Renegade (3 page)

When I finally had a break in the afternoon, I made my way up to the fourth floor to find a few stolen moments with William. I discovered that much was left unchanged since Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Buck had been there. The floor was still poorly lit, shadowed and stuffy. I tried to swallow my feelings of fear, of disgust—memories of the murders. Nonetheless, I felt myself tremble a bit as I walked down the fourth floor corridor.

“William,” I said, knocking on the door that had once been the door to Robert Buck’s office. This was the office closest to the stairs. The door was already slightly ajar as I stepped inside. Although no one was in it, I saw that Simon now used the office. His desk had only a single book on it. I saw its title:
Neurypnology
. From the description under the title, it appeared to be a book on hypnosis and mesmerism, specifically something called hypnotherapy.
Curious
. I’d heard of hypnosis but did not know much about it, and I wondered what Simon’s interest in it was. As I glanced about the room, I saw medical books, theology books, and several Greek Bibles lining the bookshelves. Robert Buck’s taxidermied owl still peered down from a high shelf behind the desk. I felt the hairs on my neck prickle a bit.

Quickly, I continued to the end of the hall, to where Dr. Bartlett’s office had been. William must have claimed that office for himself. I saw William’s medical books, notebooks with his handwriting, and pens scattered about the desk. Julian Bartlett’s small pedestal with the skull, that curious skull covered with pen-scratched notes, remained in the corner of the room. Again I felt myself unsettled. Wondering where William could be, I turned and saw that the large doors to the laboratory were slightly ajar.

Like the offices, the laboratory seemed very much the same. In spite of the fact that I wanted to erase the memory of the Conclave from my mind, I felt somewhat glad to see Dr. Buck’s specimens still lining the shelves. All of his odd creatures in formaldehyde had always intrigued me. It was such an incredible collection. I let my eyes linger on the baby sting rays, the small sharks. A case of exotic insects. I frowned, suddenly remembering the more gruesome specimens he had kept in cases at the Montgomery Street house—the shrunken heads, the hair.

The pharmacy door in the laboratory was wide open, all of the medicines and herbal bottles stacked neatly as usual. William always insisted that it be kept orderly. I went into the side room with the tub. I hoped, as I opened the door to it, that William had had the decency to remove the picture—that little painting of the goblet with the Conclave’s phrase across it:
A Posse Ad Esse
.

I entered the room.

No. The painting was still there, facing me.

Don’t be foolish, Abbie
, I heard myself say.
Face your fears
.

Walking over to the picture, I reached out. Gingerly, I touched it.

I hadn’t had a vision since the autumn. But the moment my fingers touched the cheap wood frame of the painting, one came upon me like an electric current. I saw bubbles in the greenish depths of water somewhere. A creature, dragonlike, with a tail. Claws. In the murky water, I saw the creature’s scaly haunches, thick and muscular like a lioness’s, as my nostrils became overwhelmed with the smell of fish, of seaweed. The monster had hair, long hazelnut hair billowing out like burnt gold threads in the water. I saw the swift, fleshy movement of breasts.

I gasped, and the vision left me almost as soon as it appeared.

I stood there, shaking and reeling. Dizzied. I immediately thought of Rossetti’s portrait of my mother. But this creature was certainly not my mother. The hair was different; I felt sure it was not her painted image come to life. But the being in the vision nevertheless seemed to be the mythological lamia—the exact creature Mother had portrayed.

Lamias were in fairy tales, in myths, in Rossetti’s painting. They did not exist. Yet all of my visions, so far, had been of true events, of actual people.

The vision was baffling enough, but new thoughts now began to enter my mind.
Why did Max give me the portrait? Is there some kind of message in it?

I felt hands upon my shoulders, then around my face. I whipped around.

“William! You frightened me.”

But before I could say another word, his lips were upon mine. During the few times this year when I had met with William, it had always been in public places where we had very little time or opportunity for intimacy. Thus now, alone with William, uninterrupted, the disturbing vision melted from my consciousness as I surrendered myself to the kiss.

