“Describe it to me,” Cordon demanded.
Adams returned to stand behind him. “It’s yellowed at the edges and reddish brown at the center.”
Cordon reached around and touched the spot. When his fingers probed the flesh, he winced at the pain.
“I must have backed into something,” he said. “That’ll be all tonight, Adams.”
Adams bowed and exited, to Cordon’s relief. He felt like he might put his fist through the wall at any moment. The mate atrophy was accelerating. How much longer did he have before he slipped into fever?
“No!” He threw a pillow across the room. It hit the wall and thumped to the ground. He swallowed a sob and fell onto his bed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting.
It wasn’t fair. He’d done everything his maker had claimed would slow the progression.
He was on his own now.
The edge of the journal dug into his hand. He grasped it and rolled onto his back. But when he flipped it open, he noticed the spine was peeling. He ran his fingers over the ragged edge then angrily grasped the book in both hands and ripped it in half. Bits of paper fluttered to his bed, along with a folded square of parchment that had been shoved into the spine.
He picked it up with trembling fingers and knew immediately what it was.
The missing page of the journal.
The bruises are getting worse. They spring up like weeds and spread with fearsome speed, such that even fresh human blood and opium no longer keep the pain at bay. I sent the nest away so I would have time to clean and bind the newest of the sores, but hiding them will soon be impossible. The smell alone is enough to turn my stomach.
What is worse is knowing the others might follow my path. I have accepted my death, but still I lie awake on this Earth, tormented by visions of my sweet children suffering. I would free them from the burden of that pain, were it within my power. Alas, all I can do is arrange for their futures as best I can and impress upon them the importance of never giving up searching for their fated mates.
I am haunted by the memory of watching my maker reach for me with skeletal hands, calling my name withhis last breath. My nest might not understand, but I hope one day they realize that my leaving was a mercy rather than a cruel and selfish act.
Even if they hate me, I have no choice.
I must leave.
Cordon set the journal on the table beside his bed and stared at the ceiling. He felt as if the temperature in the room had plummeted and was surprised when his breath did not form a cloud.
It was not a surprise that Marguerite hadn’t wanted them to see her die, but reading how she had feared for herself made his heart ache. He reached for the bottle next to his bed, his nightly draft. Instead of drinking it, he rolled it around in his hands to warm the contents.
He was done fearing what the future held.
After carefully gathering the pieces of the journal and setting them aside, he retrieved his list from his desk, folded it, and placed it in his pocket. A physical copy was not necessary as he had memorized the items, but having it on his person would serve as a reminder.
There would be no more physicians. No more awful-tasting concoctions. No more uncomfortable inspections of his unclothed body. Starting tomorrow, his only focus would be getting the most enjoyment and excitement out of every day, starting with making amends with Kitty.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kitty wiped herbrow with her sleeve as she moved her shears through a difficult section of twill. She’d barely slept after the excitement of the previous night and then she’d had to explain to Alyssa why the shop was a mess again, and that there was extra work to be done. Her limbs felt heavy, and she had doused the fire in the hearth and opened all the windows in the shop until Alyssa had complained of the chill, but Kitty still felt warm.
It didn’t matter. She’d worked through far worse, and she had orders to complete. Damage to undo. She wouldn’t stop as long as she could trust her hands. Failing to complete a customer order was entirely unacceptable.
She guided the shears with careful snips until the weight of the excess fabric pulled the rest of the dress to the floor. Then she pinned the panel she was working on in place with a sand-filled weight and quickly finished her line, letting the scraps fall. She’d call Alyssa to clean up when she was done.
Next was the bodice lining, made of Italian cloth, which had the perfect glossy face. It had been imported at a cost that had made her suck her teeth, but it was among the finest wool available. Mrs. Klein’s very sensitive skin could not tolerate thick bunching, even though the garment wouldn’t lie directly against her skin. Mrs. Klein had paid Kitty to procure the best, and that was exactly what she had done. She’d also used the material in several of Cordon’s garments. The color would pick up the faintstrands of silver in his hair. He was obviously self-conscious of them, as he took pains to tuck them away, and she’d seen him pluck one or two, but it was a shame. They made him appear sophisticated. Youth was not always the ideal, as much as his set would think.
If she had time tomorrow, maybe she would start on a jacket. A way of thanking him for providing memories she would cherish for the rest of her life.
She shook her head. Thinking about him was a waste of time. Her focus needed to be on her customers and her business.
As she gently folded the twill, her knees felt weak, and her vision grew hazy. She pulled back the wet hair from her face and grabbed a bonnet, which she slapped over her head. She needed a break, and she would have one when she finished. With one hand firmly on her worktable, she walked around until she reached the bolt of silver Italian cloth. She thumped it out until it spread across the table, shiny and smooth in the moonlight streaming through the windows. It was also thin enough that she wouldn’t need to debulk seams.
“Miss Carter!” Alyssa called from the back room. She bustled out of the door, a cloud of steam following behind her like smoke. “Miss Carter, the wools are done. Should I hang them to dry?”
