Escaping Mortality Read online

  We are not alone. An elderly man with bushy white eyebrows stands with my arrival.

  Edmund nods to him. “This is Dr. Watt. Dr. Watt, my friend Andrew.”

  I shake the old man’s hand, skin thin as crepe paper. He is polite enough to not comment on my ruffled appearance.

  “We were discussing my mother,” Edmund says just as I hear quiet feet behind me.

  Hallie enters in her bonnet and bland servant’s attire bearing a large plate of steaming scones. She sets them on the table in front of Dr. Watt and smiles at me. “Rough night?”

  “Hallie,” Edmund says warningly.

  She smirks at him. “My mum’s recipe. I know they used to be your favorite.” She turns to leave just as Edmund’s wide eyes find mine, a blatant “uh-oh” expression on his face. Yes, we would have to figure out a way to explain our distaste for human food. Could be a problem.

  “As I was saying, Your Grace…” The doctor’s voice is warm and musical. “Your mother fell ill with a serious fever last winter in London. Once she was well enough to travel, she came here to Heavenhill to rest, accompanied by myself. And Lady Patricia, of course. Despite your differences, she has been a blessing to your mother during your extended absence.”

  One of Edmund’s eyebrows lifts to a point.

  Dr. Watt shoves a scone into his mouth and talks between chews. “I’m afraid we started seeing symptoms soon after. She was forgetful, easily confused. She would have moments of hysterical levity, followed by episodes of severe sadness and weeping. The delirium has only increased. She is practically childlike now.”

  “And you have no idea what caused it?”

  “No, but based on the expression on your face, rest assured it had nothing to do with the news of your apparent death.”

  Edmund crosses his arms. “I’m that transparent, doctor?”

  It hadn’t even occurred to me that Edmund might blame his mother’s madness on himself. No wonder he’s been such a mess since we arrived.

  “She was ill long before you died. Or. Well.” He throws another scone in his mouth and sips from a small, nearby teacup.

  Edmund glances at me before continuing his inquiry. “How have you been treating her?”

  “Rest and relaxation. We’re hoping the country might do her some good. Proper nutrition. Fresh air.”

  “But?”

  Dr. Watt brushes his crumb-covered hand across his leg. “She’s only getting worse, Your Grace. I am sorry.”

  Edmund closes his eyes tight. “What should I do?”

  “Be kind. Enjoy your time with her as she is. Love her as her son.” He stands, knees popping as he does. “May I speak freely?” Momentarily, his gaze lands on me.

  “Andrew and I have no secrets.”

  He nods. “Edmund, unmarried as I am, you and I are of a similar ilk.”

  Edmund inclines his head. “I always thought we might be.”

  “I’ve watched you grow up. I know you and your mother… You have not always been close. You fled around the world to escape her expectations, which is why I wrote you. No matter your differences, you mean everything to her. I believe you would have lived to regret not giving her another chance. So do your best.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I am spending tonight in the village but return to London tomorrow. Lady Patricia has my address if you should need me.”

  Edmund shakes the old man’s hand before he leaves. Finally, once we are alone, silence reigns. I start to say his name, but he says, “No.” I assume he’s about to throw me out of his home, so I stand and await my sentence.

  He says, “I didn’t mean anything I said last night. I wish I’d been too drunk to remember it.”

  “I do not deserve that mercy.”

  “Andrew, I made you do what you did. It might not have been influencing, but…” He shakes his head. “I didn’t give you a choice. For all your sweet devotion, you’re still the murdering beast I fell in love with, and I used that knowledge last night to…” He still won’t make eye contact. “I wanted you to hurt me.”

  I think of the flying candelabra. “But you changed your mind.”

  “I don’t know what happened. I…I suppose I realized I was using you for my gain. So many men have been rough with me. Half the time, I manipulated them into it. I turn men into villains as it has always made me feel better about my own dark inclinations. I could not do that to you.” Finally, he makes eye contact. “I am sorry. You are not a villain. You are a better man than I.”

