Finding You

  It’s a new world, different from the dungeon behind me, from anything I’ve ever seen before I was brought here. The walls are lit orange and yellow by oil lamps and the sunset that streams in the windows to my right. I feel a twinge of relief just from knowing what time of day it is.

  A long corridor stretches ahead of me, its ceiling high and curved. The windows have pale-pink-tinted glass in them, changing the light where the sun streams through. The colors are astounding, after a world of brown and gray and black, shadows and cobwebs, grief and fear. Up here, blue and white walls are carved into delicate patterns along the ceiling, vases of pink and yellow flowers on intricate tables line the hallway. The house reminds me of Industria’s courthouse, but grander. The heels of my boots make gentle clacking sounds as I walk.

  We turn onto the next hallway and suddenly I remember to be wary. My awe fades, and jitters replace it. Details, details, I tell myself. Remember everything. You never know what could help. I glance into every open door, try to memorize every turn we make. I tell myself to read the manor like a book, to feed my surroundings into my brain to be stored up for the moment I’ll need them.

  I try not to remember what I’m traveling toward.

  Have they acted already downstairs? No, focus, I tell myself. This is all that matters right now.

  I pass marble pillars opening onto a courtyard with a fountain and topiary. I hate Zachariah Curram and his black heart more and more as I see the extent of the beauty with which he surrounds himself. Occasionally we pass servants, who stare resolutely at the ground and hurry past.

  We move quickly, past a set of doors that are wider than the rest, and I can see shelves lining the walls: the library. So many books, so many words. I could swear the books beg me to come to them, to open them and breathe them in and ingest the beautiful things they’re filled with.

  A moment later, we reach a grand staircase, the steps wide enough for a dozen people on each. Boyne casts an almost gleeful look over his shoulder at me and leads the way to the top. For a moment, I imagine this house abuzz with a gala; not one of Curram’s parties, with his despicable political guests, but a really lovely one, with paper lanterns strung up in the courtyard, ladies wearing their grandmothers’ jewelry, and mulled cider in delicate glasses on the servants’ trays. I’ll bet he even has a ballroom, I think as I make my way up the stairs. It must be beautiful.

  There are two doors before me when I reach the landing. The stairs wrap around and continue to a third level, but we stop, and the guards lead me to the door on the left. Panic hits me out of nowhere and I freeze up, my shoes sliding on the shiny marble floor.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” grunts one of the guards, grinning, as Boyne moves forward and knocks on the door. It opens immediately, and a woman appears, dressed in the simple blue attire that I’ve seen on the other servants. She looks me up and down vacantly, then motions to the guards to let me go, while I remind myself to stay rational, to breathe. I’m not there yet. I have time to prepare myself to act. I stumble forward, following the woman into a small, well-lit room with windows along the ceiling instead of at eye level.

  There’s a bathtub in the center of the room and wardrobes along the back. Three other serving women stand about, perfectly still and with downcast eyes. Boyne steps partway over the threshold. “Eight o’clock,” he says pointedly. The first, older woman nods, rolling her eyes when he turns his back.

  I stand where I am, trying not to shake.

  The woman steps forward with her hands out to me, and I draw back a little, wary. The day in the warehouse comes to mind, the brusqueness, the heat, being stripped bare in front of too many eyes. “Your clothes, dear,” she says plainly but not unkindly. She continues to hold out her hands, not touching me.

  I bend slowly to unlace the boots I’ve been wearing ever since they were given to me. With no reason to take them off in the cell, my stockings underneath are brown with grime and sweat. My knees are caked with dried blood, and as I pull off my dress, petticoats, and underthings, the rest of me is revealed to be little better: bruised and filthy all over. At least the calendar has been kind to me, and I’ve not had to feel any less clean than I do already. I stand there totally naked, totally exposed. There’s no way to wrap my arms around myself that makes me feel safer. It’s impossible to hide.

  This is not the end, I remind myself. This will be nothing if I can free myself. I can forget this humiliation later. The woman gestures to the tub, which is full of gently steaming water. Slowly, I climb over the side and slip into the delicious warmth. They must have given Eugenia, Cecily, and the others the same treatment. And dozens before us, as well. Cleaned up and readied for him like clams. The thought makes me sick.

