Page 40 of The Business of Blood
“Think you I’m acquainted with the killer?” I breathed.
“They said you know that he has killed before. He has killed those who did not deserve to die.” Tears wobbled in Nola’s voice, and I feathered a hand down the veil covering her hair.
Though I didn’t acknowledge any veracity to her claims, I couldn’t deny her predictions affected me deeply. My hands and feet felt cold and clammy, and my legs were a little less stable than before.
“Do you mean the Ripper, Nola?”
She recoiled from me with a hiss, gesturing wildly. “Imean nothing,” she wailed. “They. They speak through me. I’m naught but their mouthpiece. You’ve never believed me. You don’t acknowledge they’re real, even though they’re only trying to help you!”
“All right.” Afraid she’d do herself a mischief on the banister with her gesticulating, I grabbed her wrists and held them firmly. The Hanged Man card drifted to the herringbone parquet floor as I clutched her fists and brought them to my lips, kissing her knuckles fondly.
“All right,” I soothed. “I believe you, Nola. I’m sorry.”
I believed she heard them. I believed she wanted to help me.
Regarding me with veiled eyes, her expression both wounded and suspicious, she quieted.
“Will you tell me what…theysaid the Hanged Man means?” I encouraged.
Instantly, she brightened. “I did an entire reading for you. You should come see.”
It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to hide my extreme lack of enthusiasm. “I must be going to the hanged man’s autopsy just now,” I reminded her. “But perhaps you can tell me the meaning ofthiscard. And when I return, you can show me the rest, when I have the proper time to digest it.”
She listened to the silence for a moment. “Yes. Yes, they find this acceptable.”
Ifoundtheminfuriating.
Cautiously, I released her and stooped to retrieve the card.
She huddled near my shoulder, pointing with one gnarled finger. “The obvious meaning is suspension. This is a card of the in-between, you see.”
Strange, I’d spoken to Aidan of the in-between just last night. We Celts have always believed that passages from one place to another are both sacred and terrifying. Doorways, gates, bridges. Even dawn and dusk. They are nebulous places where demons and fairies and even the odd deity can lurk. In between one place and another, the veil to the other world is at its most brittle. It is because of our tradition a husband must carry his bride over the threshold.
It protects her from the in-between.
I chewed on this as Nola continued sharing her premonitions about me. “You’ve been flirting with the in-between for too long. You are not firmly on one side or the other. The Hanged Man is at a crossroads. It’s obvious what he’s done thus far hasn’t worked, and so he must pick a side. Take a path. Or he’s vulnerable to all the perils of the Otherworld. To all the demons who reside there. Your reading shows that you’re tethered by something—someone—whom you may never have. Searching for answers you might never find. If you follow your current path, Fiona, you will always be reaching, and your hands will always be empty.”
This, of course, was no great psychic revelation, though I did wonder if I’d somehow underestimated how much of the world, ofme, Aunt Nola understood. To whom did she refer that tethered me, in particular? Who would remain out of reach? Aidan? Mary?
Possibly Jack?
I chose my next words with great care. “If this card were pulled for someone else, does it have any other connotations? Ones that don’t apply to me specifically, I mean?”
She tapped her chin and looked up and to the right, consulting her spirit guides, or more likely, her memory. “Punishment, sometimes. Redemption—no, not that—atonement.Your hanged man. He did something. Something for which he must be disciplined.”
It was a blessing Nola didn’t know just how much punishment poor Mr. Sawyer had been forced to endure.
The lace of her veil gritted against my lips as I kissed her forehead. With a heavy heart, I promised to run her a bath this evening with a bit of lavender and some Epsom salts. Sometimes, if I didn’t bathe her, she forgot to do so herself. I’d been at work so often of late, the smell of sweat and mothballs alerted me that she’d waited too long.
Guilt seized me. Maybe I’d need to ask Polly, our maid-of-all-work, if she could take on more days a week than three. Perhaps Nola had regressed enough to need constant care.
With the thought weighing heavily on me, I bid my aunt goodbye and rushed down the block to Royal Hospital Road, where I was sure to find a hansom cab to conduct me to the Royal London Hospital. There, in the basement, Dr. George Bagster Phillips was slicing into Mr. Sawyer’s corpse.
10
If I had to assign Dr. Phillips’ examination room a signature scent, it would beeau de terror.That is to say, the acrid, chemical, almost metallic mélange of aromas had the precise effect on the olfactory senses as mortal fear did. As sharp and repugnant as a mouthful of nails. There was’s something loamy about it, as well. Most likely the result of a moist basement and the distinct threat of decaying flesh.
Doctor Phillips’ occupation consisted of racing to keep ahead of decomposition. Of delaying it as long as possible until he might interpret the final signs of life.
