Hunting Prince Dracula Page 35

A wishing well sat proudly in the center of the tiered cobblestone levels. It was another bit of beauty in the harsh winter world. If one were to cut a Corinthian column at its capital, it would come close to the decorative acanthus leaves embellishing the well’s outer wall. I tugged the hood of my cloak up, doing my best to retain as much body heat as I could while flurries splattered themselves across the stone. I’d taken to carrying my cloak to classes, unsure of when Moldoveanu or Radu might want to spring an outdoor lesson upon us.

I touched the envelope and smiled. From previous correspondences, I knew that Aunt Amelia and Liza were visiting my father, readying the house for the upcoming holiday. With the excitement of the murder on the train, classes, the trip to the missing woman’s house, and the mysterious deaths of Wilhelm and the young woman below the morgue, I’d nearly forgotten all about Christmas.

Thomas and I had decided that we were going to stay in Bucharest during our short two-day break—his family kept a house there—but the thought of not seeing my family was proving difficult to overcome. I’d never missed a holiday with Father. As the days had worn on, I wondered what I should do. A trip to London would be refreshing, though it’d be impossible to make one and not miss any classes. I could ill afford to fall behind, especially if I hoped to beat out my classmates for a place in the academy. Still, a wild part of me longed to forget about the academy and return home for good. My stomach churned at that idea—my peers were exceptionally gifted, and I couldn’t stop worrying about who might win those two open spots. I shoved that fear away, focusing on reading my cousin’s note once more.

Liza had mentioned previously that she and Aunt Amelia would likely stay throughout the winter, keeping Father company in the big, empty house in Belgrave Square. My heart clenched. Father struggled with all that had happened and felt immense guilt over one of the Ripper killings. In the midst of the murder spree, he had been found by the police in an East End opium den and firmly encouraged to rest at our country estate. He had only recently returned to London when he’d come across Miss Kelly during a search for laudanum. She’d claimed to know someone who might provide it to him, and Father willingly followed her to that doomed house on Miller’s Court.

He’d left Miss Mary Jane Kelly alive, and had no idea he’d been stalked that evening. Jack the Ripper had followed him, watching, waiting to strike.

Perhaps Thomas had been right; going back home to London wouldn’t be a terrible idea. We could keep a close watch on Father, and Uncle would be only too pleased to have us back. And yet… to leave the academy would be a failure and I’d worked too hard to run away now. I despised the headmaster, but I wanted to earn my place here. I couldn’t fathom what I’d do if neither Thomas nor myself made it in.

A new thought had my heart racing. At the end of the four weeks, what if only one of us was accepted to the academy? The mere thought of saying good-bye to Thomas stole my breath.

Without wasting another moment on sad thoughts, I tore open my cousin’s letter, eager to gobble up every morsel of her message.

Dearest Cousin,

Allow me to be quite frank. Since I’ve read every novel by the immeasurably talented Jane Austen, and because I am three months older than you, I obviously have a vast amount more romantic knowledge. I don’t fancy myself a poet, but I have been flirting (quite shamelessly, I daresay) with an intriguing young magician—and escape artist—who performs with a traveling circus, and, well… I shall tell you all about that another time.

Anyway, we were discussing romance one afternoon near the pond, and he spoke of love being akin to a garden. Do not roll your eyes, Cousin. It’s not becoming. (You know I adore you!)

His advice was this: Flowers need plenty of water and sunshine to grow. Love, too, needs attention and affection, or else it slowly withers away from neglect. Once love’s gone, it’s as brittle as a dried-out leaf. You pick it up, only to discover that it’s turned to ash beneath your oncecareful touch, gone on a swift wind forever.

Do not turn your back on a love that could jump the barrier between life and death, Cousin. Like Dante’s valiant journey into darkness, Mr. Thomas Cresswell would descend into each circle of Hell if you needed him to. You are the beating heart inside his rib cage. It’s a rather macabre way of saying you complement each other—though that’s not to say you aren’t whole on your own.

Unlike my mother, I believe all women should stand on their own without needing anyone to hold them up. Surely a wife worth having is one who is secure in who she is? That is a discussion for another time, I’m sure. Back to your dearest Mr. Cresswell…

There’s something powerful in that kind of love, something that deserves to be kindled and tended to, even when its embers are flickering dangerously close to darkness. I implore you to talk with him. Then write and tell me each delicious detail. You know how much I adore a grand romance!

Do not allow your bountiful garden to turn to ash, Cousin. No one wants to stroll in the aftermath of neglect when they could be dazzled by a lush garden full of roses.

