The Deepest Night

“Gracious! Are we dining with the servants now?”

“She is a student, Lady Clayworth.”

“She is not dressed for dinner!”

I smiled thinly. “And yet here I am.”

“You look fine,” Armand assured me. “But that reminds me. I was forwarded your allowance, Miss Jones. The one from the government, for your summer expenses.”

The government would as soon send me an allowance as it would hand me the crown jewels.

I tried the whisky again. “Thank heavens. It’s so difficult to afford to dress like a servant these days.”

Armand’s lips quirked, and Lieutenant Clayworth sniggered into his drink. Aunt Lottie downed her whisky and glowered at us all.

“Dinner is prepared, my lord,” announced the butler, standing at the door.

“Finally!” With a creak of her corset, Lottie found her feet, reaching for Armand’s arm. “I don’t know what the world is coming to, when one is obliged to wait for the staff to arrive before being served dinner, and there is no trifle for dessert.”

A bachelor living alone—even alone in a mansion—could not be allowed to host a single young lady of quality by himself.

It did not matter that there were approximately thirty servants of both sexes living within the mansion as well, or that I was considered hardly any sort of quality.

Even in wartime, the social niceties must remain observed. Therefore, Lady Charlotte Clayworth was also in residence.

Directly across the hall from me.

And she snored.

Piercingly.

Not that it mattered. I was awake anyway, staring up at the pressed tin ceiling of my chamber, little dots and florets repeated over and over until I lost the shape of them in the soft sable shadows.

I appreciated the shadows. I appreciated all that they hid.

The room I’d been given was grand and echoing, just as posh as I might have predicted. It was the kind of room that Sophia or Chloe likely would feel right at home in, but for me, it was just big, strange, and dark. I’d left the nearest set of curtains agape to allow in a sliver of sapphire glow; but for that hint of light, I might as well have been stranded in the middle of the blackest ocean.

A minnow in the ebony whale of my bed, curled up small in its center.

I did not belong here. Yet I had stepped right into the role Armand had created for me, and thus, I knew, into his and Jesse’s plan. I would pretend to nurse sick men and I would pretend to be a normal girl who did not transform into anything else, certainly not a monster, and I would pretend I wasn’t a coward who didn’t want to do any of those things.

The very air of this place smothered me, pressed me down into the sheets with the weight of awful, awful expectations.

I had not Turned into a dragon since the night I’d been shot. I’d told myself that I needed time to recover, that I was still unwell. It was nearly true.

But the shadows lay everywhere, the thickest ones right over my heart, and beneath their suffocating darkness, the real cringing truth dwelled.

I didn’t want to be a dragon again. I didn’t want to fly anywhere or rescue anyone. I just wanted to be left alone.

I could still do it. I could still leave. I’d stuffed the cash from my pinecone behind the lining of my case. It would take me away from the war and the brothers Louis, all the way to America, if I wanted. South America, even. Antarctica. I could live by myself, cold and perfect as a snowflake, and no one would ever trouble me again.

“So do it,” I whispered to myself, to the florets above me. “Go on, then, if you’re so sure.”

sleep, crooned the stars beyond the windows. sleep now, beast. we have a dream for you.

I am back at Moor Gate. I am splayed flat upon the table they use for killing people, my wrists and ankles bound by leather straps, another one hard across my neck. Yet although I’m on that table, I’m also standing beside it, looking down at me. I see myself there: the knotted mat of my hair; the sweat-stained smock, rucked up and torn; my clenched fists. The gag in my mouth. The wires attached to me, connecting me to The Machine.

My eyes, focused somewhere between terror and rage. I know what’s to come.

I’m so skinny and dirty and fierce. No wonder everyone thinks I’m a beggar.

At the other side of the table, someone moves. Not one of the doctors; they’re huddled to my right in their long white coats, a lumpy, indistinct mass, hissing to themselves like snakes.

No, this person is by himself. Golden and bright, serene. Just gazing upon him fills me with calm.

this was your worst moment, Jesse says, lifting his eyes to mine. here, in this room.

No, I answer. The worst moment was losing you.

but you’ve not lost me, lora. and you never will.

The Machine begins to warm into a hum, an evil sound. The skin on the back of my neck and arms contracts.

this moment, Jesse says, returning his attention to the fettered me upon the table. He bends down lower, closer to my face. and i promise you, beloved, i promise—it will never get worse than this.

His hand reaches out, strokes my cheek. I feel it even though I’m still the girl standing, not the one strapped down and about to die.

I turn my face toward his fingers. I want to smile because he’s touching me again, finally. And I want to cry because even in this dream, I know it will not last.

i am above you, inside you, within and without, he murmurs. forever and always. that’s the nature of true love.

But his words only sting. No. No, you left, and now I’m alone! I’ll always be alone.

there is no shame in being alone. if this is the path you choose, lora, there is no shame. but there are more fates now than yours and mine to consider. there is one of your own beyond this place. he’s trapped and in pain, much as you are here. will you leave him to his suffering?

The air tastes of copper. The Machine has reached a whine that means it is ready. I know that whine, that particular pitch. It has scored me in ways I will never be able to heal.

A doctor’s hand reaches for the lever. I look desperately at Jesse, who straightens and sends me one last smile.

dragon-girl. feel free to hit him hard, he says, and the lever is thrown and everything goes red.

I jerked awake. Jesse’s hand was still at my cheek, caressing.

“Jes—”

The hand slipped from my cheek to the collar of my nightshirt, to the first button at my breastbone, already undone.

“Eleanore,” rumbled a voice, and the feather mattress sank with the weight of the person at its edge.

I sat up and struck out in one swift motion, my fist connecting with something fleshy that crunched.

Lieutenant Clayworth gave a cry and fell off the bed. Across the hallway, his aunt’s snoring sputtered, stopped—then resumed.

Laurence had landed on his backside, both hands cupped to his nose. I flipped back the covers and leapt to the floor, ready to hit him again.