She laughs, full throated, sounding more and more like herself, which means I’m running out of time before she kicks back in and outsmarts me. “Is this foreplay?”
“If you’re lucky,” I say, and crouch down to her ankles. I run my hands up beneath the cuffed hem of her torn jeans, then over them in a neat line up to her hips. Nothing. I shift and trace my fingers along the inseam—she shivers just before I reach where she wants them most. I switch to her stomach, running them up over her shirt just before I reach her breasts, then under. My head is tilted down to hers, a few strands of my own hair mingling with her dark waves, my rough jaw meeting her smooth cheekbone. It’s our only point of contact—our bodies aren’t touching at all—but the charge is explosive, the air searing white, edging out every other thought that isn’t her. I stop because I need to find that scalpel, if it exists, and if I don’t look now— She feels me hesitate, turns, gives me a look; a dare. “What?”
My eyes drop to her chest. I catch her smile.
“Looking for something?” Can’t tell if she’s mocking or serious, still high or dead sober.
“Do you have something for me to find?” I ask.
She takes my hand, weaves her fingers through mine, and leads me upstairs. The city’s lit beyond the glass, but the moon is full and outlines her curves in shadow and light. I close the door behind us, and she pushes me up against it with the full force of her.
Her mouth is on mine, her hands on my waist and in my hair—there isn’t one false move, one wrong note. Every movement, every touch, every kiss is where I want it and how I want it, like she’s inside of my head, unspooling my thoughts and following along. I begin to lift the hem of her shirt, and she traces her lips along my neck, tilts her head up, and whispers, “I’m going to shower.” Bites my earlobe with those sharp little teeth. “Come with?”
It might’ve been the teeth, or her flawless execution of my fantasy, but I tug on her tank, lowering it. “Wait,” I say. The half grin on her mouth falters. I press myself against her, push her back against the bed.
“I’m really dirty—”
“I know,” I say.
“No, seriously—”
We edge up to the bed until she’s standing up against the mattress. Looks up at me through a fringe of dark lashes, her gorgeous face half hidden in a tumble of hair.
“Turn around.”
I wonder if she’ll refuse. She doesn’t. She tucks away a smile though, intimate, full of mischief.
“Bend over,” I say.
She obeys, to my surprise, bending at the waist over the edge of the bed, stretching her feline outline in front of me. I slip my hands up beneath her shirt, then lower. Dip them into the loose waistband of her jeans, then lower. My breath hitches at the sensation of cold steel slicing through my fingertip. My hand curls around the scalpel tucked into the elastic of her underwear. God knows how she’s managed not to stab herself—or me—before now.
I hear the smile in her voice, smudged by her cheek pressed against the bed. “How did that get in there?”
“Yes. How?”
She turns over, still bent at the waist, chest rising and falling as she bites her lip.
“Why do you have this?” I ask, like I’m asking why she chose to wear those jeans today.
“It makes me feel safe,” she says plainly.
I turn it over carefully, wondering if this is, as Stella said, what she used to cut down her enemies. I turn over Mara’s lie as well.
It’s a trophy. I can’t deny it, not even to myself.
“Hey.” She stands, and since I haven’t moved, she’s up against me, her knee between my legs. She tilts her head up to kiss me, and with one hand, reaches for the scalpel, which is now behind my back.
I press my palm against her breastbone and step back, needing the distance, needing a breath. Mara backs up, bounces lightly onto the bed.
“Noah,” she says, and the sound of her voice seizes my heart even now. She blinks slowly, her eyelashes dusting her cheekbones. She looks like art, a living sculpture. And then she speaks.
“Come to bed,” she says silkily.
I bend down to her ear, feel her smile against my cheek. “Sleep it off, sweetheart.”
Then I leave the room, leaving a trail of blood behind me.
Oh God, Simon. My hands shake, my words—I can scarcely bring myself to write this, though it’s been a fortnight already. But I must. You would want to know; and I believe you do know my thoughts as I write them. Perhaps it will give me some measure of peace.
The night began so beautifully. Her wedding was glorious—her dress like no other. She looked so rare and exotic and exquisite, her husband could not take his eyes from her, and neither could anyone else. I thought tonight, having invited everyone who matters from society, they would finally understand: The colour of her skin does not make her any less. If anything, the way the spun gold in her white dress reflects the bronze of her skin, they should have seen that she was more. So much more. More beautiful, more elegant, more intelligent, more accomplished—more. The blondes and brunettes in their common dresses with their common conversation and common skills were no match for my daughter—I have come to think of her that way, husband. My daughter. The one I always wanted and never had.
The authorities showed up near dawn. They were shown into the sitting room, their hats and coats still on, dripping, puddling rainwater onto the floor.
When you died, they allowed Mrs. Dover to take their hats and coats, and they sat with me while I cried.
This night, they did not let me sit.
Mrs. Dover woke me, knocking quite loudly on my door, opening it before I could answer. She stood there as I awakened, carrying her candle. I felt as though I’d been caught in tar, my dreams still staining my mind with blood.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice husky with sleep.
“I’m sorry, my lady, you must come downstairs at once.”
The panic I felt, Simon! “Is it the boys? Elliot, Simon, are they—”
“They’re sleeping, they’re well,” Mrs. Dover assured me. It’s—the police, my lady. They refuse to tell me their business. They refused Albert as well. They demand your presence immediately. Come now, let’s get you dressed, all right?”
I didn’t answer, but I stood, trembling, and allowed her to slip on whatever clothing she could over my dressing gown; my fingers were frozen. I felt a terror I couldn’t yet grasp, but I felt it.
Mrs. Dover led me down the stairs, arm in arm, as if I were feeble. When we reached the brightly lit sitting room, my eyes skimmed their faces, some of which seemed to mirror mine, which terrified me further.
“Lady Shaw,” one of them began. “There’s been”—he struggled for the appropriate word—“there’s been a murder.”
My hand covered my mouth. Mara. My Mara.
“Is it my—” I almost said “daughter.” “Is it my niece?” She was Mrs. Christensen now.
The inspector met my gaze directly. “Her husband, Mr. Christensen, I’m afraid. The servants heard nothing, but one reported passing their bedroom earlier than usual, unable to sleep, and said that though she heard nothing, she felt compelled to check on them. When she knocked on their door and received no answer, she took it upon herself to fetch the master key, and unlocked it. Her screams woke the house.”
“Mr. Christensen was found in their bed. Mrs. Christensen was not,” a different inspector said.
“I don’t understand,” I insisted. “Was she taken? Kidnapped? Could her husband simply be ill or—”
“There was blood. On the bed.”
“Well, naturally,” I said, losing all sense of propriety. “It was their wedding night!”
“No, my lady.” The inspector looked down, embarrassed. “There was much of it. And none in him.”
“We must find my niece at once!” I insisted. “She’s in danger!”
“One of the other servants reported seeing her in her travelling cloak leaving the house at about that hour. We are searching for her now, rest assured.”