Susan Dennard: A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“Oh yes!” Patience said. “We had heard that.” Her nostrils fluttered as if she smelled a particularly good piece of gossip, and I knew immediately what question would come next. “Is she still at

Kirkbride’s? Is she still . . . unstable ?”

My chest tightened painfully, and a thousand nasty retorts flew through my mind. Yes, my mother was at Kirkbride’s Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane because yes , her mind had cracked. Mama’s health was the only reason I hadn’t chased after the Spirit-Hunters the minute my wrist had healed enough to travel. Kirkbride’s was lovely, what with its progressive ideas on mental health and its beautifully flowered grounds; but it was also expensive.

Yet these weren’t emotions I liked to dwell on, and damn Patience for forcing me to.

Fortunately, Mercy clapped her hands just as I opened my mouth to sputter something utterly inappropriate. “Oh, we were just in Mrs. Binder’s, Eleanor, and we saw the most wonderful pistachio muslin! Didn’t we, Patience?” She poked her sister.

“We did,” Patience simpered, “and it will look lovely with Mercy’s skin.” She turned a smug smirk on me. “Mother has the latest Harper’s Bazaar , you see, and it shows all the newest walking gowns for fall. We are going to have them made.”

I grunted, unable to conjure any other response. As far as I could tell, there was absolutely nothing wrong with their current gowns. I was in the same gray walking gown I’d worn every day since June, and it was still perfectly functional.

My eyes raked over Patience’s pink silk— I could get fifty dollars for that dress at Mr. Rickard’s .

And Mercy’s lavender grenadine was easily worth seventy-five. After selling all of my own dresses to pay for Mama’s hospital bills, I’d become quite adept at estimating what a dress would fetch at Mr.

Rickard’s Pawn Shop. I was also quite good at haggling for the best price.

However, I was not particularly adept at controlling my facial expressions.

“Eleanor,” Mercy said, alarmed, “are you ill?”

I quickly schooled my face into a smile, but as my lips parted to reply, Patience cut in.

“Have you seen Allison Wilcox lately?” She lifted her eyebrows. “We have called and called, yet she is always away—that, or she is avoiding our company. Perhaps you have had better luck in your own calls upon the Wilcox home?”

Now I gaped at her and did not bother to hide my emotions. How dare she ask about Allison

Wilcox when she knew perfectly well what had passed between our families.

Mercy seemed as horrified by her sister’s question as I, for she reached for Patience’s elbow.

“Hush.”

But Patience wouldn’t be silenced. “Oh, but of course you wouldn’t have seen Allison,” she cooed.

“Not after your . . . ah . . . how to phrase it delicately? Scandals with the Spirit-Hunters.”

“Patience, stop that!” Mercy hissed.

“But it is true, is it not?” Patience batted her eyes innocently. “The Fitt family and the Wilcox family are no longer on friendly terms? I daresay, the fact that you were seeing both Clarence and the man who murdered Clarence would not reflect well—”

“Enough!” Mercy dug her fingers in Patience’s arm and yanked her away. She flashed me an apologetic grimace. “I’m so sorry, Eleanor. I hope your mother gets better.” Then, without another word, she hauled her sister into the busy street and disappeared from view.

I was rendered speechless. I couldn’t even breathe. Tears I had fought every second of every day now rose in my eyes like a tidal wave.

I stumbled back until I hit Mrs. Binder’s window. “You are better than she,” I whispered to myself, blinking the tears away. “Stronger and better.” If I could face an army of Dead, then the insults of Patience Cook should be nothing.

But they weren’t nothing—not when they echoed with so much truth.

So I did as I always did: I forced my mind to dwell on other things. Normal, day-to-day things.

Spinning around, I stared into the shop’s window. My eyes lit on a frilly parasol in the display’s corner.

And the tears came boiling back with such a vengeance, I couldn’t contain them. All I could do was keep my face hidden and let them drop.

Daniel had given me a parasol like that one. Back when I’d thought he might love me. Back when

I’d thought Clarence was just a narrow-minded suitor . . . and my brother was just a victim. Back when

I was naive and stupid and thought the world a good place. The world wasn’t a good place. I knew that now, and no amount of distraction would let me forget.

As soon as I was in control of my emotions once more, I went to the bank to deposit my latest funds from Mr. Rickard. It was a small sum on which to manage living. I had stopped paying Mary, my mother’s maid, long ago; and though I wasn’t sure why she stayed with me—pity, friendship, or (most likely) guilt—I was grateful for the company all the same. My childhood home, emptied of furniture and devoid of life, would have been too much for me to bear on my own.

It was just as I strode between two columns and onto the marble steps leading down to the street that my right hand—no, the empty space where my hand had once been—began to tingle.

I froze midway. I knew this feeling, the feeling of electricity. Of soul .

I glanced down, certain I’d see a shimmer of starlight, like a little wrinkle in the world where my hand used to be. But nothing was there. Just the usual cloth bandages . . .

Which meant some other spirit was jangling at my senses.

Holding my breath, I whirled around to scan the crowded street. Simply because I knew I could sense the Dead didn’t mean I was used to it. And it certainly didn’t mean I enjoyed it.

My eyes raked over traffic and across building fronts, but I saw no unusual shimmer or flash of blue. I gulped, my throat tight.

Why wasn’t this throbbing going away? If nothing Dead was here, then . . .

Pain stabbed through my right arm, sharp and burning. A cry broke from my lips, and I yanked my arm to my chest.

Then light flared from my wrist, and for half a breath I could actually see my missing fingers.

They shifted from static blue to solid pink and back again.

A screaming howl filled my ears. I whipped up my head, my heart lurching into my mouth. But when I scanned the area for some rabid hound, all I saw was the usual clattering carriages and purposeful walkers. The tobacco store across the street, the saloon next door—they all looked the same. Not a dog in sight. The cab drivers trotted by, their horses ambled on, and everyone continued as if they heard nothing.

Which meant I was the only person hearing this!

Then the pain shrieked louder, taking control of my mind and blurring my vision. Another howl came. I gasped. Two howls, then three, all roaring over one another like a pack of wolves on the hunt.

Yet I still saw nothing.

I lurched around, certain I had to run. To warn others—and to hide . But I couldn’t think straight—

the dogs were so loud, they swallowed everything. I heaved up the steps and back toward the bank’s door.

Then my gaze locked on a pair of eyes. Yellow eyes, gleaming from the shadows behind the bank columns.

I flinched and stumbled back as new fear erupted in my chest. The last time I’d seen yellow eyes had been on Marcus Duval. If he was here, then I was as good as dead. There was no way I could fight him—not by myself. He was a necromancer so powerful even Joseph had lost to his magic.

Oh God, oh God—what could I do?