Page 51 of The Devil in Oxford
A worried frown settled in my brow. Leona was always the first one to the club. She lived not far, just beyond the castle.
I blew hot air into my hands, roughly rubbing them together. “It’s no matter, I’m sure she’s running late.”
The young clerk gestured to the lush velvet couch against the wall. “You can wait here and warm yourself. Or go on ahead into the tearoom. Breakfast won’t be served for another two hours, but if you’d like to read the paper, the morning edition arrived just moments ago, I can have them put on a pot of tea for you.” Her eyes were fixed upon my bare hands.
“No… no, I’ll wait.” My mind raced, searching for any possibility for Leona’s absence. Either she was once again avoiding me, she was simply running behind schedule… or something bad had happened.
Harker. Mueller. Leona.
Two of the three were already dead.
My fingers tightened on my lapels as I hastily refastened the buttons and started toward the door. “If she arrives, will you ask her to wait on me?”
“Of course, Miss Vaughn, but I cannot make her wait if she doesn’t wish to stay. You know the rules. Our members are free to come and go as they please.”
I didn’t hear her words. There was nothing but the riot of my pulse in my ears as I ran out the door, for I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Leona was not coming. Whether it was the fear on Jonathan Treadway’s face yesterday as he warned me of the danger or the growing death toll across Oxford connected to Harker’sCuriosity Museum, that damnable truth echoed in my ears—Leona was in trouble.
ST.GEORGE’STOWER,the only remaining part of the old Oxford Castle, loomed high in the morning fog. It was more prison than castle, and had been for ages. The first rays of sun broke through the clouds, slowly burning away the haze. I turned from the old prison complex and ran down the street to Leona’s house. Before, when I’d trod this path, I hadn’t given two thoughts to who might notice my comings or goings. Nor did I worry about who might be waiting ahead. But now, with each step, my own fear pounded in my chest.
I rounded the corner onto the narrow cobbled lane leading to Leona’s home and froze. Her front door was open, and light from inside flooded out onto the street. My mind miles ahead of my body, I broke into a sprint down the uneven surface and burst into the house.
“Leona!”
The hall table had been overturned, one aged leg snapped in two.
I darted up the stairs.
On an ordinary day, Leona’s room was tidy with everything in its place. But today it was utterly ransacked. Drawers pulled from the dresser and cast upside down on the rug. Her undergarments and blouses scattered in heaps. Her finely painted enameled jewelry box smashed to pieces, bits of glass and broken wood littering the carpet. My own cracked reflection stared back at me in the shattered mirror.
Broken lamp.
Overturned chair.
A reddish smear on wood.
Hands shaking, I reached out for the dresser and touched the wet spot, drawing my reddened fingers back. Blood.
“Leona!” I cried out. Shehadto be here. She simply had to be, for the alternative was too much to bear. My riding boots thundered on the worn wooden floorboards as I sailed around the newel post and into the sitting room, my voice growing ever more frantic.
“Le—” I skidded to a stop. A lifeless hand lay palm up on the carpet from behind the sofa.
Annabelle.
Leona’s young roommate was motionless on the floor. I dropped to my knees next to Annabelle, who lay sprawled on the far side of the sofa with an ivory-handled blade embedded in her stomach. I brushed the hair from her face with my icy hand. Her breath came faintly against my palm.
Not dead then.
Her blood pooled around the metal of the blade, seeping through the thin white lace of her nightgown and onto the woven rug. I tugged my cashmere scarf from around my neck with trembling hands.
Thick grief settled in my throat. I carefully wadded the fabric. “I have you, darling. I’m here now. I won’t leave you.” The rote words returned. They’d become habit after the thousands of times I’d said them to dying soldiers. Holding them in my arms at the regimental aid post as they’d asked for their mother or sweethearts. Listening to those last words meant for another’s ears. The men stable enough to move went into my ambulance. The ones who couldn’t… well… they were left behind.Triagewas the word the French used for sorting through the wounded. Dying. Dead. Likely to die. Might survive.
By all appearances, Annabelle was in the first category. If I removed the blade, she’d bleed out immediately. If I left it in, I had minutes at most to save her. Not nearly long enough to seek help and return in time to save her.
“Lee—” she started, struggling against my hand.
“It’s all right, darling…” I pressed the scarf to the wound,keeping the knife from moving, all whilehopefullystaunching the bleeding long enough for…
For what, Ruby Vaughn, a miracle?
