These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (23 page)

“Laura, I’m sorry,” I called after her. She continued to her room, ignoring me.

“I thought you were doing well on your own,” I said cheeringly.

With a huff, she spun around at the top of the stairs to face me. “Well, I wasn’t!”

And this was somehow my fault? “I just don’t understand why you even needed my help.”

She blinked back tears and crossed her arms so tight, it looked like she would somehow suffocate herself. “I asked you, Evelyn, and you agreed. Then you deserted me,” she said in a
tremulous voice.

“It was an urgent matter. I had to speak to Mr. Braddock about Rose!”

Instead of listening to a word I was saying, Laura plowed on, sacrificing coherency for tears and half sobs. “And . . . and then—Mr. Edwards warned me—he said he heard all
sorts of awful things about . . . you and what you’ve been doing . . .”

What could he possibly have heard? “Wonderful, Mr. Edwards has opinions about other topics he knows nothing about. I’m sorry I ruined your chances with such an eligible man.
I’ll send a letter to Rose asking her to wait until you get married. Or do you somehow have a more selfish goal in mind?”

“I’ve—been trying . . . to help you!” she said, desperately swiping the tears away to no avail.

“No, you just want a fun adventure.”

Laura’s voice screeched with desperation and a full-on tantrum. “Miss Verinder says you’re simply having fun with all the men in London!”

I could only gape, stung by her accusations. Stonily I climbed the stairs. She stared at me with the hugest eyes anyone had ever had as I stopped on the stair below and spoke ever so gently.

“Is that really what you think of me? I am sorry, truly sorry, that I upset you tonight. But my sister is gone, God knows where. And if you’re going to believe Miss Verinder over me,
I am not sure what else we can do.”

With that, I left a pale Laura on the landing, marched to my room, closed the door, and fell heavily against it. If only I could slam it. Tentative footsteps shuffled outside. A very small knock
came, but I was already undressing for bed. It had been too long a day to try and soothe Laura on top of it. The voices of stubbornness and exhaustion proved far more convincing than anything
nagging me to her door.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
arrived, but Mr. Braddock never did.

Exhausted as I had been, sleep proved to be impossible. From the moment the sun rose, I waited in the downstairs parlor, reviewing Miss Grey’s dream entries and trying to make more sense
of the vague, fragmentary clues and images. None of the entries on Dr. Beck, Claude, or Mr. Hale gave a hint of where to go, and there was only one mention of Lord Ridgewood on Dr. Beck’s
page. It read, “Difficult to contact, Whitechapel, spotted dog.” That was all. No description, no history, nothing more.

Tedious hours passed without any sign of Mr. Braddock. Two messages were sent to his home, but no response came back. I peeked out the window. A rare sunny day for London—no rain, snow, or
processions delaying traffic. I didn’t know whether to be angry or worried (though anger was certainly winning out at the moment). Had he safely returned last night? Did someone discover him?
Why could he not send a short message? Would my power keep me from murdering him?

In fact, everyone seemed to have disappeared. Mr. Kent remained silent, and Miss Grey hadn’t yet replied to my reminder to meet. Heavens to earth, I couldn’t sit here waiting all
day. I’d already wasted last night at the Lyceum. At this moment, Dr. Beck could be moving to a new secret laboratory across the world, where we might never find it.

Some twenty-three minutes past noon, I discovered my breaking point. I had come to London to search for Rose. Why couldn’t I do it alone? Without Mr. Braddock trying to protect me or Mr.
Kent acting jealous. That had been my original plan from the moment I left my parents’. I had to do something, even if I had no idea what that was.

It was in this state of desperation that I found myself skimming through the rest of the diary, reading descriptions of other powered people across the world. The information was fascinating but
mostly irrelevant, until I noticed another spotted-dog owner in London. And then a third. Which meant either a citywide conspiracy against solid-colored dogs, or the words
spotted dog
had
nothing to do with animals. The dictionaries and encyclopedias in the Kents’ library had nothing to say about either of my theories, but a guidebook of London did. The Spotted Dog was a
small, unremarkable public house located in Whitechapel. That had to be where they meet.

I stilled my frantic pacing through the library. There was only one problem: I couldn’t go there like this. A lone woman in that public house would attract far too much attention, and if
Dr. Beck did show up for a meeting, he would immediately recognize me. I shuffled through the cards in my possession, and as I pulled out the last one, a ridiculous plan sprang fully formed into my
head.

Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of the cab somewhere in the East End. A derelict building towered in front of me, looking ready to tumble over in exhaustion onto the street. I made my way
through the squeaking iron gate, up the dank stairs, and to a half-rotted door. Seconds after I knocked, a strangely exotic woman, draped in shawls and jewelry, greeted me. I promptly decided to go
jump off the building.

“I’m sorry, I believe I have the wrong place,” I said helplessly.

“Who are you looking for?” the woman asked. It took me a moment to understand that English words had been spoken in the thick accent.

“A Miss . . . Camille,” I replied hesitantly.

She smiled and made a floating gesture of welcome. “Come in.”

She led me into a luxuriously decorated living room—an incredible change from the rest of the building—and disappeared into a back room while I gazed at my surroundings. She clearly
had an odd love for the color violet. Hardly anything in the room was another color. Even lamps and bookshelves and tea things had been repainted with a violet layer.

“I’m sorry to be rude, but does Camille in fact—” I stopped talking as I realized how foolish I really was. There was no Persian woman—she was Camille.

“It is you, is it not?” I asked.

The woman returned with a younger, angular face and greeted me in her French accent. “ ’Ello.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I did not recognize you.”

“
Ma fille
, no apologies. It is a compliment.” She flashed a devilish smile and reclined on her velvet sofa. The transformation was remarkable. “Did you find your
sister?”

