The Heartless City Read online

  She’d wanted Iris to do the same, as she felt the safest jobs were those where they would never be seen, but Iris knew her youth and beauty could make her twice as much as a waitress in a restaurant. The prospect had worried her mother, of course, but the money was just too tempting. Neither of them wanted to relive that terrible year after Lady Cullum’s death, when it was still too dangerous for her mother to show her face, and Iris had to catch rats in order to keep them both alive.

  “Here, let me help you undress,” her mother said, unlacing her dress, and Iris groaned, hating the fact that her mother had to undress her. Dishwashers could wear practical dresses and corsets that fastened in front, allowing them the ability to change without assistance. The waitresses at La Maison Des Fleurs, however, had to wear back-lacing corsets, as customers enjoyed the smaller waists that they created.

  When Iris was finally free of all her clothing but her chemise and drawers, her mother walked to the desk and returned with three copper pennies. “Make sure you eat before work,” she said, placing the coins in her palm. “The pie shop on James Street should have fresh meat since the shipments came in yesterday. Don’t worry, we’ll still have enough for Mrs. Granby’s rent.”

  “You can have it. I’m not hungry.”

  “That doesn’t mean you don’t need to eat. I’ll buy some oysters on my break tonight. Now go to sleep.”

  There was no arguing with her, so Iris placed the coins in the pocket of her coat and crawled onto the mattress the two of them called a bed. Her mother, however, did not undress, but returned to her seat at the desk.

  “What are you doing?” Iris asked. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”

  “I just need to go over a few more figures.” She smoothed down a piece of paper covered in scribbles and dipped a quill in ink. “It wouldn’t be so difficult if I had some actual lab equipment. Or at least a book or study written in this century.”

  Iris’s muscles stiffened. Her mother’s life consisted of working and looking for a cure, which no one in London but Dr. Morrissey was allowed to do. The breach of the rules didn’t worry her―if her mother were found, she’d be dead no matter what laws she’d disobeyed. What she couldn’t stand was watching her sacrifice sleep and sanity for something that was not the real solution to their problems.

  “Mama,” she began, smoothing and softening her voice. “I overheard a few of the other waitress at work last night, and they said the palace is looking to hire more parlor maids for the season.”

  The scratching of her mother’s pen came to a halt. Then, without looking up, she took a breath and resumed her writing. “Iris, we’ve discussed this. The palace is out of the question.”

  “I’m pretty enough to be a parlor maid, and Mr. Dorset likes me. I’m sure he would give me a good reference―”

  “Iris, the subject is closed.”

  “But Mama, it would change everything if I could get inside. I could prove what the Lord Mayor is doing―”

  “Iris, it isn’t safe.”

  “Not for you, but none of them even know that I exist! The only person who knew you had a daughter was Lady Cullum and she―”

  “Is dead!” her mother exclaimed, bolting up out of her chair. “And if they find out who you really are, we will be, too.”

  Silence filled the room, swelling and thinning the air between them. Iris’s fingers curled around the patchwork quilt beneath her. The grandmother she’d barely known had sewn it back in Kansas, but Lady Cullum had draped it over Iris’s body in bed at night, singing her to sleep when her mother was working late at the lab. Tears stung her eyes, and she quickly fought them back. Crying wouldn’t help her cause or avenge Lady Cullum’s death.

  “Iris, please understand,” her mother said, rubbing her temples. “I’m trying to protect you. You don’t know what the Lord Mayor is like, the things he is capable of.”

  Iris clenched her jaw and looked away. Of course she knew.

  “I’ll make things right. I promise,” she continued, sitting beside her. “Look at me, Iris. I mean it. I am going to find a cure.”

  Iris raised her head and stared directly into her eyes. “A cure won’t do any good as long as the Lord Mayor is in power.”

  Her mother swallowed, rose to her feet, and returned to her place at the desk. “That isn’t our concern. We’re hardly equipped to bring down a government, Iris. A cure is the answer.”

