Chapter 10
Voices pull me from sleep’s embrace. I sit up, startled and confused. Night must have fallen because darkness surrounds me. An orange beam crawls along a wooden floor. A streak of yellow cuts across an armoire, one half caressing a door.
I remember now. My room. I must still be alive, but—
“It’s unseemly. Unprecedented,” a deep voice murmurs.
“It’s been four days. Unseemly doesn’t matter anymore,” a lighter one answers.
“But I’ve sworn to–”
A woman’s voice interrupts. “He might be hurt, Vivian, or worse.”
“Very well then,” the other says.
I hear the rattling of metal. Before I can react, a key falls to the floor.
The door unlocks from the outside. It opens slowly until I see Godfrey’s head peaking through the crack.
Behind him stands Geneva Tully, eyebrows furrowed.
When the door opens fully, they turn on the light and step into the room.
“How can this be?” she says. “He can’t be gone.”
Godfrey walks to the window and looks outside.
How did they not see me? Suddenly, it all comes back to me. The book. The potions. My body.
Godfrey leaves for the bathroom but returns mere seconds later. “It’s ruined.” He sounds so strange, not at all composed.
“Pardon?”
“Come see.” He gestures for Mrs. Tully to follow him.
“Blast!” she says.
Godfrey clears his throat. He must be uncomfortable hearing such expressions.
“You think he did it himself?”
“He must have. No one was here. The windows are tightly locked. He isn’t the type, but…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
“What must have driven him to do such a thing? What secrets must he have?” she says with concern in her voice.
Returning to the bedroom, they open the armoire, and finding nothing but ordinary garments, they leave to search the study. I carefully sit up and watch the entire scene from my bed.
They truly could not see me.
The words from inside the study are unintelligible until they move, and I hear them once more.
“Could he have left?” Geneva asks.
“Perhaps, though he’s never eluded me before,” Godfrey responds.
When they return, Mrs. Tully continues, “And you said he left four days ago?”
“Yes, but only for a short time.”
They turn the light off, leaving the door only a hair’s width open behind them. “Should we call the police?” Mrs. Tully asks, her footsteps quite loud on the stairs. She isn’t accustomed to moving around the house silently like Godfrey.
“No, we should call Miss Balfour, she must know—” Then Godfrey’s words get swallowed by the corridor.
I slip into the bathroom, closing the door silently behind me.
On the floor, powdered footsteps lead inside.
Even though I knew what to expect, I still can’t stop my disappointment.
A few slivers of mirror hang stubbornly in the frame.
Each piece shows the room behind me, but nothing more.
Blood-splattered shards of glass lay on the floor.
I have to take care to avoid them as I approach the basin.
I know there is no point in ablutions now, but I feel too uncomfortable in my own skin.
Perhaps washing my face might grant me some semblance of humanity.
Once finished, the room wavers in the reflection. Water droplets drip down the nothingness and onto the floor. I might be completely invisible, but water, though translucent, is not.
I find one lonely towel still hanging on the wall, spared from my uncharacteristic paroxysm.
I dry myself and, without dressing, slip out of my bedroom, descending the stairs soundlessly.
In the foyer, I try to ascertain Godfrey’s location.
I hear his voice coming from the Library. He must be telephoning Aphra.
Was she worried? Maybe I should call her. But what would I possibly say? That I am no more and don’t know how much longer I can survive like this? It seems a cruel thing to do. After all, I know nothing about my affliction and can give no reassurances.
Opening the door as silently as I can, I slip out into the night.
Today must have been stifling because even this late, the day’s heat still sweats from between the cobblestone cracks. They might be hot enough to burn my bare feet, but my body doesn’t feel any discomfort.
In a corner, several rats scurry over a toppled bin’s refuse.
One particularly large one is dragging a half-rotten cabbage into the night.
The air around me is so heavy with smog and humidity that it hangs over everything like a fog.
Usually, coal tar and sulphur would coat my tongue so thickly that it was hard to remember the flavour of anything else. Now, I can neither taste nor smell it.
Silently, I wander the nearly empty streets. When the occasional pedestrian approaches, I press myself against the wall to let them pass.
The city around me becomes a blur of flickering lamps, condensation, and filth.
I follow no one, emptying my mind of all thought or destinations.
The clock chimes, announcing midnight. This is the hour of gravediggers, thieves, and ladies of the night.
There is no better place for me than within their midst. What was I but a wretched creature made for thieving and suffering?
With every passing hour, more windows go dark. I pay them no heed, continuing from street to street.
A shuffling sound breaks the monotony, accompanied by a choked-off whimper from a nearby alley.
I follow it quietly. A woman lies draped over a crate.
Her hand is pressed over her mouth, trying to stifle a moan.
Her full dress rustles suspiciously. Suddenly, the fabric moves aside, and a man comes up for air.
His mouth is glistening with moisture, and the woman pulls him closer for a kiss.
“I don’t know what I like more,” he drawls. “Your mouth or your other mouth.”
The woman giggles, then he returns between her legs. Her hand goes back, attempting to be quiet but failing miserably.