“Yes,” I said, taking a chair across from her. “But they managed to escape with her. I was hoping you might know where they’ve gone.”

She shook her head. “I only had the one address.”

I would have been disappointed, had I not been expecting that already. Dr. Beck wouldn’t trust her again.

“But that is not the reason you come here, no?” she asked, brows arching in perfect curves.

“No, I wished to speak to you about a job.”

“And who exactly is the job? Before and after, please.” She winked and removed her shoes.

“It is me,” I said, to her surprise. “And I must look like . . . well, a man.”

Camille lit up like a child with a brand-new toy. She shot up in excitement, closely analyzed my face from every possible angle, and murmured “Hmm” and “Ah” continuously,
relishing her work. “What sort of man?” she asked, kneeling to view my chin from underneath.

“Young, unrecognizable, unremarkable, the sort who would never receive a second glance,” I said. “Can you do that?”

Her lips curled into a creamy smile. “Of course.”

“But I must ask you something. You don’t simply use makeup, do you? You must have . . . a power, yes?” I asked.

She laughed. “Dress it up and call it whatever you wish.”

“Well, what I want just seems quite impossible to ask—”

Camille floated back up like a pleased little snake. “Nothing is impossible for me, I assure you. This is one of my most popular requests. Come with me.”

I followed her into another room, where she glided over to her rosewood dresser, opened a drawer full of makeup bottles, and collected a few before progressing to the next drawer. With two
armfuls of makeup, she returned to me. “You would make quite a beautiful man, you know,” she purred. “But I suppose we must find the beauty in the commonplace. When I am done,
nothing of you will be left!”

This woman. Was there anything left of the real her in the image I saw? I studied her face and wondered about her past, about the faces she uses. “Is this what you truly look
like?”

“I don’t quite understand you.”

“Your real self—without the disguises.”

She chuckled to herself and led me to a chair stationed in front of a bright window.

“Miss Wyndham, I have no ‘real self,’ as you say.” I heard the pop of a jar and felt the sting of cold on my head. She kneaded handfuls of a jelly through my hair, and I
gasped as I felt the strands shortening.

“What does it feel like? Living that way?”

“You know as well as I,” she said opaquely and crossed the room toward a small metal sink, where she wet a thin rag.

“I don’t . . . often disguise myself. This is my second time.”

She knelt in front of me and vigorously scrubbed my face. “Do you act the same in society as you do in private? Do you speak to everyone the same way?”

“No, not quite,” I replied, wincing.

“Of course. No one does. You put on one disguise for society. You put on another for your sister. For your parents. Your costume the other night.”

I felt my face warm. “But what about in private? Anyone can be themselves then without—ah! Ow!—without putting on an act.”

“We do not remain the same each minute to the next. Every word you hear, every sight you see, every smell, every thought you have, every moment—it all changes you. We keep putting on
mask after mask, layers over layers. That’s how one grows.”

She scooped up a handful of a light cream and massaged it into my skin. My face felt lightened, malleable, fluid. “That sounds dismal. Never truly seeing someone.”

“No, the true face is wretchedly simple and empty. The absolute joy in life, in friendship, in love, is learning about a person, deciphering them, taking each and every mask off to find a
new one, waiting to be explored and understood.” She put some precise, finishing touches on my skin and stepped back to admire her work.

She gave me a sly smile. “I gather it is why you find both your . . . companions so intriguing.”

“They are just helping me.”

“Do not lie, child. It doesn’t suit your features. Now come, we are not close to finished.”

An hour later, I stood in front of a looking glass, astonished by the sight.

Good God, who was this stranger? Frowning, smiling, pouting, sneering, yawning—no expression gave me away. Camille had truly done splendid work, and it wasn’t simply good makeup and
a hair-cropping trick. She had molded my face into something completely different and then, using a combination of her powers and padded underclothing, even rendered my shoulders broader, my body
somehow intimidating. As her final touch, Camille slipped a black morning coat over my shoulders, dropped a dashing bowler hat over my short brown hair, and put a thin umbrella in my hand. Had this
all come from her imagination? Or was there the slim possibility that I’d find myself in an awkward face-to-face moment with my double?

“Do you want me to change your voice? It only takes a half hour.”

“I don’t intend to speak very much.”

“Then be sure to lower your voice only slightly. Do not attempt to imitate a man’s voice. It will sound ridiculous. Choose your words carefully, claim your throat is a bit scratchy,
and mutter.”

She packed everything back into her dresser, finishing the stream of advice. “Above all, you must be comfortable. If you act as if you are used to looking like this every day of your life,
no one else will question you. The moment you doubt your appearance is the moment others will scrutinize your behavior.”

I nodded and paid her generously for her work. It was money I could not afford to give away. Sighing, I slipped some coins and Mr. Braddock’s card in my pocket in case of emergency and
left my dress in the wardrobe. Camille reminded me to return the borrowed costume when I finished. I tipped my hat—a custom I surely looked awkward doing—and dashed down the stairs to
head to the tavern.

“The Spotted Dog,” my gravelly voice told the cabdriver.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, unfazed. A rush of an uncomfortable and deliciously wicked power overcame me. The freedom of an invented reputation lay in my hands—the power to create
problems, accumulate enormous debt, commit horrific crimes, and shed all responsibility in an instant. But the sudden euphoria began to ebb as quickly as it came. Of course, I could never do that.
The blame would simply be shifted. And there would always be someone suffering the consequences. I wondered if Camille felt freedom or stifling responsibility every time she took on a new
identity.

Soon, the cab stopped in front of the establishment, and by habit I waited, wondering what was keeping the driver, while he was probably wondering the same about me.