  She sat back down and picked up her pen, ending the conversation, and Iris glared at her back, burning with questions she couldn’t ask.

  Why can’t you see how strong I am―how strong we both could be? Why do you refuse to face the truth of what must be done? Why do you tell me everything about the world’s evils but nothing about what’s on your mind?

  Or who my father was?

  Iris had given up asking her mother about him years ago, as the only response she’d ever received was that the man was dead, and because of that, no other information was necessary. Her mother’s replies to her musings about her abilities were the same:

  “When God gives you a gift, Iris, you don’t ask why it was given. All you need to worry about is keeping your secret safe.”

  And Iris had; even Lady Cullum never knew. Last night, however, she’d almost made the mistake of letting Elliot see, and as she crawled beneath the quilt, she promised herself she would never be so careless about it again.

  She curled up on her side, but when she did, she saw Elliot’s face―beautiful, peaceful, and inches away from her own, as it was last night. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t wipe the image away, so she blocked it out by escaping into a sea of unconsciousness.

  fter making his way past the iron fence and the Yeomen of the Guard, Elliot entered the palace through the Privy Purse door as always. He looked dirty and disheveled after sleeping in his clothes on the dusty wooden floor, but none of the servants felt any curiosity as he passed them. Over the last two weeks, he’d learned that most people were too focused on themselves to notice the people around them, but if anyone could have seen into his heart, they would have been utterly blinded by the fire that burned within it.

  He should have been worried and panicked; he’d slept too long and missed his job―the only thing that made him remotely useful to his father―but there wasn’t enough space left in his mind to worry about it. His thoughts were wrapped in the green of the aviary and gold of Iris’s eyes, and all he could feel was the strange sensation that he had just been born.

  The fierce, giddy brightness in his chest increased as he turned the corner, coming to a head as he collided with Cam and Andrew. The two of them were emerging from the door to the butler’s pantry, where Cam hid the majority of his contraband imports. They were laughing together, Cam’s hand resting on Andrew’s shoulder, but their glee dissolved when Elliot stumbled directly into them. Cam jerked his hand away from Andrew’s shoulder and steadied Elliot’s arm, revealing a sudden bolt of nervous tension in his veins. Elliot blinked, unsure as to why Cam would suddenly feel so anxious, but then he remembered how worried he had been about him lately.

  “I’m fine,” he said quickly. “I know I look like a wreck, but I’m fine, really.”

  Cam quirked his lips up into a grin, masking a rush of relief. “You always look like a wreck,” he said, drawing back his hand. “But now you look like a wreck that spent the night on the floor of a bawd-house.”

  Elliot’s face reddened at the mention of such a place, or perhaps at the memory of how he’d felt when Iris was pressed against him.

  “Bloody hell,” Cam said, his eyes going wide. “You actually did?”

  “What? No, of course not!” he stammered.

  Cam’s grin broadened. “You know, when I told you to get out and live your life, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Cam―”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m rather impressed. Though I don’t think I’d like you to come near my bedclothes again―”

  “Cambrian.”

  And
rew’s voice was soft, just like everything else about him, but there was a sort of purity and strength about his softness. His light brown eyes were gentle, but they also never wavered, and he carried his slight, boyish body with quiet confidence. Before meeting Andrew, Cam had often mocked boys with ginger hair, but it was hard to criticize someone so warm and self-possessed. He was also the only person with the power to shut Cam up, something Elliot had never accomplished in his life.

  “Elliot,” Andrew said. “Are you sure that you’re all right?”

  Elliot took a breath and raised his head to meet his gaze. Andrew’s feelings flowed nearly as freely as his own, and looking into his eyes could often be as powerful and painful as physical contact. Now, as always, he saw and felt his genuine affection, as well as the utter forgiveness that he knew he didn’t deserve.

  “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just… it’s a long story,” he finally answered.

