The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart (13 page)

I nodded and agreed. Most likely, Maggie would always say oblivious things that rubbed my middle-class status in my face, but she had her bright sides. I needed to at least try to have a normal relationship with someone not supernaturally affected. It was a shame she was so fascinated by the supernatural; she should be careful what she wished for.

She was far too preoccupied with Lord Denbury for my comfort, but at what point did I tell her he was alive? At what point would they inevitably run into one another?

Chapter 11

The next morning Father handed me a letter. The postmark was from Connecticut, the penmanship familiar. Rachel. He kissed my cheek, and just as I was about to tear open the envelope, he asked, “Are you coming with me to the museum today? Or since there’s no longer a haunted painting to tend, do you have no use for the Metropolitan and its acquisitions?”

I’d nearly forgotten about my post on the acquisitions committee. It wasn’t really a job; it was the appearance of one. But I missed the museum and wanted to at least appear useful, so I agreed. My dress was suitable for day and business, so I merely ran for my sketchbook, tucked the letter in its pages, and walked out into the lazy summer heat.

New York City in late July and August moved at a slower pace than the rest of the year. Father’s associates nodded at me in their conference room. I perused the papers on the long table, and while Father was procuring a cool pitcher of water for us to weather the warm rooms, his associates were only too happy to ignore me, as usual.

There were sketches for consideration from artists I could care less about. I recognized one name, that of a French symbolist I’d seen on postcards in Jonathon’s study when we’d been sharing our interests. There was an opportunity for the Metropolitan to gain a Sphinx, or more specifically,
Oedipus
and
the
Sphinx
by Gustave Moreau. It was a provocative painting of the mythical, riddling creature climbing up Oedipus’s beautiful body.

“Oh, you
must
buy the Moreau,” I said finally. “It’s classic with its Greek themes, and yet it’s modern. You’d please two sets of patrons. Besides, I love the symbolists, don’t you?”

Everyone turned to stare at me. During this long silence my father returned with water.

“Gareth…” Mr. Moore said slowly. “Since when does she speak?”

My father looked around at them all for a moment and replied airily. “She has for a while. You just haven’t noticed, you oblivious lot—”

They all broke into loud denial, grumbling and refuting with scowling faces and wobbling jowls. I laughed. “Gentlemen, my voice was only recently recovered. By spending a great deal of time here at your wonderful institution. In celebration of my successful treatment, what say you agree to the Moreau?”

“Oh, yes, do take the Moreau,” Father said. “It’s classic and modern at the same time.”

I laughed again. “I said the exact same thing.”

“Chip off the old block, I’d say,” said dear, oblivious Mr. Nillis with a grandfatherly smile.

“I believe my duty is done for the day. Father, if you need me I’ll be sketching in the sculpture wing.”

I took my glass and made my way to a bench in the sculpture wing, where I was surrounded by ideal specimens of beauty. I thought of Jonathon. Not long ago he’d been a work of art. I refused to let the horror of what had happened to him reflect poorly on art or museums. I would not let devils tear down one of my great sanctuaries. Although only founded a decade prior, this museum was a treasure.

But in a basement room it had been a prison. I couldn’t help myself. I wandered down to the small, auxiliary exhibition room where the portrait of Lord Denbury had hung. The door was locked. I still felt a cool chill creep up my spine on the warm day.

I returned to the Greek gods. There, as I sketched, Rachel’s letter slipped out from the pages. Part of me dreaded to open it, but I couldn’t deny that she needed help.

My dear Natalie,

I’ve fled to the Asylum. I didn’t know if you were home yet, and I was too scared to go to the authorities. I don’t know what to do. Dr. Preston left for Minnesota two weeks ago, but after that he sent his “associate”—a gaudy, cold man who does nothing but leer and smirk—with a new sequence of boxes of varying sizes that I must connect to spirits.

The boxes, Natalie. I managed to open one. With a hairpin.

Inside was a severed human hand.

I’m scared. The spirits around the hospital just cry and shriek, creating a constant mental ward in my mind. I don’t understand what Dr. Preston wants, but it can’t be to help anyone or to reach Laura anymore. This is unnatural. Mrs. Northe promised I could trust you both. If you’ve any advice, I’d gladly heed it. I’m one step from madness.

Sincerely,

Rachel

I put a hand to my chest, as if pressure would stop it from pounding so hard it felt as though it would leap from my chest. I’d foreseen this.

“God?” I asked, looking up in prayer. “Whatever is going on here, please don’t throw us into the water if we can’t swim. Don’t give my friends and me something we can’t manage.”

I couldn’t understand why this was so terrifying and personal. Walking home slowly, lost in thought, I tried to appreciate the pleasant day filled with light, full of New Yorkers enjoying the glorious park at the heart of our city. My eye caught something.

A glistening spiderweb had been spun between two tree branches at the end of my block. At the center of the impressive web sat the weaver, a spider no larger than my thumbnail. I felt in that moment that if there was any explanation to be had, then the spider’s web was it. A web had been cast around Jonathon, and somehow we’d been caught up in it. Rachel too, though I didn’t see the connection.

Oh, but of course. Young and talented, Preston had said. Her talents as a medium had ensnared her. Her knowing me was mere coincidence, though I’m not sure I can believe in coincidence these days. Thank goodness she knew me; otherwise she’d have no one. And Jonathon. Within his painted prison he’d dimly seen countless people pass him by before the fateful light about me set me apart and made him change the portrait to get my attention. Thank goodness he had found me.

You
remain
at
the
center
of
mystery
, Mrs. Northe had written. I glanced at the spider at the heart of her web. Was that me? I had accused Mrs. Northe of being a magnet for the supernatural. Maybe I wasn’t being totally honest with myself. I didn’t want to be the spider.

