The Madman’s Daughter. Megan Shepherd

Mary would probably still be there, seething that I was late. I tried to ignore the other thoughts clouding my mind: My father was alive but hadn’t contacted me. Montgomery was back, and yet he’d soon return to my father, as though our roles as servant and child were reversed.

      At last I made it to the entrance of the medical building and dashed up the granite steps, tugging on the front door. Locked. I set down my basket and gathered a few bits of broken stone from the street and tossed them at the high first-floor windows, praying Mary would hear me. Mrs Bell would give me an earful for being late, but it was better than not showing at all. My aim wasn’t good, especially since my bare hands were cold and trembling, but a light went on in one of the windows.

      ‘Thank God,’ I said, cupping my freezing nose. I picked up my basket of cleaning supplies. I’d help them finish and then scramble home to my warm bed, where I could bury my thoughts in a downy quilt. I’d find a way to get a message to Lucy about my father being alive. She’d know what to do.

      The door jerked open. I hurried inside but stopped when I saw the face lit by candlelight.

      ‘Dr Hastings—’ I said. He closed the door, plunging us into darkness lit only by the glowing flame. When he slammed the door behind me, the sound echoed through the empty hallway.

      ‘Juliet. It’s quite late.’

      ‘I’m to help Mrs Bell,’ I stuttered, holding up my basket. His eyes were on my Sunday dress. No coat, no gloves. I must have looked suspiciously out of place on a cold night. I swallowed. ‘I’ll just go find them—’

      I started down the hall, but he laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘They’ve already left. They finished not ten minutes ago.’ His fingers tightened. ‘It’s only me in the building tonight.’

      My stomach clenched. ‘Then I suppose I’m not needed. I’m sorry for disturbing you.’ I twisted toward the doorway, but he blocked it.

      ‘You’re freezing,’ he said, clutching my bare hands. ‘What a silly girl, without a coat on a night like this. Come to my office. I have a fire going.’

      ‘Thank you. But I should get home.’

      His parchmentlike skin grazed my palm, so unlike the strong feel of Montgomery’s touch. I tried to slip my hand away, but he didn’t let go. I jerked my arm, but his grip only tightened. He smiled. Anger and fear spread throughout my body like an infection.

      ‘Now, now,’ he said, with a sickening smirk. ‘What sort of mischief have you been up to, out alone late at night in your finest dress?’ He licked his lips, his eyes glowing in the candlelight. ‘You’ve been with a man, haven’t you? I can smell his cologne. It would be a shame for Mrs Bell to find out. She’d have to dismiss you, of course. King’s College has a reputation to uphold.’

      The threat raised the hair on my arms. My body started to tremble with a feverish anger that seeped from my bones, tangling in my veins, urging me to lash out at him. My hand tightened on the basket handle as I fought to stay calm. ‘It’s no business of yours who I’ve been with. If it was a man, you can be sure he wasn’t a balding, dried-out old git.’

      He smirked. ‘A dried-out old git, am I? You’re a pretty one, but you’ll have to cool that temper if you want to keep your job. Now come to my office and do as you’re told, and there’ll be a sixpence in it for you as well.’

      A bilious mix of fear and disgust rose in my throat, but my lips felt sewn together. I had to get out of there, quickly. He was twice my weight. If I tried to run, he’d be on me in an instant.

      His spindly fingers pried the basket from my hand and set it on the entry table. My thoughts beat in time with my frantic pulse, trying to devise a solution. He reached for my waist, but I stepped backward.

      The thin line of his mouth tightened. ‘I’m losing patience with these games of yours. I’m going to have you tonight, and you might as well be a good girl and you’ll get something out of it.’ Wax dripped from the half-forgotten candle in his hand onto the floor. I’d have to clean that hardening wax before this night was out. My fear started to harden, too. My eyes caught the blade of the mortar scraper in the basket, and all sorts of ideas came to mind of what I’d like to do with that sharp point. I might be cleaning up splashes of his blood, too, unless he left me alone.

      ‘You’re a lucky girl, Juliet, that I still take an interest in you even after your father’s transgressions. Not every man would show such kindness.’

      Kindness. A bitter laugh sounded in my head. The last thing Dr Hastings showed was kindness. If he only knew about Montgomery, the man he’d just accused me of having been with. Montgomery would have slammed his fist into Dr Hastings’s lump of a nose. My eyes drifted back to the basket. The mortar scraper was within reach. The palm of my hand was hungry to hold its worn handle. To do something … I might regret.

      Dr Hastings took my silence as consent. He snaked a hand up my arm, his fingers squeezing my flesh like ripe fruit. Run, I told myself. But what about the next time? He’d retaliate. He’d come at me harder.

      There couldn’t be a next time.

      ‘It’s a good thing your father’s dead,’ he said, his fingers curling around my shoulder, suggestively rubbing the place where my worn lace collar met bare skin. ‘He wouldn’t want to know all the vulgar things I’m going to do to you.’

      I started to twist away, but he pushed me against the entryway table. My hip connected with the sharp corner as a bolt of pain shot through me. I winced, and he took the opportunity to pin me against the table with the weight of his own body. His fingers found my throat greedily and ripped the collar of my dress. Buttons rained to the floor.

      My cleaning basket was just behind me. His thin lips breathed a disgusting moan against my collarbone. Although he had me trapped, my right hand was free. A tiny voice warned me I’d regret what I was about to do, but my head echoed with a roar. My fingers had already closed over the mortar scraper. A sort of madness took me over, pushing away the fear and terror. Before Dr Hastings realized what was happening, I had the sharp edge of the mortar scraper pressed against the fleshy triangle in the base of his palm where all the flexor tendons met.

      His face twisted with anger, but I pushed the blade harder, almost breaking the skin. I didn’t want to enjoy this. But I did, so much that my hands shook with the silent promise of the blade in my hand. ‘Don’t move, or I’ll sever every tendon in your hand,’ I hissed. ‘My father was a surgeon. I know how important motor function is to you, Doctor. I can end your career in about half a centimeter of flesh.’

      ‘I told you I was tired of these games,’ he growled. ‘Now put the knife down and finish taking off your dress.’

      ‘It isn’t a knife. It’s a cleaning tool, but I wouldn’t expect you to know the difference.’ I pressed harder, barely able to restrain myself. ‘And I’ll use it unless you swear to never touch me again.’ I let the blade dip into his skin, just enough to draw a dark line of blood.

      ‘You’re as mad as your father!’ he cried. He spit a thin stream of saliva that landed on my cheek. ‘I’ll see you run out of town just like him.’

      My hand tightened around the mortar scraper. Anger snapped in my nerves, shooting electric rage though the synapses.

      To hell with it.

      I thrust the blade into his pale skin until I felt the edge of the flexor tendon attached to his right index finger. A flick of my wrist was all it took – no more pressure than cleaning blood from the mortar. And my God, as wicked and wrong as it was, I enjoyed it.

      He howled and crumpled to the floor, clutching his hand. I dropped the mortar scraper, realizing what I had done with a growing horror. I wouldn’t need the scraper anymore. My employment was over.

      I found the doorknob behind me, turned it, and ran into the cold November night.