The Wicked Cometh: 2018’s must-read novel of a city’s darkest secrets by Laura Carlin

Author:Laura Carlin [Carlin, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2018-01-31T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rebekah releases his hand and touches instead his dark curls, now damp and slick upon his temples. A ripple of light breaks out from the fire-grate and sends a wave of orange across the room, illuminating Calder’s features; the dark circles around his eyes as though he has rubbed at his face with a sooty finger; the hollows dug beneath his cheekbones; his lips oyster-pale.

Never such a sorrowful sight have I seen. I lift my veil, but cannot speak; what is the use of words? Words hold no value in comparison with the potency of silence, and it lies over us like a poultice, trying to soothe, trying to heal.

It is my heart which speaks first by giving off a sigh, such as you might for love; but this sigh is for loss and at the unutterable scene before me. At length words I learned from my father issue from my lips.

‘They whom God loves die young,’ I whisper.

Rebekah wears a troubled expression but taking my hand says, ‘Calder is not dead, Hester. It is the opium. He is tranquillised by its effects and will remain in a state of quiescence for the next hour or so, at which moment he will wake and require a further dose to return his vitality.’

So, my sight has played me false and I cannot tell if it is the shock of his death, the relief of his resurrection, or the embarrassment of my own ignorance, but I find myself in a state of agitation. Tears well hot and stinging behind my eyes, and my skin prickles with perspiration.

‘I’m sorry, Rebekah,’ I mumble. I don’t make it clear exactly what I’m sorry for; it’s a universal apology, a general atonement. I rue that such an innocent-appearing substance could change Calder so drastically. Why, three months since, his constitution was vital, his health robust, his looks handsome enough to turn every maid’s head at Waterford. Now he is pale and sickly, the gleam of youth already fading.

‘You mustn’t grieve yourself over this, Hester. We cannot change the past. But what we can do is to try and reason with Calder, get him to recognise his folly and reduce the amount of opiate he imbibes; at the very least demand he ceases all contact with Frederick Blister.’ Rebekah compresses her lips and gives a little nasal snort at the bitter taste of Blister’s name in her mouth. ‘Dreadful man,’ she goes on, ‘I cannot tolerate him, with his pouter-pigeon chest all puffed out. His tongue may be adroit, but his mind is not.’

Rebekah walks towards a cabinet.

‘Will you take a glass of wine?’ she asks, already pulling the head of the decanter away from its body.

‘No, thank you,’ I say, suddenly aware that the exotic odour about the room has, in my mind, at once become associated with great bodily harm and great suffering. I wonder if the fumes might infuse the wine and induce its drinker to crave a dose of the tawny substance in the paper wrapper that for all the world looks like a bonbon you might feed an infant.

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