, then there was only one it could be: the missing pages in a grimoire called Le Dragon Noir. The one thing Marcus hadn’t been able to take from me before he’d fled Philadelphia three months ago.

“I will find them,” Mama shrieked. “And I will return them to him, Eleanor! And then— then—you will wish you had treated me more kindly.”

I stood as tall as I could and fixed my eyes on hers. “Mama, did you say ‘notes’? You are certain he asked for a book and notes?”

She hesitated, her posture wilting slightly. “Yes. A book and notes.”

I turned away, pressing my left hand to my lips. I knew Joseph had destroyed the pages from Le

Dragon Noir—Jie told me in one of her letters that he had done so—but before the Spirit-Hunters had even left Philadelphia, they’d found an envelope of Elijah’s unsent letters tucked in the grimoire’s pages. But those messages, as all Elijah’s letters were prone to be, were filled with nothing more than random ramblings and random names. . . .

But perhaps they weren’t so random to a necromancer.

Cold gripped me. Thank goodness I had put the letters in my carpetbag. Marcus had come to

Philadelphia for Le Dragon Noir, and he knew that I could lead him to it—or at least to the letters within.

Footsteps sounded nearby. I whirled around. But it was only a male orderly marching toward us with the nurses at his heels.

Mama saw them, and her chin lifted high. “You may try to lock me in this place, Eleanor, but

Elijah will come for me.” Her eyes locked on mine. “And if you know what is good for you, you will never show your face to me again. You are no longer worthy of the Fitt name.”

Then she pivoted elegantly around and faced the Kirkbride attendant as if he were nothing more than a dance partner. “I will wait for my son in my room, thank you. My daughter is now dead to me.”

Chapter Three

“Don’t let anyone meet her,” I ordered the nurses . My blood pounded in my ears, but I clung to the moment’s excitement—for if I did not . . . if I let Mama’s words sink in . . .

“Lock her in her room. . . . I-I fear it’s the only option we have for protecting her.”