I watch them for a few more moments before leaving them behind.
I will never experience such a thing. Never have, and now, I’ve lost all hope that I ever will.
What was it like to have another’s mouth on one’s skin?
What would it matter now? I can no longer feel.
I brush a finger over my throat. Nothing.
Maybe it would be different if it weren’t my own hand? Or if it was—
I strike my face as hard as I can. I feel no pain, only the sensation of my head being moved by the force.
I laugh. It was strangely fitting for me to end up here, naked, alone, and mad, wandering the streets at night.
In forty-six years, I’ve achieved nothing. Found nothing. Made nothing. Why would I be surprised to end up as nothing?
Even so, I have no other choice but to wander. I can’t risk returning home. If I were found in this state, it would mean certain ruin for my family and staff.
The strange bottles, the mysterious book.
It’s utterly incriminating. Meddling with the occult is bad enough, but I well know I’m a degenerate.
An invert. I could not bear the scandal or, god forbid, a trial, such as— It’s better not to speak of it.
They were sure to inquire further, find Aphra with her—
No.
I shall not think of it.
I’d rather die here, in squalor and anonymity like a discarded dog. Even if I’m eventually found, no one will know it to be me, and then–
“How very curious,” a smooth voice interrupts my wallowing.
Startled, I turn. The shadow of a man approaches the nearby street lamp. I press myself against the wall, holding my breath, only watching.
He leans against a pole, crossing his arms over his chest. Clad in a coffee-coloured suit that perfectly harmonises with his brown skin, the man lingers there, watching me silently.
Long black hair, shaped into thin lines, hangs unfashionably long over his back.
Below these, hooded eyes are fixed on the spot where I’m standing.
Impossible.
“I can’t smell you. I can’t see you. But I can hear the air leaving your lungs,” he says. His soft lips stretch into a mischievous smile.
My breath halts midway. His expression is entirely dazzling.
I take a moment to collect myself.
Maybe there’s… I look behind me, but I’m still pressed to the wall, and there is no one else down the alley.
I begin to slowly move backwards, trying hard not to make a sound.
“There is no use, you know,” he says, still smiling broadly.
I stop mid-movement. Had something, miraculously, changed?
Hopeful, I lift my hands in front of my face, but I see nothing.
“How odd you are, dove. I can see your blood, but why can’t I see anything else?”
He approaches fast. Too fast. Before I can react, the man is standing so close, I can almost touch him. He reaches out with a slender hand, as if trying to ascertain exactly where I am.
“What are you?” he asks.
“I’m no one,” I answer, looking at his hand. He pulls it away, never making contact with my skin.
“I very much doubt that. I haven’t seen anything as fascinating as you this entire century.”
“It’s only been 19 years.”
“Fascinating and funny. What luck I have to find you here.” He smirks.
“How can you see me?” I say, stepping to the side.
He follows my movements with his eyes so quickly, I wonder if he can read my mind.
“I can see the ghost of your blood.” He waves his hand in a flourish. The gesture looks oddly antiquated.
I look down at myself. I see no ghosts. I see no blood.
He steps closer.
“Oh, how tall you are. Must be exhilarating, suddenly being unperceived.” The man steps closer still; this way, it’s clear that he’s above most men’s height himself. Even so, how can he possibly know?
“I stopped feeling when I started to disappear,” I confess, then close my mouth quickly. What possessed me to say such a thing to an utter stranger?
“That won’t do.” He presses a finger to my chest. “Sensations. Feelings. Passion…” He moves the finger up. “… are the only things worth living for.”
I watch his hands pull away. My mouth opens in astonishment. I have never been touched like that before.
“I wondered if your garments were translucent, but it seems that you are…” He pauses for a moment before whispering the word bare.
I take a step back. What a brazen man he is. It is utterly—
“Don’t act so coy. After all, if you minded, you wouldn’t be roaming these alleys in the middle of the night in nothing but smog and…” He stops himself, looking me up and down. “Well, I certainly don’t mind.” He grins, leaning closer.
“I expected going unperceived, so garments would be more of a hindrance than anything else.”
“See, I knew we were alike. I also believe garments are a hindrance.”
At those words, I let out an embarrassing sound.
“Odd and strange, aren’t you, dove?” he says playfully. Did he just? No, he couldn’t.
The man brushes a finger over my shoulder, but before I can react, he moves away again.
“But please, tell me more,” he says as if we have been friends for decades. What was it about this man’s behaviour that was so disarming?
“It’s a long story.”
“I must know everything!” He claps excitedly. “I have all the time in the world—and more.” When he talks, his eyes gleam brightly even in the dim light. I can’t explain how, but it feels as though this man can see me more clearly than any acquaintance ever had.
“Very well,” I finally say.
“I live near here, and I live alone. Unless you prefer your own abode?” He gives the little flourish again. It makes him look like he materialised out of thin air from a previous century.
Perhaps this unfeeling nature is making me reckless, and thus I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation. Maybe I’ve gone mad, or this stranger’s smile bewitched me into compliance, because the next thing out of my mouth is, “We can go to yours.”