Page 77 of The Secret of the Three Fates
Hecate exhaled with a rush of cool air. “Then she is on the other side. I suspected as much.”
“Someone hid her body in the ruins. I found it after the séance and…”
Hecate held up a hand. “I do not need to know your reasonsfor being here, Morvoren. If what you say is true, then there is not much time at all.”
“I do not understand. There is a murdered woman in the ruins!”
Hecate stopped me. “Miss Demidov is missing, as is Lady Morton. No one has seen either of them since the séance last night. I have reason to believe the young medium is in danger.”
“That’s preposterous, I…” I suddenly recalled the conversation I’d overheard last night, and the words withered on my tongue. Distracted as I was by the thief and then by Ruan, I’d almost forgotten the very real fear in Genevieve’s voice. Mr. Owen had told me that the late Lord Morton had been a Eurydicean. Could Lady Morton be involved somehow? Oh God, I’d ignored her all along. I caught my lower lip between my teeth. “We must check Genevieve’s room, see if there’s any clue to where she went. The girl… Where is Lady Amelia?”
“Her mother sent her south to her grandfather’s estate after the séance. Something is wrong, Morvoren. Very wrong.”
I moved to my pile of discarded clothes, pulling the Webley revolver from the pocket of Mr. Owen’s dressing gown, and headed for my room to pick up the shoulder holster from my things.
If Hecate noticed the bathtub full of filthy water, she did not speak of it—and I was grateful for her discretion. I slipped the stained leather holster over my shoulder, tightening it to my chest and placed the gun inside. It was an uncomfortable apparatus at the best of times—pinching and restricting movement—but with the fresh wound in my shoulder, my every subtle motion screamed in pain.
“There is no time. We must hurry,” Hecate hissed at me.
We were certainly in accord on that one. Genevieve’s disappearance took on a more sinister tone after finding the body in the ruins and overhearing her conversation with Elijah. Perhapshe’d simply taken her to safety, but a nagging voice within me said that was not the case.
The two of us raced up the back stair to the family wing of the house. I’d snooped around enough that I was able to find Genevieve’s room in minutes, two doors down from Lucy’s.
As I nudged the door open with the toe of my shoe, my earlier fears coalesced. Genevieve was going to die—if she wasn’t dead already. Her hard-sided traveling case sat atop the dresser fastened and belted shut. The wardrobe doors were flung wide, contents missing precisely as Lucy’s room had been on the night she was killed.
I hastily unfastened her bag, desperate for some idea where she had been going. All of her belongings were stacked and neatly folded within the case. I gingerly pulled them out—one by one—setting each to the side as I had with Lucy’s things a handful of days earlier.
Hecate stood at the window, her gaze fixed on the ruins. Beside her was a cheap glass vase, holding a handful of dried dahlias, their paper-like petals illuminated in the early morning sun. Hastily drawn hexafoils adorned the windowsill.
I folded my arms uncomfortably across my chest, thanks to the revolver. “Do you have any idea what she was running from?”
The White Witch left the window, allowing the white lace curtains to fall behind her. “I do not. Keep looking.” She tilted her chin to the suitcase.
Right. Genevieve’s belongings and the glass plate negatives were all we had to go on, and I’d already exhausted the negatives. I ran my fingers over the fine leather. It was an exceptionally fine case. Too fine for an impoverished medium. “Who is she?”
“Nowyouspeak in riddles, Morvoren.”
“She’s an Englishwoman, not Russian,” I murmured to myself as I continued rummaging through her things. “I heard her speaking with Elijah—”
Hecate furrowed her brow.
“Mr. Sharpe. He is not who he pretends, his true name is Elijah Keene. He’s from New York. I knew him… once… I overheard the two speaking last night, and I’d bet my soul she’s an Englishwoman.”
“Is anyone who they pretend to be?” Hecate asked me kindly. “Hiding one’s true self does not make them a killer.”
I had to give her that. Returning to Genevieve’s suitcase, I withdrew a little bottle of rose water and set it with her unmentionables. “Someone hereisa murderer though.” I hefted out more underthings. Silken ones.
My hand hit something hard and wrapped in fabric. “What are you?…” I pulled out what might have been a book wrapped in a nightdress.
I gently unwrapped the parcel from its linen packaging. Hecate drew nearer, craning her neck to see what I’d found. The scent of death on the linen was unmistakable. I peeled back the fabric to find a tattered plaid cloth beneath, covered in dirt and decay.
More negatives.
My eyes met Hecate’s.
This had been with Abigail’s body. The same grave scent that flooded my senses in the ruins permeated the inner fabric. Only one question remained: did Genevieve put the medium in that grave herself, or had she simply found what had been hidden? I set aside the wooden-cased photograph on top, and focused upon the glass plate negatives wrapped in the soiled fabric. There were two dozen at least. Likely the remainder of the set that I’d found in Lucy’s room earlier. I lifted them one by one, inspecting each in the brilliant morning light.
Mariah’s photographs.