I fell deeper into the kiss, a melting heat building inside me. It had been too long since we had touched like this. My desire became almost overwhelming. Somehow, William untied my stained work pinafore, letting it slide away from my dress onto the floor. Then in a single movement he plucked the pins from my hair, and I felt it fall heavy around my shoulders.

My thoughts and senses became frenzied as I felt his fingers wrapped in the locks of my hair. His lips moved softly down my cheek, my neck, to the top button of my dress, which he began to unbutton. Vaguely, I thought I should be using better sense; still, in spite of this, I heard myself groan, softly.

Only Simon’s footsteps entering the laboratory pulled me from my thoughts. The door to this closet was still open slightly. I hoped that he hadn’t heard us.

He had.

The footsteps stopped abruptly just inside the laboratory. After a three-second pause, as I tried to quiet my breathing, I heard him turn and exit. In another moment, I heard the door of his office shut. Hard.

“William … ” I pushed him away from me, blushing as I pinned back my hair and tied my pinafore back on.

He sighed, his face flushed. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I know we haven’t had much time alone, but this is … ” I felt my cheeks grow fiery. “Moving far too swiftly to be rational.”

He smirked. Unrepentant. I smiled and kissed him lightly.

“I need to return to work.”

“Yes.” He sighed again. Loudly this time. “I’ve got paperwork in my office.” He pulled his pocket watch out and groaned. “And an old friend of ours, Inspector Abberline, will be paying Simon and me a visit this afternoon.”

I had finished putting the last pin in my hair and tying my pinafore. “Why?”

William shrugged. “Actually, I’m not precisely certain. Perhaps about the Ripper murders. Still unsolved in his mind.”

“Perhaps. But almost four months have elapsed since then.” I felt an odd mix of amusement and pity, thinking of how the hard-working Inspector would never solve this case. Simultaneously, I also felt my general uneasiness—Max was still out there. Somewhere.

“Abberline came here a few times in January,” William said. “But we haven’t seen him lately. The timing is odd … ” His voice drained off a bit. As we left the laboratory, he
whispered, “So you still haven’t heard from Max since the portrait delivery?”

“No.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And you have had no more … visions?”

Josephine reached the top of the stairs in a fluster, wanting to speak to William about something. I felt relieved. The vision of the lamia made no sense. It did not seem to fit with the Conclave’s history, or with my experiences with them. And yet, I had seen it when I touched the painting. But I felt ridiculous telling William about it now. So I welcomed Josephine’s interruption.

As they proceeded down the corridor to his office, I paused at Simon’s door—still shut. He was in there; I saw the lamplight stream out from under the door. I almost knocked. Oddly, I felt the urge to talk to him, before William, about the vision. I loved William, fiercely. Too fiercely. I bit my lip; certainly I loved him heedlessly. I felt myself blush, remembering how heated I’d become just now. But though I loved William, I knew I would feel more comfortable discussing the vision with Simon. I thought of how understanding he had been toward me when I first told him about my visions. Thinking of the book on his desk about hypnotherapy, I knew that Simon had more understanding of the mind’s mysteries, of the esoteric.

But then I remembered hearing Simon’s footsteps in the laboratory, knowing that he knew I was in there with William. I didn’t love Simon, and yet, I admired him so intensely … his compassion, even his guarded nature intrigued me. He was so lovely and enigmatic, and I often wanted to peek behind the veil of his thoughts. But I considered how sharply he had shut his office door. And the ache within me intensified, so I only paused, then continued to the stairs.

Three

O
n Thursday, William arrived promptly in the early evening for tea. I was hoping to kindly ease Grandmother into becoming comfortable with William, to seeing that he was not a laudanum-addicted rake like Dante Gabriel Rossetti had been. But the moment the three of us sat down in the parlor, I began to feel that I’d been wrong in assuming that this was a good idea.

