These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel

by Zekas, Kelly

  And just like that, we had the answer and were back outside, the city bustling around us. As we crossed the road toward the next shop on the block, Mr. Kent whistled a tune, and I could hold my tongue no longer. “How in heaven’s name did you do that?”

  “Well, first you might notice the shop was called Mortimer’s, rather than Mortimer and Son’s, but the man wore a wedding ring and didn’t look portly enough to own a successful shop and be childless. So you might look for signs of a daughter and find the display case in the back holding two dolls dressed to fit the distinctive tastes of two little girls. They were English wax dolls from the craze of 1876, but one wore a hat that was fashionable in 1879, which might make you wonder why one was more neglected than the other. The answer to that is sitting in a vase containing lilies and cypress, which any flower girl worth her salt will tell you means innocence and mourning the dead. So mentioning Mr. Mortimer’s daughter would arouse his emotions for both the tragically deceased one and his precious living one.”

  “You . . . noticed . . . all that?”

  “No, don’t be absurd. It’s not that complicated. I just appealed to his humanity.”

  In front of us, Laura spun around and pointed at a haberdashery street stall, as if possessed by some sort of hat demon. “Nick, can I try that one on? Evelyn, I’m terribly sorry, but Mama will be suspicious if I don’t return home with anything! I only need one moment!” Before we could say anything, she hurried back to put that moment to good use.

  “Just one, Kit!” Mr. Kent called after her, then turned to me with a shrug. “We all have our weaknesses.”

  The rest of the afternoon was spent repeating this dismal pattern. We started the search near Trafalgar Square and moved west, concentrating on the druggists and pharmacies in the wealthier neighborhoods under the assumption that Mr. Cheval’s friend, who had the means to consult many doctors, would be living nearby. Most of the shops had not sold linseed in the past two days, and the several that had eventually led us to the wrong customers. If there were two constants to the day, it was that Laura could never own too many hats and that nothing brought us any closer to Mr. Cheval.

  “I hate to say this right now,” Laura cheerfully announced when we trudged out of another chemist shop. “But the Pickfords’ dinner party is in two hours. We really must return home, otherwise Mama will have a fit.”

  A groan escaped my lips. The sun was setting, and the shadows of buildings and streetlights stretched long across the streets like prison bars. “We’ve made no progress,” I muttered.

  “No cause for alarm, Miss Wyndham,” Mr. Kent said. “I will continue searching and questioning the druggists until the very minute they lock up their stores. And I’ll pester them on their way home, too.”

  With a reassuring nod, he called for his own cab and promised to send a full report by the end of the evening.

  Our carriage returned to the Kent home, where there was hardly a moment to reflect upon the day and consider our next plan. Lady Kent ambushed me at the foot of the stairs, wielding my dinner invitation to the Pickfords’, and I was forced to graciously thank her for subjecting me to the last event on earth I wanted to attend. I took some lazy care to dress for it, but it did not occupy the hour and a half that Laura spent gratuitously analyzing her outfits.

  “Should I wear this? I have been saving it for a special evening,” she said, holding up a red monstrosity, far too low-cut to be worn anywhere decent and festooned with an assortment of colored lace, ruffles, netting, bows, and every other possible scrap the dressmaker could find on the floor.

  “Laura, that dress is not suitable for today, I’m afraid. It’s only a small dinner party,” I said, hastily stuffing it into the abyss of her wardrobe in exchange for a simple, undecorated blue dress, which would, as Laura passionately claimed, “accentuate her sapphire orbs so Mr. Edwards could not look away.” I sincerely hoped she meant her eyes.

  When everyone was ready, we climbed into the carriage, and I prepared myself for the dreadful night, formulating answers and excuses for my sister’s absence in my head. I wondered if we might try to escape after dessert, but unfortunately, Laura was not the type to quietly agree to anything, let alone leaving a party early. The second the vehicle began moving, she bobbed impatiently, and slippery brown strands dislodged from her coiffure. Unaware, she tugged at her mother’s dress, completing the image of a child. “Mama, who all do you think will be there?”

