been a lamp lit, for its amber ribbon had lined the threshold, but upon my opening the portal, the room was subsumed in darkness. This would not have been frightening had I not been pretending false confidence when I threw the door wide, which snuffed out my own flame . . . but not before I had glimpsed an unholy tableau. A muffled male curse pierced the black curtain at the same time I emitted a strangled squeak—nothing so dignified as a scream—and dropped my candle entirely.
All was sable midnight surrounding me, and I shared the room with Mr. Thornfield and a naked corpse.
I clutched the doorframe to orient myself. More curses followed, then slow, confident steps, until an arm wound about my waist and an urgent hand caught my shoulder.
“Jane, please—are you hurt, or only frightened? Jane . . . I turned down the lamp to prevent your seeing anything you wish not to, but you’re quite safe.”
When I opened my eyes—for in my insensible startlement I had witlessly shut them—I discerned that I could see after all, as the lamp still held a spark of life, though its ghostly sphere now illuminated only Charles Thornfield’s face, the familiar worried line between his brows, and the edge of a great table like a butcher’s where a carcass lay supine.
“I’m all right,” I managed. “The light gave me a turn when it went out, and . . . the . . .”
The truth was, reader, that—though I had created four corpses—I had never lingered over my accomplishments; this specimen was well past its prime, and the candied egg smell was overwhelming enough to choke me.
“Confound it, Jane, you’ve no business here!” Mr. Thornfield snapped. “I gave explicit orders—”
“I heard noises. Pray don’t be angry, I was thinking of thieves, I—”
“And when you supposed ruthless badmashes had invaded, rather than wake the menfolk—who are, I will take the liberty of reminding you, deucedly clever when it comes to sharp objects—you marched down here to challenge ’em to a duel with a bloody pocketknife?”
My mind was a storm cloud, all static and hurtling thoughts. “I was half sleepwalking. I’m sorry.” I steadied myself and gripped Mr. Thornfield’s forearm, looking down.
This was when I noticed: Charles Thornfield was not wearing his frock coat, and neither was he wearing gloves. My lips parted as I studied his fingers spanning my waist; he retreated now I seemed in no danger of falling, but not before I could see that his hands were positively shocking.
There was not a mark on them. Unscarred wrists, one adorned with a silver cuff, led to subtly veined skin, splitting into slender phalanges with well-shaped knuckles. It felt obscene that I could not drag my gaze from them—as if I had happened upon him naked in a woodland pool and refused to turn my back as he fetched his smallclothes.
“What is it, Jane?”
“Your hands, sir. They’re not scarred.”
“I never said they were.”
I wrenched my eyes up. “You must think me a hateful busybody.”
“You haven’t the vaguest idea what I think of you.”
“Forgive me.” My enterprise now seemed detestable. “I’ll not broach the subject again, I don’t care what you’re—”
“Yes, you do!” he exclaimed, shoving a hand over his high brow. “Damn it, I— If we are apologising, then I apologise for accidentally besetting you with waking nightmares. Now, do you wish to see something of my work, or shall I escort you upstairs?”
“Oh, please, if you will have me, I should prefer to . . . to stay.”
Mr. Thornfield studied me as the devout study God; then he softened the hard spread of his shoulders.
“I have told you that I’ve not practised medicine save in two wars?”
Nodding, I straightened my spine.
“I have told you that I’ve a friend called Sam Quillfeather who is a police inspector?”
Again I inclined my head; Mr. Thornfield stepped back as if testing how much of the view I could manage.
“Behold the Highgate House Mortuary.” His voice rang clear as a brook, but I could not discern any pleasure in the telling. “There isn’t a single decent deadhouse between here and London, and Inspector Quillfeather is a monomaniac when it comes to collecting evidence. I had him round for dinner not two weeks after arriving here and told him I should require an occupation or else succumb to despair. This morgue, with me as its coroner, was his notion, and the men have been hard at work for three months.”