  “We have a story as well,” Cam said in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “My sailor came through with those new, twelve-inch records I told you about, and Andrew thinks he can have the Victor repaired by tomorrow night.”

  “If I can get a part I need,” Andrew interjected. “I’m going to look at a pawnbroker’s shop in the Strand this afternoon.”

  Cam’s excitement swelled as he leaned a little closer. “But the best part is what’s on the records. It’s a new kind of music.”

  Elliot’s lips parted. “New?”

  “Danny―my sailor―he left me a note that said it’s a genre called ‘Ragtime.’ Apparently, it’s the most popular thing in America right now. He brought two songs―The Pine Apple Rag and The Weeping Willow Rag.”

  “I wonder what it sounds like,” Elliot murmured, as breathless as Cam. The Lord Mayor had a private orchestra for balls and parties, but they played songs that were popular in Queen Victoria’s day. As Cam had observed at the music hall, nothing new had been written inside London for nearly a decade. With the symphonies disbanded, and people struggling to survive, it wasn’t a very fertile place for new artistic creations.

  “I don’t know,” Cam said, his eyes alight. “But we’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “If I can get that part and fix the Victor,” Andrew reminded him.

  “You will,” he replied. “I have no doubts. You’re a technological genius.”

  They looked at each other, creating a sudden tug of warmth between them, and Elliot turned away, biting back his jealousy. He knew he shouldn’t begrudge their friendship; Andrew had been a better friend to Cam than he had lately, and it was only natural that the two of them had grown close. Still, he couldn’t help the feeling that Cam belonged to him.

  “Jennie!” Cam cried.

  A parlor maid who’d been passing them stopped in her tracks.

  Unlike Cam, who was interested in everything and everyone, Elliot had never paid much attention to the staff, but even he had noticed this particular parlor maid. She had the kind of beauty girls possessed in fairy tales―pale skin, rosebud lips, and shining golden hair. At the moment, she was carrying a basket of freshly cut flowers, and when Cam called out, she nearly spilled them all onto the floor.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, dipping her head and dropping into a curtsy.

  Elliot turned away and shoved his hands inside his pockets. Before his botched experiment, he’d noticed Jennie’s beauty, but now she compelled his attention for an entirely different reason: She wanted Cam with every single fiber of her being.

  “I found something in yesterday’s shipments that made me think of you,” Cam said, reaching into his pocket and removing a small glass jar. “It’s a hand salve from Scotland that’s supposed to repair dry skin. I remembered you telling me once that your hands get chapped in the winter months.”

  Jennie jerked her head back up, her porcelain face on fire. Her gaze darted from Cam over to Elliot and Andrew, betraying the horror she felt at their knowing she’d dared to have such an intimate conversation with her employer.

  “I can’t accept that,” she said. “I’m sorry, sir. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Please,” Cam insisted, taking her white-gloved hand and placing the jar in her palm. “I know you work hard, and things like this are difficult to come by.”

  Her heart bloomed with adoration so fierce her discomfort dissolved, and Elliot swallowed and studied the Persian rug beneath his feet. In his peripheral vision, he saw Andrew doing the same. Her feelings must have been clear even to people who couldn’t feel them―at least, to people who weren’t Cam, who was not only smiling obliviously but feeling nothing at all for her but friendly admiration.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, falling into a curtsy again. Then she cleared her throat and placed the jar in her apron pocket, murmuring, “You’re very kind,” before taking off down the corridor.

  Elliot let out a breath as soon as her feelings were out of range, removing his hands from his pockets and then wiping his brow with the sleeve of his coat.

  Andrew turned to Cam, hesitating before he spoke. “Cambrian, I know you meant well, but you shouldn’t give gifts to that girl.”

  Cam raised an eyebrow. “Why not? She’d never get a hold of something like that all on her own.”

  “I know but, well, she fancies you, and such gestures might… lead her on.”