  Lady Kent was more than happy to provide a thorough list of all the guests and their many faults, while Laura traced Mr. Edwards’ name in the fogged window (with a heart around it, of course) and waited for the name of this love of her life to reach her ear. Uninterested, I peeked out my sooty window, and a strange sight seized my attention: a large building with two statues posted like guards over the entrance. The Egyptian Hall.

  During my season, I’d passed by the theater many times, annoyed that I might never visit Egypt herself. But this time, in front of the building, a simple square canvas overshadowed everything else. I nearly choked on my breath. An advertisement. A magic show was scheduled for “tonight and only tonight” at nine o’clock, and the name of the performer was none other than Mr. Felix Cheval.

  Now, there was no conclusive proof the Mr. Cheval I had met was a magician, but once the prospect entered my mind, the pieces all fit together. Felix Cheval was not at all a common name. The show ran only for tonight, which coincided with his return from Bramhurst. Magicians were always far more popular and convincing to audiences if they were strange-looking men from exotic countries. All the things the man did in Bramhurst—lifting the carriage, sneaking into the ball, taking Rose without a sound— must have required clever tricks. And even my cautionary dream had taken place in Egypt. I couldn’t pass up the chance. I had to attend the show. Even if it wasn’t him, the possibility would be stuck in the back of my mind for all eternity, and I’d curse myself for going to a useless dinner party instead.

  “Oh my. Oh no,” I moaned weakly.

  “Evelyn? What is it?” Laura peered so closely, she went cross-eyed.

  “I am feeling terribly, terribly unwell.” I tried to sound vaguely breathy and tightly screwed up my eyes, praying for tears.

  “Oh dear! Mama, once we get to the Pickfords’, we shall have to have her lie down!”

  “Yes,” Lady Kent said, avoiding the sight of me as if it might infect her. “They will have the necessities to make you comfortable.”

  Damn. Oh well, nothing for it.

  “Oh, my dear Lady Kent, Laura, I cannot possibly make it so far. I fear I am about to be quite, quite . . . ill!”

  “Turn the coach around!” Lady Kent rapped heartily, gasping and wrenching her skirts away. I convulsed my throat, getting into the role, Laura whimpered, and I nearly did feel sick as the carriage swung around in a tight U and bounced back to the house with great haste.

  With my arm wrapped around her shoulder, a sweetly distressed Laura helped carry me inside and up two floors to my bedroom, while Lady Kent begrudgingly followed, masking her leg pain with her stiff posture. I insisted I should be quite fine on my own, that they absolutely must go without me, and Lady Kent took very little convincing, agreeing before I finished and hurrying out of the room. Laura needed a bit more, about five words’ worth: “Mr. Edwards will be waiting.”

  When their carriage rattled away, I set to work, digging out an old brown walking dress and repinning my hair, doing my best imitation of a simple maid on her day off. I peeked out into the empty hallway. The grandfather clock showed 8:35. No time to send Mr. Kent a message, no one else to accompany me. A foolhardy plan, to be sure, but I had to try. Creeping out and down the main stairs, I managed to make it most of the way without seeing a soul. But as I slipped around a corner in the first-floor hall, my haste sent me almost barreling into a catlike Tuffins, who gracefully swung a hot tray full of tea things away from me in one smooth motion.

  “Miss Wyndham,” he said, his startled expressi
on relaxing into relief. “I was just bringing you some tea.”

  “I—I am—” I sputtered, at a loss for any plausible excuse.

  “Sleeping, I believe?” Tuffins offered, the barest spark of humor seeping into his oblong face. “Naturally, you won’t want anyone to disturb you.”

  I could have hugged him, but I knew he’d much prefer a firm nod of the head, which I gladly supplied. “Yes, thank you. I shall sleep for an hour or two.”

  He gave me room to pass, and I continued down the hall, poking my head into a few rooms before finding one empty parlor with exactly what I needed: a window leading to the narrow alley by the side of the house.

  Holding my breath, I rattled the window open, squeezed through the frame, and nearly twisted my ankle landing on the damp, uneven cobblestones outside. Goose pimples formed along my arms, and I sincerely wished I had grabbed my cloak beforehand. Too late now. No choice but to brave the bitter cold.

