Page 9 of Caging Darling (The Lost Girl #3)

CHAPTER 9

B y the time the opera house clears out and Peter and I sneak backstage, I’m astonished to find Renslow still here.

He’s standing over the body of the dead woman, staring at the gaping incision he made in her belly. The blood has clotted black, causing a sharp contrast to her pale skin. I don’t wish to look at her—it feels like an invasion of privacy—but I can’t seem to help myself. She’s so pale, so sickly.

So dead.

I find myself searching her neck for purple bruises. Bruises like John’s. My skin goes hot and cold, an in-between state that feels unnatural.

“I’m unaccustomed to my guests sticking around,” says Renslow, absent-mindedly looking up from the corpse.

“We’re fans of your work,” says Peter. Something about the sentence makes my stomach roil.

Peter almost didn’t let me come backstage. He told me to wait outside the opera house in a teahouse across the street where I would be safe. Bloodcurdling screams weren’t befitting his Mate, according to him.

In the end, I’d convinced him to let me come. I hadn’t needed to feign the fear of letting go of him too long, the dread of what lurked in my future if his shadow self got ahold of him.

Just the implication that I might bring up what happened in the Carlisles’ manor had been enough for Peter to comply. We haven’t discussed it since I left Astor bleeding in the cave in Endor. As we’d flown back to Neverland, Peter had cried as he begged me to believe that it hadn’t been him.

I’d said I understood. And I did. But that was back when I thought I’d be leaving Peter.

Now, a meager two sentences doesn’t seem enough of an exchange for what happened that night. Not that I wish to talk about it either. I just don’t want to relive it.

“I don’t meet many women with a love for medicine and anatomy,” says Renslow, turning toward a basin at the back of the stage and rinsing the girl’s blood off of his hands, but only after placing her kidney in a metal box he has balanced on top of a rickety stool.

“It’s my brother with the affinity for the sciences,” I say. Peter’s ears tick, but I don’t turn to him. I don’t know why I spoke of John in the present tense. Possibly because I don’t feel like enduring rote sympathies tonight.

“But you with the good memory,” says the doctor, now wiping his hands on a towel.

I frown. I don’t feel as if I remember anything. Not other than the brushes of sea-weathered hands, the almost-kisses I wish to forget. My pain takes up all the space in my mind until there’s no room left for the simple ordinary things that everyone else remembers. Like bathing or brushing my hair.

“Not so much,” I say. I find I don’t like looking at the doctor. He has a kind, if not weary, face, one that engenders trust.

I shouldn’t be surprised that my gut instinct is to trust a serial murderer.

The doctor glances between me and Peter, who has his shadowed wings absorbed into himself. Or perhaps they’ve dissipated, hiding in the cobwebbed corners of the room. I’m not sure. Either way, he almost looks human, especially with how he’s grown his hair out to cover the tips of his ears. The doctor’s gaze lands on Peter’s hand on my shoulder.

I must be imagining the way he almost tsks.

“What is it you would like to know, then?” asks the doctor.

“Tell us about Amelia Waterford.”

The doctor, packing his bags now, stills. His assistant steps into the room, but he nods his head quickly, gesturing for her to scurry off.

“Sad case,” Renslow sighs. “Kicked in the head by a horse when she was young. Hasn’t been the same since. Do you know her?”

I frown. “You do?”

He turns to me, then blinks. “Of course I do. I was the one who treated her when it first happened. Not that there was much I could do for the poor girl.” He straightens. “What is this about? Has something happened to Millie?”

I turn to Peter, checking to see if he’s as confused as I am. Renslow is set to become a serial murderer tomorrow. Millie will be his first victim of twelve. Those are the facts Peter supplied me with when we first arrived in Chora. Yet Renslow’s reaction to Amelia’s name is genuine concern.

Either he has no plans to kill her, or I truly am a poorer judge of character than I thought.

“She’s fine for now,” says Peter. “Tomorrow she won’t be.”

Renslow tenses, then buries his hand further in his bag. Probably for a scalpel or some other medical device that can be adapted as a weapon. Not that anything in that bag would be a match for Peter’s fae strength.

“Don’t you dare hurt that girl,” Renslow seethes.

My heart stutters. “Peter, are we sure this is the right…”

Peter’s not listening. He takes a step forward, out of my grasp. He promised not to shift into his shadow form for this, but I’m sure his ability to enact a cruel death isn’t limited to his magic.

“Trust me, he’s the one,” says Peter.

“But…”

“Wendy Darling, why don’t you step outside?” Peter’s voice would be pleasant if it weren’t so apathetic. For a moment, I’m reminded of the Peter who couldn’t feel pain. It makes me wonder if that’s still a version of himself he can step into from time to time if he has to in order to serve the Sister.

“I don’t need to step outside,” I say, standing my ground. Peter’s gaze roams over me, but he doesn’t argue. He just shrugs and continues advancing toward the man.

