The Impossible Girl

by Lydia Kang

  Cora couldn’t stop herself from asking, “And what about the mab? I thought you had a taste for boys.”

  “I had a taste for you. But I knew you weren’t ready for such things.” His face darkened. “I’ve been impatient, and for that I despise myself. I drank plaster and water, when I wanted milk. But waiting until now, I believe, has been worth it.”

  He bent forward, his eyelids lowering for a kiss. But at the very scent of him, Cora jerked away reflexively.

  Alexander drew back, stung. “You’ve been in my mind and heart for a long while, Cora. In time, you’ll come to me. And we have forever ahead of us.” Despite this, he grasped her hand and held it to his face. Cora flinched, as if touching a rotted carcass.

  He studied her again, frowning at her reaction. But then he seemed to remember something. “Ah, I have one more task. Look here.”

  He went to the entranceway, where he’d left a parcel wrapped in several cloths. It had dripped a little, leaving a small pool of maroon liquid beneath it. He unwrapped it and held it out for her.

  “A gift, for you. Well, for us. To complete the end of your story, and for the beginning of another. I stole Dr. Grier’s diaries, thinking we could erase your history, but this is better. This is bringing it full circle, and with closure, you’ll have a new life.”

  Cora stepped closer, and pulled the cloth down, to peer at what lay inside.

  It was a heart. A real one. Pink and glistening in some parts, matte in others, it still had flat gobs of fat and smears of blood clinging to the muscle. It was rather on the small side—not the size of a heart that might have come out of a full-grown steer.

  “It’s from the butcher. A pig’s heart. I looked at several, to see which one would most likely be the size of a woman your age and weight. Look,” he said, clasping her hand in his free hand. He pulled her to Audrey’s body, seemingly unperturbed by the dead woman’s blank stare, her unpoetic body lying sprawled over the wooden bench. “See, we’ll make an incision in her chest and nestle it next to her other heart. And we’ll shred the connective vessels. Say she was stabbed, or some such, to make up for the damage. I’ll have the same resurrectionists deliver her today to Duncan.”

  “Five hundred,” Cora said. “Duncan knows now? That I was the girl?”

  Alexander nodded. “And Audrey will take your place. Her face is similar enough to conceal the truth. I’ll pay back Suzette Cutter, so that debt is laid to rest. No one to chase you anymore, because Cora Lee’s prized hearts will be on display forevermore.”

  “It’s wonderful,” Cora said hollowly. She reached for the stained white cloth and carefully covered Audrey’s body. Her eyes stung, and her throat felt swollen. This poor girl, who had been in the arms of this decrepit monster. She didn’t deserve this. And now she’d be laid out on a table for an audience of hundreds of eyes hungry to watch the dissection. Later, her hearts would be preserved in a glass jar to be viewed for years and years. The girl with two hearts, the mystery revealed.

  Alexander laid the pig’s heart atop the shroud.

  I need to get out. I need to get away from him, Cora thought. Her hands were trembling, but she had to be calm. She had to pretend she was perfectly content with everything that Alexander had done so far.

  A loud knock sounded.

  Alexander’s head swiveled toward the front of the studio. Cora opened her mouth, not to yell or scream, but in surprise. But at the drop of her lower lip, Alexander sprang at her and clapped his hand over her mouth. After spending countless hours in the casket that was almost the death of her, she found the smothering was too much.

  A voice yelled, muffled by space and wood. “Alexander! Alexander Trice! It’s Theodore Flint. Open the door.”

  Theo. She’d told him once that Alexander’s studio was on Henry Street. Cora thrashed and grasped at Alexander’s hand and wrist, kicking him with her boots.

  “No. No. No. Stop it now, Cora. Stop it, love. I can’t have you say a word. Will you be quiet?”

  Cora nodded frantically. Anything to release his hand from her face.

  Theo pounded on the door three more times.

  “I know you’re inside. I watched you enter, and there isn’t an exit anywhere else. Open the door. I’m looking for Audrey March, the girl from Madame Beck’s. She’s gone missing, and Madame Beck says she was with you the last evening. I need to speak with her.”

