“What do you mean?” he asked.
Wasn’t it obvious? “The deformities. Are they some sort of product of an isolated development?”
“To be sure,” he muttered. Instead of meeting my eyes, he tapped his muddy boot against a dusty old trunk in the corner. “Anyway, take a look at this.”
He was avoiding my questions again. Hiding things.
I knelt by the trunk anyway. He lifted the lid. Inside, folded and pressed, was a stack of ladies’ dresses. I ran my hand over the soft fabric. Silk. Tulle. These were expensive pieces, a few years out of fashion, in good condition except for faintly yellowing lace at the cuffs. I sorted through the first few dresses. Below were an assortment of things: undergarments, a shawl, a wide-brimmed hat with a pink ribbon.
“They belonged to your mother,” Montgomery said.
I looked at him in surprise. I touched the dresses again, more gently this time. “How did you get these?”
He shrugged. “There was an estate sale when I went to London a few years ago. I thought the doctor might want them.” His boot tapped nervously against the edge of the trunk. I knew Father wasn’t the sentimental type. He’d never care about a trunk of old dresses. It must have been Montgomery who wanted these, to remember her and our old life. A string tugged around my heart.
He’d loved my mother like his own.
“Anyway, now you’ve something clean to wear,” he said, suddenly flummoxed as I pulled out a soft handful of satiny undergarments.
I peered at him, seeing the quiet boy I once knew. Maybe I’d judged him too harshly, before, for obeying my father so strictly. He must have felt so alone out here with only the sea as company. “I can’t wear these dresses in the jungle. They’ll be ruined.”
“You haven’t much choice. The closest shop is in Brisbane.”
I replaced the dresses carefully and closed the lid. Something about wearing Mother’s dresses felt wrong. Unearthing her dresses was like unearthing her long-buried corpse.
I stood, twisting her diamond ring. “They’re fine. It just . . . brings back her ghost.”
He nodded. I wondered what he remembered of his own mother, buried in a common plot somewhere in an overgrown London churchyard. He intertwined his fingers in the mesh dressing screen, pushing it gently in the breeze. I feared I’d said something wrong, stirred up ghosts from the dark places of our pasts. At least I had a father. What did Montgomery have? A story about a Danish sailor who shipped out two weeks before he was born and never returned. Was that why he was so reluctant to tell me the truth? Because no matter how awful the truth was, no matter if I loathed and shunned and hated my father, I had one.
“Montgomery.” My voice was a whisper. I stepped closer until only a small space separated us. It was the first time we’d been alone in a long time. His fingers continued to twist restlessly in the mesh strings. My chest swelled with things I wanted to ask—about him, about the island, about my father. I parted my lips to speak, but the words wouldn’t form. I intertwined my fingers in the mesh screen next to his. I opened my mouth to ask if the rumors were true.
But I couldn’t.
Instead, something else came out. Something unexpected. Something I should have told him six years ago but never had the chance.
“I’m sorry about Crusoe.”
Just saying the name twisted my heart. Montgomery’s head jerked as suddenly as if I’d grabbed him by the throat. Crusoe had been our dog—Montgomery’s dog, really—raised from a pup at his heels. Crusoe died the day before Father disappeared. The reporters claimed the dog was a victim of my father’s criminal experiments. I’d heard all the grisly details of how they found Crusoe’s body. Cut up, pieced together, barely alive. The police had killed him out of pity. No one spoke of such things, and so I hadn’t either. Until now. Because it was wrong for a boy to lose his dog, and the passing years didn’t make it any easier.
Montgomery remained silent for some time, his face flushed. He slowly unwound his fingers from the mesh screen and brushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear. His lips were shaking. I felt my own heart trembling, remembering the dog that I’d loved, too.
Suddenly he brushed his rough thumb against my jaw, catching me by surprise. Heat erupted across my face as I drew in a sharp breath. Was he going to kiss me? My eyelids sank closed. Our bodies were practically touching. It was wrong to be so close to a boy—every moment of Mother’s upbringing had taught me that. But I didn’t care. We were bound together, he and I.
Someone knocked at the open door. My heartbeat faltered. He pulled away, taking a little piece of my heart with him.
I glanced at the door.
Balthasar. At least it wasn’t Father. If he tried to kill Edward for just setting foot on the island, what would he do to Montgomery for almost kissing the master’s daughter?
“What is it?” Montgomery barked.
“Bath’s ready for you, miss.”
Montgomery took a few steps toward the door. I could still feel the heat of his presence. “I should go,” he said.
I nodded, aware of the change in the air. The moment had slipped away. I wanted to hold on to that feeling, that closeness with Montgomery. I felt safe with him. Complete. Like the world wasn’t such a puzzle anymore.
But he was already gone.
THE BATHHOUSE WAS SIMPLE but pleasant. A large wooden tub held a steaming pool that gave off traces of some sweet herb I couldn’t identify. I peeled off the summer dress and eased into the bath. It was hot enough to turn my skin red. I scoured every inch of my body with a sea sponge and a bar of lavender soap that seemed out of place on an island full of men. The old me flaked off with bits of mud and sand. The steam eased those tight feelings I’d carried forever, shame and worry and uncertainty. I took a deep breath, shocked at how full my lungs could be without a corset’s restriction.
After the bath I put on a dressing gown and returned to my room. The clouds had parted, though the sun was all but gone. I lit the lanterns and slowly untangled my hair with a silver comb I’d found among Mother’s things. The bath had worked all the thought out of me. My mind was blank. It was a strange feeling.
I stretched out on the bed. Before I knew it, the lantern flickered, and I felt myself giving in to sleep.
I DREAMED OF MONTGOMERY’S rough hand on my cheek. His palm was warm, familiar, as it ran over my jawbone, over my shoulders, his thumbs brushing across my clavicles in an echo of the game the medical students played counting Lucy’s bones. The game didn’t seem nearly so silly now that it was Montgomery’s touch. But something changed in that witching hour between waking and sleep. My mind conjured a man’s body, with strong, alluring hands, but they were cold. It wasn’t Montgomery, but Edward. That safe, protected feeling I’d had with Montgomery was gone, replaced by a deep chill that sent shivers running down my limbs. In my dream the edges of Edward’s body slipped and slid like a ghost, only half bound to this world.