his right. “When last I looked at this book of sketches, there was but one drawing on page sixty-three. Tonight, I found not one, but two drawings.”
His announcement was met by stilted silence.
“Has anyone here any knowledge of how a second sketch might have miraculously appeared on the page?” he asked.
Darcie pressed her lips together, trying to still her burgeoning panic as she stared at the tiled floor. The first fingers of dawn trickled through the small window at the front of the hallway and crawled slowly toward her. Tension hung thick and heavy in the air, stifling in its intensity. No sound issued from the other servants, no clearing of throats, no shuffling of feet. So great was the absence of audible interruption that Darcie imagined she could hear the sound of the light creeping across the tiles.
“Come now. The one did not multiply on its own.” Dr. Cole's voice was smooth and low. There was no censure in his tone, no threat. In fact, Darcie thought she heard a hint of rigidly contained excitement.
None of the other servants stirred.
Shifting her gaze, Darcie looked at Dr. Cole, and found him regarding her with a calm, questioning expression. Earlier that night, as she watched him from the study window, she could have sworn that he was swallowed by the shadows, as if woven of darkness. Now the gentle glow of dawn touched him, bathing him in a shimmering halo of gold and light.
He wore the same clothes Darcie had seen him in the previous evening. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes and his hair was rumpled and mussed as though he had drawn his fingers through it repeatedly during the endless night. From the look of him, she doubted he had slept at all. The thought gave her a strange pang of sadness, though why she should mourn his lost rest when her entire life balanced in his hands she could not say.
Acutely aware that her transgression was the source of everyone's trepidation and concern, the reason they had all been dragged from their beds, she knew that there were no choices available to her. The others could not be made to suffer for her lapse.
She took hold of her courage and took a single step forward, out of her place in line. She raised her chin, glancing first at Poole whose features were arranged in an expressionless mask, and then quickly to the side, at Mary, who gave her one single pitying look before returning her attention to the marble-tiled floor. Then she forced herself to meet the silvery gaze of Damien Cole.
She silently reassured herself that he was good, he was kind. He had offered her a chance. Then she recalled the dead man in the carriage. The bubble of hope that had bolstered her spirits burst. Of course he was a good, kind man. A good, kind man who drove about town in the wee hours before dawn with only a corpse for company. He had never explained the corpse's presence, and she, frightened of losing her one shining chance, had never dared to ask, thrusting aside all qualms and questions. Perhaps she had not wanted to know the answers.
He was a man who hired on a destitute girl whom he'd nearly run down in the street.
A man who kept sketches of mutilated human limbs; a man who met unsavory characters in the dead of night.
But there was no real question as to Dr. Cole’s character, no argument as to his probity. He was not on trial. She was. Regardless of any explanation she might offer, there was no excusing her actions. She had trespassed where she had no right to, stupidly, thoughtlessly... reflexively. And now her reprieve was surely over. Dr. Cole would cast her back out on the street. If he did not use her as a subject for his anatomical study, instead.
“I did the sketch, sir.” Darcie spoke clearly, though her voice trembled, echoing in the silence.
There was a chorus of sound, a collective intake of breath, the involuntary response of the other servants to her startling statement. Darcie stared straight ahead, at the faint smudge on the far wall,
His announcement was met by stilted silence.
“Has anyone here any knowledge of how a second sketch might have miraculously appeared on the page?” he asked.
Darcie pressed her lips together, trying to still her burgeoning panic as she stared at the tiled floor. The first fingers of dawn trickled through the small window at the front of the hallway and crawled slowly toward her. Tension hung thick and heavy in the air, stifling in its intensity. No sound issued from the other servants, no clearing of throats, no shuffling of feet. So great was the absence of audible interruption that Darcie imagined she could hear the sound of the light creeping across the tiles.
“Come now. The one did not multiply on its own.” Dr. Cole's voice was smooth and low. There was no censure in his tone, no threat. In fact, Darcie thought she heard a hint of rigidly contained excitement.
None of the other servants stirred.
Shifting her gaze, Darcie looked at Dr. Cole, and found him regarding her with a calm, questioning expression. Earlier that night, as she watched him from the study window, she could have sworn that he was swallowed by the shadows, as if woven of darkness. Now the gentle glow of dawn touched him, bathing him in a shimmering halo of gold and light.
He wore the same clothes Darcie had seen him in the previous evening. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes and his hair was rumpled and mussed as though he had drawn his fingers through it repeatedly during the endless night. From the look of him, she doubted he had slept at all. The thought gave her a strange pang of sadness, though why she should mourn his lost rest when her entire life balanced in his hands she could not say.
Acutely aware that her transgression was the source of everyone's trepidation and concern, the reason they had all been dragged from their beds, she knew that there were no choices available to her. The others could not be made to suffer for her lapse.
She took hold of her courage and took a single step forward, out of her place in line. She raised her chin, glancing first at Poole whose features were arranged in an expressionless mask, and then quickly to the side, at Mary, who gave her one single pitying look before returning her attention to the marble-tiled floor. Then she forced herself to meet the silvery gaze of Damien Cole.
She silently reassured herself that he was good, he was kind. He had offered her a chance. Then she recalled the dead man in the carriage. The bubble of hope that had bolstered her spirits burst. Of course he was a good, kind man. A good, kind man who drove about town in the wee hours before dawn with only a corpse for company. He had never explained the corpse's presence, and she, frightened of losing her one shining chance, had never dared to ask, thrusting aside all qualms and questions. Perhaps she had not wanted to know the answers.
He was a man who hired on a destitute girl whom he'd nearly run down in the street.
A man who kept sketches of mutilated human limbs; a man who met unsavory characters in the dead of night.
But there was no real question as to Dr. Cole’s character, no argument as to his probity. He was not on trial. She was. Regardless of any explanation she might offer, there was no excusing her actions. She had trespassed where she had no right to, stupidly, thoughtlessly... reflexively. And now her reprieve was surely over. Dr. Cole would cast her back out on the street. If he did not use her as a subject for his anatomical study, instead.
“I did the sketch, sir.” Darcie spoke clearly, though her voice trembled, echoing in the silence.
There was a chorus of sound, a collective intake of breath, the involuntary response of the other servants to her startling statement. Darcie stared straight ahead, at the faint smudge on the far wall,
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