***

Mrs. Northe met us for dinner at our home. Quite a different experience from dining at her mansion. But she seemed just as at ease in our modest dwelling as in her lavish one.

“I received a letter from Rachel,” I said to her. “She went to Connecticut, to the Asylum, terrified. It was as I feared.”

“With the boxes?” Mrs. Northe grimaced.

“Yes. What was in them. I was right. A hand. So now what do I do for Rachel?”

“The question is,” Mrs. Northe continued, “what’s being
done
with those body parts and the spirits trailing them?” We shuddered collectively.

“Body parts?” My father choked.

I continued with: “It can’t be good.”

“Hand this over to the authorities at once,” my father stated, the color gone from his face. This sort of talk was too much for him, but he was trying to take more of an active part in the goings-on of our lives, for the sake of both Mrs. Northe and me. But he strained.

“The authorities wouldn’t know the first thing about how to reverse a curse or contact a spirit, Gareth!” Mrs. Northe scoffed as if that were perfectly obvious. “Denbury’s body and soul would be dead and destroyed by now if we’d contacted them. Rachel is in a similarly delicate place. If she’s tied spirits to body parts, they’re being used for something. We must find out what. Confrontation with Dr. Preston is inevitable. I don’t understand his aims, but I’ve my suspicions. However, I don’t see the larger picture. Hopefully Denbury can enlighten us from England.”

“What do I tell Rachel?” I asked.

“Write and ask her to come and stay with me. She must
untie
those sad ghosts. She’s the only one who can. Only those directly involved in the action of the magic can affect it. Just like you and Jonathon were the only ones able to reverse his curse.”

A thought occurred to me, something that had been nagging at me in my world full of loose ends. Did I dare tell her about the rune that had appeared on my skin? I needed to translate it, to see if there was a message imprinted on my skin or just random aftereffects of the magical portals I’d traveled through to get to Jonathon.

“What happened to the painting? The shreds?”

“I went to the museum first thing and instructed that workmen should dispose of the shreds,” Mrs. Northe replied. “I demanded that they be incinerated, though I cannot be sure if the workmen complied to the letter. I didn’t want to appear directly involved, lest Sergeant Patt might find me any more interesting than he already did.”

I nodded. Father scowled. Bessie, who had kept entirely silent and had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with this talk, entered with a snifter of brandy and slid it toward him.

Soon Jonathon would be here and everything would be better—at least, when he wasn’t expected to be evil. Rachel would return, and we could put her abuses to rest and give her—and those spirits—well-earned rest. But what hope do we have of coming out unscathed? I remain the fulcrum of a dangerous scale.

Father didn’t say another word the rest of the day, reminding me why there was silence in my house for so long. I wrote to Rachel as instructed and lost myself in an adventure novel to take my mind off the waiting.

***

The next few days passed in a blurred haze of summer heat, museum meetings, meals with Father, and reading. And writing. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get my first diary back, so I tried to keep up accounts from then and now as best I could.

Part of me felt as though I was frozen, that my soul had separated to visit with Jonathon’s when he was still trapped in the painting, and here my body was, hovering. Waiting. I yearned to be with Jonathon where we could work together to solve all that was keeping us apart. But part of me dreaded his letters, his return, for that would also mean new facets of his intrigue, and I doubted either of us would rejoice in his findings across the pond.

Instead I threw myself into enjoying every moment at the museum, dining with Mrs. Northe and with Father, and watching them grow ever closer and trying not to feel jealous of it.

At night, the dreams were consistent for a while. The long corridor, as usual. But at the end of that hall was a beckoning dark silhouette, as if something was waiting for me or knew I would eventually come home to its shadows.

There were constant whispers and murmurs, but I couldn’t make out the words. Just when I began to feel like the shadows wanted to hurt me, I heard Mother’s Whisper, that very specific Whisper that had once made me believe that death was not always the end. And when I heard her Whisper above the rest, I knew I was safe and could sleep soundly. But would she always be there to protect me? And where was Jonathon in my dreams? Had we lost our connection? Perhaps the soul had limits when another’s was so far away.

Chapter 12

To: The loveliest girl in all of New York

From: Her paramour stranded in a mess of demons’ making in London

My dearest Natalie,

By the time you receive this, I’ll already have thrown myself on the swiftest ship back and will see you soon. London is grayer than ever. Everything here is dreary and downright odd. And cold. I’m very cold even though it’s summer.

I’ve taken detailed notes. While I’m not the diarist you are, I hope I do my tale justice.

Mrs. Northe’s solicitor friend, Mr. Knowles, is a man of letters and law, and a lifesaver. I owe him much. The moment I walked into his fine office in North London, he gave me a hearty handshake and a stiff bourbon. A sharp man with graying hair slicked back, he sat across a great mahogany desk, with glasses low over wide gray eyes above a long nose. His office was fastidiously organized.

“Lord Denbury,” Knowles began, “while I never met your family, I know all of you were highly regarded. I deeply regret the tragedies that have befallen you. I assure you, your being here remains secret.”

Mrs. Northe had told him every last mad detail.

“All the documents I’ve gathered pertaining to your affairs are in a file in your quarters. I’ve good friends at the deeds offices. Always make friends with clerks, I’ve learned. Peruse the documents at your leisure, though, I warn you, they’re not pleasant.”

He then bade me to come back in the morning and gave me keys to rooms he’d procured for me across the street. “Though I am sure you would like to get back to your family’s town home, let’s not make you—or any property of yours—obvious, shall we?”