Chapter Thirteen
Felicity’s heart slammed against her chest as they climbed up the stairs. Tension knotted her stomach; made her breath come in uneven pants. She pushed open the door to the laboratory with Nicholas on her heels, fighting against the voice in her head that screamed she shouldn’t let him in. Once she explained what she’d been working on he’d put a stop to it.
Yet there was another part of her—the part she listened to now—that longed to share this with someone who might understand. She’d thought Tressa would have been that person, but maybe her friend hadn’t been close enough to Margaret.
Felicity lit the lanterns scattered about, washing the large laboratory in golden light. She stood back, allowing Nicholas to get a full view of her workspace. There in the middle of the room was the table he’d pushed her up against as they kissed, his hands roving her frame with tenderness—with such want—she’d never expected from him. Warmth pooled in her limbs at the memory, her nipples pebbling as they had from his touch.
But one glance at him told her that his thoughts were elsewhere. His wary glance skipped from one corner of the laboratory to the next, finally settling on her face questioningly. She nodded, giving him permission to investigate further, though the very thought made the knots in her stomach twist tighter.
For several minutes, he walked around the laboratory, examining her equipment. Much of it probably looked familiar to him—the scales, the crucible and burner, the many glasses and test tubes, the Culpeper reflecting microscope, the mortar and pestle, and the large equivalents table on the wall listing the masses of known elements. She’d possessed many of those tools during their summers together, and the rest were all expected tools of a scientist.
Nothing was out of the ordinary.
Until he got to the jars of organs on her long work table.
He spun around, gesturing to the jars. She was glad he didn’t voice the obvious question—were those Margaret’s organs? She nodded, wincing as he jumped away from the jars.
“It was necessary,” she said, defensively. “I couldn’t take the chance that the elixir wouldn’t regrow her organs. To preserve her, I had to dissect her…”
She paused, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She’d never had any difficulty talking about her experiments before. She’d always been able to summon the proper distance—always been able to remember that what she did was for the good of humanity.
This wasn’t for an altruistic goal.
This was personal.
Her shoulders shook as she sucked in one deep breath, then another, trying to sort out her thoughts. In her mind she was back on that dank night, desperately trying to keep her hand from shaking as she cut into the countess’s flesh. She’d had to stop every few minutes to wipe away the tears streaming down her face.
Now, she rubbed her hand across her brow, her black sleeve serving as yet another reminder of the loss. How could she justify what she’d done, if she couldn’t bring Margaret back from the darkness of death?
The one person who had always been there for her, and she’d failed her.
And now she had to explain it all to the man who had shaken up everything she knew with his passionate kiss.
She closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him, to see his revulsion over what she’d done. She’d been foolish to think he could ever understand. No one did. Not even Septimus Locke, and he was a fellow scientist.
“I couldn’t leave her there, alone, in the blackness.” She rested her head in her palms, not brave enough to open her eyes. “I thought—I still think— if I just had more time, I could bring her back. To me. To you.”
Nicholas was silent for a minute, and she felt that silence close in on her, like the unshakable stillness of the last six months. How could she hate the quiet so much when she’d always claimed it was what she preferred? All those years spent wishing he’d stop pestering her with his endless chatter.
Then he’d stopped visiting during the summer, giving her what she said she’d wanted.
And she’d told herself she was fine with that. Because she’d never, ever expected that he’d think of her as anything other than his aunt’s strange, blunt ward.
Until that kiss.
“That must have been hard.” He finally spoke, the compassion in his voice daring her to open her eyes and look at him. When she did, he met her gaze with his own steady, thoughtful one—his brown eyes showing no judgment. “Doing that for Margaret, I mean.”
She notched her chin higher, determined to focus on the present, and not the horrors of the past. “I didn’t have a choice. It’s the only chance she has.”
“Had, Lissie.” His quiet tone made the appellation sound like an endearment instead of a dreaded nickname. “What makes you think you can bring her back? That you should bring her back?”
When she met his gaze, she saw the same concern shining in his eyes as he’d had in the atrium, as if he not only cared about her, but worried for her wellbeing. Not in the autocratic, controlling way he’d exhibited when he’d told her she was going to London with him—this was a softer, gentler Nicholas, as he’d been the summer she caught cold from being outside in the rain. He’d brought her chicken soup and stayed by her side, reading to her from a novel, though she’d informed him she could read just fine on her own, and preferred textbooks to novels.
It caught her off guard, how much she longed for that version. For him to understand—truly understand, not just humor her as Tressa did—why she had to bring back Margaret.
“Let me show you.” She moved to the table, gesturing for him to take a seat. She sat on the stool next to him, pulling out her folio of notes. “How familiar are you with the alchemical pursuit for the Philosopher’s Stone?”