  “No. No, I am not.” I take hold of his hand and pull him out of view of the doorway. We hide in the corner, out of sight, and I kiss him once as though he might break. “You were right. I am overprotective of you, but I don’t own you. I’m sorry I ever made you feel that way. Next time I’m acting overly possessive, just tell me to step back.”

  “That’ll go over well.”

  I put my hands on the sides of his neck. “I will not push you away with my own bullheadedness. Promise you’ll tell me.”

  He chews his bottom lip. “Promise.”

  I pull him to me, and he welcomes my embrace, resting almost his entire body weight against me. I kiss the side of his forehead and up into his hair. “Last night, you asked why I’d spent centuries alone. It was because I had not met you.”

  He holds me tighter.

  “I love you. I’ll always love you.”

  He chuckles against my shoulder. “I told you I throw tantrums. I’m a disaster, Andrew.”

  “You’re my disaster. I would kill every man who’s ever hurt you.”

  He pulls back enough to wipe at his wet eyes. “Me too.” He leans up for a kiss more ardent than I was expecting. I moan against his mouth, and he pulls away. His eyes search my face. “You’re everything I want. Everything I’ve always been searching for.” He laughs a little. “God, you’ve made me so disgustingly sentimental.”

  I smile and wipe tears from his cheeks. “We’re all right?”

  He nods and leans his face into my touch.

  “We’ll need to tell Brien as much.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m pretty sure he heard what happened last night.”

  His forehead crinkles. “It’s off-putting, that.”

  “Yes, but I’d rather not have him murder me.”

  His hands try to straighten the mess of my clothes. “We need to go see Mum. You were never properly introduced.”

  “Is she awake?”

  He nods. “Hallie already took her tea.”

  I eye Edmund’s impeccable suit. “Should I dress first?”

  “Sadly, I don’t even think she’ll notice. One more.” He leans up and kisses me, sweetly, softly. He takes my hand as we walk but drops it when we reach the stairs. “I keep forgetting,” he says. “Our love is not safe here.”

  I know he means because of society’s rules, but I wonder if he realizes how dangerous it can feel to love him. Despite our shared immortality, there is nothing safe about the way he makes my chest ache. There is nothing safe in loving him this hard, knowing he could leave me.

  I follow him up the wide corridors of the second floor, past gilded mirrors, silver knights of armor, and grand paintings that must be relatives. I drag him to a stop in front of one such piece of art and gesture wildly.

  “Oh.” He winces. “Yes, that’s me.”

  It is and it isn’t. Impossible to miss those lips, those eyes, the unruly black hair—but, in the painting, he’s so much smaller. He must be forty pounds lighter and shorter too. His face is that of a Botticelli angel.

  “Jesus, how old were you?”

  “I don’t know. Just sixteen, I think?”

  “No wonder that icy bitch Veronica was jealous.”

  He chuckles.

  “This is what you looked like at all those society parties?”

  “Luckily, my voice had already dropped or I would have been mistaken for a girl.”

  I give his hand a quick squeeze. “You were beautiful. St
ill are.”

  He drags me onward.

  Edmund’s mother’s accommodations take up an enormous amount of space. She has a sitting room, a small, private library, and what I assume is a bedroom and washroom through a closed door. Similar to the rest of the house, the décor is simple. Accustomed as I’ve grown to the decadence of New Orleans, it’s not enough color for me, but at least it’s tidy.

  The lady of the house reclines on a dark-red chaise lounge, similar to the one in our room. She wears a high-necked dress under a huge, heavy robe of light-blue velvet. When she sees Edmund, she claps her hands and spills her tea. He rushes to help, but she doesn’t seem to notice the spreading stain.

  “Oh, the ghosts are back!” She stands and dances unsteadily around Edmund before he can touch her. “I know my dead son, but who are you?” She points at me, her eyes so dilated, they’re almost black. “Oh, I know. You are a giant. You eat little children for breakfast.” She laughs, and that easy smile is so familiar, I gasp.

  “Mum, why don’t we sit?”

  She rushes back to the tea-soaked chaise, and Edmund sits at her side. She grins at him, her dark brown hair ratty and stuck up in points. “Will you tell me how you died, Edmund? I’ve wondered.”

  “I’m not dead, Mum. I’m here. I’m home.”