  “Go away, go away, go away,” Alexander murmured quietly, almost like the chant of a madman, constructing a curse. “Go away.”

  “I know you’re here. I’ll call the watchman and have him open the door. Come now, Alexander. I must speak to Audrey.”

  Alexander threw his other hand around Cora’s waist, lifted and carried her into the bedroom chamber. With his hand still over her mouth, he whispered into her ear.

  “Not a word. I’ll get rid of him. And if you say anything, I’ll kill him.”

  Cora went motionless. Her eyes widened, and she stared at Alexander. But she no longer recognized the man. His gray eyes were like a dense, suffocating fog. At her stillness, he nodded.

  “Ah. You care for him, even now. Very well. He’ll forget about you soon enough, but only if he’s alive. And for that, you’d best be still and quiet.”

  Cora nodded, and Alexander removed his damp hand. He left the room, returned with Audrey’s body, and laid it at her feet.

  “Your twin. Luckily, she’ll stay quiet too.”

  With that, he withdrew from the bedchamber and locked the door.

  CHAPTER 32

  Cora scrambled to the door, listening with her ear pressed against the whorls of wood.

  “Ah. Mr. Flint.” Alexander sounded distant, but she could hear well enough. His voice was calm and slow, in the intimidating way it always was. “What brings you here? I apologize, I couldn’t hear you from my studio.”

  “I’m looking for Cora.”

  Cora’s breath caught in her throat.

  “I’m sorry? I thought you were asking for Audrey. Did you not hear the terrible news about Cora?”

  “That she’s dead and buried? Yes, I’ve heard. I laid eyes on her myself at the Cutters’ house after she died. Except she wasn’t dead.”

  This time, Cora clamped her own hand over her mouth, to keep herself from squealing. How could he know that she’d been fabricating her death? He knew. Which meant, he also knew she would be buried alive, and he had done nothing.

  “I figured she was hiding here. I told her crew to dig her up, but they never came back to meet me. So, I went to her grave myself, and guess what I found?” Silence answered him. “I found an empty casket, and two dead men.”

  Two. That meant that her fears were correct—Otto and Tom were dead. But it also meant that the Duke lived. She waited, but Theo said nothing about him.

  “So,” Theo said, “may I see Cora?”

  “I thought you were looking for Audrey,” Alexander said.

  “I am. Audrey has been missing since last night. Madame Beck called the police. Is Audrey here too?”

  “Of course not. Neither of them is. And Cora is dead, but someone else must have taken her body. I have no idea where.”

  Footsteps drew near. “May I look around?”

  “No.” A second set of footsteps came closer as well, as Alexander followed Theo. “And I’d like to ask you to leave. My niece has just died. I’m in no mood to talk to anyone who gives life to lies. This is a time for grieving.”

  The doorknob rattled. “What’s in here?”

  “You want a look inside? Very well. I’ll get the key,” Alexander said, almost as if bored.

  Cora stiffened. He probably already had the key in his pocket. The footsteps drew away, and she knew with the certainty of recognizing her own reflection that Alexander was about to kill Theo. Theo, who she’d once thought was angling for her demise. Theo, who’d loved her when she was Jacob and hadn’t revealed the secret. Had she been too hasty when they fought? Had she been wrong? There wasn’t nearly e
nough time to consider the question now.

  She inhaled long and deep, before bellowing as loud as her voice could allow.

  “Theo! Theo! I’m in here!”

  She heard a gasp, and footsteps, and a huge clank of metal hitting something softer. Yells followed, and the walls shook. They were fighting; they must be. But it was Alexander’s home. There might be weapons about, and Alexander would have the decided advantage. Despite her weakened state, she gathered herself and recalled what the Duke once taught her early in her career.

  Use your boots. Take out a man’s knee with a well-aimed kick, or take down a bad door—it’s all the same.

  A bad door. It was worth trying. She stood up, gathered the silk of her gown in her fists, and kicked at the door as hard as she could with her stronger right leg. The boots were stout, and the thump satisfyingly solid, but the door didn’t move. She threw another kick at the door, again, and again. Her chest hurt from panting, and dizziness swirled behind her eyes. The hinges set into the wall were strong, but the wall itself had become softer from the constant dampness of the area around the old Collect Pond, now filled with streets and houses. The wall was becoming loamy, and on her tenth kick, the hinge buckled softly into the meat of the wall.

