“But you’ve been like a sister to me,” said Justine gently.
Catherine merely shook her head and said, “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Perhaps we should all do that,” said Mary. “Let’s get some rest. We all need it. And then we can talk again later? I’m sure if I ask nicely, Mrs. Poole will make us a proper tea. With sandwiches and cakes. And sausages, of course,” she said, looking at Catherine. “And delicious green goo,” she added, for Beatrice’s sake.
Diana stuck a finger in her mouth and pretended to vomit. Presumably commenting on Beatrice’s choice of nourishment?
“You know,” said Mary dispassionately, “you may not have to wait for Beatrice’s poison. I’m seriously considering smothering you with a pillow while you sleep, just to keep you quiet for a while.”
Suddenly, Justine started to laugh. She put a hand over her mouth as though embarrassed, trying to hold it in. But then Beatrice started as well—elegant, musical laughter, as one might expect from Beatrice. Catherine threw her head back and laughed heartily, without restraint. Mary looked startled, but then even she started, and could not stop until her sides hurt. She had not laughed since . . . well, when had she ever laughed? It was painful, yet it brought a sense of release, as though a key had turned in her chest and opened a lock she did not know was there.
“I’d like to see you try!” said Diana indignantly. “Anyway, I’m going to my room. I had a long night rescuing Poison Breath over there, in case anyone’s forgotten.” She yawned conspicuously, crammed the last of Justine’s toast into her mouth, and walked out of the room, nose in the air, with a smear of marmalade across one cheek, like a damp, barefoot duchess.
“Her room!” said Mary. “When did it become her room?”
“Just now, I think,” said Beatrice, wiping tears from her eyes. “You said you wanted us all to stay, didn’t you? Including Diana. But I think we had better go to our rooms as well. Justine is getting no rest with us here.”
Before they left, Mary persuaded Justine to finish the vegetable broth. Then she took the tray back down to the kitchen and checked with Mrs. Poole to make sure the housekeeper still had enough money for necessities.
Yes, Mrs. Poole told her, for the moment. She was being economical, but the rates were coming due, and Diana would eat them out of house and home for sure. Mary thought again about her bank balance: forty-one pounds, twelve shillings. How would it feed seven—herself, Diana, Beatrice, Catherine, and Justine, plus Alice and Mrs. Poole? Well, six, since Beatrice barely ate—she assumed green goo was cheap. But she was too tired to think about it right now.
She walked back upstairs to her room. On the way, she checked on Justine, who was fast sleep and snoring gently under a blanket that did not quite cover the more than six feet of her. Catherine’s door was closed, but Mary supposed she was asleep as well. Diana was still awake, lying in Mary’s childhood bed with her knees up and a book propped on them. “Go away,” she said, sticking her tongue out. Mary went in and kissed Diana on the forehead, as her mother had kissed her when she was a child. Why had she done that? She did not know—instinct, she supposed. To her surprise, Diana did not actually hit her, but she did rub her head as though wiping away the offending kiss. “Gross,” was all she said.
DIANA: And it was. And it still is.
MARY: But you didn’t hit me. You never hit me when I do it.
DIANA: Is that supposed to mean something? Because it doesn’t.
CATHERINE: Not hitting people is how you show affection.
She lay down on her bed. Just for a minute . . . then she would get up and change into a nightgown. In just a minute . . . By the time that minute had passed, she was asleep.
Diana had not wanted to sleep. Mary had told her to sleep, so she wouldn’t. When she got to her room, she sat on the floor, looking at the bookshelf. These must be the books Mary had grown up with. A Child’s History of England—boooring. Poetical Fancies—who named these books? Alice in Wonderland—that looked better. She took it off the shelf and into bed with her. Ah, this was more like it! Soon, she was down the rabbit hole and in a land as chaotic as her own mind, with caucus-races and Cheshire Cats that disappeared, leaving their grins, and Mad Hatters holding tea parties. She particularly admired the Queen of Hearts.
DIANA: See? You can write perfectly well from my perspective when you want to. Told you so.
Catherine had gone to her room and shut the door, wanting to be alone. She was secretive and solitary, right? The room, which had been Mrs. Jekyll’s, had an air of delicate femininity: blue silk curtains matched the blue silk coverlet on the bed, and the furniture stood on slender mahogany legs as though about to start dancing. Catherine had the urge to scratch it all up. It reminded her too much of Lady Tibbett’s house. She took off Holmes’s frock coat, which she had been wearing since last night—it seemed a thousand years ago. Surely there must be something for her to wear? From the wardrobe, she chose a pair of drawers and an embroidered chemise. That would do.
She opened the window. Below her was the courtyard that separated the main house from the laboratory, where Beatrice was probably sleeping. She looked up: there was a drainpipe running all the way to the third floor, close enough that she could reach it. How strong was it? Would it bear her weight?
She climbed out the window and up the drainpipe. It was sturdy enough to support her weight, but ran up only to what must be a third-floor bathroom, or more likely a sink and water closet. If she could just reach from where the drainpipe ended to one of the window frames, and from there to the gutter . . . In a moment, she was up on the roof, among the chimney pots. It was a clear day—clear for London, anyhow—and she could see across the tops of the houses. London seemed to go on forever.
She turned and crossed the roof. She felt a savage delight in being up so high, the delight she must have felt on a cliff in the Andes, before Moreau transformed her into a woman. In one direction was a succession of alleys and mews. In the other was Regent’s Park, with its green treetops swaying in the wind. How strange life was! She had been born in the mountains of Argentina, then born again on Moreau’s island. Now here she was, at the center of the largest city in the world.
Somewhere in that city was Edward Prendick. One day, she would meet him again, and then, she would tear out his throat.
DIANA: And you all think I’m violent!
CATHERINE: I’m supposed to be violent. I’m a puma, remember?