  “Lead her on?” Cam laughed. “I was only being kind―”

  “I know, but she might see another meaning in your kindness. And if your father found out―”

  “Andrew…” Elliot’s voice caught in his throat, because it was too late. That cold, metallic, strangely shameful fear had crept inside Cam’s blood, so sharp and pervasive, Elliot could feel it in his teeth.

  The Lord Mayor detested Cam’s affection for the help, claiming it made him look “common,” “servile,” and “spineless as a woman.” At a dinner party when he was fourteen, Cam left his seat to help a maid clean up the tray of china she’d dropped, and in response, his father dragged him out into the hall, calling him an embarrassment and smacking him across the face so hard the whole room could hear it. Now, Elliot felt him shutting down like a waterlogged clock, and though Andrew couldn’t feel it, he could sense what he’d done wrong.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not my place to tell you what to do.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Cam replied, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves and flashing them both a brilliant smile. “The two of you worry too much. That’s why you need me so desperately.”

  Elliot tried to force a reciprocal grin, and Andrew nodded. “Well, I’d better go,” he said. “I’m late enough as it is.”

  He started down the hall, and Elliot squinted in confusion. Andrew worked primarily on the second floor of the palace, where the only telegraph in all of London was located, but he was heading toward the garden exit, not the stairs.

  “Are you working outside the palace this morning?” Elliot called after him. Besides being the Lord Mayor’s personal telegraph operator, Andrew often acted as a second secretary, which sometimes required errands off the grounds, but only rarely.

  Andrew stopped and turned around, guilt pricking his chest. “The Lord Mayor has business elsewhere and doesn’t need me today. He gave me the day off, but I… I need to tend to my mother.”

  Elliot’s own chest flooded with shame, and he stared down at the floor. When Robert Heron was killed, and the Lord Mayor gave his job to Andrew, he also offered to let him and his mother live at the palace. Anyone else would have gladly accepted, but Andrew’s mother refused to live on the grounds where her husband was murdered. According to Andrew, she’d been rather fragile before his death, and afterward, she became reclusive and “somewhat hysterical.” When he wasn’t working, he cared for her as if she were an ailing child, and all because of Elliot and his act of cowardice.

  But why did Andrew feel guilty about mentioning his mother? Because he knew that doing so would make Elliot feel ashamed? Elliot sighed and ran a weary hand through his tangled hair.
Why the hell did Andrew have to be so bloody selfless?

  “I’ll see you both at dinner,” Andrew said, and he went on his way.

  After a moment, Elliot turned to Cam and cleared his throat. “So, formal dinner tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes, by the Lord Mayor’s decree.”

  Aside from the nearly two hundred bedrooms for live-in servants and staff, Buckingham Palace had more than fifty royal living quarters, which were not only occupied by Cam and Elliot and their fathers, but also by the current families in the Lord Mayor’s favor. As Iris had said, there really was a sort of royal court―a household of people akin to the courtiers of King Henry XIII. Often, they ate and socialized in self-made, shifting groups, but when Cam’s father declared a formal dinner, they all attended.

  “That’s the second one this week,” Elliot said, though he’d missed the first, feigning illness and drinking a bottle of wine in his room instead.

  “He probably wants to discuss the upcoming season,” Cam replied, sliding his hands in his pockets and strolling toward the northern stairs. “It may have snowed last night, but it will be April first on Monday.”

  Elliot fell into step beside him. “What’s there to discuss?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to lower the age of debut again.”

  The London season used to begin when Parliament adjourned shortly after Easter Sunday, but now that there was no Parliament, it started around the first of April and ended around July. With no more opera, theatre, or annual art exhibitions, the season consisted entirely of private balls and parties, which Elliot found to be tedious, and Cam found extremely outdated. The season was, at heart, a marriage market for the wealthy―a chance for well-bred girls to make good matches with well-bred boys. Because of that, the girls could not attend until they “came out,” a transition that meant they were part of society and ready for marriage. Traditionally, a girl came out at seventeen or eighteen, but in recent years, the Lord Mayor had lowered the age to sixteen.