  There’s soap and lavender oil to wash with, but no one tries to help me. I can’t remember the last bath I had that wasn’t cold; renting stalls once or twice a week at the bathhouses was the best Pa and I could afford, and the water temperature always depended on the weather. The rooms with heated baths cost more.

  There’s a rough brush that I scrub myself with until my skin is pink and feels like it’s on fire. I hold my nose and slip below the surface, letting the warmth envelop me like sleep. Under the water, the world is silent, and the terror awaiting me when I resurface feels far-off and surreal.

  But I don’t feel at peace.

  Doubts turn my stomach, and time refuses to slow down so I can think.

  The water turns gray with grime, and I know I can’t stall any longer. I stand, thoughts jumbled, hugging myself and letting the water tumble off my shoulders. One of the girls drapes a towel around me and rubs me up and down with it, while another wrings out my hair and combs lavender oil through it.

  Again and again they steal glances at me, and then at one another.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Yer not upset, then?” asks one, wide-eyed. “It’s just, everyone else is always throwin’ a fit—”

  “Enough conversation, Grace,” says the woman in charge simply, a warning in her voice.

  The girl nods. “You have beautiful hair,” she whispers hurriedly as a third girl opens one of the wardrobes and begins rifling through it. She comes back with a small pile of clothes, and between them all, I get dressed.

  I shouldn’t be surprised at the clothing: a lacy corset that ties up the front and short, frilly bloomers that leave my legs bare. I close my eyes as they fix me up, tying ribbons and fluffing ruffles. I might as well be naked still, I think, looking down at my bare legs and feet. But none of this matters, I remind myself. My fate will never be what they assume. I will beat Curram. At the very least I will make him sorry he ever saw my face.

  But the moment is almost here and I’m not ready. I have no idea what comes next: Curram himself, or further preparation? I scan the room furiously.

  This is his bathroom as well, I realize. There’s a washbasin just a few feet from me, and beside it are the brush, pallet, and folded razor he must use to shave his face.

  The girls fuss with my hair for a moment, tying part of it back with a pale ribbon and patting the ends dry. I start coughing and stumble forward, putting out a hand as if to steady myself on the counter. As they exclaim and help to right me, I snatch up the razor and, continuing to cough, slide it up the leg of my bloomers.

  A second later, I recover, and the girls file silently out of the room, until only the older woman remains. She looks me up and down with a twinge of anger in her eyes, and then the emotion is gone. “Go in,” she says, her words plain and resigned. She gestures to the door on the other wall. It must lead to an adjoining room.

  “Thank you,” I say, as if that will mean something. She doesn’t respond, only opens the door and lets me through. The latch clicks behind me and I am alone.

  fifteen

  The room is large and dark, with tall, gloomy ceilings. There are windows on one wall, but even they are dark. Oil lamps hanging from the ceiling and set on shelves provide the only light, mellow and eerie
. There’s a desk to my right overflowing with books and papers and broken quill pens, and behind it are shelves with more books.

  To my left is a grand canopy bed that sends a chill down my spine. There is no way to turn back, I remind myself. My toes curl on the cool stone floor. I’ll need to find a way to take Curram by surprise, to subdue him. I need to knock him unconscious, if I can find a heavy enough object to smash over his head. Then I can tie him to something so he can’t come after me when he wakes. Maybe I can even find something here with a clue about Lillian.

  I’m a fool.

  The realization shudders through me.

  I’ll never take control of Curram by myself. I’m small and weak. I’m half starved and was puny even before all this. I don’t have Tam to protect me, or iron bars to keep my enemies at bay; I don’t even have the company of others to encourage me.

  I’m doomed.

  All of a sudden I can’t hold on to a steady thought. I could hide, and wait until he comes and then leaves again in search of me. Or I could look for a better weapon before he arrives. The latter, I decide. If Zachariah Curram is held up, I’ll use the time to my own advantage.

