Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 (21 page)

“
About what?” I turn, grateful for space away from his breath, and reluctantly come closer again when he pulls me in.

“
About us.” He has a forlorn look in a hangdog face. “I am falling for her, you know. I think she is simply too nice to reject me. Do you think that’s it?”

“
Yes, probably. She’s frightfully polite.”

“
And you’re not, which is why I thought I’d speak to you about it. Turn.”

“
I am turning,” I glare. “And I’m polite when I need to be. I think she likes you fine, actually.”

“
It’s you that doesn’t. Promenade.”

“
Well, you don’t need me to like you.”

“
Fair enough. What can I do to win her over?” His mask slips crookedly, and he looks like a child. My heart strings are effectively plucked. Damn.

“
Well, stay on her mother’s good side, for one thing. Bow. To me, dummy. And, I don’t know, be interested in what she is interested in, I suppose.”

“
You mean, medicine?” He brightens up. “We already have that in common.”

“
Well, remind her of that then. Find a common goal to share or something. I don’t know! I’m hardly the expert on love.” Suddenly I feel grumpy.

“
Aren’t you?” How does one look sly behind a mask? Somehow, Mack accomplishes it. “I thought you and that Connelly chap were…you know?”

“
No, I don’t know. Promenade me, for crying in the night.” I glare again.

“
You and that Connelly chap were what?” Sam intervenes and takes my elbow. The music ends and we all bow and curtsy. I hear a yelp from the reindeer’s unfortunate partner.

“
Nothing, nothing,” Mack answers, brightly. “I have to go find Mina. Here’s your partner back, chum. Thanks, Lizzie!”

“
That Connelly chap missed you. How about a beverage?” Sam takes my arm and guides me towards the refreshments. I see Danvers standing there, looking bored; come to think of it, though, he always looks bored. He’d look bored at a public hanging, I think. Perhaps that’s another requirement for butlers, the same way the rich can’t be jolly, and the mistresses of Bedlam must be skinny and rude.

“
Oh, I couldn’t. I’m positively swimming in punch already. I am a bit hungry though.” Did he really miss me? Is that just a gentleman’s form of attentiveness, to be so flirty? Did he look at all the girls this way, with need in his eyes? He stares at me sometimes as if he wants to devour me whole. The thought should give me more pause than it does. Not for the first time tonight, I am grateful for my mask that hides my flushed face.

“
Go sit down. I’ll bring you a plate. There’s a sticky pudding that’s been calling my name. Seriously. If you’re quiet, which you never are, you can hear its plaintive cry.” Sam gestures to an empty chaise lounge. I had sat on it once during my unfortunate sewing circle with Mina and practiced my chain stitching and top knots. My thread had snarled one too many times for my patience, and I had misplaced at least two needles in that chaise. When I reach it, I sit down gingerly, fearing to locate them once again.

I amuse myself by people watching until Sam returns. When he does, he
brings me so much food that my eyes widen at the sight.

“
You needed a platter, not a plate,” I comment, taking it from him.

“
It’s mostly for me. You can have that suspicious-looking brown stuff.” He wrinkles his nose. He looks adorable. I want to kiss it. I want to smack myself upside the head.

“
It’s liver mousse, and it’s absolutely divine. You don’t know what you’re missing.” We munch in silence for a bit. I watch the dancers twirl about, not far from me. They look so elegant. Had I looked so elegant, I wonder, in the arms of Sam? He would make any girl look glamorous, even an orphan; at least, I hope so.

“
That swan keeps staring at me,” Sam licks pudding off his fingers. “Have we met, do you think?”

“
I do indeed. It’s Miss Helmes.”

“
Ah. The warden of Bedlam. She is around every corner, isn’t she? That’s a trifle unsettling. Can’t you ever get away?”

I laugh.
“She does pop up everywhere, it seems. She likes to keep an eye on everyone, I suppose. I’m not sure I could properly escape from her.”

“
No? We should try.”

“
And where would we go?” I say, lightly. “How far will your wonderful car go?”

“
Oh, it will go forever, I guess, but it won’t cross oceans, and I was thinking of islands, deserted ones. Yes, island living would agree with you, I think, with a flower behind your ear.” Sam reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear. I react as though he slapped me.

“
What do you mean?” I feel cold and shaky suddenly.

His face undergoes a transformation. I see several different answers in his eyes: confusion, alarm, nonchalance. Of course, he chooses the latter when he speaks.

