The Heartless City Read online

  Iris blinked. “Your… your mother was killed by a Hyde?”

  “Of course she was. Just like everyone else’s mother.”

  He spit the words cruelly, parroting what she’d said at the music hall. His pain and anger were so overwhelming he simply couldn’t help it, and he found himself staring at her in a sort of heated challenge. But the bitterness was gone from both her eyes and heart by then, replaced by a sad and stunned remorse.

  As well as pity.

  “Don’t,” he muttered, rising from the stool and walking away.

  “Don’t what?”

  He turned his back and closed his eyes. “Don’t… pity me.”

  “I don’t. I mean, well, of course I do a bit―I can’t help being sorry―but more than anything I’m surprised. I thought women like that were safe.”

  He released a ragged breath. “She would have been. But she ran out of white.”

  “What do you mean she ‘ran out of white?’”

  Elliot turned back around, swallowing hard before he spoke. “My mother was an artist―a painter―and after the quarantine it was hard for her to obtain supplies. The Lord Mayor only requested a small amount each month, and he only did that because of his relationship with my father. One day, when I was twelve, my mother was frantic for white paint. It’s impossible to paint without it―white not only softens colors but adds the illusion of light. She’d been without it for over a week, and well…”

  He sighed and took a step closer, struggling to explain. “For my mother, painting wasn’t merely a hobby. It was like… breathing. When she couldn’t paint, she felt suffocated. It nearly drove her mad. Normally, our servants brought her supplies when the shipments came in, but the next slated import day was at least two weeks away. Before the quarantine, she bought her supplies at a shop in the Strand, and even though it had likely closed, she was desperate enough to try. She didn’t trust anyone else to find the place or get just what she wanted, and since it was broad daylight, she decided to go on her own.”

  The memory sharpened, twisting like a dagger in Elliot’s stomach, but he found himself unable to stop the story from pouring out. “Hours later, she hadn’t returned, so Cam and I went out to find her; my father was at work and I remembered the shop’s location. We found her in an alley near the church of St. Mary-le-Strand. A small crowd had already gathered and someone had covered her chest and face with a rough scrap of canvas, but I knew it was her as soon as I saw the tube of paint, crushed flat and staining her hand and the street beneath it white.”

  He took a breath and sat back down on the stool, rubbing his brow. “My father blamed her death on art. He called her passion a malady and locked the room she’d used as her studio at the palace. I knew where he kept the key, however, and for a while I snuck inside to paint when he was out; I’d found two tubes of white unharmed inside her reticule.”

  Iris searched him silently, and for once, he was glad for the pain that came with his mother’s memory. It muffled the pity he knew she must have been feeling for him then.

  “So, you’re a painter as well?” she finally asked, her voice grown soft.

  “No. I mean, I was… once. Or rather, I wanted to be. My mother used to say she would take me to Paris when London was free, so I could study painting in the capitol of art.” He ran a hand through his hair again, swallowing a hunger he hadn’t felt in years. “But I couldn’t paint for very long after she was killed. I tried, but I suppose the memories made it all too painful.”

  He glanced back up and looked at her through the dim and flickering light. Their eyes locked, and something strange stirred inside his chest, something sharp but also sweet, like the clang of the bells at St. Paul’s. It was so unfamiliar and overwhelming he wasn’t even sure to whom the feeling really belonged, and he rose to his feet and walked away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “It was for the best, however,” he said, pacing before the door. “Medicine was the practical profession to undertake. Although,” he added, nearly, laughing. “I can’t even do that now.”

  “Why not?”

  He froze where he stood and cleared his throat. “It’s a long story.”

  “I don’t mind long stories. You’ve been listening to me all night.”

  “Yes, but the things you have to say are actually interesting. You’re hopeful and bright and alive, and I wish…” He swallowed and turned away. “I wish I could be more like you.”

  In spite of the heat of his feelings, he shivered, chilled to the bone in the frigid room, and Iris rose from her chair and took a hesitant step toward him. “Maybe we should go into the aviary. It’s warmer.”

