Page 22 of Lucy Undying

“God,” I mutter. “That’s bleak.”

“Then the mother and daughter died on the same night.”

“Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “How did they die?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” Elle shrugs.

“Elle. Elle. I think I know how they died! Or at least how the mother died. It was the wolf!”

“What? There are wolves here? I didn’t think there were wolves in England at all anymore, much less in London.”

“Yes, but only because we’re near the zoo.” I wink at her, then make my voice serious and informative, like a docent leading a museum tour. Only instead of actual research, I have what the internet told me in three minutes of searching. “In the 1890s, a wolf escaped its enclosure. A whole day passed before they noticed it was missing. They’d barely begun searching for it when it appeared once more, pacing outside the gate as though impatient to be let back in. No one knew where it had been, how it got out, or why it came back. But the rumor—and this is unsubstantiated, something of an urban legend passed around schoolyards—was that it jumped through a window and frightened a woman to death. A window in this very house.” I pause for dramatic effect, eyes wide, then point down the hallway. “Do you want to see the Wolf Window of Hillingham House?”

“Okay,” she says, her smile dubious as she follows me to the bedroom.

“I relocked the door, in case the room was infested. With rodents, not with wolves. But maybe with wolves.” I open it and gesture toward the boarded-up window. “See? The window’s still broken! They never fixed it!”

Elle stays on the threshold of the room, looking in. “Huh. It’s odd that they wouldn’t repair the window, isn’t it?”

“And this is the only bedroom anyone locked up. It could have been because of the wolf attack, right? They were afraid it would come back. Did we just prove an urban legend?”

She seems unmoved, her eyes lingering on the window. “Maybe. Can’t exactly sell the story for quick cash though, can we?”

My excitement sputters out. “Right. Dammit. I keep getting caught up in the history.”

“It’s hard not to. History is stories, and we all live on stories.”

“Still, it might make a good photo display for the museum. Pair it with the local legends and any historical documents you could find. And I do mean ‘you’ in this case, because historical research is literally your job, not mine. I’m just the girl who unlocks the door.”

That earns me a smile at last. We’re standing so close. I want to touch the creamy sweater hanging off Elle’s shoulder, see if it’s as soft as it looks. I want to lean even closer and breathe in, see if she smells as good as she looks. But more than that, I want to ask Elle what her story is, unearth all the things that make her who she is. I want to know everything about her.

There’s a hurried knock at the front door, a frantic staccato demand. It’s a desperate knock, not a threatening one. I rush down the hall and throw open the door. Rahul is there with a tall, bald man, their arms full of stuff, both looking over their shoulders. They push past me without waiting for an invitation inside.

“Close it, close it!” Rahul says.

A fox runs straight at us in an orange blur. I brace myself, but it stops dead on the steps. Just short of the doorway. It stays there, locked in place, teeth bared and yellow eyes fixed on me. Then it turns and calmly walks into the hedges.

As Rahul and his husband exclaim over what strange fox behavior that was, I close the door and lock it. I press my forehead against the glass, willing my heart to calm down. Willing myself to be able to react normally, to pretend I’m as surprised and confused as they are.

But the fox was another reminder. I’m not safe here. I can’t forgetit.

23

May 20, 1890

Journal of Lucy Westenra

It was all silly of me. I’m hardly better than a child, as Mina often chides me. Running away to spend all our days on holiday in Whitby? Why would someone as smart and determined as Mina waste her life that way? I’m ashamed of the flight of fancy that led me to ever dream of it.

The things I imagined for our future fill my heart with confusion. I can’t write the whole of them, even here. There’s something wrong inside me. Something queer and sideways, which is why I pretend, always, with everyone. I need to kill that thing. I’ll find a way to be what Mina wants me to be. If it’s what she needs for her own happiness, I’ll make it happen.

But after all my foolish hopes were burst, everything is exhausting and fraught. Mother has been in here again, snooping. I found her bent over my bed, checking beneath it. I know she caught sight of my journal. She asked about the ink marks on my fingers. I told her I’ve been writing ever so many letters.

I can be cleverer than that, though. I’ve read enough detective novels to know it’s always necessary to throw bloodhounds off a scent. I went into town this afternoon while Mother was sleeping and purchased an identically bound journal. I’ll fill it with pretty lies, the Lucy she expects and demands to see, then leave it out where she can “find” it.

Then the true Lucy, the one sealed in the darkness between lips, the one who is so wrong even I don’t understand her sometimes, can stay safe and hidden.

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