Grandmother held Jupe tightly on her lap as she took
tea with us, and her warmth toward William was more like an Arctic chill. I watched the clock—watched it tick away at an agonizingly slow pace. We only had fifteen more minutes to endure with her before we would depart for dinner at the Morris household. Grandmother kept asking William prying questions about his family. About his Italian relatives, the Polidoris. About his aunt, Christina Rossetti, and how she dealt with the “notoriety” of her great-uncle, John Polidori, the physician and
vampire-book writer, and the scandals of her brother, Gabriel. I blushed in embarrassment and anger for Grandmother; it was beneath even her to be so rude. Yet William exceeded all my expectations in his patience with her, answering each time pleasantly and calmly.

The moment I had the opportunity, I changed the subject back to the present, to Whitechapel Hospital.

“William and Simon have the hospital functioning quite properly,” I said, stirring my tea.

Grandmother sighed. “Julian Bartlett’s death in that fire was so tragic. He was such a skilled physician, so charitable. And such a gentleman.”

William and I exchanged glances quickly. Although Grandmother knew of the fatal house fire on Montgomery Street, she, like everyone else in London, thought the house had burned to the ground in a grievous accident. Fortunately, the fire had spread so rapidly, the flames had been so hot, that there was little but ashes left of the bodies of Julian Bartlett and his housemates—their cause of death appeared to be from the fire only.

If Grandmother only knew the truth behind Julian Bartlett’s “charitable” nature, about his feelings toward my mother. The silence in the room seemed roaring, but I did not know what to say as my thoughts turned again to Mother’s murder, back in Ireland. It had happened less than a year ago, but in some ways it felt like a lifetime.

William spoke first, setting his teacup down lightly in its saucer. “Yes, yes. It was tragic. Terrible. He was a wise instructor, and Simon and I are grateful to have had his guidance.”

Mercifully, the clock finally chimed six o’clock. Time to leave.

William and I walked arm in arm after the carriage let us out in the Hammersmith area. I had remained rather quiet during the ride. I felt bothered by Grandmother’s assumptions about William and his unstable family. I contemplated the numerous times before and during her illness that Grandmother had lectured me about them. She could not tell me anything that I did not already know; in actuality, I knew far more about the Rossetti family’s “falls” and eccentricities than she did. The fact remained, though, that I loved William. He did not seem to possess the same weaknesses as his father. For all of his failings, shortcomings, and faults, Gabriel Rossetti had been a good adoptive father to William. I frowned. Although Gabriel was my biological father, I had never met him.

As we walked, I noticed fondly the patches of daffodils just beginning to brighten gray-tinged London. The moon was a brilliant thumbprint in the sky. Still, the spring evening seemed extraordinarily chilly, and I clutched the collar of my coat tighter at my throat.

The sound of determined footsteps behind us startled me from my reveries, and I felt William tense beside me. I sucked in my breath and glanced behind us: a man in a coat, probably a solicitor or accountant on his way home from work, cast a bored glance in our direction before turning down a side street.

My fears spilled out in a whisper. “Max can’t be far, William. I know that he hasn’t given up. He’s lost the Conclave and the elixir. He cannot be immortal without it.”

Although I knew that the Conclave was gone, whenever I looked at my mother’s portrait I felt the nagging sense that Max, the surviving member, must have had some reason to keep William, Simon, and me alive. He still needed something from us—or from me. I shook my head, desperate to dispel the thoughts. And now there was that odd vision of a lamia that had come to me when I’d touched the picture in the laboratory.

The evening chill had spread to my bones.

“With the exception of Max, the Conclave is no more, Abbie,” William said. “Simon and I have searched every crevice in the laboratory and offices at the hospital, and we went back to search the rubbish in the house ashes as well. They have left no secrets. Even my father’s notes and Polidori’s papers burned in the flames.”