“I know you won’t.” She held his gaze.
“Molly Green, the Corpse Queen.” His voice was soft, and he spoke the words like an incantation.
“I’m not,” she said. “That was just a silly title.”
“You are,” Tom said. “It’s yours now. The house. The work. The title only goes with it.”
She tried it on. Slipped it over herself, like one of Ava’s dresses.
“The Corpse Queen.” The name slid like cool silk against her tongue.
Perhaps it suited.
A corpse was only a body, after all. The tenuous flame of life was not so very much to separate the living from the dead. She meant to serve them both—treating the sick and honoring the departed.
“Yes,” she said finally. “But we’ll do things differently this time. You and me.”
He nodded gravely. “Money to the families we take from, proper treatment for the bodies that don’t have kin, that right?”
“That’s right.”
Ava hadn’t been right in all she did, but she’d treated her bodies well. Respected them for their value. Molly also meant to respect them for the lives they’d led.
“Molly,” Tom started, his voice catching in his throat. “I said I’d wait. I meant it.”
What she wanted to do was throw herself into his arms. But to do that would be to give up everything she’d made for herself here. And no one, not even Tom, was worth that.
“Don’t wait for me too long, Tom Donaghue.” Trying to lighten the mood, she smiled. “I’ve heard such a hard land makes plenty of lonely widows.”
“I said I’d wait.” He winked. “I didn’t say I’d forgo my duties as a gentleman. Ladies in need expect comfort.” His voice was cheerful. Teasing. But she heard the sadness behind it.
Lifting a hand, she touched the scar that now had a twin across her heart. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I would never have made it here without you.”
He broke out in a genuine smile. “Nah, you’re Molly Green. You’ll always be fine.”
There was no final kiss, no last promise made, not even a goodbye.
She was glad for it.
She meant to expand her business, carry her empire farther west than Ava had ever dared imagine. Tom would run things there, while she managed from afar. They’d see each other again, though who knew what their lives would look like when they did.
For now, she could only watch as he walked away.
“Miss?” A timid face peeked around the door.
“Come in, Maeve,” Molly said. “You look nice.”
Maeve had worn a stately gray dress for the funeral, and its simple cut suited her pretty, dimpled face perfectly.
She flushed at Molly’s compliment. “I’m going to change back into my service clothes just as soon as I get a moment.”
“No you’re not,” Molly said. “You’re a guest here today.”
“I miss her.” Maeve’s nose wrinkled, and a wetness filled her eyes. “She was like nobody else, wasn’t she?”
Molly thought of the cool, beautiful face of her aunt—no, mother—its sleek lines that could cut you as quickly with their edge as they could raise you into another world with their elegance.
“Yes,” Molly said softly. “Like no other.”
“I found the envelope you left on my nightstand,” Maeve said. “It’s too much money.”
“We’ve talked about this. You’re to run the house, and book lectures for the school now too. I mean to have a proper one. No more creeping about in the dark. And there’ll be women coming. It’ll be a comfort for them to see a female face running things. Which means hiring people to help you and taking up residence in a better suite of rooms that you outfit as your own. The money is yours. You’ll more than earn it.”
Maeve looked troubled. “Are you sure you can’t just stay and manage everything yourself?”
“I’ve got my own studies to finish. You can do it,” Molly promised. “There’s no one better for it.”
Maeve flushed again. Then, standing a little straighter, she bowed, a small smile crossing her lips before leaving.
Neatening her hair in the foyer mirror and throwing a wink to Hades, Molly picked up Ma’s coat and made her way outside.
The March day was crisp and springlike. The air smelled of cherry blossoms.
A figure waited for her at the front gate.
“I told you not to come,” Molly said, a mock frown on her face.
“And I told you I’d do as I pleased.” Ginny shoved a brown paper bag, grease-stained around the bottom, toward Molly. “Here. The girls said bring you candy, but I thought this would stand you better. I never did like sweets.” She grinned.
“Lucky thing.” Molly took the bag, grinning back. It was why Ginny’d survived. Ava had offered her the peppermints, but Ginny had swallowed only a few, spitting the others out when Ava wasn’t watching.
“It’s my favorite kind, liver and onions, with plenty of filling,” Ginny said. “Wanted you to be well-fed on your travels. The girls sent along a few things for you as well. Trinkets and such to entertain you on your trip.”
