“I found the letters in one of these piles,” Lucy said, rushing toward the desk. “I remember what they look like. If they’re still here, I’ll find them.” She started combing through the piles with about as much disorder as her father. My heart thumped as the papers rustled. I dug through a few but there was no order to them—useless pages of ledgers and accounts from his railroad business. Quite large orders for automobile engines to the French government and some research company in Holland and a private citizen in Germany who must have been richer than Midas. My hand fell upon a stiff leather folder stamped with the King’s Club crest, and I drew in a quick breath.
Inside the folder, however, I found nothing of use. Only correspondence about the orphanage the King’s Club sponsored, along with a roster of the association’s current members and their charitable contributions for the year. The list contained twenty-four names. Radcliffe, Dr. Hastings, and Isambard Lessing, the German historian I’d caught the professor arguing with. Far more recognizable names too: Arthur Kenney, the London Times owner, Ambassador Claude Rochefort of France, a few lords and titled men, and several members of Parliament. A queasiness began in the pit of my stomach. I’d had no idea the King’s Club’s membership was so prominent, so far-reaching, with connections into France and Germany and beyond.
I finished sorting through several stacks but didn’t find Father’s letters, so I turned to the boxes instead, deliveries from an expensive tailor. I lifted the lids. A box full of crisp white shirts still smelling of tailor’s chalk. A smaller box of handkerchiefs monogrammed with the Radcliffe crest. I moved those aside and opened a tall blue hatbox.
Just a single peek inside made me jump up, silencing a scream. Lucy’s head jerked up from the papers at my alarm. I pointed a trembling finger to the hatbox, the urge to scream still rising in my throat.
“Inside that box,” I said at last, breath strained. “It isn’t a hat.”
She stepped around the desk cautiously, starting to bend down to open the lid before I grabbed her hands away and started to pull her toward the door.
“But the letters . . . ,” she started.
“Blast the letters, we’ll come back for them later.” When she still protested, I leaned forward. “It’s a brain.” I whispered.
Her eyes went wide as she backed away from the box. “Are you certain?”
“I know what a human brain preserved in a jar of formaldehyde looks like,” I said. “We’ve got to get out of here. Go to the party, act as though nothing’s happened. He can’t suspect that we know.”
“How can I act like Papa doesn’t have a brain in a hatbox?”
“You must, Lucy. Come on.”
I threw open the door, grabbing our masks on the way out, and we raced toward the spiral staircase. The music was louder here, as I put my own mask on and told Lucy to do the same. We hurried to the landing above the ballroom, where a tall man stood at the top of the stairs, presiding over his party.
The man turned his gaunt face to us.
Mr. Radcliffe.
Seeing his face turned my stomach. A man I’d known since childhood, yet a total stranger now. The entire time Mother and I were practically starving in the streets, he’d known Father was alive. He had corresponded with him. Sent him money. Even now he kept preserved organs in his study for who knew what purpose.
His eyes shifted to mine. They were a blue so light they were almost as white as the hair at his temples. It was all I could do to keep breathing beneath the mask. “There you are, Lucy. Your mother’s been looking all over for you.”
“Sorry, Papa,” Lucy stuttered. “Juliet had a bit of a hairpin emergency.”
He stood stiffly at the top of the stairs, still eyeing me.
“Is that you beneath that mask, Miss Moreau? Still causing trouble, are you?” His voice was light and teasing, but he didn’t smile. He offered us each one hand. “If I may. My daughter and our guest of honor shouldn’t enter a ball without an escort.”
I dared a glance at Lucy. We had no choice but to obey.
I slid my arm in his, and Lucy did the same, and arm in arm with a monster we joined the masquerade.
NINETEEN
THE MASQUERADE WAS IN full swing as Mr. Radcliffe led us down the sprawling spiral staircase. The music swelled to meet us, bringing with it delicate notes of laughter and the smell of cinnamon and fir boughs. I stepped carefully, squinting through my mask’s small eyeholes, trying not to step on my hem. Lucy was more practiced in these things and seemed to glide on air. No one would ever know she’d just learned that the man she loved was a monster, and that her father kept brains tucked away in hatboxes.
Halfway down the staircase, the full view of the ballroom swept out like a colorful sea. Masked couples in glittering gowns danced to the string quartet’s waltz beside tiny glowing candles on the Christmas tree. The swarm of partygoers was so dense that my head spun.
My fist tightened on the handrail instinctively, as the joints in my hand stiffened. The vertigo, the joint pain . . . my illness was coming, induced by stress. I nervously bit the inside of my cheek, trying to overcome the symptoms through willpower, until I tasted blood. A sudden high note from the violin made me gasp.
Mr. Radcliffe turned to me, his unmasked eyes like two microscopes on my thoughts. I cleared my throat and let him finish leading us down the stairs. At the base he kissed Lucy on her cheek and gave me a gentlemanly nod. The moment I could take my fingers away from his, I grabbed Lucy’s hand and dragged her into the chaos.