  But the second I take a step toward his desk, the other door opens. Curram appears, filling the threshold, and my heartbeats blend together. I’m going to be sick.

  His waistcoat is already unbuttoned, his loose cotton shirt half untucked.

  “You may be surprised to know,” he says, summing me up with a look that could not be more thorough, “that I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  He begins to smile, and I can’t move. My nerve, so righteously built and fed, is snatched away. My knees tremble, my heart tries to burst. The only thing I can do is will myself to stand and face him.

  Curram strides smoothly forward, his eyes exploring every crevice, every contour of my ill-clad body. This is nakedness. Not the day in the warehouse, not ten minutes ago in the bath. This. His hand hesitates against my arm, then slides up my neck to cradle the back of my head. All the while, his smile increases. He leans down, kissing me along my neck and shoulder and collarbone, taking long, deep breaths as I tremble and struggle not to cry. Every touch of his skin on mine sickens me.

  After a moment, he draws back a little, seeking out my eyes for the first time. “No struggle?” he asks, taking delight in my discomfort. “I’m not sure whether to feel disappointed or strangely refreshed.” He smiles. “I suppose I expected that your spirit would mean a good fight; I was looking forward to the challenge.”

  I stare straight into his eyes, hating my tears. Just a moment longer, and I’ll take out his eyeball, I tell myself, my fingers inching surreptitiously up my leg to the concealed razor. Curram moves in again, his hot breath on my cheek before he buries his face in my shoulder and his hands move down my back. Finally my fingers feel the end of the razor through the fabric. I try to pull it out and suddenly he’s pushing me backward, and I’m stumbling over my feet. I fall back against something soft—the bed, I realize—just as he comes down on me, pinning my arms at my sides.

  My grip on the razor’s handle is lost and I think, I failed. I’ll never get away. I’m as good as dead. I hate the crushing weight of him on me, and I want to scream and I want to die. But then his greedy fingers move to the laces on my corset and for a moment my hand is free. I find the tiny weapon, pull it out, and flick it open, slashing his face with all the indignation and fury and hatred that have been building up inside of me.

  There’s a spray of blood, and Curram shouts, flying backward off me. “You little bitch!” he shouts. He pulls his hand from his face, staring at the blood smeared everywhere, while his clear eye widens in pain and surprise. I scramble away from him, farther up the bed, grasping my small weapon and brandishing it as threateningly as I can. “She-devil,” he spits, his expression turning to something like madness. “I swear you’ll pay for that. And here I thought I wasn’t going to get any fight from you. I’m almost glad I was wrong.” He lets out a short laugh and suddenly I’m really terrified.

  His hand drops and he launches toward me, across the bed, his face half covered in blood.

  I can’t move quickly enough. In a second he’s on top of me, his strong, heavy hands wresting the little razor from my grasp and tossing it away with a clatter. He holds my arms down with brutal, bruising weight, smiling as my heart pumps so hard it aches and hot tears begin to slide out of the sides of my eyes. Struggling only leaves me breathless and weak, chest heaving. I spit up at his face in a last effort to distract him, but he just chuckles. “Now,” he says, as blood trickles down his face and falls on my shoulder, “are you ready to pay for that little stunt? Hmm?”

  I’m a fool, fool, fool.

  I try to suck in the air to scream, but it won’t come. He’s too heavy on me, my throat is closed. I wish I were dead. I close my eyes, thrashing my legs and trying to wrench my arms from his grasp. Useless. I’m useless. I’m weak and stupid.

  No, I swear to myself, time slowing down as my heart races faster. I’ll fight. Until the last second, I’ll fight.

  I thrust my head against his and everything explodes in pain. But he falls backward, and I kick him, as hard as I can, shoving him off me. I can’t see anything, though; my head is throbbing and the world is pulsing in pain. Focus, focus, I order myself, rolling off the bed and scrambling to my hands and knees. My vision clears in time to see Curram lunging across the bed toward me again. I get to my feet, unsteady, and bolt across the room to his desk.

  Books, papers. None of this will help. He barrels toward me and I dart behind the desk so it’s between us; I grab for anything I can, hurling the stone he uses to sharpen his letter opener at him as hard as I can. It misses, but he doesn’t smile now.