“Who are you?” Renslow asks, though to his credit, he doesn’t back away. “And why are you going to hurt little Millie? What kind of monster are you?”

My stomach twists into knots, and Peter allows his shadows to coalesce around him. Renslow screeches, but he doesn’t run. He just wields his scalpel from his bag, as if it will do anything to defend him against the advancing fae.

“It’s not us,” I say, drawing near the physician, strategically placing myself between Peter and him.

“Wendy Darling.” Peter’s voice is a warning, but I ignore it.

When Peter asked me to choose him, it was in a decision between him and Astor. The decision of whom to spend the rest of my life with. Well, this is a part of spending my life with him, isn’t it? Disagreeing with him? Keeping him from continuing down a dark path?

“It’s you who kills the girl tomorrow,” I say, hands stretched out in front of me, an attempt to show good faith.

Renslow’s mouth twists in disgust. “I’m a physician, child. I heal. Do no harm. I took an oath…”

“I know, I know,” I say, even though I don’t, really. “I don’t know why you do it, but you do. In every rendition of the future, tomorrow Millie dies at your hand.”

Renslow’s mouth twitches, but Peter has stilled behind me, so I continue.

“After that, you kill a girl by the name of Judith Mooring. Do you know her?” I don’t really have to ask. Renslow’s horrified expression reveals plenty.

“Wendy Darling, what do you think you’re doing?”

I ignore my counterfeit Mate and continue. “You murder twelve people before you’re caught and hung.”

Renslow shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re mad, the both of you.”

“Please, we know it’s you,” I say, fighting for a detail that will make him believe us. “You’re left-handed, are you not?”

He glances down at his scalpel like it’s given him away. “All the victims will end up with wounds on their abdomens inflicted by a left-handed man.”

“I assure you, I’m not the only left-handed man in this city.”

“No, but you’re the only left-handed physician,” I say. “And the victims all have their kidneys surgically removed.”

Renslow’s face drains of color. He blanches, his lips quivering for just long enough for me to glimpse the hint of belief. The knowledge that somewhere deep down, he believes himself capable of murder.

Or, at the very least, he knows what would drive him to it.

“Sweet Millie?” Tears form in Renslow’s eyes, and soon a sob at his wobbling throat.

“But you don’t have to do it,” I say, rushing toward him. When I place my hand on his, he flinches, but he doesn’t pull away. “Maybe if you just tell us why you’re going to do it…maybe we can stop it together. Keep it from happening.”

Renslow’s eyes go blank. Like he’s looking far off. “In the future, however you saw it, did you see whether I meant to kill her? Whether I meant to kill any of them?”

Peter takes a step forward, his shadows lingering dangerously close to Renslow’s neck. “Does it matter?” he asks. “Twelve children end up dead.”

“So, I fail then,” Renslow says, rubbing his fingers against his temples.

When Peter first told me of the twelve murders enacted by a physician who believed himself above the rules of life itself, I’d thought he was murdering out of pride. I’d suspected the deaths were accidental, a case of hubris gone wrong. A man convinced he could do the impossible, regardless of the evidence of bodies piling up around him.

It seems I’m right. “You don’t have to prove anything,” I say. “I know you want to help people. I know you want to prove organs can be transferred from one person to another. But it’s not worth hurting innocent children.”

He turns to me and gives me a look that somehow feels as if I’m the one who doesn’t understand. It puzzles me.

“I wouldn’t have meant for Mille to die,” he says. “I would have tried to save her.”

“Then save her tomorrow,” I say.

Something isn’t right. A surgeon isn’t held culpable if his patients die on the table. Not when their life was in peril to begin with. Millie will convulse tomorrow. Renslow’s surgical skill will be her only chance at survival.

So why does the Sister judge him so harshly for it? Why does she deem the eleven other surgeries murder? And why does the man in front of me not deny it, not defend himself as any rational surgeon would do?

“But does it work?” He’s asking Peter now, like he knows it’s the type of thing Peter would keep from me.

I turn to Peter, who’s examining the man without pity. He smirks. “It’s not up to me to say.”

“Does what work?” I ask.

Neither answers, but they don’t have to. From the side-stage sounds padding feet. A little girl with red hair a shade lighter than Renslow’s, tied into an unruly braid, shuffles onto the stage.

“Papa,” she exclaims, arms outstretched. She can’t be older than three, and she doesn’t at all seem frightened of Peter, even with his shadows swirling around him.

My stomach twists. We’re going to make this girl fatherless. No, I remind myself. Renslow’s going to make his daughter fatherless if he doesn’t choose a different path. And he can still choose a different path. I have to believe it. Have to believe that no matter how many fates the Sister tried to weave for him that turned out tragically, there must be one that she missed.

I have to believe it exists.

“Renslow, don’t hurt those children,” I say. “Whatever pride you have, whatever you want to prove. It’s not worth it. It’s not worth having your daughter know that her father was hanged for murder.”

