Page 81 of Wicked Beasts
I cling to him, my tears soaking his shoulder. My body is distant, empty, a cavity that used to hold my heart. Now, there’s only a hollow, aching void in its place.
Something presses against my back, unfamiliar hands touching me as they try to coax me away from him, but I scramble to keep hold, refusing to let go.
“Miss Amara, please—he’s here to help. You have to let go.”
Mortimer’s cold touch sends a shiver through me as he gently pries my hands from Tristan. My hiccups are jagged and painful, scraping against my still-raw throat with each harsh breath that escapes me. I rise to my feet and turn to Mrs. Wong, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, though she seems determined not to let them fall. Without thinking, I bury my face into her shoulder, and after a brief hesitation, she wraps me in a tight, reluctant embrace. Her arms are warmer than I expected.
I steal a glance at the other man as he kneels beside Tristan, his presence unsettling and entirely out of place. His face is unfamiliar, his posture stiff, like he’s uncomfortable in the manor. He’s dressed in all white, like a scientist from a lab, and carries a worn leather bag that seems almost too large, its contents rattling with a faint, unsettling noise as he places it down gently next to him. The bag is bulging, overflowing with strange, unidentifiable tools—some sleek and metallic, others oddly shaped and rough-edged. Bottles of various sizes, filled with liquids I can’t name, glint in the dim light, theirlabels smeared or entirely absent. The assortment of medical instruments inside the bag feels like something from another world—something dangerous, like a medieval plague doctor’s macabre equipment. I can’t quite place what they are, but the sight of them makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“Who are you?” I ask, my voice shaking as Mrs. Wong gently tries to guide me away from the bathroom. “Who is he?” I ask her desperately.
The man doesn’t look at me as he speaks to Mortimer, his tone firm and detached. “I’m going to have to take him.”
Mortimer hesitates for a beat, his eyes flicking between Tristan and the strange man, before he gives a slow, reluctant nod of approval. He pays no mind to me.
“Take him where?” I demand, my words rising in panic, but no one answers me. No one even acknowledges my question.
“Dr. Wollstonecraft is here to help,” Mrs. Wong says finally, her voice soft but offering little comfort. I nod weakly, though the words do nothing to calm the storm of confusion and fear swirling in my chest. My body trembles with shock. Only hours ago, Tristan had been alive and smiling, holding me, showing me love like no one before. How could he have left my bed to do this?
I stare at his cold, unmoving face.
With gentle persistence, she leads me out of the east wing.
As we pass Manu, he looks up, his gaze meeting mine for a fleeting moment. With that brief glance, I catch a glimmer of compassion in his dark and intense brown eyes—before his expression swiftly hardens, returning to its usual, guarded state. I look back at him and watch as he disappears into the bathroom.
“Will he save him?” I ask Mrs. Wong, my voice thick with desperation as she guides me toward the kitchen.
“He’s quite an…experimental doctor,” she says, her words laced with an uncertainty that only adds to my growing confusion. “He’s performed miracles before.”
I narrow my eyes, my brows furrowing as I chew on my bottom lip, trying to make sense of what she means.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she adds, her tone almost too calm, too detached.
Tea?Tea? Tristan could be dying, could already be dead, and she’s offering metea? The absurdity of it hits me like a punch to the gut. I open my mouth to protest, but before a single word can escape my mouth, she raises her hand to silence me.
“I know you’re upset, Miss Amara,” she says softly, her tone sympathetic but firm. “But all we can do now is wait.”
In that moment of silence, I realize I’m trembling, shivering, cold and afraid.
I hate waiting, but there is nothing else to do. At least here, with Mrs. Wong, I don’t see Manu carrying Tristan’s limp body out the front door.
Seventy-Two
Istay in bed for a few days, my arms wrapped tightly around the collected works of Robert Louis Stevenson. Once in a while, I flip it open just to read through Tristan’s annotations. The reminder of him makes me feel safe. I let my finger glide against the words, feeling the depth of the pressure from his pen pressed into the page with each stroke. Robert Louis Stevenson was known for several of his classics. My heart began to thrum rapidly in my chest as I turned the page.
The Strange Case…
Quickly, I sit up and shut the book, trying to calm myself as I attempt to steady my breathing. I slide out of bed as my attention is pulled toward the door and out into the foyer.
My fingers glide over the polished surface of the railing as I ascend the stairs, the cold biting against my skin. Each step is slow and intentional, as though I am being pulled toward the portrait room by an unseen force. The house feels unnaturally still around me, the silence always so suffocating, save for the soft click of my heels against the wood.
As I walk, the mysteries of the manor swirl around me. Tristan’s work. Dr. Shadow’s lurking lust. The household staff’s confusing alliances and secrets. I feel like I am finally on thebrink of clarity, as though the icy cold of Tristan’s body has finally broken through the riddles like a sharp knife through a complex knot of golden threads.
I know before I reach the door who I will find on the other side. He’s always in the quiet, lurking just out of sight, somehow everywhere and nowhere. So easy to forget, yet the keeper of the keys to unlock all secrets.
My hand grips the tarnished brass handle. It turns with a low, reluctant groan, and I step inside. The room is bathed in a harsh, uninvited light, the curtains drawn back to let daylight flood the space. It casts long, jagged shadows that stretch across the walls, distorting the familiar contours of the room. The portrait above the mantle is covered, a tarp draped over it like a corpse’s veil.
I can feel his presence, as if something—someone—is watching me. The silence presses down harder, and a chill runs through me.
