But I have to live. He can’t win again; I can’t let him.
Boyne grabs my hands and ties one end of the rope around my right wrist, tight enough to break the skin; then, smiling at me, he starts to wind the remainder around my left. I spit in his face through gritted teeth and throw myself backward against Curram, distracting the two men just enough that neither notices when I twist my hand and wind the cord three times around my right wrist.
Boyne angrily wipes his face on his sleeve and ties the left even more tightly, but doesn’t realize that I’ve afforded myself a foot or so of slack if I untwist my wrists. I try to breathe evenly through my nose, storing up my energy again. “Leave us,” Curram tells Boyne with a smile, and I feel a flicker of hope. I could never have beaten them both.
I can do this, I think. I have to, or I’ll die.
The door closes behind Josiah Boyne, and his master turns me roughly to face him. I try to call up Tam’s face for strength, or Des’s, but it’s not enough.
It’s Eugenia’s that comes to mind, for some reason. Eugenia Margaret Rigney. And then it’s her cries, echoing in my head. I see the saucer-size eyes of the girl in the warehouse, and remember Cecily’s shouted plea, that we get word to her family. I see the girls who were dragged upstairs on the night of the party, the ones who never came back. And here, right in front of me, is the man responsible for all that. The man who imprisoned us, ordered floggings, made a game out of our fear, and hunted down our innocence. The coward who might as well have marked my flesh himself, who took my locket for a laugh and tried to take so much more.
I should be terrified by the greed and intensity in his eyes, but I’m not, somehow. A strange certainty surges through me now. My heart drums in my breast.
I’m strong enough.
I’m brave enough.
I won’t be his. Not ever.
Curram takes a fistful of the front of my dress, tears it open so that my corset is exposed, and shoves me to the ground. He pushes my bound hands above my head and climbs on top of me with a horrible grin on his face. “Now,” he breathes heavily, as I furiously try to unravel the slack of the cord about my wrists, “let’s try and enjoy ourselves, hmm?”
I try to kick him, to deter him, to shove him back with my legs, but he’s laughing, fiddling with the top of his trousers, then reaching for the bottom of my corset to tear it open. Then my hands have all the slack they need, and I loop the cord over his head.
His moment of surprise is all I need; I twist my arm over his head so I’m cutting off his breathing, and he sputters, tries to break free, to pull the rope away from his neck. His eyes are wide, shocked. He struggles for all he’s worth, but he’s already losing.
I hold on, for my life, wrapping my legs around him, twisting about so I’m nearly straddling him, while he gasps and claws at the cord, swats at me and swears and tries to shout but chokes instead.
“I’m going to kill you,” I grunt into his ear, also breathless, pulling, pulling, pulling. His breathing catches, coming in short gasps, his hands clawing at me a little longer with the last of his strength, his fingernails leaving bloody lines along my hands and face where he can reach. I keep pulling, keep holding on. Then his frantic hands become weak and sluggish; I can feel the life slowing in him just as if it were my bare hands wrapped around his throat.
Curram tries to say something again, falters, and the breath rattles out of him as his eyelids droop. Even after his head falls and he ceases to move, I keep my grip on the cord. I can see the red line on his pale skin, like a noose mark, but I don’t let go.
I stay on top of him, half expecting him to sit up and overpower me somehow. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.
When I do finally let go, it’s because I’m too exhausted to hold on any longer. Vision blurry, I work at the knots on my wrists; I can’t let my guard down yet, no matter how much I want to. I scramble off Curram’s body, every breath like a shuddering earthquake, and find my knife on the ground, pulling my knees up to my chest and brandishing it, just in case. When I try to stop my tears, my hands come back covered in my own blood, from the marks he left with his clawing. I wipe my hands off on my dress, which is so torn the front won’t close. I feel tired, and spent, and small, and the familiar sensation of filthiness that comes from Curram’s touch is already creeping over me again.
But I saved myself. The words ring through my head, bittersweet triumph.
Is he dead? Is Zachariah Curram dead?
