the shabby little creature I was as I wove among the gilded roses the Veil so carefully cultivated, but I did not care. I did not attempt to hide my progress as I walked to the main estate.
I knew where Hawke’s quarters were. Come what may, I could not be forced to stop. I
Jack the Ripper was all that would lead me to my vengeance.
I expected to be waylaid. I expected a multitude of faces, demands to halt, servants to watch my every move, but fortune seemed finally on my side. Though I saw the occasional servant walking from one task to the next, it seemed as if all who could stop me had turned their attentions outward, in the grounds and to the events planned.
Only once I reached Hawke’s quarters did I stop.
I knocked upon the door, the very picture of polite inquiry.
There was no answer.
Undeterred, I tested the knob and found it unlocked. Nothing in my chest tilted when it opened. Nothing, no anxiety or hesitation, daunted me. I was impervious to all that assailed me; stony with resolve, driven beyond feeling by a bitter purpose.
I had flailed about in this venomous net for far too long.
Heedless of my own temerity, I walked into Hawke’s quarters and opened my mouth to speak.
What I saw froze me in place. The words died.
My breath broke on a gasp.
The room was in shambles. The bed was crookedly placed, the wooden headboard I remembered cracked and splintered. A heavy trunk that I remembered at the foot of the bed now lay on its side across the room, shattered at one end as if thrown with great force.
There were swatches of material here and there, torn to shreds, and the beautiful black silk coverlet embroidered in masculine shades of red and gold and green now lay pooled in a torn heap, ruined beyond saving.
There was no sign of Hawke, and none of the perpetrator of such chaos.
A part of me yearned to be worried, to bristle with anger and dismay—the analytical part of my mind I now obeyed assured me that it would not be misguided to feel such things—but I could not summon it from the tomb I had sealed it all behind. I did not want to try.
It was safer, here, hiding within my resolve.
If I attempted anything else, allowed myself to think of the fear and anger in Zylphia’s face, the pain she must have suffered beneath the first lash of the whip, the weight of the guilt I carried might crush me.
Instead, wordlessly, I stood in the middle of that abandoned room, surrounded by tattered furnishings, and once more fished for my little bit of opium.
It came to my hand easily. The wax paper sealing it from dirt and lint peeled back, and I bit a chunk bigger than my usual corner. The bitter taste did not wake me. The burn did not comfort me.
I ate it because I must, and felt no pleasure from it.
This understanding fell victim to my apathy. I did not fear.
Slowly, the ragged edges of my mind smoothed. Enough that the frozen rime encapsulating my lungs eased; I felt as if I could breathe again.
I worked to convince myself that I was a thing of flesh and blood, that it was within my rights to feel something besides desperate resolution.
Yet I stared at the remains of Hawke’s bed, and still I felt nothing.
No logic could break through my despair. It folded around me, swallowed me whole. As I had those days after Lord Compton’s death, I ate my opium and welcomed the addling it would bring—blissful ignorance, stripping away all sense of urgency until I could simply stand in one place and listen to the music of my breath as it eased in and out of my lungs.
This, I could carry. This much, I would claim.
I was tired. For the first time, I found myself contemplating what peace a tomb truly could bring.
What a coward, I was.
I chewed the bitter medicine of my failure and it did not taste at all different than the tar that made it easier to swallow.
It seemed an eternity before a gentle rapping came upon the door I’d left open behind me. When I did not acknowledge it, that rapping came again—echoing pleasantly in my senses.
I turned, and the room turned softly with me.
A Chinese girl, wearing the loose tunic and trousers I’d come to associate with the Veil’s house servants. Her eyes were nearly black in the shadows filling the hall. I recognized her. One of the girls who had bathed me. She spoke some words, then, in broken English, “You look for master?”
I liked her voice. Pleasant enough already, but under the dreamy influence, it seemed lush and full—a multitude of ghosts that spoke at the same time she did. Unfortunate accent turned to the prettiest bells.
I did not bother to correct her assumption of Hawke’s status to mine. “I look for master,” I agreed.
She wrapped her arms about her thin chest, looking over her shoulder briefly. When she turned, she tilted her head, a strand of loose ink bleeding from behind her ear to grace her cheek.
She was plain, but in the sweet melody of my opium dream, she was pretty enough for song. Her skin was soft to look at and touched by a hint of pink at the cheeks, and her nose small and pert over bow lips. I imagined that her hair was long in its twist, for I had not yet met a Chinese person whose hair was short.
When I did not follow, she stopped and looked at me with some impatience. “You follow now.”
I wondered as I obeyed whether all of the Veil’s people were so officious, or if it were only my luck to meet them that were.
I followed this dictatorial girl with a servant’s efficiency, said nothing as we stepped into passages reserved for her ilk. A good servant was only seen when necessary, and I knew that the Menagerie’s structures were riddled with corridors behind the walls. I had not known that the main estate would be the same.
She walked quickly, but with neat, precise steps. In minutes, we stepped out of the bare, lamp lit halls and into the cold.
She pointed, a ghostly hand nearly swallowed by her gaping sleeve. “Follow path. I wait here.”
“Wait?” I followed the line of her finger, but saw only a pale path disappearing into the dark. “Why wait here?”
Another spurt of Chinese followed my question; a phrase that earned my narrow focus. “
I frowned. “Why do I keep hearing this? What does it mean?”
She folded her arms, tucking her hands into the opposite sleeve. “The tail of rabbit can not be long.”
Bemused, I shook my head. Pretty as she made the lilting bells seem, it meant nothing to me. “What nonsense is that supposed to convey?”
She looked at me, the weight of her stare a patient demand. “Go,” she said, in place of answer.
Part of me insisted I obey, that I follow that dark path and see what adventure waited at the end. The other part of me bristled at such easy orders from a servant, and a foreign one beside.
It seemed so much easier to ponder these small conflicts.
Still, I hadn’t expected her to turn a friendly bit of help my way. After the previous debacle involving the Veil’s attempt to enslave me, I had not expected her to be anything but an enemy.
I frowned at her. “Forgive my rudeness,” I said slowly, “but were you... Did the Veil punish you?”
Her eyes met mine, dark as the night around us. Then she shook her head, not in denial, but in confusion. “So sorry,” she said. “No good, English.”