“Tell them thank you,” Molly said, feeling unexpectedly touched.
“Ah, you can tell them yourself when you get back. We’ll be waiting for you.”
Molly smiled, a tightness in her throat keeping her from speaking.
“And don’t forget, my family will be expecting you for dinner. First Monday of the month. I’ve sent the letter. And you best get there early if you expect anything to eat. Otherwise, the little ones will have picked the table clean.”
Molly nodded, giving a shaky laugh, and let herself be pulled into one final hug as she inhaled the scent of bread and onion and home. “Eat your sandwich,” Ginny whispered gruffly in her ear. “Don’t want you starving before you ever get there. Me mam will want to thank you for saving my life.”
She planted a kiss like a blessing on Molly’s forehead. “Now, go on,” she said, then she lowered her voice. “Be brave, Molly Green. They can’t scare you if you ain’t afraid.”
The cheerfully painted green-and-white omnibus came clattering to a stop, and Molly got on, taking a spot along one of the wooden benches beneath the windows. As it started to move, a young girl jumped on, falling daringly into a seat beside her.
Molly’s breath stopped.
Because for a moment, it was Kitty.
Kitty as she might have been—strong and proud, taking her place amidst the living girls of the city.
Then the illusion passed, and the girl was just another stranger.
But Molly knew the truth. Kitty would never really leave her again. She’d be in the face of every body Molly touched—both the living and the dead.
* * *
The train was already at the station, great puffs of smoke huffing out of its engine. Holding her ticket, she made her way to the porter, who took her bags and helped her inside.
She took a seat by herself, first class. Ava’s money had at least granted her that.
Settling against the cool velvet, Molly reached into her coat pocket and fingered the letter she’d found locked in Ava’s room.
Dear Mrs. Wickham,
It has come to my attention that you may, in fact, be the same woman who left a very long time ago after a short acquaintance with my brother. I say acquaintance, though I do believe he wronged you greatly. There were certainly some very ugly rumors, and my family urged me never to contact you. But if you are who I think you are and there truly was a child, I hope you could find it in your heart to let me meet him or her. I have no children of my own, you see, and despite his shortcomings, I loved my brother. I should quite like to see something of his face once again.
Should you choose not to respond to this letter, or if this is not, as my sources suggest, the wo
man in question, please feel free to ignore my request entirely.
Yours in good faith,
Reginald Wallace,Esquire
1500 Evergreen Lane
London, England
The letter wasn’t the primary reason she was going to London. The Royal College of Medicine was—James Chambers and his family connections had secured her a spot to study for two years at one of the greatest medical colleges in the world. That and the titillating fact that she’d been a pupil of the Knifeman. She had no doubt the students across the ocean would challenge a woman’s right to be there just as she’d been challenged here, but she meant to prove them wrong. Philadelphia was her home, but she needed to leave it behind, find her own way, make her own reputation.
And there was this, too, the letter’s invitation. Whether she would answer it or not was a decision she had yet to make, but it was one that was all her own.
Beneath her, the train grumbled to life and began to move. Leaning her head against the cold windowpane, Molly watched the city pass.
Outside, the world rushed by in a blur, the sky as white as bone. Sinking deeper into her seat, she held her hand up to the glass.
The wound from the knife was completely healed now, and the cut had left a scar like a crescent moon across her palm.
She turned it around, marveling, the raised skin catching and holding the light.
A body—as vast and grand as any ocean, the worlds beneath it endless.
And it was hers.
Every inch of it. Flawed and perfect and ready to live.
Author’s Note
I have tried, in writing this book, to remain as true as possible to both the history and language of the era. In the following instances, however, I intentionally departed from accuracy for the sake of story:
While a group of grave-robbing medical students really did exist, they were called the Spunkers Club and hailed from Harvard. I took an author’s liberty in renaming them the Spelunkers and moving them to Philadelphia.
Though I most often refer to moths by their Latin names, I also incorporated the common names of the cinnabar, luna, and metalmark moths because of their descriptiveness. I could not, however, confirm their colloquial use during this time.
And finally, while the study of imaginal cells has existed since at least the 1600s, when Dutch biologist Jan Swammerdam conducted research on insects and their stages of development, the word imaginal was not used in this context until 1877, twenty-two years after The Corpse Queen takes place. But it is such a lovely word, I wanted to let Molly use it. And for you to know it.