I don’t want to move to find out. I don’t want to touch him again. What I want is for someone to wrap their arms around me and let me cry. I want to rest, really and truly. I want my pa, and my room. But Boyne could return at any moment, I tell myself. I tear strips of cloth from my dress and wind them around my hands to stop the bleeding, and then crawl back to Curram’s body. Closing my eyes so I won’t have to look at his face, I lay one ear against his chest.
Nothing.
This time his body is empty and silent, and I don’t have to worry that he’ll wake up.
I scoot backward as fast as my trembling legs can take me. He will never touch me again, I think. He will never claim that I belong to him, never undress me with his eyes, never make me feel small or weak. I won.
But I still need to find Lillian.
My legs are unsteady as I stagger to the door. The manor is still and quiet, and the corridor is dark after I close the door behind me. I don’t realize I’m not alone until someone seizes me from behind and a soft, fleshy hand wraps around my mouth when I try to scream. Boyne, again. His other hand holds down my arms, and I try to wriggle free, but he’s stronger than I expected, and I’m weaker now. “Not so fast, bitch,” he snarls in my ear, squeezing me tighter. I can’t scream, can’t even kick because he’s holding me so close.
With the crack of a gunshot, everything changes. Boyne lets go of me and falls to the ground, screaming and whimpering. I look wildly around, my ears ringing from the shot, but my eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness. I scramble backward as figures loom closer, but I reach the wall and can’t move any farther. I slide down and pull my legs up to my chest.
Then someone is before me, crouching down to my level, cupping the side of my face in his hand. “Isla,” he says, so gently. “It’s all right, Isla. Everything is all right.”
“Tam?” I sniff, trembling. But he can’t be here. He’s three days’ away, in Eisendrath.
He slides an arm under my legs and behind my back and picks me up, like I don’t weigh anything at all, and holds on to me tightly. “I’ll protect you,” he says softly, kissing my forehead. “I promise.” Am I dreaming?
“Where are the others?”
I start at Valentina’s voice. “Wh-what are you doing here…?”
“Shh,” says Tam. “We came to find you, of course.”
“But—” How are they here? I stare up at him, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness and trying to convince myself that this is really happening. I don’t understand.
“Did they leave you to take on Curram alone?” Val sounds indignant.
“No, he suspected a trap.”
“What happened, Isla? Who did this to you?” Tam’s eyes move over me, taking in the bloody bandages on my hands and the torn front of my dress. He could put me down, but he doesn’t. “Are you all right?”
“It was Curram,” I say very slowly, still trembling. “He tried to—” Then I realize Tam has no idea who I’m talking about. “He’s the man who took Eugenia.” I take a deep breath. “And me, he took me, too. I was with her. They kept us here.” I feel like I can breathe again without the words weighing on my chest. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Where is he?” Tam’s voice is tight with anger. “I’ll kill him. I’ll beat his brains out if I find him.” He’s shaking, but he hasn’t let go of me. He hasn’t recoiled like something’s wrong with me.
“Tam?” He looks down at me, his face inches from mine. “How did you even know to come?” H
e eases a little.
“Des realized you’d gone,” he says. “He told me to come.”
“Of course he did,” I moan, but I’m not sorry.
Val crosses her arms. “We’ve been trying to catch up since you left.”
My eyes flick to Tam’s face; his mouth is set in a grim line, his eyes hard, not looking at me. “I couldn’t let you walk into danger on your own, even when I thought it was just about Eugenia,” Tam says, softening when he talks to me. He sets me gently on my feet, wiping my bloody cheek with his thumb. “What did he do to you?” I falter a little, leaning against Tam and feeling weak again. He came.
“Curram is dead,” I say, my voice quiet. “At least, I think he is.”
“Where?”
“I’ll show you.”
I move toward the door, but Tam hesitates, looking at Boyne, who is moaning and whimpering, clutching his leg near the knee. “We’d better do something about him first.” Tam picks up Boyne’s pistol from the ground and pockets it. “Someone must have heard by now. Let’s bring him with us.”
