Page 80 of Mortdale

My lip twitched. “He isn’t ugly.”

“You can’t snog him either. You’re married to me.” She turned around again, her eyes narrowing on me. “Have you three ever—”

Saints. “No.”

“But you have—”

I rubbed a hand over my eyes. “Yes.”

She nodded slowly. “Huh.”

Chapter 15

Willow

The Cleansing was the oldest and most preserved tradition in Mortdale. They’d gone so far to preserve a secret that might have potentially harmed and killed their own daughters and sons for years. Chaos suppression of this magnitude could have contributed to much more than just their deaths. What if it was truly nature turning on itself? Had all the suppressed chaos somehow created this enormous cloud of misfortune? The deaths of the witches and the Madness, both? Was it why I felt the two were related somehow? And maybe the clergy were more at fault than we’d thought. What would they be hiding down in those tunnels? Logan had told me the grave of Sankta Katerina was down there; the pioneer of the vampire race and she who’d disobeyed her divine lord and fed a dying man from what was called the Ewer of Life to create Lamuel, the first vampire. If something had happened to her grave— as accumulations of dark chaos in vessels of potent chaos were not unusual, given that powerful witches were buried in cold iron caskets—why now? What might have triggered it?

I’d ditched a plastron, instead picking a sapphire blue dress with a pale white bertha covering the bodice that extended past the bust to cover the short sleeves. A sheer black fichu was tucked down the bodice for some modesty, though I’d ditched the suffocating busk corset, too. Thinking about it, there was never anything immodest to begin with—I could barely find them in the mirror sometimes. The bustle also was lost after a long battle of consideration, and I just wore the skirts as they were. I was supposedly getting naked for my de-witchification, so there was no point in complicating it for myself. At least according to the very implicit guide Theodora had walked me through. The old woman had just the words to make me feel like a decrepit pervert sometimes.

A heavy deluge whacked and cracked against the carriage walls. The thunder grew intense and deafening, but the chills covering my skin had nothing to do with the coming autumn breeze.

My chain-smoking husband sat across from me in the carriage, his eyes having been glued on me since he’d shut the doors and told the coachman to go.

His leg was pressed against mine, and he’d made no move to pull away despite the abundant space. “Regretting even proposing this idea?”

I set the fan on my lap. “Not yet. I’ll let you know before I make a run for it.”

“Take all the head start you need. I’m sure I’ll figure it out and catch up in no time.”

“I’m an excellent runner.”

“Piper calls you wobbly-legs-Boo.”

“She’s one to talk. Her feet are a walking hazard.”

“Go easy on the four-year-old. She’s not had the chance to test her limbs properly yet.”

Glaring at him, I reached into my bag and took out a bottle of liquor I'd borrowed from his smoking room.

He leaned on his knees, watching me take a long gulp. “Stealing is a terrible habit.”

I licked my lips. “You know who to bill for it. He’s made of money.” I pointed a finger at him as I drank again. “And I’m sure I am missing a tintype of me and Piper we took a week or so ago.”

He lit another cigarette. “I paid for it.”

“Do you want my drawers, too, since you paid for them?”

“You can keep those.” He leaned forward, and with how close we were, he was nearly in my face as he pinched my fichu between his fingers, and said, “Did I pay for this, too?”

I nodded.

He pulled the sheer cloth covering my chest, briefly buried his nose in it, and then pocketed it.

As he leaned back, his eyes dropped to my chest.

As did mine.

Maybe the damn corset had a point. Otherwise my nipples wouldn’t be pointing in my husband’s direction.