A Cold Legacy. Megan Shepherd

that night nearly a week ago, fleeing the police and the storm. We’d been so desperate then.

      The smile fell off Lucy’s face. “I do hope Elizabeth returns soon. Each day that Edward remains ill, I fear I’ll fall asleep and find him dead in the morning. I keep thinking, with her medical skills, there must be something she can do.”

      She slipped her arm around mine, clutching it tightly. I could feel desperate hope pulsing within her. “There are medical books in the library,” I said. “I’ll do some research into the diseased-brain condition he described. Once Elizabeth returns, I’ll speak with her straightaway.”

      Lucy didn’t press the point, but her thoughts turned inward, unsatisfied by my answer.

      We arrived in Quick in late morning and shopped around the few scattered stores, then ate a meal at the tavern and went to the dressmaker’s. It was a small operation sharing the back half of the general store. The dressmaker had a few bolts of yellowing lace she was ashamed to even pull out in front of a girl as stylish as Lucy. We flipped through books of patterns and fabric samples while the seamstress took my measurements. Sometimes my eyes would catch on a beautiful dress and images would flash in my head of potentially happier times, Montgomery wearing a suit and me wearing the gown in a chapel with all our friends and family gathered. But those images soon faded. All my family was dead. Montgomery’s only blood relation was a boy wrapped in chains.

      I closed the pattern book, sending dust into the air. Lucy looked up from the fabric samples. “What do you think of this lace?”

      The sample she held out was beautiful. A single row of scalloped edges simple enough for my taste. When I brushed my fingers over the fabric, I could practically feel it draped around me.

      I’m getting married, a voice inside me said. I was happy and yet unsettled at the same time. Would things be easier once we were married? Would our secrets matter as much? Would Montgomery forget, over time, how I’d killed those three men in cold blood?

      Would I ever forget?

      “It’s perfect,” I said, trying to smile.

      Lucy drew a handful of paper bills from her purse and exchanged a few words with the dressmaker, who stumbled over promises that I’d be the most beautiful bride north of Inverness. I’d have settled for the plainest, if it meant a peaceful future for us.

      “I can hardly wait until the dress is ready,” Lucy said, pulling on her coat outside. “We’ll comb your hair into a chignon like that actress at the Brixton. I’m sure Elizabeth has some pins we can borrow …”

      Lucy kept talking, but I only half paid attention. My eyes had fallen on a stack of old newspapers in the street outside the tavern. A GENTLEMAN’S THOUGHTS ON THE CHRISTMAS DAY MASSACRE, the headline read in bold black ink, like an accusation. My thoughts went to that bloodstained room in King’s College where my water-tank creatures had murdered three men. I took a step closer, read the byline, and nearly died of shock.

      The article was written by John Radcliffe.

      Lucy’s father.

      “There’s Carlyle with the mule cart.” Lucy’s hand clamped onto mine, and I jumped. “He must be headed back to Ballentyne. I’m sure he’ll give us a ride and save our boots the wear. That mud was something awful.”

      I twisted away from the newspaper so she wouldn’t see her father’s name. Lucy waved Carlyle down, and the old gamekeeper steered the mule toward us, pulling it to a halt.

      “Not much room, but you can squeeze in there, lassies.” He jerked his head at an empty place between huge baskets of vegetables.

      I glanced back at that newspaper.

      “You go,” I said, pushing Lucy toward the cart. “There’s only room for one of us to ride comfortably. I’ll walk. I’d like the time alone, anyway. Getting married, you know, so much to think about.”

      “Are you certain?” She climbed into the cart, looking back at me, but Carlyle whipped the mule, and the cart started with a lurch. I waved to her and she settled among the baskets, waving back, until the wagon dipped over a hill and was gone.

      Stooping down, I picked up the newspaper. The date was from a week ago—already old news, but it felt so immediate that I could practically smell the brine and damp fur of the water-tank creatures.

       It was with a heavy heart that I recently attended the funeral of three colleagues who had once been highly esteemed by society,

      the article began.

      I pictured John Radcliffe’s pale blue eyes and shivered. As the King’s Club’s financier, Radcliffe was certainly not innocent, though he was hardly the worst of the bunch. Money had driven him, not science. That was why he—and the rest of the lesser King’s Club members—were still alive. Not to mention that Lucy would never forgive me if I killed her father.

       Naturally I was horrified to learn of this tragedy, and even more upset that those three colleagues, whom I had once counted as friends, were involved in a plot to bring ruin to London’s lower classes. The worst of it all, however, is the loss of my daughter, Lucy, who I believe was present at the college that night. She disappeared shortly after the massacre, and her mother and I are sick with worry …

      I sighed with relief. Mr. Radcliffe was formally denouncing his involvement with the King’s Club, just as we had hoped he would. I had been so shocked when Lucy and I had found a preserved human brain in a hatbox in his office, never suspecting him of being more than a mere financier. Now I knew I’d been right. He was a banker at heart, not a murderer. Lucy would be pleased to hear her father had dropped his ties with that organization. Perhaps it might even lighten her spirits.

      I stuffed the newspaper into my coat and looked in the direction of Ballentyne. Clouds had rolled in, thick and low, and I had five miles to walk. I started at a fast pace, hugging my arms, mind lost in the newspaper article.

      The Christmas Day Massacre.

      I had been obsessed with the idea of bringing the water-tank creatures to life. Feeling their bodies warm. Counting their beating hearts. Most disturbing of all, part of me had even enjoyed it. Father had loved his work too. Was I destined to be like him, even if I didn’t want to be?

      A child can never escape her father, the fortune-teller had said.

      The sun sank over the horizon, meaning darkness would fall before I reached Ballentyne. I started to walk faster, but I couldn’t outrun my thoughts. There were times when I could almost feel Father in my head. I’d read enough research papers on genetics to know that a child naturally took on the properties of a parent. Even personality. Even an inclination toward madness. Is that what the fortune-teller had meant? Maybe there was no use fighting who one was—and I was inescapably a Moreau.

      I must have been a mile and a half from the manor when a shriek like a child’s cry came from the moors. I froze. My stomach tightened with fear that Hensley or one of the young servants had gotten lost.

      Alarmed, I pulled up my heavy winter skirts and trod into the heather toward the sound. The ground, normally frozen, had thawed a few inches and my boots sank into it, threatening to trap me. Crossing the moors was far more difficult than it seemed, each step sucking me down, heather catching me like thorns. The crying got louder. I scrambled up a small hill where the ground was more solid, and overlooked a bog with ice clinging to the edges.

      A sheep was trapped up to its neck.

      I drew in a sharp breath.

      At least it isn’t a child, I thought, though that was small comfort: the sheep’s desperate bleats still pulled at my heart. Behind me, I could barely make out the road in the twilight. I couldn’t afford to stay out here on the moors with night falling. Yet the sheep would drown or freeze if I left it.

      I started down the hill. My heart thudded, warning me to hurry. There were so few trees that it took me a precious few minutes to find a branch I could