Page 71 of Lucy Undying

“I know it’s a mess. You two can sell it if you don’t want to deal with it, then buy a nice place that isn’t haunted by vengeful foxes. Or…” I pat my bag, where Lucy’s journal sits, snug and safe. The house was hers once, too. Before she was a Goldaming. I’m clinging to that knowledge. There are plenty of good people I come from who weren’t Goldamings. There’s a chance for me to be good, too. “Or I don’t know, maybe you could bring it back to life. Whatever you want. I just don’t want it to stay in my family, where it’ll sit empty and sad and useless for another century or two.”

“No,” he says, baffled. “No, you can’t give us a house.”

“I can, actually. I want to. It’s not mine, not really. Please take it.”

“But why us?” He’s genuinely confused.

“Because you’ve been kind to me. Because I need to feel like my inheritance has done at least a little good. And because a girl who grew up in that house a long time ago dreamed of the kind of life you and Anthony have. It makes me happy to imagine how she would feel, knowing how much bigger the world got.”

Rahul laughs, half delighted, half confused. “Thank you. Even the offer is the most generous thing imaginable. I’ll talk with Anthony about it.” He leans over and kisses my cheek. “You are the strangest person I’ve ever met.”

“Good. Keep it that way. Any stranger than me, and things get sketchy.” I get out of the car and stroll through the night toward the house. For once, it doesn’t seem like a gaping maw waiting to swallow me alive. It still seems sad, yes. But not threatening. Maybe because I know it’s just a house, whatever history it might hold.

I’m just a person, whatever history I might hold. I get to choose which parts I keep. And which I leave behind forever.

There’s no sign of Ford or the fox as I pick up the discarded paintings from the porch, take them inside, and settle in the chilly den. I consider starting the stove, but I don’t trust myself not to burn the house down. Fine gift that would make for my friends then.

I turn on my lantern and pull out the journal, then hesitate. I almost don’t want to finish it. As long as I’m in the middle, I can imagine a reality where Mina came to her senses. Or better yet, where Lucy met another girl who loved her with her whole heart. Where that girl and Lucy ran off together and were happy forever. Where life didn’t wear Lucy down, but instead gave her the happiness and love she deserved.

But I have to know. I open the journal where I left off. Lucy goes to Whitby for her mother’s health. Mina meets them there. Lucy pines, and Mina constantly corrects her, tells her to be happy, reminds her of Arthur’s love. It seems like she steers every conversation back to him.

There’s also a paragraph about Mina keeping her own journal in shorthand, which is interesting. I once thought I knew shorthand, but what my mother taught me turned out to be some sort of weird code language. That was the only part of my education my mother personally oversaw, because no one else was allowed to know it. I’ll never pass it on. Let those secret messages rot in my mother’s safe. Let all the secrets rot with her.

I keep reading. Lucy gets more desperate as she feels Mina pulling away. Arthur visits and she catches him and Mina talking, wonders if Mina is giving Arthur tips on how to handle her. Because that’s how she feels now—that Mina’s getting ready to pass the burden of Lucy’s love onto someone else.

I’m so angry and sad for Lucy, so annoyed at Mina. And also annoyed at Lucy, if I’m being honest. I understand her feelings for her friend, but it’s clear they aren’t reciprocated. Meanwhile Lucy is still bending her entire life around the shape of her unrequited love. She needed a good friend. Someone she could be honest with. Someone who would have gently forced her to face some truths. I wish I could have been that for her.

Lucy wants to go on walks at night. It’s the only time she can be alone, the only time she can let her face show whatever she’s feeling. I used to do the same thing. Though my walks were less about being alone with my feelings and more about being anywhere other than my own bedroom, with those closets storing existential dread.

An anecdote about a local funeral they attend makes it hard to breathe. Lucy sees a dog being mistreated just because it’s scared and its owner is inconvenienced. She knows exactly how the dog feels, and I know exactly how she feels. I’ve never understood anyone as well as I understand Lucy.

She wants to save the dog. She even talks about running away. I want her to do it. I want her to get that dog and leave everything behind.

I know she won’t, though, because I’ve already figured out how things are going to end, even if Lucy can’t see it. I don’t blame her. She’s sweet and hopeful and innocent. She hasn’t been properly introduced to how Goldamings work yet. But I have. Nothing that has happened has been by chance; not Doctor Seward’s diagnosis of her mother, not the multiple proposals, not Arthur’s romantic-hero role in her life. It’s all part of a bigger plan.

Doctor Seward and Arthur Holmwood, aka the future Lord Goldaming, are well on their way to taking Lucy’s inheritance.

Doctor Seward has been drugging Lucy’s mother to keep her out of commission and sow the seeds of her impending death. He’s also been courting Lucy to push her toward a better option—handsome and noble Arthur. Arthur, who conveniently swooped in with his own solicitor to “help” Lucy’s mother get their estate in order. Doubtless the will was fixed so Lucy inherits everything.

After Arthur and Lucy are officially married, Lucy’s mother will immediately die, thanks to Doctor Seward’s expert care. That leaves young, vulnerable Lucy—and her vast financial resources—entirely in her husband’s hands.

No one will help her. She has no one to turn to, thanks to her terrible mother and these terrible men. Mina won’t notice Lucy’s in trouble, because she was never the companion that Lucy saw her as. And the cowboy Quincey Morris is either a co-conspirator or just a hapless suitor with bad taste in friends, but either way he’ll definitely be no help.

I know I’m right. I can’t believe I’m getting an inside view of the first con on which the Goldaming Life empire was built. In a strange way, I wish I could share this with my mother. It’s her legacy, after all. She really did Arthur and Doctor Seward proud.

But the next passage shows me I’m wrong. Not about the men, but about Lucy’s fate. I was right that she’d fallen into a monster’s trap. I just hadn’t met the other monster yet.

62

August 31, 1890

Journal of Lucy Westenra

Home is the prison it has always been, but the bars feel closer now. I can’t leave Mother’s side. When we returned to London, I told Doctor Seward that the sea air had entirely revived Mother. (I know I’ve written such awful things, but I’m no longer ready for her to die. I don’t want to be alone.) He examined her and cautioned against overexertion, then gave her his usual advice to drink her brandy to calm her nerves.

Once she had retired to her bedroom, he told me the truth. Often when nearing death, people will experience a sudden brief resurgence of vitality. Then a steep decline ensues. He was not wrong. Soon after his visit, Mother once again began slurring her speech and having difficulty walking.

I’m exhausted. My blood is sluggish, my skin pale, my temperature cold. How can I care for her, too? The maids are no help. Whenever Mother shouts for someone, they hide on the back staircase.

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