Read Online These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel by Kelly Zekas, Tarun Shanker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kelly Zekas, Tarun Shanker
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distinctive tastes of two little
girls. They were English wax dolls from the craze of 1876, but one wore a hat that was fashionable in 1879, which might make you wonder why one was more neglected than the other. The answer to that
is sitting in a vase containing lilies and cypress, which any flower girl worth her salt will tell you means innocence and mourning the dead. So mentioning Mr. Mortimer’s daughter would
arouse his emotions for both the tragically deceased one and his precious living one.”
“You . . . noticed . . . all that?”
“No, don’t be absurd. It’s not that complicated. I just appealed to his humanity.”
In front of us, Laura spun around and pointed at a haberdashery street stall, as if possessed by some sort of hat demon. “Nick, can I try that one on? Evelyn, I’m terribly sorry, but
Mama will be suspicious if I don’t return home with anything! I only need one moment!” Before we could say anything, she hurried back to put that moment to good use.
“Just one, Kit!” Mr. Kent called after her, then turned to me with a shrug. “We all have our weaknesses.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent repeating this dismal pattern. We started the search near Trafalgar Square and moved west, concentrating on the druggists and pharmacies in the wealthier
neighborhoods under the assumption that Mr. Cheval’s friend, who had the means to consult many doctors, would be living nearby. Most of the shops had not sold linseed in the past two days,
and the several that had eventually led us to the wrong customers. If there were two constants to the day, it was that Laura could never own too many hats and that nothing brought us any closer to
Mr. Cheval.
“I hate to say this right now,” Laura cheerfully announced when we trudged out of another chemist shop. “But the Pickfords’ dinner party is in two hours. We really must
return home, otherwise Mama will have a fit.”
A groan escaped my lips. The sun was setting, and the shadows of buildings and streetlights stretched long across the streets like prison bars. “We’ve made no progress,” I
muttered.
“No cause for alarm, Miss Wyndham,” Mr. Kent said. “I will continue searching and questioning the druggists until the very minute they lock up their stores. And I’ll
pester them on their way home, too.”
With a reassuring nod, he called for his own cab and promised to send a full report by the end of the evening.
Our carriage returned to the Kent home, where there was hardly a moment to reflect upon the day and consider our next plan. Lady Kent ambushed me at the foot of the stairs, wielding my dinner
invitation to the Pickfords’, and I was forced to graciously thank her for subjecting me to the last event on earth I wanted to attend. I took some lazy care to dress for it, but it did not
occupy the hour and a half that Laura spent gratuitously analyzing her outfits.
“Should I wear this? I have been saving it for a special evening,” she said, holding up a red monstrosity, far too low-cut to be worn anywhere decent and festooned with an assortment
of colored lace, ruffles, netting, bows, and every other possible scrap the dressmaker could find on the floor.
“Laura, that dress is not suitable for today, I’m afraid. It’s only a small dinner party,” I said, hastily stuffing it into the abyss of her wardrobe in exchange for a
simple, undecorated blue dress, which would, as Laura passionately claimed, “accentuate her sapphire orbs so Mr. Edwards could not look away.” I sincerely hoped she meant her eyes.
When everyone was ready, we climbed into the carriage, and I prepared myself for the dreadful night, formulating answers and excuses for my sister’s absence in my head. I wondered if we
might try to escape after dessert, but unfortunately, Laura was not the type to quietly agree to anything, let alone leaving a party early. The second the vehicle began moving, she bobbed
impatiently, and slippery brown
girls. They were English wax dolls from the craze of 1876, but one wore a hat that was fashionable in 1879, which might make you wonder why one was more neglected than the other. The answer to that
is sitting in a vase containing lilies and cypress, which any flower girl worth her salt will tell you means innocence and mourning the dead. So mentioning Mr. Mortimer’s daughter would
arouse his emotions for both the tragically deceased one and his precious living one.”
“You . . . noticed . . . all that?”
“No, don’t be absurd. It’s not that complicated. I just appealed to his humanity.”
In front of us, Laura spun around and pointed at a haberdashery street stall, as if possessed by some sort of hat demon. “Nick, can I try that one on? Evelyn, I’m terribly sorry, but
Mama will be suspicious if I don’t return home with anything! I only need one moment!” Before we could say anything, she hurried back to put that moment to good use.
“Just one, Kit!” Mr. Kent called after her, then turned to me with a shrug. “We all have our weaknesses.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent repeating this dismal pattern. We started the search near Trafalgar Square and moved west, concentrating on the druggists and pharmacies in the wealthier
neighborhoods under the assumption that Mr. Cheval’s friend, who had the means to consult many doctors, would be living nearby. Most of the shops had not sold linseed in the past two days,
and the several that had eventually led us to the wrong customers. If there were two constants to the day, it was that Laura could never own too many hats and that nothing brought us any closer to
Mr. Cheval.
“I hate to say this right now,” Laura cheerfully announced when we trudged out of another chemist shop. “But the Pickfords’ dinner party is in two hours. We really must
return home, otherwise Mama will have a fit.”
A groan escaped my lips. The sun was setting, and the shadows of buildings and streetlights stretched long across the streets like prison bars. “We’ve made no progress,” I
muttered.
“No cause for alarm, Miss Wyndham,” Mr. Kent said. “I will continue searching and questioning the druggists until the very minute they lock up their stores. And I’ll
pester them on their way home, too.”
With a reassuring nod, he called for his own cab and promised to send a full report by the end of the evening.
Our carriage returned to the Kent home, where there was hardly a moment to reflect upon the day and consider our next plan. Lady Kent ambushed me at the foot of the stairs, wielding my dinner
invitation to the Pickfords’, and I was forced to graciously thank her for subjecting me to the last event on earth I wanted to attend. I took some lazy care to dress for it, but it did not
occupy the hour and a half that Laura spent gratuitously analyzing her outfits.
“Should I wear this? I have been saving it for a special evening,” she said, holding up a red monstrosity, far too low-cut to be worn anywhere decent and festooned with an assortment
of colored lace, ruffles, netting, bows, and every other possible scrap the dressmaker could find on the floor.
“Laura, that dress is not suitable for today, I’m afraid. It’s only a small dinner party,” I said, hastily stuffing it into the abyss of her wardrobe in exchange for a
simple, undecorated blue dress, which would, as Laura passionately claimed, “accentuate her sapphire orbs so Mr. Edwards could not look away.” I sincerely hoped she meant her eyes.
When everyone was ready, we climbed into the carriage, and I prepared myself for the dreadful night, formulating answers and excuses for my sister’s absence in my head. I wondered if we
might try to escape after dessert, but unfortunately, Laura was not the type to quietly agree to anything, let alone leaving a party early. The second the vehicle began moving, she bobbed
impatiently, and slippery brown
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