  Elliot turned to look at her. The coat she wore was thinner than his, and her petal-pink dress was sleeveless. “It’s strange,” he said, furrowing his brow. “You don’t seem cold.”

  Panic shot through her body like the snap of someone’s fingers, and she rubbed her hands together, shivering just as fiercely as him. “Of course I’m cold. It’s freezing in here. Come on, let’s go back out.”

  “Wait,” he said, raising his hand as she moved toward the door. “I haven’t been much of a gentlemen tonight. Please, allow me.”

  He opened the door and stepped out into the warmth of the aviary, descending the single stair and turning to offer her his hand. She looked at him for a moment and then slowly extended her own, and he held his breath, preparing for the jolt of physical contact. But then the hostile gander from before flapped onto the stair and snapped at Iris’s skirt, sending her stumbling into the doorframe. She reached for the open door in an attempt to regain her balance, but her hand slipped from the jagged edge and she fell.

  Into Elliot’s arms.

  She crashed against him, her arms flying up around his neck, and his hands slid up beneath her coat as he caught her around the waist and staggered back against a tree. Fire tore through his blood, and he swallowed a guttural cry; their bodies were touching at almost every possible point of contact. Her dress was so thin he could feel the warmth of her thighs against his own, as well as the intricate lacing of her corset in the back. Smoke and beer clung to her hair, but her skin smelled healthy and clean, and her fresh, full lips were slightly parted in a gasp. He stared at her mouth, a heavy ache spreading through his chest, and when he looked up, he saw that she was staring at him as well. Their hearts beat together, creating a tangible heat between them, and this time he was certain that it wasn’t all his own.

  But then a bolt of pain shot up his leg, and he stumbled away. The blasted gander was back on the ground and nipping at his trousers. “Bloody hell!” he cried, smacking his head on a nearby branch. “Get the hell away from us, you bloody disgusting bird!” He shooed it away, kicking a wild foot in the creature’s direction, but Iris stopped him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him up the stair.

  “Let’s go back inside. There is no escaping that beast.”

  She hauled him into the office, released his wrist, and closed the door, and Elliot rubbed the place where she’d touched him, confusion cooling his blood. Her heart had been pounding as violently as his a moment ago, but when she seized his wrist, his fingers had closed around hers as well, and even though her feelings hadn’t changed, her pulse had steadied.

  “I suppose adoring birds does not ensure they’ll adore me back,” she said, turning around to face him. “Although, I must admit, I detest that sort of goose. It’s nothing like the wild geese I remember from back home. People call them Canada geese, but they live in America, too, and every summer they filled the lake just north of my family’s farm.” She strolled to the desk, her wistful voice masking her nervous tension. “They’re elegant birds with long, black necks and a splash of white on their heads, and I used to love watching them take off from the water and fly through the air, forming a perfect arrow as they soared above our pecan grove.” She brushed her hair back over her shoulder, and something caught Elliot’s eye.

  “Iris―I mean, Miss Faye―look at your hand. I think
you’re hurt.”

  He took a step toward her, and she opened her left hand. A dark streak of blood smeared the center of her palm.

  “Did you cut it when you―” he began, but then his voice dissolved. The blood was new―fresh and wet.

  But there was no wound beneath.

  She jerked her hand away and wiped it off inside her pocket. “I think it’s only dirt. From when I tried to grab the door.” She turned around and crossed to the opposite side of the room. “We should get some sleep before the birds’ caretakers arrive. They’ll be here in the morning, which is just a few hours away, and I don’t want to be miserable and exhausted at work tomorrow.”

  Elliot’s stomach turned; he had to work tomorrow, too. When his father refused to continue his education, he gave him a job―a grim, disgusting business he tried not to think about.

  “You’re right,” he said. “We should get some rest.” He approached her, removing his overcoat. “Please, take my coat.”

  “There’s no need. Really, I’m fine.”

  “I insist,” he said, holding it out. “You’ll freeze in that.”