  She heard a yell and more knocks as the men continued to fight. Her thighs burnt from the effort, but she aimed two more kicks near the hinges. On the third strike, the door dislodged from the wall by a mere two inches, but it was enough. She pried it inward, its hinges biting into too-soft wood, and squeezed her way through, tearing her gown in the process.

  She ran down the corridor to find Alexander standing over Theo’s inert body, next to the extinguished hearth. Alexander was holding an iron poker, ready to thrust it into Theo’s chest.

  “Stop it, Alexander! Please!”

  Alexander wiped the sweat from his face with a hand, and pushed the mess of silver-and-dark hair from his face.

  “No. The rumors have to die, and if that means that he has to die with them, so be it. He’s already nearly dead, Cora. We must be sure he’s gone.”

  “There is no we. There never will be. You cannot do this.”

  “I can. And this has gone far beyond what you want.” Alexander stepped over Theo’s body and walked forward with the poker in his hand, letting it slap lightly against his leg. The muscles of his forearm rippled as he gripped it harder. “I would prefer you stayed with me, alive, Cora. I’ve helped to keep you alive all this time, all these years. I’ve provided for you, in ways that you didn’t even realize. But I’ve come to know that sometimes, being surrounded by beautiful, quiet, objects that can’t disagree with you—well, that holds a certain loveliness as well.”

  Cora backed away, shrinking to make herself look small. She played up her fear—she had to use whatever she needed to her advantage. If she must fight in a gown, she would. And could.

  “Don’t do this, Alexander,” she whispered, eyes wide. “I’ll go with you quietly. Just let Theo be.”

  “You’ve proven you can’t be quiet. And I know when you’re lying, Cora. I’ve known you since you were an infant. To be honest, I was perfectly content at the possibility that the resurrection men would bring me your corpse. There are at least a dozen ways to preserve the dead. You of all people should know that—an everlasting bath of spirits, or desiccation, or a rather modern method, preservatives through the blood vessels. They’ll swirl through both of your hearts. I can change your eyes out for lovely glass ones—blue, if you like—and dress you any way I see fit. You’ll not beg for anything then.”

  Cora whimpered. Alexander didn’t smile with any satisfaction at her supposed fear, only strode forward with the iron rod. The voluminous skirts of her gown hid her legs, which she had used to crouch down in preparation. Her fingertips touched the ground not in weakness, but to keep her balance.

  As soon as Alexander was two arm’s lengths away, Cora sprang up, a tight coil finally released. She dove under the iron-fisted hand, her hand reaching for the rod while her shoulder shoved him off-kilter. Alexander grunted in surprise, hand splayed out to catch himself as he fell leftward. Cora twisted the rod laterally, forcing him to let go. As she dodged to the right, she found her footing and pulled the iron in both fists, bringing it down hard on Alexander’s body.

  The iron slammed against his arm, splitting the fabric and leaving a bloody welt where it split his skin as well, but he did not cry out. He’d hurt his arm and knee in Puck’s fight. Surely this would weaken him. But Alexander scrambled back, making his way to his hand and knees as Cora struck his back and thighs. She stepped forward, panting, and raised the iron over her shoulder. One more strike to the head—to his already bruised skull and brain—and Alexander would be dead.

  She had never killed before. She had never possessed the intention; bringing the dead elsewhere had been her job. But now, a second away, an arc of her arms away, was death itself—the passage, the moment, the incandescent slipping away of life.

  Cora hesitated.

  And that was her mistake.

  Alexander shot out his arm, snatched up two fists of the blue silk of her skirt, and threw himself backward. Cora fell, air escaping her lungs in a grunt as her back collided with the ground. The iron had fallen out of her hands, and she was scrambling to reach for it when Alexander straddled her torso. He had the poker in his hands, and up close, she saw it possessed a nasty hook on the pointed end, for pulling chunks of wood in the hearth.

  “Is this what you were looking for?”