  I smoothed out my wrinkled dress and set off through the dense fog toward the glow of the main street, a slight fear pricking in my stomach with every clacking step. Never had I wandered London alone at night, nor considered it even a remote possibility, which meant my mind hadn’t yet found anything in particular to be terrified of and instead settled on everything in general. Every dark patch of the street rendered me vulnerable to criminals, and every yellow pool of gaslight exposed me to Society. Every passing pedestrian produced a flinch as I expected a thief or shocked acquaintance, while every stretch of silence meant no one to help me out of danger. Every moment, I alternated between keeping my head down inconspicuously and raising it to be aware and anxious of the entire street. Any lingering thrill of freedom that I might have had was completely swept away by the terrifying uncertainty.

  A light breeze blew my skirts askew and sent stinging fragments of dirt and dust into my eyes. I swiped the debris away and tried to console myself with the resolution to send Mr. Kent a message at the theater, but at the present, the decision did nothing to calm my nerves. A few long blocks made it clear the theater was much farther than anticipated. Even as I crossed streets and sidewalks, recalling landmarks and memorable images from the carriage ride, part of me still worried this walk would somehow last forever.

  It was only when I heard the dear, sweet noise of traffic from a nearby thoroughfare that I allowed myself a heavy breath of relief. Cabs, carriages, and omnibuses rattled by, and the facade of the Egyptian Hall beckoned me from across the street. The archaic style was completely incongruous with the surrounding buildings, but architecture hardly warranted a second thought, what with my heart racing and all. I stumbled through the pillared doorway, purchased a floor ticket for a couple of shillings, and slipped inside. The doors closed behind me like a tomb, and the lights above were extinguished.

  It took my nearly sitting on several poor attendees before I found an empty spot in the darkness. Two men in the row in front of me, who smelled as if they’d bathed in spirits, turned around, gazed hazily at me, and offered a drink from their flask. I politely declined as I landed heavily in my seat. Smoke discharged in the center of the stage, and a figure seemingly materialized out of the air with a bang. When the smog dissipated, I almost cursed aloud. The magician was wearing a blasted mask!

  The combination of his navy cloak, my distant seat, and the sheer spectacle of the show rendered it impossible to determine if he was the same Mr. Cheval. This one was certainly a big man, but his confidence set him apart. His physical movements at the ball appeared awkward and clumsy, but here onstage, he was in his element. Every motion was precise, every step graceful. He treated his act like a delicate experiment. He performed disappearing tricks with two beautiful assistants. He brought a woman from the audience onstage, demonstrated what he called “the science of mind reading,” and guessed everything about her correctly. He blended vials of chemicals, dropped them in an empty box, and conjured up birds and rabbits from his compounds. He even performed surgery on an assistant by cutting off her head and miraculously restoring it within seconds. Perhaps it was entertaining, judging from the loud laughter and applause from the two drunkards in front of me. But after all this, I was no closer to confirming his identity. I did not have the patience or time to sit through the entire performance, then wait outside for another hour in the hopes of catching him after. That would run too dangerously close to the end of Lady Kent and Laura’s night.

  When Mr. Cheval announced in his light accent that we had reached the show’s centerpiece—a death-defying escape from a locked glass box—I leaned over to the drunkards. “I have seen this trick before—he just uses a double! That’s why he has the mask!”

  Gratifyingly, one man gasped and the other let loose the same sort of wailing “No!” that Achilles might have unleashed at his discovery of Patroclus’s body. I nodded significantly.

  The more vocal one turned to the stage and loudly slurred, “Take off the mask, you fake! You have a double and we know it!”

  The doubtful murmurs in the audience swelled into cheers of agreement as they all realized the scheme.

  “Well, well!” the magician exclaimed. “What an intelligent crowd! I suppose it is only fair!” The audience cheered, and I thanked my drunken friends before scurrying down the aisle to get a closer look.

  With flair, he flung away the mask to reveal a long, pale, bearded face with a protruding brow that looked nothing at all like the Mr. Cheval I met. I stared in disbelief for a moment, then found myself storming out of the theater, crumpling up my program as furiously as one could crumple up a sheet of paper. A fitting waste of time to end a perfectly useless day.