“What is it? What did I say? You don’t like islands? Mountains then or the desert. I don’t mind, as long as you say you’ll come. Oh, don’t pull away. You know I won’t hurt you.” This time when he reaches for my hair, I stay perfectly still, but it’s a struggle. He tucks it behind my ear slowly and then pulls it back out, letting it run through his fingers. Finally, he tugs on it, teasingly.

This has passed from flirting to something else, and I don
’t know how to handle it. All I could think of for a moment was Rose Gray and Luke, traveling to islands together, alone.

Except of course, they hadn
’t. Had they?

“
Lizzie?” He is very close to me now, and my heart is beating what feels like a hundred beats per minute. It’s beating so loudly and so much that I am having trouble breathing, and I think I may faint or burst. “Lizzie, look at me. Do you see me?”

“
I see you.”

“
Keep your eyes open.” And then he does what I think I’ve been wishing for since the day he tipped his hat at me when I scrubbed blood off the wall at Bedlam; he kisses me.

And my whole world shatters in an explosion of light both beautiful and terrifying.

25

I am wandering the hallway like a fool. The kiss had unnerved me and scared me and left me wanting more and wanting less, all at once, and I had pulled away and murmured some ridiculous excuse. He watched me go, and I knew without looking back that I had left an expression of pain on his face. Not only left it there, but I had put it there. Now I
’m somewhat lost, and though I’ve passed several people (a Mallard duck, a cat, a jester, and two horses, respectively), I feel completely alone and vulnerable. I wish Danvers would materialize, the way he always does, and hand me my shawl. I don’t belong here. I feel cold in my gown and rub my arms. A sparkling Raja with an enormous turban offers me champagne and looks offended when I walk away without answering. I bump shoulders with a gorgeous woman in a deep purple dress who glares at me, but the man she’s arm in arm with gives me an approving once over. Everything and everyone seems to be moving in slow motion, like I’m drowning again in a sea of people, but this time we’re all in a sea of thick fog. I look over my shoulder and see the man still looking back at me. The woman in purple jerks him back to her, but not before he lowers his checkered Harlequin mask and winks at me. He thinks I’m alluring, beautiful. Sam must think so, too, to have kissed me the way he did.

I should be thrilled, happy, lost in romantic planning. That
’s what Marianne would do. Why should she get all the fun? Why can’t I allow myself to fall in love with Sam? Is it just the fear of him leaving me, because I’m not good enough, not rich enough, not suitable enough? Had it been the offhand island comment that set off warning bells in my head? What had he meant by that?

The hallway I am in now is filled with portraits, nestled in between small windows.  I look out at the gardens, silhouetted in the moonlight as I move along, my fingertips trailing along the glass and the panes, wishing they were Sam instead. I linger at one window and allow myself to think back on our kiss. When I turn my downcast eyes up again I see a figure in the glass. Small, but solid. Clear as a masked woman standing in the night can be, her gown shimmers in the moonlight, and her hair seems to almost glow. She is far too close to me for comfort, and I am at first startled, and then unnerved. We watch one another, almost warily, it seems. Neither of us will pull our gaze away. We are so close; only a pane of glass separates us. Then, I feel rather than see her let out a breath, and the glass fogs over like steam from a locomotive. I know, though, that she hasn
’t moved; there isn’t enough fogginess to disguise all of her. I still see her silhouette. I watch her as she watches me, and I as I stand there, my fingertips still poised on the glass, I see her reach up and pull up her masquerade mask. I know her even before I see her face clearly. I remember the photos from the diary, especially the Victorian wedding photograph. Though the picture was old and not of good quality, I would know Rose Gray if I saw her, and I am seeing her now.

********************

I had felt very sick, and also more than a little scared. I had whirled away from the window and nearly run over the Raja in my desire to leave. Leave where? To go out to the garden? To find a murderess? Alone? I thought not. But what else could I do? Would someone believe me? Mina, perhaps, or Mack or Dr. Ford. Having half the hospital staff here in Mina’s den of iniquity could prove helpful after all.