  “At least you’re keeping things interesting,” he says through bared teeth. His eyes are glowing with rage.

  I’m the one who should be angry, I think, and then I am. I pick up one book and throw it at him, and then another. A third and a fourth and a fifth; he dodges or deflects each one, but with every hurled book I inch closer to the corner of the desk, where a marble bust peeks out from underneath a pile of papers.

  Just as Curram raises his hand to knock aside the last book, I round the desk and my fingers curl around the side of the bust. “Still interesting?” I say, swinging it up at him.

  The impact of the marble striking his head rings through my arms, and he crashes to the ground. I drop the sculpture, realizing with a dazed amusement that it depicts Curram’s own head.

  My legs feel like pudding and I sink, trembling, to the ground, casting about for the razor, just in case. Curram lies facedown on the floor, bleeding, I think. As it is, he’ll have a bruise from where I struck him with my head, and a scar from the razor, I hope.

  That’s if he’s even alive.

  I inhale, raspy and still shaking, and crawl over to his body.

  I don’t want to touch him. The idea makes my head swim. But I hoist him onto his back and slowly lean down to listen for a heartbeat. At first I can hear nothing over my own short breath and hurried pulse, over the way I hate his smell and the way I still feel like I belong to him. But then, so faint, so quiet, I pick out the slow sound of his pumping heart.

  He’s alive. I feel a terrible mix of relief and disappointment.

  At least I’m not a murderer.

  His face is slick and red with his own blood; the razor cut is still bleeding. I turn my hand over, running a finger along the X, and I’m glad he’ll have to think of me every time he looks in the mirror, glad he’ll be forced to remember that I was more than he bargained for.

  I pull myself to my feet and begin to search the room. The cords that hold back the curtains are the closest thing to rope I can find, so I turn Curram onto his stomach again and tie his hands behind his back. My fingers won’t stop shaking; even though I know the knots well, I can hardly form them. My nose begins to run, and then I’m crying like a baby, bent over his unconscious body.

 
; Breathe, I tell myself, looking around the room. There’s a handkerchief peeking out of his pocket; I ball it up and shove it into his mouth, just in case he wakes up. I wonder why Boyne hasn’t already come to check that his master is all right, but maybe he’s accustomed to the noise.

  Standing in the middle of Curram’s bedroom, I feel exposed in the skimpy clothes; my eyes fall on his dressing gown, thrown across a chair. I don’t want to touch anything of his. My mind goes back again and again to his hand on my arm, his hot breath on my neck, his greedy, heavy fingers working at the laces on my corset. I’m frozen again; my hand goes to my throat automatically, searching for my locket, for Tam’s presence.

  My locket.

  I round Curram’s desk again, pushing aside more papers, opening drawers, frantic. And then I see it, tossed among his seals and spare pens, a tangled pile of chain in the corner. It’s broken, but just touching it is enough; I forget Curram for a second and remember only Tam. I wind the severed chain around my wrist, with the heart dangling into my palm, and shake my head free. I have to get out of here. I turn to go, but remember Lillian. Why would he keep records of her? I think, but I pause anyway, rifling through the remaining papers on the desk.

  Bill of Sale reads one, catching my eye. The title is followed by a list of five hundred rifles, one hundred pistols, and ammunition enough for them all. Des said Curram is a politician, not a weapons dealer, I think, skimming to the end of the list. His name is scrawled at the bottom as the seller, and beside it is the buyer’s, one I’ve never heard before: “Alistair Swain.” The army’s seal is nowhere to be seen.

  Slowly at first, and then in a hurry, I sift through the papers in front of me. They are piled in tall stacks all about the desk’s surface: ledgers, expense reports, more sale lists. Most of them describe weapons. There’s nothing to denote Curram’s purchase from the warehouse, but that’s hardly surprising.

  I gather an armful of papers and the money purse from one of the drawers, stuffing the purse with any trinkets I see that look valuable: a compass, a watch. It’s not until I start toward the door that leads to the bathroom that I remember Curram himself, still unconscious on the floor.