Yours,

Liza

P.S. Have you reconsidered returning to London for the holiday? It’s positively boring without you here. I swear that if Victoria or Regina attempts to boss us around during one more tea party, I will toss myself from the Tower of London. At least then Mother won’t cluck at me to practice, practice, practice for my coming-out ball. As if society would condemn me for stepping right instead of left during the waltz!

If my future husband would be appalled by such trivial matters, then he wouldn’t be worth having. He’d be the sort of dullard I should like avoiding at all costs. Imagine if I told Mother that? I shall wait until you’re home so we may have the pleasure of watching her flush devil red together. Something to look forward to.

Kisses and hugs.—L.

“Would you mind terribly if I sat out here, too?”

I glanced up at the American accent, surprised that one of my classmates was engaging me in conversation. They mostly spoke in groups and—after Thomas’s poor attempt at helping me by speaking to Radu of my constitution—accepted my role in the assessment course only when absolutely necessary. To them, I was not a threat and was hardly worthy of their notice.

Noah smiled. His features appeared as if they’d been carved from the most alluring ebony, deep and rich and beautiful. I shook my head. “Not at all. The courtyard is certainly large enough for the two of us.”

His brown eyes twinkled. “That it is.” He studied the snow that was coming down a bit more heavily, blanketing the exposed stones and statues. I watched his gaze drift up to the castle. Muscles in his back tensed as Moldoveanu appeared briefly in one of the windows, striding down the corridor. “Am I mistaken, or is the headmaster a miserable fellow?”

I laughed outright. “I daresay he’s awful in general.”

“He’s pretty good with a surgical blade, though. Guess we can’t have it all, right?” He yanked the collar of his overcoat up and swatted at the bits of ice now mingling with the flurries. They pinged and skittered against the ground, the sound an almost lulling accompaniment to the gray skies. “I’m Mr. Noah Hale, by the way. Though you already know that from class. Thought it was time I properly introduced myself.”

I nodded. “You’re from America?”

“I am. Grew up in Chicago. Have you ever been?”

“No, but I hope to travel there one day.”

“What did you think about Radu’s lesson?” Noah asked, abruptly changing topics. “About the rituals supposedly taking place tonight? Do you believe all the villagers will make a sacrifice and are convinced animals speak our language this one night?”

I lifted a shoulder, choosing my words with care. “I’m not sure this lesson was any stranger than the folktales regarding vampires and werewolves.”

Noah glanced at me sidelong. “How did a young woman such as yourself get involved in all this”—he motioned vaguely at the castle—“business of cadavers?”

“It was either that or embroidery and gossip,” I said, allowing humor to creep into my tone. “Honestly, I imagine the same way anyone else who came to study such subject matter did. I want to understand death and disease. I want to offer families peace during difficult times. I believe we all have a special gift to offer the world. Mine happens to be reading the dead.”

“You’re not too bad, Miss Wadsworth. No matter what anyone else says.” Noah was blunt, but I didn’t mind his straightforwardness. I found it as refreshing as the mountain air.

A clock tolled the hour, a somber reminder that this bit of levity was over. I stood, stuffing Liza’s letter into my skirt pockets, and brushed snow from my bodice where my cloak had fallen open. “Are you excited about class? We’re in the dissection room today.”

“It’s the good stuff.” Noah stood and rubbed his leather clad hands together. “We’re all getting a specimen today. Some of the boys have placed wagers on their performance.”

“Is that so?” I raised a brow. “Well, then I apologize in advance for earning the top spot.”

“You can certainly try for that top place,” Noah said. “But you’ll have to fight me for it.”

“May the best person win.”

“I love a good challenge.” Noah took my gloved hand in his and shook it. I found that the action of a young man grabbing my hand didn’t offend me one bit. It was a sign of respect, a sign that Noah now thought of me as an equal. I beamed as we made our way inside.

This was precisely what I lived for: the exploration of the dead.

The interior of a dissecting room: five students and/or teachers dissect a cadaver, c. 1900.

DISSECTION ROOM

CAMERĂ DE DISECŢIE

BRAN CASTLE

13 DECEMBER 1888

“What is the purpose of inspecting the bodies of those who die from no outward sign of trauma?”

Professor Percy stood beside the exposed brain of the specimen before him, his apron stained in rust-colored blood. His reddish hair and matching whiskers were neatly styled—so at odds with the fluids marring his wholesome features. I imagined it was how Uncle appeared when he was a young professor. The thought warmed me despite the crispness of the dissection-room air.