CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
JAMES BLUSTERED INTO THE WOODROW Wilson Infirmary from the chill, shutting the corroded doors carefully. James could hear the rustle of the nurses and their mittens and snow-dusted parkas as they stomped their feet clear of December slush. They set their keys in their purse and zipped it closed.
“The world is a blizzard out there. If the ceremony had been one day later, it would’ve been postponed.
” The portable heater was set near Kitty’s face with dwindling heat that likely hardly kept her warm.
“Hopefully the New Year will have mercy on us. The roads are salted and clear for now at least.”
The women conferred with fright and dread, before another voice continued on with concern. “Did you hear? The electors returned to town in the nude and nearly frostbitten to death. The rector’s protégé burned the orphan–”
“Linda! Hush!”
“What, Sylvia?”
The woman gawked as she realized Kitty was there. “Oh, goodness. Let’s talk upstairs.” The other women nodded as they huddled towards the stairwell, they always gossiped and chittered together after the hibernal, it was what everyone did.
“The state sends all these manufacturing town orphans here. It’s impossible.”
As soon as the women left to briefly converse on the upper floor, James sat beside Kitty in his well-cut wool coat stolen from Perseus Swann.
“He’s safe.”
Kitty cried out on her pillow, “He’s not safe. He’s dead.”
“No, he’s not.” James gently brushed her hair out of her eyes. “He’s safe.”
Kitty lifted her head, tear-struck. “But then…whose body burned?”
“Lucien.”
“Elliott killed him?” Her voice struck out loudly.
James hushed her, then he signed the infirmary sheet under the complaint of a migraine.
At the front desk, the receptionist handed him a medical slip and instructed him to wait as he was entered into the system.
The infirmary was his next verified alibi.
He returned to Kitty after her shock wore down. “Lucien fell in his own fire. It was an accident. Elliott was shaken and I hid him.”
The grief had induced a fever, and James opened her jacket. He realized she wore Elliott’s clothes underneath. The Clark Kent buttoned shirt he’d lent to her in October was on her small body, first given when she had blood on her Spice Girls costume.
In a single glance, memories of their costumes on Samhain during the fall returned to him. The overweight meat on Yule every year that they carried in their arms, the juicy, heavy ham stolen from Raedwine. It was their tradition to feast in Elliott’s room with the thieved bounty.
James thought of their Yule feast in the Common Room–bourbon-glazed ham, roasted corn, gravy-soaked mashed potatoes, herbal pork-minced stuffing, honey-butter bread rolls.
He thought of how, every December, they bought a slice of Heather T?n’s boozy Yule fruitcake she bought from Wegmans, spiced with rum and berries. They always celebrated Yule the week before the solstice.
Kitty’s tears burned against his chest, and he felt a warm embrace.
Her arms tightened around him. “Thank you so much, James. You’re the best person in the whole world.”
He rested his chin on top of her head. He kissed her hair softly. “You don’t need to thank me. I’m taking Elliott out of the state. You have to pretend–”
“I can act like he’s dead, don’t worry.” She bit back a pinch of concern. Snowflakes soughed in from the cracked infirmary window. “Is he alright?”
“He’s alright, Kitty.” James breathed against her ear in a white cloud. “Head home to Mrs. Ledgerman. I’ll drive to pick you up when the spring term starts at the end of January.”