The Corpse Queen by Heather M. Herrman

Author:Heather M. Herrman [Herrman, Heather M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2021-09-14T00:00:00+00:00

24

It’s a mistake.”

Tom did not look at her when he spoke.

She had worn her blue muslin dress again, the one from the night he’d said she looked like a lady. The night air was damp and brisk, sending a chill shivering down her spine. Pierre had not yet had time to make her a new coat, and she’d left Ma’s old one at home tonight so that Tom might better see her dress.

“It’s not,” she assured him, voice rising in excitement. “I can help people, Tom!”

She waited, eager for praise, for that smile to bloom across his face. It never came.

Her brow furrowed. She knew what he thought of the anatomy boys, but she’d never imagined he’d think it of her.

“I’ll still be here every night as I always am,” she said gently. “It won’t affect my work with you.”

He pulled the wagon to a stop in front of a small pub, wood sign swinging in the wind out front. The place was newer, located in a German immigrant suburb.

“It’s a mistake,” Tom said again.

She’d wanted him to kiss her.

She could admit that now.

For him to throw his arms around her and tell her again that she was wild and brave, and then she would ask him to do it. She had practiced saying it, over and over in front of her little hand mirror, in the bedroom that morning.

Now the words died on her lips, her face burning with shame. “How can you say that?”

He tied the wagon to a hitching post on the street, leaving her still sitting there. She jumped down after him, feet landing in an icy puddle of melted snow. The water seeped into the fine new boots Ava had bought her, staining the dyed blue leather. He did not offer to help.

“All this time you’ve been on about how much you hate the anatomy students for thinking they’re better,” Molly said, “but when I try to show them I’m just as good, you tell me I’m wrong to want more?”

“Wanting is just a game they let you play.” He gave a disgusted grunt and moved to the pub’s door alone.

Overhead, the sky was a festering wound, clotted with clouds. It had been like this for days, the weather refusing to turn one way or the other. The air around her felt heavy, like some giant holding its breath.

Tom’s broad back disappeared into the pub.

Two nights ago, the unknowableness of him had seemed alluring.

Now it infuriated her.

The door to the pub swung open, and a drunk stumbled out. Molly stepped inside. Dim, dusty light spilled over the drinkers. Even on a Monday night, the place was full. The smell of malt and bodies filled the tiny space.

These men were of the burgeoning middle class—craftsmen, not factory workers—and Molly felt their keen eyes land on her as she stepped inside. It would be difficult to take someone from here, she realized immediately. Even the barest foothold above poverty gave people the privilege to take care of their dead.

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