  She let out a breath and took the coat. “Thank you, Mr. Morrissey.”

  “Please, call me Elliot.”

  She looked at him, her eyes burning embers in the darkness, but then she turned away and wrapped the coat around her shoulders, murmuring “thank you,” again and crouching down against the wall.

  Elliot rubbed his arms and crossed to the other side of the office. The floor creaked as he lowered himself against the opposite wall, but other than that, the dim, frigid room was utterly silent. He closed his eyes and took a breath, wondering how in the world he could sleep with Iris a few feet away, but then her bright, sparkling voice rang out across the room.

  “Elliot?”

  It was as if he’d heard his name for the first time in his life. “Yes?”

  For a moment, she didn’t speak, and her face was lost in the shadows, but then she finally said, “If you want, you can call me Iris.”

  A smile spread across his face. “Goodnight, Iris. Sleep well.”

  Eventually, exhaustion overpowered his excitement, and he curled up against the wooden floor and drifted off. At first, his dreams were as empty and cold as the freezing boards beneath him, but then a heavy warmth began to creep inside his brain. He saw Iris standing in a grove of golden trees, watching a flock of wild geese soaring above the branches. She turned to him, smiled, and reached out to take his hand, and when he clasped her fingers, he could have sworn the touch was real.

  The next thing he knew, however, he was waking up in the cold, feeling as though he’d slept beside a fire that had died. His overcoat was draped over his body like a blanket, and when he sat up and rubbed his eyes, he saw that she was gone.

  ris plowed through the ankle-deep snow as she crossed the Waterloo Bridge. A bleak, grey sun was rising over the Thames, but even though the sky had cleared, a frigid wind was blowing. Her foot slipped, but she righted herself and hurried even faster. She should have been home six hours ago, and her mother would be frantic.

  Of course, she knew that would be the case as soon as the sons of Harlan Branch and his doctor fell into her lap. She’d planned to follow Cambrian back to the palace when he left, hoping to either sneak in or find out how to get past the guards, but instead of heading north, his carriage had set off toward the docks. When Elliot stumbled out, she thought she’d gotten her second chance, but then he lost his way and got attacked.

  And everything changed.

  Although, if she was honest, things had already changed before that. The two princes were nothing at all like she’d imagined they’d be. She’d always assumed they were spoiled brats like the aptly named Charlie Hands, who believed that being the son of a judge entitled him to deflower any “flower” he wanted at La Maison Des Fleurs. Iris was used to fending off advances from boys like Charlie, but Cambrian Branch, the most important and―as she had heard―most handsome young man in all of London, had not only been respectful but had nearly burst with excitement when she talked of the outside world. And as for Elliot Morrissey…

  She stopped at the edge of the bridge, clenching her fists and taking a breath. It was better not to think too much about Elliot Morrissey.

  As she hurried down Waterloo Road and into the lower marsh, however, she realized there were some things even she could not control. His messy hair and boyish grin were emblazoned on her mind, as were his eyes, which were not only lush and green as the aviary, but also wide and clear, as if incapable of pretense. His voice was the same way―raw, emotional, and exposed―and perhaps that was why she’d shared the things she’d shared with him last night, why she’d felt entranced when he talked about his mother and his painting, and why she’d believed him when he told her he thought her dreams were “brilliant.”

  Her skin warmed as the wind picked up, but not of her own volition. If only she could control her feelings as well as she could hide them.

  The lower marsh market was already filling with merchants, wagons, and carts, and Iris picked up her pace, returning her focus to her mother. The Empire’s monthly supplies must have come in the day before, as Mr. McKenna’s fruit stand on Roberts was actually stocked with fruit. She paused as she passed it, eyeing a box of decent-looking pears. Her mother loved pears, and a gift might help to soften a bit of her anger, but their rent was due tomorrow, and they simply couldn’t afford it.

