Page 73 of Blackwicket
“Victor, what’s happening?”
He couldn’t answer, his face contorting into something monstrous, the elongating of his neck stretching muscle and dislocating bone, skin darkening like the cruel bruise upon his back, red tinged. He lurched forward to catch hold of me, but was halted by a tremor of pain that wracked his body, mirroring his peculiar seizure in the hall the day Auntie had attacked. All of his muscles tightened in tandem, agony deforming him into an unbelievable shape. When the episode passed, Victor was himself again. The ordeal had left him sweating, huffing as though his lungs had lost their ability to hold air.
I pushed aside my panic, the instinct to flee, choosing to reach out to him. But as I stepped closer, he retreated.
“This was a regrettable circumstance,” he grated. “We both nearly died today, our common sense is blown to hell.”
“You don’t have to hide from me. I can…”
“Ms. Blackwicket,” he snapped, his formal use of my name a slap after everything that had just occurred. “I’ve given you your pleasure, now leave me in peace.”
Raking his fingers through his hair, he moved past me, snatching his bloodstained shirt from the piano as he went. I stood staring after him, shaken, humiliated, wondering how deep Inspector Victor Harrow’s monstrousness went, disgusted that despite it, I hadn’t wanted him to stop.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I had no sense of the time, knowing only that I’d slept so long my limbs didn’t feel like my own. Mind muddled, I roused, throwing open the shutters to a dreary afternoon. I didn’t want to see Inspector Harrow, not while I was still piecing together what had occurred in the early hours, when he’d introduced me to desire I’d never experienced.
I reminded myself, again and again, that we’d both been reeling from the traumatic events of the day, eager to occupy ourselves with something other than dark thoughts. Still, the Inspector’s admission of being a stolen child, his face becoming monstrous in the golden glow of the lamps, haunted me. As did the ghost of his hands on my thighs.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I leaned on the dresser, crowded with all the powders and perfumes my sister had collected. I imagined turning the clock back to the night I’d left, choosing to stay instead, choosing my sister over freedom. Maybe we could have been safe together. Maybe she’d be alive, and I’d be an asset of the Brom, helping her operate an illegal boarding house.
I touched several bottles, assessing the extensive array of fragrances, many of which I’d sold to customers at Galton’s. One bottle caught my attention, emptier than the rest. I brought it to my nose, savoring the scent of summer jasmine, beforerecognizing who it brought to mind: the smoky-voiced Thea who ran High Tide for William, thorny and puzzling.
I returned the bottle and hugged my arms to my chest for comfort while I contemplated the photos on the walls. They needed to be taken down and stored. It pained me to see all the people who may have exploited my sister for her abilities, her position of influence over William. I considered the blackberry flowers pressed inside the frames, displayed in no particular order.
Goosebumps rose on my flesh, spine straightening as I made the horrible connection.
I quickly dressed, still tucking my blouse as I hurried into the hall to the Inspector’s room. Without calling his name, I banged on the door with the flat of my hand, never relenting. He wouldn’t be able to ignore me, no matter how badly he wanted to.
The door opened abruptly, and there he stood, dressed and shaved, his hair precise, with not a strand out of place. He’d returned to being the cold, authoritative man he’d always been, the crack in his armor repaired.
“What’s going on?” he barked.
I looked him dead in the eye, “Fiona was poisoning people.”
Moments later, we stood side by side in my girlhood room. The Inspector filled the space, the slant of the ceiling making him seem taller than ever. He took stock of the photos, his countenance growing ever more stern.
“The Blackberry jam. Fiona put a curse in each jar.” I tapped the glass of a picture frame where white flower petals had been pressed. “Blackberry flowers.”
“And what makes you think these photos and the cursed jam are related?” The tone of his voice suggested he was humoring me, sparking my irritation.
“When I first visited the Vapors, William and Thea spiked my drink with a curse.”
His eyes cut to me, the slight twitch of jaw muscle indicating he didn’t appreciate I’d never mentioned this.
“It didn’t work,” I said. “I recognized it, but many people wouldn’t. In my case, it was a test, but Fiona may have been using the same tactic to infect unsuspecting people, and I don’t think she was doing it for the Brom.”
“Then who?”
“Mr. Farvem said he trusted Fiona, helped her, and believed she would improve things here in Nightglass. From what I know, Farvem and his family hated the Brom. Fiona was in a special position to cause them damage.”
“A compelling theory with little evidence.”
“What do you know about the Veil, Inspector?” I pivoted, still unraveling my line of thought, hoping it would reveal something that made sense.
The silence that followed my question was a touch too heavy, betraying that I’d struck close to something.
“The old war unit?” Inspector Harrow asked.
