Tina Connolly - Copperhead

Helen was stung by this sudden attack. “Don’t I go to all the parties with you?”

Alistair waved this away. “Not what I mean. Your sister, always looking at me as though I weren’t fit to black your shoes. As if I hadn’t rescued you.” He cupped his hands and opened them in an expansive gesture, spilling the rest of the whiskey onto the shining floor. Bitter alcohol scented the fire-warmed air.

Helen did not care to talk about this, and particularly not with this version of Alistair. “You should go to bed,” she said. “I’ll send George in to clean.”

“Bed?” he said. “You don’t tell me when to go to bed. Unless you’re coming.”

“No, thank you,” said Helen. She prepared to make her escape, but his voice rose a level and stopped her.

“You don’t tell me what to clean,” he said, and opened his hand, letting the whiskey glass smash to the floor.

Now Helen did back up a step.

“You should have heard them all last night,” hissed Alistair. “Talking about your sister. My fault for taking her in. My fault for not throwing her on the street immediately. Your connections. Dragging us down.” He advanced. “Insinuating I can’t run my own household.”

Helen’s heart beat wildly. Social drinking she could understand; everyone did it. Sometimes you accidentally drank too much and regretted it the next day. But not these frightening rages—and they had been coming more and more frequently. Her hand felt along the doorframe for something to shield herself, but there was nothing, and she was exposed in his glare as he advanced.

“Stop it,” she said, but Alistair reeled on her, flush with drink.

“Where have you been?” he said, and there was a keen edge to his words.

“Out,” Helen said. Her hands trembled as she turned, but she would not cower in front of him. She had made her choice. He had been charming and handsome and sure and she had thought she must very probably love him. And it had made so much sense … hadn’t it? Jane had her career, her plans, but Helen had nothing except her face, and that face was supposed to land her her fortune. Which was Alistair Huntingdon, her charming white knight coming to save her.

His face reddened further as she turned away. “Out with that man on the street? That … dwarf ?”

Helen froze, the ugly slur ringing in her ears. He had seen them.

Alistair’s smile was cruel. He had her. “Yes, I saw you. Barefaced and brazen, out walking with Grimsby’s pet dwarf,” he said. “Did he tell you he’s an informant for us? Where’d you find him—when you sneaked off to find Jane? Or were you slumming with the dwarves? Mixing, mingling, rutting?…”

“Don’t suppose it’s any of your business,” she said, and felt the country drawl that irritated him slip out.

She was cold and he was hot. He grabbed her wrist and sleeve, stumbled as she jerked. A button tore off as she pulled away, as she slipped and fell on the polished floor. Her hand skidded on the broken whiskey glass.

“I paid for you,” Alistair spat. “Paid for your face.”

Helen closed her eyes, clutching her injured hand to her chest, wishing she could close her ears against the torrent of abuse that flowed from his lips. Accusations, true and fair, she knew like a knifepoint in the ribs. Her eyes opened on that thought, that even if they were true and fair it hurt, it hurt, and she could not stand it. She clutched the copper necklace he had given her so tightly, her cut palm painful against the cold snake heads.

He was ranting and everything Frye had confessed to poured into her thoughts. Helen stared at Alistair and thought, You will apologize now. You will tell me you still love me. That things will be all right.

She did it more on a miserable whim than anything. More on a fragile wish that things could be as they were. As she had seen him when she first met him, that shining white knight. Wielding the fey power to change someone was hard; Jane had said so frequently. Frye had said she studied for a long time.

She did not expect Alistair’s eyes to go glassy as she clutched her necklace, willing him to change. For him to turn and say, “Forgive me, Helen.”

Helen backed up a pace as he moved closer, stumbled, sat down in the leather club chair.

“I am being too harsh,” Alistair said, and again, “Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Helen said automatically, for wasn’t this what she had wanted? Alistair leaned in, half-smiling, and yet … some hesitation, some lurch in his walk recalled that dead farmer, a mask for a fey.

“I love you,” he said. He dropped to one knee beside her and took her hand, a simple, caring gesture. “I have been too busy to spend time with you recently. We should travel together. Get out of the city for a while. You always wanted to see Varee.”

“I have,” her voice said, but her head shook, no no no . His fingers closed around hers. Trembling, shaking, she said: “They have beautiful fashions.”

“We will buy you mountains of dresses.” But that was something Alistair would say. He was not ungenerous. He liked to see her beautiful, beautifully attired. She was being silly. Alistair was being thoughtful. It was what she had wanted. “We will pick out exactly the sorts of things you like.”

“And send them back for alterations until they’re perfect,” Helen said. She recalled how they had sent back dress after dress from before the wedding and she wanted to smile back at him. She had dreamed up things she’d never known she wanted, and he had indulged all those dreams.

“You know what you should do,” said Alistair, eyes shiny and bright. “You should learn to create your own patterns. You have such beautiful fashion sense. You could set up a little atelier right here among the shops, be a modern woman.”

The idea was breathtaking. It was as if he had looked to the bottom of her soul and pulled out something she had never thought to want, and now that she saw it hanging there, shining, she felt her heart beating out of her chest with pure lust for the idea.

It was not his idea. It was not Alistair.

“No!” Helen cried.

He let go of her hand, confused.

“No,” she said again, and with a great surge of will let everything relax and her mind wipe clean until the strange thread that bound them broke.

Alistair faltered, standing, and she thought his eyes swam clear, but he turned his head away from her, it was so hard to tell.… He turned back, saw her frightened face. “No what? No pretty dresses? Don’t be silly, pet.”

“Stay away,” she said firmly, feet planted.

His temper rebounded. “You’ve been out. You and that double-crossing dwarf are plotting against us all. You’re the reason Copperhead’s turning against me, why they’re keeping secrets from me. Do you deny it?”

“Deny what?” She was at sea.

“You know where she is, you useless doll. Where is she?” His voice rose and rose. “Where is Jane Eliot? Where is Jane?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” gasped Helen, and backing up, slammed the door to his room in his face. Then turned and ran, scooping up her things from the hall as she went. Her stockinged feet slid on the cold floor, slipped numbly on the stairs, till she threw herself into her bedroom and locked the door.

She did not know what she would do if he came—if it came to a direct confrontation like that. She was good at sliding away, at giving in. She did not know how to tell him “No,” and take that. But she knew how to run, and he was drunk, and he might let her go, finding the game not worth the candle.

Helen pressed her ear to the door for a long time, staring at her bleeding palm, smelling the whiskey soaked into her seafoam silk. But nobody came.