  She let out a breath and turned the corner, cursing herself for refusing Cambrian’s money the night before. Only a fool would pass up the offer of coins for a conversation, but after getting to know and even like him, it had seemed wrong. Clearly, neither he nor Elliot knew what their fathers were doing, but they were still a part the system she’d sworn to herself to bring down. If she couldn’t change the way she felt, she’d find a way to ignore it. Nothing and no one could stand in the way of her only chance at freedom. Even a boy who had looked at her as if he could see her soul.

  And smiled as if he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

  She shook the thought away as she approached her tenement building, which stood in the shadow of the old Southwestern Railway Station. As she climbed the steps to their flat on the second floor, she slowed her breathing, hoping to calm her mother with a cool, serene appearance. But even before she’d closed the door behind her, she heard her voice.

  “Iris Faye!” she hissed. “Where in God’s name have you been?”

  She shot up out of her makeshift desk and barreled across the room. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her face was pale as death. She clearly hadn’t slept all night.

  And it was all Iris’s fault.

  “Mama, I’m so sorry―”

  “Iris, you answer my question now.”

  She looked up into her mother’s eyes, eyes that had been frightened ever since she could remember. Even before Lady Cullum was killed and the two of them went into hiding―in fact, even before they left the farm and came to London―her mother had been afraid, insecure, and somehow broken. Iris had never understood how a woman so strong and brave could believe she was neither, but mystery was another part of living with her mother, who stored as many secrets in her heart as she did fears.

  Still, until that moment, she had thought she would tell her the truth, but now that she was staring into her eyes, the idea seemed crazy. Well, mother, I tried to follow the son of one of your greatest enemies into Buckingham Palace, even though you expressly forbid me to ever go near the place. Then I attacked a Hyde that was about to kill the boy, even though I wasn’t sure he would have a gun I could use. Then I went to the zoo, where―once again―you told me never to go, and spent the night beside him, holding his hand to keep him warm.

  “One of the other girls lost the key to her flat,” she said instead. “She was scared to walk to her cousin’s place in Limehouse, so I went with her.”

  A groan of relief escaped her mother’s lips, and Iris felt sick. Her ability to conc
eal any physical “tells” made her an excellent liar, but it didn’t stop a wave of guilt from rising in her throat.

  Choke it down, she told herself. You did it for her own good. Besides, with all the secrets she keeps, it’s only fair for you to have your own every once in a while.

  “But why are you only getting home now?” her mother asked, rubbing her brow. “Limehouse is only an hour away.”

  “I stayed with her at her cousin’s place until the storm had passed.”

  Her mother raised an eyebrow. They both knew Iris was hardly at risk of freezing to death in a storm.

  “To avoid suspicions,” she added quickly. “I couldn’t very well walk into a blizzard in front of her.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” her mother said, exhaling. “And what you did was kind, but it was also dangerous, Iris. You mustn’t do it again.”

  “Mama, you know I’m not in danger. The Hydes can’t hurt―”

  “Yes, they can. You have a strong defense mechanism, but you are not immune. Besides…” Her grey eyes darkened like the sky before a storm. “Hydes are not the only danger out there. You understand?”

  Iris sighed. “I understand. I won’t let it happen again.”

  “Good.” She let out another breath and ran a hand through Iris’s hair, which was just as dark and thick as her own. “So you haven’t slept at all?”

  “No,” she replied, and this time she was actually telling the truth. She’d planned to sleep while holding Elliot’s hand to keep him warm, but once their bodies were close again, she found she didn’t want to. His heartbeat was hypnotic, and his breathing was like a spell, and she only barely stopped herself from curling up in his arms, which had felt so firm and strong when he caught her…

  Iris, stop it now.

  “We should probably get some sleep before our shifts,” her mother said. “At least a couple of hours.”

  Iris nodded, removing her coat as her guilt rose once again. Both of them worked the same hours―from noon to ten each night―but her mother didn’t have her strength, and her job was much more demanding. Iris had to deal with loud-mouth drunks and wandering hands, but her mother, who was a piece of paper away from being a doctor, spent ten hours a day in the cellar of a pub, washing mugs and dishes in the dim, foul-smelling air.