“What was that about?”
Eliot’s mask of easy nonchalance fell into place. He shot her a smile, less ghoulish in the light but still sharp as a blade. “That entirely depends on how much you heard.”
Normally, Ilsa would have bluffed and seen where it got her. But she was distracted by Eliot’s hand wrapped around something he had pulled from his pocket; the ornate silver watch he had had on him last night. His white-knuckled grip belied his easy smile. Eliot was already bluffing.
His grip eased as Ilsa failed to cobble together a lie. “In that case, it was nothing,” he said. He slipped the watch back into his pocket and moved so he was squarely in front of her, a mere two feet away. He was taller than she’d thought, and she caught the scent of something fresh, like new linens.
“You didn’t tell anyone we met.” It wasn’t a question.
“Neither did you,” Ilsa shot back.
“No. If they knew I found solace in wandering the Zoo at night, someone would find a way to ruin it. Much like you managed to last night.” He tilted his head. “But why didn’t you tell?”
Ilsa had no idea. Perhaps she was so used to keeping secrets and hiding impossible truths that it was second nature to her. Perhaps she’d liked the idea of a secret she could share for once. Or, just perhaps, she was taken with something about Eliot Quillon.
She folded her arms. “You know, you’re awfully good at being unkind—”
“Why, thank you.”
“—but I’m awfully good at reading people, and you should know I see through you.”
“Is that so?”
“You kicked up a storm ’bout answering my questions, but you answered them all the same, because you knew I needed you to. You got them all angry with you and put yourself in the firing line because you was the only one to notice I couldn’t bear to be in that meeting room a minute longer. I don’t know why you feel you got to play the villain.” Ilsa closed the gap between him and flashed him a smile. “But I’m gonna find out.”
A thrill rushed through her when Eliot took half a step back. His eyes roamed her face, something between hunger and trepidation shining in them.
“You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” he said, his voice quiet. “You might hear something you don’t wish to.”
He tore himself away with a backward step, then turned and strode down the corridor without another glance. When he disappeared around the corner, Ilsa looked back at the closed door of her cousin’s chambers, the echo of smashing glass playing in her ears like Hester’s vicious laugh. She raised a hand to the wood to knock – then lowered it again, and walked away.
9
Ilsa’s old dress reappeared that same day; washed, mended, and folded on the bed.
She had no idea if magic was at play, or if it had simply been rinsed immediately and dried in the summer sun. She only knew the bloodstains were gone.
The sun crossed the sky as she sat in a stupor with the dress on her lap, running her fingers along the pristine hem. Not a trace of her friend’s blood remained on the garment, but Ilsa knew she could never wear it again without thinking of Martha and every injustice she was served.
Martha had wanted to be an actress. She adored watching Ilsa’s magic show whenever her friend could sneak her in, just so she could be near the lights, and the curtains, and the drama of it all. It was why Ilsa had tried desperately to get Martha into a paying position in the West End one way or another, whether it was the job at the Isolde Mr Johnston refused to give her, or chasing news of every open casting in town, but it was always a no. She was too skinny. She was too cockney; how would she deal with new material when she couldn’t even read? Martha had been learning. She was trying her hardest. But there was no way up for girls like her.
Except discovering your long-lost family is rich, thought Ilsa bitterly.
Martha would have loved the drama of Ilsa’s story; of everything that had happened to her since the fish market and the knife in her best friend’s throat. She imagined finally telling Martha everything she had held back for two years; who she was, what her magic could do. She imagined telling her that they were heading off to another world, where they would sleep in a bed that looked like a wedding cake, and wear silken gowns, and eat cream teas.
Ilsa’s tears had fallen onto her clean dress and soaked it through before she even realised she was crying. She wiped her eyes and looked up into the mirror above the dressing table, but her reflection wasn’t there.
Martha stared back at her.
Her dead friend opened her mouth in a silent scream, horror filling her hazel eyes. As Ilsa grasped her throat, so did Martha. As Ilsa stood, the girl staring back at her stood too.
She had shifted. Somehow, while she was lost in her grief, Ilsa’s magic had brought her friend to her, in its own macabre way. And now Martha stood before the ornate bed in beautiful clothes, just as Ilsa had wished. She could pretend, for one moment, that she wasn’t facing this new life alone.
Ilsa forced a smile. She would see Martha happy again, one last time, and then she would put her to rest. But the smile didn’t look right, and as she leaned closer to the mirror, she saw the flaws in the transformation. The nose was still hers. The brows arched in the wrong place. Reality descended, and with it, the foolishness of what she was doing.
Martha was dead. And even if Ilsa looked exactly like her, she couldn’t bring her back; she could only produce a shade, a phantom. She could only torture herself.
Ilsa shook off the borrowed face. Her own was afraid and
