“And the doctor? We should warn him at least.”
“Hasn’t returned,” Balthasar said.
Montgomery threw me a questioning glance. “He left? Why?”
I took a deep breath. We’d planned every aspect of our escape, but we’d never talked about what would happen to Father. I never intended to bring him with us, let alone say good-bye. I’d assumed Montgomery felt the same. But looking at his face now, I realized he was still caught up in their bond. Montgomery still thought of him like a father, even after everything.
“He went to the village to try to find you.”
Silence fell for a beat. I knew what he was thinking. The beasts had found my father somewhere in the jungle and sliced his heart out like the others. We might never see him again. For the first time, it felt real. We might leave with no good-byes, just a boat drifting out to sea, never to return.
I started to speak, but Montgomery dug his fingers into my arm and dragged me out of Balthasar’s earshot. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll hitch the wagon. Get Edward and collect the water and supplies. As fast as you can.”
A scream came from the jungle, sharp and piercing.
They were coming.
The gate hung open. Balthasar stumbled toward it, reaching for the wooden beam. Montgomery raced to help. They shoved their weight against the door, scrambling to seal it.
“Hurry,” Montgomery called over his shoulder.
Panic beat in time with my heart. My feet felt suspended in molasses. I couldn’t move fast enough. The beasts would move like lightning, though. They’d come over the roof tiles or break down the gate.
I stumbled to my room and threw my things into the old carpetbag. A bedsheet would give us shade from the relentless sun. Mother’s jewelry and the silver comb and hairbrush would fetch a price. The wooden box that held my treatment. My thoughts clutched at all the scattered things I couldn’t take. Wilted lavender Alice had left on my dresser. Mother’s beautiful gowns. The copy of Longman’s Anatomical Reference I’d saved from our library on Belgrave Square. Now I never wanted to see it again.
I dragged the carpetbag outside and hurried along the portico to Edward’s room. A cloud covered the moon, plunging the courtyard into shadows. My eyes played tricks on me. I thought I saw shapes climbing through the windows, over the roof. But when I shook my head, nothing was there.
Puck joined Balthasar at the front gate. They pressed their ears to the wooden boards, looking puzzled. They didn’t know the beasts were just outside, planning an attack. I wondered if they’d fight back. Puck glanced at me. His scaly mouth peeled into a grim smile.
Puck might be wild enough to join in the frenzy. But not Balthasar. Balthasar would ball himself up and let the beasts tear at him. He saw me watching, and his face brightened. Again, I felt a twist of guilt at my lie. But I hadn’t a choice. If he regressed like the others, turned violent in the crowded London streets . . .
A tile crashed to the ground. I jumped, scanning the roofline. I imagined the beasts there, watching, waiting, stalking, led by a black-clawed monster.
My hand found Edward’s doorknob and squeezed the odd latch. “We have to leave,” I said in a rush.
But the room was empty. The trace smell of sulfur hung in the air from a recently lit match. The lantern sat next to the pallet he used as a bed. Beside it was a pile of clothes borrowed from Montgomery, an old pair of shoes, a stack of books from the salon, and a crystal decanter.
We can sell that, I thought, and snatched it up.
The decanter left a wet ring on one of the books. The cover caught my eye. I’d seen this book on the shelves in the salon when I’d arrived, but then it had gone missing.
Edward III.
I’d read it, long ago, when it used to be in our library on Belgrave Square. It was a lesser-known play, attributed to Shakespeare by some. It was bound in dark-green cloth, standard size, nothing remarkable except for the gold foil imprint in the spine: three straight lines surrounded by a circle.
The same symbol Jaguar had carved into my skin.
My hands started shaking. I flipped through the book, nearly ripping the pages. Half the pages were dog-eared. Some had been torn out. A long gash sliced through the back cover, made by something razor-sharp. I let the book fall open to one of the marked pages. A few lines were underlined in black ink, over and over, so hard it ripped the paper.
And he is bred out of that bloody strain
That haunted us in our familiar paths.
Witness our too-much-memorable shame
. . .
Of that black name, Edward, Black Prince of Wales.
Edward, the Black Prince. I tried to remember all I’d read of the Black Prince’s character is plays. To the French, Edward III was a young boy raised by a cruel father—a general—who pushed him to military victory through ambition and brutality, turning the poor boy into a fiend. Not unlike the snips of story Edward had given us. The feeling went out of my feet and I knelt on the ground, frantically pawing through to the marked pages.
It was all there. The same story. The same person.
Edward had lied to us. He wasn’t Edward Prince. He was Prince Edward—the Black Prince from Shakespeare’s plays. This was his mystery. He’d stolen his identity from a little-known play.
The book fell out of my hands. This discovery meant one of two things. Edward might just be a runaway like he claimed, giving himself a new identity to flee some crime or maybe a girl he’d gotten with child. Or it could mean . . .
Sweat dripped down the sides of my face. I brushed it away, taking deep breaths. I fought to think with my head instead of my heart, which wanted to shout Edward’s innocence. But my heart was weak. I had to cut it out of my chest and think logically.
Or it could mean Edward was one of my father’s creations.
Named after a Shakespearean character, just like Balthasar and Cymbeline and all the others.
Just like me.
A faint idea seeded in the back of my head. Alice had always avoided Edward, as had Cymbeline and the other servants. Had they known? Had they avoided him because they feared him—because they knew him to be the monster?
I collapsed to my knees. No, it was impossible. The monster’s murders began before we even arrived on the island. Unless . . . Edward had never been on the Viola. He could have left the island in the dinghy, running from something—my father—and fate had brought him back.
My mind raced, trying to remember where he’d been when the murders happened. Too many times he’d slipped away to his room or into the night. A hundred chances to kill. But he’d been with us in the village when Alice was murdered. No. That wasn’t entirely true. He’d run away after shooting Antigonus. He could have raced to the compound before us, killed her, and circled back later. He’d been covered with blood and scratches, after all.