Page 20 of Lucy Undying

“Trust that I will make the future I deserve,” she said.

“No one could deserve you, though! You’re too good for anyone. We should run away to Whitby and be happy forever. You shouldn’t have to marry if you don’t want to.” I said it lightly, but my soul was reaching out, trying to hold her with me.

Admit you don’t want to get married, I prayed in my mind to Mina, because I knew God wasn’t listening and didn’t care. See a future where the two of us are all we need, I prayed. All while smiling so she wouldn’t see how desperate I was.

Mina patted my hand. “My sweet, silly pet. Jonathan is a catch for a penniless schoolmistress like me. I have only my own mind and work ethic to recommend me. Unlike you, I can never be an angelically beautiful heiress.”

My fingers twitched up, catching hers, linking as though I could chain her to me. “That’s not all you have!” I listed her many, many qualities, which I hold in my heart at all times.

She seemed soothed, and by the end of tea I was almost able to pretend to be happy for her. I acted how a dutiful friend would, and asked how he had proposed (via a long-winded and terribly dull letter) and when they intended to marry (as soon as he got back from a terribly dull trip to help a European count finish buying property in London) and where they would live (she smiled and said she was still working on that, but I suspect somewhere terribly dull).

As I paid our bill, Mina looked at me with pursed lips, the same way she looked at any problem. “The only thing keeping me from perfect contentedness is you.”

My heart dared to hope one last time. She loved me too much to ever marry and be separated from me. I could tell her my plan to save us both.

And then my heart was reminded what a fool it is and always has been.

She nodded as though answering a question I hadn’t asked. “You will find love before the end of the year. You’ll be married, and then I won’t have to worry about you anymore and my happiness will be complete. Promise me that you’ll find a good match. Someone to take care of you when I’m too busy being a wife.”

I promised her, because I had to, because she’s my Mina. Mine no longer, though.

I cannot write any more. My heart feels as desolate as a fog-choked horizon. Neither sea nor sky nor sun visible, only blank gray forever.

22

London, October 4, 2024

Iris

My angel’s blue eyes are wide with shock. “What are you doing here?” she asks, taking a step back from the open front door.

“Oh, wait,” I say, slapping my forehead. For a moment I was paranoid she was one of them. But knocking politely on the door isn’t Goldaming Life’s style, and there’s a far more likely explanation for her appearance. “Do you work for Rahul? Are you my butter chicken?”

She looks even more confused. And, ever observant, I finally clock that she’s only holding a to-go cup of tea. “Butter chicken?” she asks. “Is that…a pet name?”

I laugh, because I don’t know what else to do. This is all too baffling and wonderful and strange. “You did call me a little cabbage, if I recall.” I do recall. I recall every second she’s been in my life. “But no. I’m expecting food delivery, among other things. That’s not you?”

“Not me. I’m here for Hillingham.”

Then it actually clicks. I made two phone calls. “The museum! To help me look at things in the house! Wow, you got here fast.”

Her rosebud lips—I’ve never wanted to garden so badly in my life—purse in a smile. “Sorry. I should have called first. I know it’s unprofessional to be overeager, but I didn’t want to waste any time getting into Hillingham. I had no idea you’d be here, though. I see you managed to make it safely even without my help.” She’s teasing me. It’s agony. We already have inside jokes, why can’t we already be girlfriends?

“Thanks to your advice, I looked right so hard my neck will never recover.” I twitch and earn a small laugh. But I was cagey in my phone message to the museum. I’d better be up front. I don’t want to hurt her. “I can’t pay you for appraisal services. At least not right now.”

Her eyes go past me, searching the interior like she’s about to pounce. She really wants to get inside. I know that fevered look. It’s how I felt visiting Amherst and touring Emily Dickinson’s home. Or how I felt listening to the newest boygenius album the second it was available. This house is one hundred percent my angel’s shit.

“No charge,” she says. “I’m just eager to see it. My specialty is the late nineteenth century. It was a time of so much transformation. And I believe it was the last time this house was inhabited.”

“You know about Hillingham?”

“Yeah. I know a lot about this whole neighborhood.” She gives me a sheepish smile and shrugs, her hair shifting with the movement. The way it catches the late afternoon sun behind her, I notice it’s red, not gold. The shade’s a vibrant, rich color, so many tones blending and shimmering around one another.

I resist the urge to put a self-conscious hand to my own soaking wet hair. It’s dyed a shade of bottle black I’ve used since I was fifteen. I call it Piss Off Your Mother Charcoal.

“I’m Elle, by the way,” my angel says.

“Iris. But you already knew that.”

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