  She reaches out to touch his face but stops. “I bet you drowned. I always dream about you underwater. Yes,” she whispers. “That’s it. You’re at the bottom of the sea.”

  Which is exactly how my darling looks, honestly. I have to do something. I hurry and sit at her other side. “My name is Andrew. What’s yours?”

  She turns toward me and bats her eyelashes as though I’m a suitor. “Evelyn. Did you know my boy?”

  “I did. He was wonderful.”

  “Yes, he was lovely. So smart. And…he had the most wonderful laugh. He was troubled, though.” She takes my hand in hers. God, she’s warm. “You know, I think I made him quite sad. I think I made him go away. I did not mean to, but he was sick.” She stares at me, imploring. “I just wanted to make him better because I loved him so much. He was my boy.”

  Lord help me, her face goes hazy as my eyes fill. What is this? I don’t fucking cry. For his part, Edmund is curled over, a lump of grief, head buried in his hands.

  I blink away the salt and hold both her hands in mine. “Well, lucky for you, his ghost is here. You can talk to him as much as you want. You can even hold him. See?” I take one of her hands and press it to Edmund’s shoulder.

  She giggles.

  “He could read you a book. Or—or—” I stammer. “Cards. Do you play cards, Evelyn?”

  She smiles, but the smile soon fades. She tilts her head and asks, “Who’s Evelyn?”

  In the hallway, Edmund leans against the closed door. “All my life, I have feared the loss of my mind. I know I have been considered mad, but…” He glances back at the door. “Not like that.” He stares up at me. “If I get like that, you’ll kill me. You’ll find a way to end it.”

  Hallie approaches quietly from down the hall, and Edmund stands up straight, brushing hair away from his forehead. “Could you bring more tea? She spilled it.”

  “Of course.” She disappears into Evelyn’s room.

  I stand, frozen, listening to the retreating sound of his steps.

  Chapter Nine

  DRESSED IN A perfectly tailored cream-colored suit and coat, Flynn clings to Edmund’s left arm, and I meander to their right. We wander into the depths of the Heavenhill hedge maze at the back of the house. Edmund leans close to Flynn and whispers, “I used to have secret trysts back here.”

  Flynn giggles and holds tighter to Edmund’s arm. I run my fingers through the back of his dark hair, and he glances at me, smiling. He’s much better than he was earlier. I know he went for a ride after seeing his mother. When he returned, some of the darkness had left his eyes. He kissed me and suggested we go to the village for “dinner” tonight—the better to keep Hallie from noticing we never eat.

  But first, we walk through the maze beneath sky the color of a rain puddle.

  Michelle and Felipe, in their fancy regalia, walk close behind. “Did you grow up here, Edmund?” she asks.

  He tries to hide his yawn. “Not exactly.” I don’t know how much he actually slept last night, and he probably has a roaring headache. “I spent summers here when I was a small child. Then, boarding schools. Then, London. My mother spent more time here than I. But I did manage to have quite a bit of fun with stable boys and gardeners.” He winks at Flynn, and the young man turns the shade of a ripe peach. “The hedge maze was very good for privacy.”

  As if to prove the point, Felipe scoops a laughing Flynn up into his arms and presses him against the artfully shaped foliage. They kiss, Flynn’s legs around his waist until Felipe pulls back and gives Flynn’s nose a playful bite. “I need to fuck. Want to skip dinner?”

  Flynn purrs. “Mm, yes, please. Edmund and Andrew are dull.”

  “I do not remotely resemble that remark,” Edmund scoffs.

  I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss the side of his neck. I kiss his forehead and feel the shape of his smile against my cheek.

  “Good. Let us escape this dull expanse of greenery!” Felipe puts Flynn down but grabs his hand and tugs him back in the direction from whence we came. “Michelle?”

  “I will attend dinner with the stodgy gentlemen, thank you.”

  “Stodgy? Since fucking when?”

  Michelle laughs at Edmund’s indignation and rests her hand on his chest. “You, dear, are neither dull nor stodgy. You merely break sweet Flynn’s heart.”