When we’re inside, he drops Boyne’s arms, leaving him on the library floor. Between moans and groans, Boyne spits insults at us, but he seems incapable of pulling himself together and bearing the injury. I watch Tam take in the room and scold myself for thinking he didn’t care. But why act so cruelly? Maybe I didn’t understand what was going on. Maybe he’s not as easy to read as I thought.
He’s wearing his army uniform, rust-brown pants and shirt, heavy black boots; I imagine he’ll be in trouble for leaving, if they realize he’s gone. “Will you be—” I start to ask, but then I realize that he’s looking at Curram, the cord still tangled about his neck.
Tam looks furious, his jaw tight, his face flushed. “You did that?” he asks. I nod, and he looks me up and down, seeing my bloody hands and face, my ripped dress, all over again in the light. I feel like I should cover up, or tell him I’m fine, or that he doesn’t need to be upset because nothing really happened.
He leans down and kisses me, suddenly, pulling me toward him with a hand against my back.
I make a surprised sound, and he pulls back, leaving me stunned. My mouth tingles and my stomach lurches. I wish he’d kiss me again. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he says. He watches me for a moment before adding, very seriously, “I won’t let anyone hurt you again, Isla.” And then, with a slight smile, “Even if it seems you can defend yourself pretty well without me.”
“I’d rather I didn’t have to,” I think I say. It’s hard to tell with my head spinning.
There’s a commotion outside the door and Tam whirls, stepping in front of me. Caffrey and Gilbert burst in, each brandishing a knife and a pistol. They take in the scene quickly, lowering their weapons, their jaws dropping in surprise. Phoebe appears behind them, with Marion beside her.
“Are you all right?” Gilbert asks, looking me over.
Caffrey looks angry. “Evidently Curram had it out for you,” he says.
“I survived,” I answer, without the energy to say more.
Gilbert’s expression is grim. “I had no idea he’d guess at Alistair’s plans, Isla; I’m so sorry.”
“Who had the honor?” Phoebe asks, gesturing to Curram and looking between Tam, Valentina, and me. I laugh, but it comes out as a strangled sort of sob. Tam’s arms come around me and I bury my face in his shirt. When I eventually pull back, he meets my eyes, serious.
“Will you be all right?” he asks. I nod, but it feels like a lie.
Then I see her. Past Marion and Phoebe, still in the shadows outside the door. From her sharp, attractive features like his and dark hair like mine, I know instantly that she’s Des’s sister. She stands like she’s afraid she’ll break, her arms held straight and close to her sides, her steps hesitant like she could fall through the floor at any moment. Des is behind her, his own hands hovering awkwardly as though he wants to guide her movements, but never touching her, as if he, too, is afraid she’ll break.
“You mean Zachariah?” she says, stepping closer, and only as she moves into the light do I see the haunted look in her eyes. They take in everything, from my bloody hands to Tam’s arms around me to the still-whimpering Boyne trying in vain to claw his way away from us across the floor to Curram’s motionless body. The others part to let her past, Des hanging back with worried eyes as he watches her every move. “He’s dead?”
“I think so,” I say.
“Justice has been served, then.” She puts bitter emphasis on the first word, her voice breaking as it grows louder.
“Lillian,” Des starts, but she ignores him.
“Yes,” I say, taking an uneasy step toward her. The room has gone perfectly still.
“Good,” she says, her voice leveling. She’s faking the calm. I know because I know her brother. Very slowly, she takes another step forward, and then another. And before anyone knows what’s happening, she grabs the pistol from Gilbert’s hand and fires into Curram’s chest, the crack of the gunshot ringing in my ears.
I want to press my eyes shut against all the blood, but then she’s holding the gun to her chin and Des is shouting. “He’s dead, Lil, he’s dead, it’s all right,” he’s pleading, reaching toward her frantically. She backs away from him, shaking her head as her eyes fill with tears.
