Page 61 of Disturbing the Dead
“Miss Mallory?” Lorna calls through the door. “I am sorry to disturb you. I was waiting for you and Dr. Gray to finish speaking.”
The knob turns, and I leap to my feet. I try leaping, anyway. Even after six months here, I forget that I can’t just scramble up from the floor, especially when holding a cup of coffee. A Victorian corset and skirts presumes that a lady is never going to be sitting on the floor and therefore does not need to vault to her feet.
I nearly spill my coffee, and I’m still setting it down when Gray reaches the door. I rise as quickly as I can and straighten my skirts.
“I am so sorry, sir,” Lorna says as he opens the door. “I did not realize it might be locked.”
“We were examining a potentially disturbing object and did not wish to startle anyone,” Gray says.
Her gaze drops to our little picnic setup, with the patisserie box and napkins and bottle of scotch.
“The remains of our tea,” I say with a smile. “We should have cleared that before we returned to work on this.”
Gray scoops up the Hand of Glory, hopefully moving too fast for her to see what it is… or that it’s wrapped in a linen napkin.
“What is that?” she asks.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Gray says.
“It looks like a hand.”
Gray hesitates and then says, “Yes. Which is why we closed the door. It is a severed hand that I have been examining.”
She nods, seeming not at all perturbed by this. “You need not fear I shall balk at such things. I grew up on a farm and—Oh!” Her cheeks flush. “I forgot why I came down here. I am so sorry, Dr. Gray. There is a young woman at the door for you. A Mrs. King? She seems…” Lorna bites her lip. “Out of sorts? She would not tell me what it was about.”
“That is all fine, Lorna. Please show her…” He glances up, toward the living areas of the town house, and then says, decisively, “Show her in to the front waiting room of the funerary parlor and bring tea.”
“Yes, sir.”
TWENTY
We put aside the Hand of Glory, and I use a dampened cloth to wipe my face and dress and insist Gray do the same, which irks him. In this world there are far fewer opportunities to see oneself. Water closets don’t necessarily contain mirrors. Nor do bedrooms, other than a small one for shaving.
Mirrors are used in decoration, but Gray isn’t the sort of man to pause at one before he leaves the house. That could be a refreshing lack of vanity, but it’s more that he’s focused on a goal and pausing would be an interruption, and if it means he goes out with ink—or blood—on his face, well, no one else cares so why do I make such a fuss over it? Probably because he fails to notice people crossing the road to clear his path when he has blood spattered on his collar. Or maybe that’s the point—getting people out of his way—and I’m ruining everything.
I leave him with the cloth, and I head toward the front parlor, murmuring for him to give me a moment alone with Mrs. King. She’s standing at the window, looking out at the street, and on hearing footsteps, she turns, seeming annoyed, as if she’s been waiting for hours.
“I am here to speak to Dr. Gray,” she says coolly.
“Mrs. King,” I say. “I must apologize for last night, when we referred to you as Miss. That was a dreadful presumption. Please, sit. The maid is bringing tea. And you must excuse her as well. She is very new. Less than a week at a job I used to do myself.” I sweep my skirts elegantly behind me as I sit.
“You were a maid?” she says as she sits.
“Yes. Dr. Gray recognized my interest in his work and was in need of an assistant, so he allowed me to take on the position.” I smile. “It is so much more enlightening than scrubbing floors. We were just working on something when you rang. A human hand preserved for supposed magical purposes. The process of how it came to be that way—the desiccation and treatment—is fascinating, as is the folklore behind it. I believe it dates all the way back to medieval times.” I laugh softly. “The lore, that is. Not the hand.”
Gray opens the door and enters, and Mrs. King blinks up at him, thrown off-kilter by me, which is the point, of course. Don’t be what she expects. Don’t act like she expects. Don’t make the small talk she expects. After our encounter last night, she came here with a chip on her shoulder. I need that knocked off before we start.
“Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. King,” Gray says. “We can only imagine this has been very unsettling. Might I presume you have already spoken to Detective McCreadie?”
She seems to try to find some of her anger, only to realize it will indeed sound peevish, when we are both being so genteel and considerate.
“I do not trust the police,” she says finally, keeping a touch of sharpness. “There have been incidents, and the police have treated us like hysterical women.”
“Incidents with the male students?” I ask, remembering the stories I’d read of the Seven.
Her gaze pierces mine, half surprised and half searching. “Actually, that has been a growing concern of ours. The male students do not seem as if they will be inclined to treat us fairly, but they do not know us.” She relaxes a little. “I cannot help but believe that is true for most who oppose us. If they got to know us, they would see we are earnest and serious in our pursuits, and no threat to them. As for the male students, it is early days yet, and we have hope.”
“Hope is good,” I murmur. “But so is caution. I heard many of you outscored them on the entrance exams. They will not take kindly to that. Just… be wary and be prepared. They will see you as competition and use your sex to say you are unsuitable for the occupation or that you are receiving preferential treatment.”