Bu
t could I find her again? She is masked and in public. Though I know her face, I can hardly rip away every mask from every eligible female. I had not thought to get a good look at her gown; I only had a dim memory of the way her light hair shone across the darkness of the fabric. But it was dark; any gown would look dark—blue, black, brown, gray, purple, green; they would all look dark. I halt my awkward running at the doorway of the ballroom. I see Miss Helmes dance by, and Dr. Ford picking at a plate of food, alone. I see Mack and Mina, their peacock heads close together in conversation, over by the chaise lounge where I had left Sam. He is no longer there, and my heart falls. I need to find him. Together, we might stand a chance of recognizing, and therefore, finding, Rose. To do what with her, I have no idea. Lock her away again? Sam said the doctors had been at a loss with her. She had been officially signed out and freed by Luke, although since he was only posing as a doctor, perhaps that could be revoked. But could we help her—the hospital, I mean? There are too many questions swirling in my brain that don’t have answers. It’s maddening. I remove a full glass of champagne from the hand of a nearby handsome prince and drink it in three long gulps. It burns my nose and makes me gasp for air. I really am drowning; I am sure of it.

“
Another?” says the prince, dryly. “I could fetch one for you while I replace my own.”

“
No, thank you,” I whisper, my throat aflame with all the bubbles. I cough. My stomach churns and then settles. I lean against the doorframe. I am completely at a loss as to what to do. Only part of my turmoil is the fact that Rose Gray is here, in Mina’s house, tonight. The other part—the more frightening part—is reconciling her presence here in 1931 with the aged photograph. She has not aged at all. She is not a bit older than the photo she claimed was taken in 1888. My mind turns back to something Sam had said the first day I met him. What was it? We had been speaking of the diary. I had said it was old. He had said—what? That it
was
old, and someday I would understand why. It had only seemed a bit odd and eccentric at the time, but now I wonder.

I
’m beginning to believe this Lost story isn’t just a story, that it isn’t just in Rose’s sad, messed up, and twisted imagination. I’m also starting to think that Sam has known this all along.  If that’s the case, I no longer want to look for him. What I want to do is find my handbag and finish the diary that I had tucked inside. If there are any answers to Rose Gray’s fantastic life, she might be the only one to provide them for me; since I’m not eager to rummage them out in person just yet, the last things she wrote may be my best option.

Spain was useless and a waste of my energy. With each travel, I was getting worse—I could no longer deny it. That, coupled with my fear of becoming my grandmother and of my dead mother chasing me (though I didn’t see her ghost but once in Spain), I was falling apart. Bit by bit, the pieces of my puzzling life were disappearing. I was remembering less and less. When we woke in the old monastery, I didn’t know Luke. I saw the terrified look on his face when I stared at him blankly, and it all came back in a rush. Still. It was a premonition of things to come.

Coming back to Bedlam was even worse. It was twentieth century, that much was certain, and that much was good as far as Bedlam goes (no manacles on the floor, no torture or leeches or starvation), but I was sick and weary. I didn
’t even try to escape or plan a way out the way I usually did. I didn’t care that the staff tucked me into bed, and I was meek as a lamb. That scared me more than anything, truly. I was slipping away. I had no energy to be myself even. Luke stayed by me; he didn’t disappear the way he usually did. I knew he was worried. They treated him with respect and me with the typical bedside manner I had grown accustomed to: stern lectures about food and behavior with silence in between. I lay in their white sheets but didn’t sleep. How could I, when every travel brought me closer to madness? Everyone thinks I was born this way, born crazed and off kilter and mad, but I was always me. Always just Rose Gray.

Was the madness really just beginning?

Slowly, I at least regained my temper, which was encouraging. I pushed a nurse and bit a doctor, and then there was the episode with the sewing scissors. That nurse had quit over it and said I was trying to kill her. Dumb woman. I can aim better than that. Ask the girl with pearl button gloves if you don’t believe me. I remember her, though I can no longer picture her face. I remember the strangest things, the unimportant things. For instance, I remember with all the clarity in the world, a dance we held at Bedlam. It was 1816 and they would let anyone who appreciated music out for the night to dance. Luke was with me; I was fifteen years old. I suppose we were wearing the same dirty frocks we always wore, but in my mind I wore the most beautiful red dress. There was music and laughter – the nice kind for the most part, not the lunatic kind. Almost everyone came, and the staff just ignored us. It wasn’t uncommon for people on the outside to come and gawk at us patients; in fact, on the second Tuesday of every month it was Visitor’s Day. They could come and stare all they liked for an admission price or a donation. I liked to give them a show on the second Tuesdays. Anyway, my dress was red and my heart was merry. There was a handsome boy singing, but he wasn’t as handsome as my Luke