  Once I was outside in the cold, my worries overtook my anger. Perhaps Cheval really was a common name. Or did the giant at the ball lie to us about every little detail? If he were stealing my sister away to London, it would make sense for him to take on an alias. What better than a magician who put on an act and, before you realized it, disappeared?

  I searched for a cab along the silent road, but the traffic had vanished within the past couple of worthless hours. A group of rowdy men hollered to me as they entered a nearby tavern, so I started in the other direction, hoping to avoid unwanted attention. The echo of a distant carriage called me down one unfamiliar street, then another. An attempt to retrace my steps only got me more lost and disoriented. Nothing kindled my memories. Not the darkened shop windows, not the half-torn advertisements covering every wall, not the slivers of gaslight casting shadows that twisted at my feet. After far too many turned corners, a familiar half-open window brought me down a lifeless alley littered with trash, vomit, and what looked like two vacant eyes staring up at me.

  I did not remember that.

  Shivering, I hurried away, splashing through foul puddles and dank recesses without hesitation. I rounded a corner chemist shop, found that the next street looked completely wrong, spun around to retrace my steps, and crashed right into the two reeking men from the magic show. My muttered apologies and attempts to slip by failed as their wide, swaggering frames blocked my path. They didn’t look to be the friendliest of guides.

  “ ’Ere she is! ’Ello, poppet. Whereya runnin’ off to?” one voice scratched like sandpaper.

  “ ’Ow much fer the both o’ us?” the other said.

  I endeavored to turn around, but one shuffled in front of me. “Oy, take a look at those lips! Come on, darlin’, ’ow much?” he yelled.

  My heart started to pound, furiously begging my legs to move. I made a dash, but the men were faster than drunkards rightfully should have been. One seized my arm and swung me back while the other clutched my neck with his grimy fingers. I struggled to utter words, sounds, anything as I heard the metal clang of a dropped blade and scraping as one of them picked it up.

  “Lucky us. No one’s ’ere,” a voice in my ear cackled to the other man. “Who needs a room?”

  “No, no! Please—”

  The taste of dirt hit me as a thick, fetid hand smothered my cry for help.
Another hand pulled my neckline apart with a horrifying tear, and my final, frantic lunge away was stopped short by two hairy arms pinning me to a strange, damp body. The edge of the knife pricked my burning throat as their whispered threats lingered in my ear. The suffocating stench of tobacco and ale filled my lungs, violating all my senses.

  I kicked. I kicked so hard, and it did nothing but hurry them along. Hands seized my feet, and a voice cursed at me as they carried me off the sidewalk and down an alley—an alley far too dark to see what they would do next.

  AND FAR TOO dark for them to see me.

  My hand flew up, clawing at the closest face, fingers digging into hair, flesh, eyes with every shred of fury I could summon from within. Thick wetness dribbled down my palm, and a loud, gruff scream tore straight through my ears. The blade dropped away, and the holds on me loosened for a brief, startling second.

  My feet kicked hard again, flailing and hitting and thrusting into what felt like a face, a stomach, a groin, and then they touched solid ground. I scrambled backward, bumping into a body and shoving it away and spinning around in the dark, looking for the yellow glow of gaslight. Hearing grunts and footsteps behind me, I dashed toward the street, my skirts tangling, my slippers half sliding off, my balance and breath leaving me. If I could just make it down the street, a constable would hear me. Someone. Anyone. And that was when a third silhouetted man arrived, standing between me and my freedom.

  I flew at him like a feral cat, aiming for the eyes, trying to do what worked before, refusing to be taken again. The collision sent him stumbling back a step, but as I attacked with all my momentum to throw him off balance, that unmistakable sensation surged through my body, and I felt myself being whirled around and pushed into a pool of light. The world stopped spinning to settle on Mr. Braddock’s eyes, glaring into mine as waves of energy passed between his hands to my arms, where he clutched me.

  The scuffle of footsteps snapped his attention to the alley. He pivoted back and swung his fist at the man in front, catching him straight on his nose and sending him stumbling and slamming into the other. But they didn’t fall. With a newfound rage, the two staggered forward.