  Cora wriggled and punched, but Alexander was seventy pounds heavier than she. She couldn’t kick, couldn’t escape him. He raised the iron, looking at her bodice.

  “We’ll start with the extra one.”

  He raised it up, and Cora barely had time to think. She punched toward him as he thrust the iron down. Instead of impaling her right ribs, where her second heart was, it stabbed her right arm, pinning it. She screamed. The pain was like a gunpowder explosion. Warm liquid seeped down her sleeve.

  “I find that to be a rather pleasurable sound. Let’s try again.”

  But this time, unable to move her right arm, she could only dart out with her left, and her aim was poor. She missed completely. He forced the pointed iron, now shiny with blood, down to her right ribs with the precision of an artist’s eye.

  It was pain she never could have imagined. The point burst through the silk, slid between her ribs, and twisted with a sickening crunch. She went breathless and felt blood quickly and efficiently saturating her bodice. She looked down. The iron point was still embedded in her chest. Alexander began to lift himself off her and casually yanked out the iron as he did. Cora shrieked in pain again as it exited her body. Crimson liquid, thinner than syrup, dribbled off the tip.

  Cora stuffed her left fist against the wound to stanch the bleeding. Her breath failed her, and she began to pant in short, quick bursts. Her lung must have been punctured. Her fist was already covered in warm, sticky blood.

  Alexander stood over her, walking in a lazy circle as he pointed the poker at her. “One more heart to go.”

  “You miscounted. Two more to go,” said a voice behind him.

  Alexander twisted his torso, just as the pole grasped in Theo’s hands made perfect contact with Alexander’s temple. The blow stunned him, and the iron clattered to the ground. As Theo pivoted to strike again, Cora grabbed the iron and scrabbled backward. This time, Theo struck Alexander across the spine, and Alexander, still silent, fell to his knees. There was something purely inhuman about how he wouldn’t cry out, wouldn’t shriek from the blows.

  Cora raised the iron in her good fist. There were a thousand ways to kill a man. She’d seen only a fraction of them. This was not a time for imaginative revenge, but a quiet exit. She owed him this—as the one handing him his death.

  With a simple thrust, Cora stabbed the pointed end of the iron into his neck, twisted, and pulled. A gush of blood spurted outward, messy and bright. The thick tide of red was for
ceful at first. But with every beat of his heart, the spurting lessened in intensity and reach, until it was a limpid crest that ran down his neck. His shirt was now more maroon than cream, wet and shiny. Ever silent—for Alexander had always been a man of economy, even in death—he simply collapsed to the floor and closed his eyes.

  Theo crumpled to the ground, pole clattering beside him. Cora’s hands went back to her bodice, now half-blue, half-crimson. The last thing she managed to say before she fainted was, “I believe I’m dying for real this time. Hearts and all.”

  ALEXANDER TRICE

  When I was a young boy, I walked by a pond near my home in Kingsbridge, not half a mile from Boston Post Road. I’d been sent on an errand to purchase a new needle from the general store. It was well below freezing, and the ice cutters had been at work harvesting all week. The center of the pond had been completely carved out, with only a jagged toothlike edge left over. They had done quick work, taking where the ice had been thickest, a foot even.

  And there, sitting at the edge of the pond was a fox, frozen in a block of clear ice. The cutters had found him, enjoyed the surprise for an allowed minute, then placed the frozen beast aside before finishing their work.

  The fox must have fallen in when the ice was only irregularly thin, solid to the eye but too weak to support much more than the leaves that fell upon it. The animal looked as if it had been running when the ice had encroached and captured it, fur fluffed and dry looking, despite being encapsulated in solid water. Its eyes were shiny and dull at the same time, mouth open and thorny teeth bared at nothing.

  Since the day that you were born, Cora, I thought often of the fox. I thought of how it was so wholly overwhelmed, just as I was when I first laid eyes on you. Your soft pink skin, the gentle pulsations of your second heart. I knew you were everything that God never hoped to create: your blood seasoned with the essence of another people, a duplication of the organ capable of crushing ardor or hatred. I would keep you safe. I would contain the borders of your world and make them mine.