  Edmund ducks his head. “I know,” he whispers as he watches Felipe and Flynn race back to the house. “He’ll find someone else to love.”

  Her eyes twinkle. “I doubt you’re so easy to forget. Now, come, show me this village of yours. Your Grace.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Don’t you start.”

  We take a carriage into town, as opposed to riding horseback. Michelle’s bright blue gown, covered in frills, wouldn’t hold up well to a gallop, I imagine. Furthermore, I haven’t ridden in years. I was never very good at it anyway. Not like Edmund. Both of the times I’ve witnessed him racing away from Heavenhill, he and the horse resemble one quick-moving entity. I know he used to race them in his youth, before he grew too tall, and it shows.

  We pass a few small farmhouses, dimly lit in the early night. As the houses get closer and closer together, I conclude we must be nearing the village. Then, through the window of our carriage, I see it.

  Edmund calls this a village? It’s a few pubs, a ramshackle inn—where Dr. Watt spends the night—and little more. I didn’t even see a sign when we entered. Does this place have a name? Perhaps Michelle should have rethought her sumptuous attire.

  Unaffected by the coarse environment, Edmund exits the carriage and offers his hand to her. He ignores me but for a waggle of his eyebrows, but it is what it is: necessary in a close-minded environment such as this. Edmund entering the pub has little effect, but Michelle’s entrance has men turning to stare. They stare at me too. Perhaps, due to my great height, they wonder how well I’d do in a fight. I glare back.

  Despite the low ceiling and rows of rickety, wooden tables, there is a respectable bar on which Edmund rests his elbows. The bartender gives him a massive mug of ale without asking, surely remembering Edmund from last night. I assume this is to where my love disappeared prior to our altercation. Michelle—a lady mostly, but not always—orders two more: one for her and one for me. I think to snarl when the bartender stares at her a bit too long, but she puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. We have nothing to fear here. We could kill them all if we wanted.

  She studies the rough men in their stained clothes with hands like mallets. “So this is an English country bar.”

  “I suppose it’s representative,” Edmund says. “Unlike the drinking establishments of the wild world, we’re simple here. Damp darkness, whiskey, and st
rong ale.”

  I take a sip. This is not alcohol; this is a meal.

  Michelle consumes hers without a wince. “In your travels, Edmund, where have you had the best drink?”

  “Oh.” He smiles. His eyes wrinkle around the edges. “That’s difficult, um…” He runs his thumb over his bottom lip. “Well. I have had many drinks in many places. There was this artist in Paris who wanted to paint me.”

  “And did he?”

  “There was indeed paint all over me when we were finished.”

  I guffaw and draw unwanted attention from the muttering men nearby.

  “But he had champagne he mixed with absinthe and strawberry juice. I wanted to float away on it, and I did soon after. Headed to port two days later. But that wasn’t the best drink.”

  I smile, waiting. God, it’s been forever since he’s told one of his stories.

  “When I was in Africa, we came upon a native tribe. They would have killed us, but my sweet Samuel was there.” His face grows soft, fond. “He said something. I still don’t know what, but it saved our lives. Next thing I knew, we were dancing around a bonfire like madmen. The medicine man was singing and passing around a goblet. I took a drink.”

  “Of course you did.” I chuckle.

  He nods. “Of course I did. I started seeing things about ten minutes later. Faces in the dark. Strange animals. A native woman dragged me away, and we made love. Her skin was so beautiful in the firelight. She called me…” He looks toward the sagging ceiling as if the words are written there. “Nyeupe roho. Samuel said it meant ‘white ghost.’ I don’t know why she called me that. Perhaps, because she knew I’d be gone in the morning. But it turned out I’d been drinking spiced milk. And cow’s blood.”

  Both Michelle and I erupt in laughter. The bar quiets at our outburst, but I’m too busy choking on amusement to care.

  “It was supposed to inspire strength and virility.” Suddenly, his eyes widen. “My God, I might have a child in Africa.”

  This only makes us laugh more, and soon, Edmund joins in too.

  “But,” he says. “But. The best drink I ever had was a bottle of shitty rum on a small island, sitting beside a mysterious man who wanted to kill me.”