“That’s not enough,” she says, very quietly.
“Lillian,” I say gently, inching toward her. She turns, the gun flailing in my direction. I swallow, keeping my eyes on Lillian’s, as Tam tries to reason with her, Val and Des plead for her to listen, and Boyne moans in the background. I push all the confusion out of my head. “Lillian, please.”
“You have no idea what it’s like,” she says, her voice hoarse and hurting. “You think—”
“I do, Lillian, I do know. He took me, too.” I don’t want to patronize her, but if I stop talking it’ll be worse.
“But he’s dead,” I go on, taking the smallest of steps closer. “He’s dead, you can start over, you’re free. You can try to forget.”
Her face is thin and gaunt, her eyes rimmed in red. “He spent three years making sure I’d never forget.” She’s stock-still for a moment; then her arm drops, the gun hanging limply by her side. “Not the first time, or the second, or the tenth, or the hundredth after that.” Her eyes, so full of sadness, look vacant, like she’s lost somewhere else for a moment. “He took things from me, made me get rid of—” She’s shaking her head fast, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “A baby would have been inconvenient for him, and I didn’t want to have his child, I didn’t, but he made me, he brought a man—” Her words pick up speed until they slur together.
She takes a trembling breath and looks at Curram’s body again. “I wanted it to be enough,” she says, “but it’s not.” Then she pulls the pistol up to her chin again, and Des throws himself at her as the sound of another gunshot cracks the air.
twenty-seven
They hit the floor and the gun goes spinning away. I rush to Des’s side, dropping to my knees, but Lillian is curled up, shaking with sobs. There’s no blood; Des knocked the pistol aside in time.
“Hey,” he’s saying over and over, as he pulls his sister into his arms and holds her tightly even as she fights him. Gilbert steps carefully past them and pockets the gun, even though it’s probably harmless for the moment. That would have been me, I think, staring at Lillian. If not in the cell, before Curram disposed of me, then after we made the trade. I would have been his next Lillian, a plaything, always at his disposal.
“He must have sent all the staff home tonight,” Gilbert says quietly to me when I stand. “Only the guards were here. With your friends’ help, we managed to incapacitate the ones who took us, and now they’re in the cell underground.”
Phoebe steps closer to me. “You were right,” she whispers. “There were other girls. They’re in
the vestibule now; we couldn’t send them out because they’d only be stopped by the men at the gate.”
“How did you get in?” I ask, turning to Tam.
He looks sheepish. “Climbed the wall. Couldn’t think of a clever enough lie to get past the gates.”
I take his hands. “We can pay off the guards with Curram’s money if we have to,” I say.
“You’ve always had enough brains for both of us,” he says, swallowing hard and glancing at Des and Lillian once more. “Come on. We should let them alone for a moment.”
I look once more at Curram’s body and realize with a jolt that I’ve only half succeeded: I’ve lost my best chance at getting answers. Tears well up in my eyes. “Maybe it’s still not enough,” I say, looking at Phoebe. “We don’t know where he sent the others, or who he bought us from in the first place. I doubt he kept records of that sort of thing. Curram’s dead, but that doesn’t mean they’ll stop taking girls every day off the street and selling them to someone else.”
“Isla,” Tam interrupts quietly, pointing at Boyne, curled up on the ground. “Would he know?”
Caffrey and Gilbert offer their help instantly. “This one’s pathetic. He’ll tell us whatever you need to know,” says the latter, holding Boyne to the ground when he starts to kick and squirm. He sounds like a whining dog. Standing over him, Caffrey looks double his already formidable size.
“What did you want to know, sweetheart?”
“Who was Curram’s supplier? Who did he buy the girls from?”
“You heard the lady.” Caffrey grins, raising one foot over the bullet hole in Boyne’s leg. Boyne hesitates, and Caffrey stomps hard on the wound, making him scream.
“He was there, he knows,” I say, still staring at Boyne.
“Of course he does. And he’s about to tell us.”
“If you j-just—aauugh!” More pressure.