Though humans don’t have imaginal cells, we do have imagination. And I’d like to believe it can act in much the same way—as the core of something beautiful and indestructible inside us, just waiting for a transformation to be born.
Acknowledgments
This book has had a long and winding path to get to where it is today. I started it in the Midwest and finished it in the desert after a move and a pregnancy. The call from my agent that Corpse Queen was going out on submission came shortly after the birth of my younger son, and the manuscript has grown up right alongside him. Being a new mom and writer is hard, and I couldn’t have managed without a lot of support. The book that I started out with is not the book that it became, and I have so many people to thank for giving me their friendship, time, and mentorship in making it better.
First, and unequivocally, my agent, Barbara Poelle. I know fairy godmothers exist, because she is one. More than that, she is a friend who will happily jump on the phone to talk about motherhood, wine, or the best tool to dismember a corpse (it’s a chain saw). I am eternally blessed to have a champion of such power and grace on my team.
My editors, Stacey Barney and Caitlin Tutterow. Quite simply, this book would not be what it is without them. They are unquestionably the best in the business, and I am so grateful for their sharp eyes, keen minds, and large hearts. More than making The Corpse Queen a better story, they have made me a better writer.
A book takes many people to make, and I am grateful for each and every person who worked on The Corpse Queen. Kristin Boyle designed a cover that was better than anything I could have imagined, and Suki Boynton created an incredible Gothic interior to match. Thanks also to my publicist, Tessa Meischeid, and her enthusiasm for the book, and to Jennifer Klonsky, Cindy Howle, Regina Castillo, and Anne Heausler for their part in bringing Corpse Queen to life. Extra thanks to Elizabeth Johnson, who painstakingly copyedited and fact-checked the many, many historical details of the book for accuracy. She is a true champion, and any mistakes are most certainly my own.
Kerri Maniscalco’s early belief in this book and generously shared wisdom have been a constant guiding light.
Lauren Genovesi, Jasmine McGee, and Jill Stukenberg all graciously read the book in its early stages and shared their friendship and advice. They know all my flaws and love me for them anyway.
Robert Boswell, Kevin McIlvoy, Antonya Nelson, and Keith Lee Morris have acted as mentors in my writing career, and I take their lessons into every story I write.
Anika Gusterman and Jenna Fitzpatrick welcomed me to Santa Fe with open arms and good wine, and I would not have made it through any of this without their friendship.
And my family. Sometimes, when you marry someone, you really do get lucky. I certainly did with the Staleys. Thanks to Tish, who loves books as much as I do and was an early reader and encourager. Jim, who revives my spirit with Maine oysters and magical walks to hunt sea glass. And Liz, who reminds me there is joy in life.
Thanks to my parents, Frank and Alice Herrman. I am forever grateful for your love and encouragement. Dad, you always think everything I write is the best thing out there, and having someone believe in me that much makes it a lot easier to believe in myself. Mom, you have taught me how to be brave and persevere, two qualities without which I would never have been able to be a writer. Thanks also to the extended Wagner and Herrman clans—your magic and generosity continue to inspire me. (Also, I am sorry—sort of—for telling you Wagner cousins scary stories in Grandma’s basement and turning out all the lights.)
A special thanks to my sister, Jessica, who is the best friend I could ever hope to have and who constantly acts as the wiser one of us, even though she is four years younger.
Finally, thanks to my sons, Albert and Charlie, who bring me light even in the darkest of times.
And to Parker. There is nothing in the world you haven’t done for me and nothing I wouldn’t do for you. You are smart, devastatingly funny, and the only person I know who has more books on his bedside table than me. I love you to the moon and back. Always.
About the Author
Heather Herrman's fiction blends beauty and the macabre. Her obsession with horror began with a sixth-grade slumber party viewing of Night of the Demons. She loves prairie winds, tales of wicked women, and landscapes that look like they could eat you. Her debut horror novel, Consumption, is available through Random House/Hydra. She holds an MFA in fiction from New Mexico State University and is an active member of The Horror Writer's Association. Her work has received support from The Prague Writer's Program and The Nebraska Arts Council. Heather currently lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
The Corpse Queen Page 32