Renslow stares at me over his daughter’s shoulder, his eyes full of sorrow. “You don’t understand nearly as much as you think you do, child. I take it you’re not the one who saw my future. That he is.” He nods toward Peter, who shifts ever so slightly. “You didn’t tell your lady why I do what I do, did you?” There’s no accusation in his tone. Only relief.

I narrow my brow, confused and annoyed at Peter for hiding Renslow’s motive from me. But then Renslow’s daughter shifts in his arms and turns her bright eyes upon me.

They’re blue like her father’s, but her skin is swollen underneath them, at her neck. I glance at her hands, to find her fingers swollen too. “Daddy.” She whispers in his ear, but like children so often do, it’s louder than one would speak normally. “There’s blood in my drawers again.”

Renslow swallows. Brushes the back of his daughter’s head with his palm. “Your mother can get you a fresh pair.” The next time he speaks, he’s addressing me. “Given how quickly you managed to diagnose Mildred’s nephritis, I imagine you see what’s going on here.”

My stomach hollows out. The girl blinks at me, thumb in her mouth.

“Will she…”

“Yes,” says Renslow. “From what I’ve noted in the journals of other physicians, it seems we have a few months at best.”

I swallow. “That’s why you want permission to transplant organs. To see bodies before they go through the burial rites, while they’re fresh. You’re looking for a kidney for your daughter.”

“I’ve tried to do it ethically,” he says. “You saw how the crowd reacted. Those who have the power to change the law care nothing for curing the diseases they see themselves immune to. Care nothing for treating that which they perceive as a by-product of indiscretion. But my daughter…what indiscretions has she committed to deserve such a fate?”

Pity swells within me as I gaze at the father, already mourning his daughter’s death before it’s even occurred.

“I know why I do it,” Renslow says. “It pains me, to think of harming Millie like that. I do care for that girl. Are you sure?” he says, looking up at Peter this time. “That there’s not a way to save them both? That there’s no way for me to be successful in the surgery?”

And then it hits me, what Renslow will do tomorrow if we allow it.

“Millie’s appendix is inflamed. That’s why she’ll need emergency care tomorrow,” I say, tears burning at my eyes. “But you don’t just remove her appendix, do you?”

“The body only needs one kidney,” says Renslow, as if he’s already committed the crime. As if the justification for it is so evident, he needn’t stretch to find it. “Millie shouldn’t need both of them.”

I clutch Renslow’s arm tighter, though my hands are now trembling. “Her parents bring her to you to remove her appendix, and you take her kidney, too. For your daughter.”

I can see it now, unfolding. From the look in Renslow’s eyes, he’s seeing it too. Millie doesn’t survive the operation. Taking both organs proves too much for her already feeble body to handle.

I see it when that conclusion draws out further in his mind. Renslow will end up killing eleven more after Millie. Meaning her kidney must not have been good enough. Perhaps he doesn’t find a way to preserve it before he transfers it into his daughter’s body. Perhaps the kidney itself isn’t viable. Perhaps…

It doesn’t really matter, though, why it takes Renslow so many attempts to find a kidney for his daughter—if he ever finds one at all.

The attempt and its execution are all that matters.

“Millie’s parents brought their daughter to you for you to save her life, and you killed her instead,” I say, my voice trembling. Renslow’s daughter begins to cry. He doesn’t try to dispute how I speak in the past tense, as if it’s already happened.

“My little Daisy,” he says, brushing his palm over his crying daughter’s hair as snot runs down her nose and onto her thumb. “I’d do anything for her, you have to understand.”

And I do.

Because I’ve seen it.

Because I’ve been little Daisy.

“Wendy Darling,” says Peter, but I hold my hand out behind me to stop him from coming nearer.

“Is Daisy’s mother nearby?” I almost whisper.

Renslow nods.

“You’d better send Daisy to her, then.”

Shocked understanding overcomes Renslow’s expression, but he doesn’t protest. He just plants a warbling kiss on Daisy’s forehead. “Go find your mother,” he says.

Daisy nods, then runs off.

Renslow watches her longingly as she leaves. “You’d let my daughter die?” he asks, but then he turns to Peter. “Does she die? Or did I succeed in that, at least, saving her life?”

Peter doesn’t answer.

“Ah. Very well, then,” says Renslow. “I suppose it doesn’t matter what could have been, seeing as you’re determined not to let it happen.” Then Renslow fixes his attention on me. “And you wouldn’t do it? If the person most precious to you were in peril, you wouldn’t trade the life of a stranger for them?”

“Peter, give me your blade,” I say.

Peter doesn’t ask questions, but the blade enters my hand with hesitation. When I go to pull it from his grasp, he holds on tighter. “Are you certain you want to do this, Wendy Darling?”

I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

When I bring the blade to Renslow’s throat, he shudders. At the cold or the prick, I’m uncertain. “Have you no compassion?”

I crane my head toward him, aghast. “Have you?”

“I’m her father,” he says. “Yet you’d blame me for doing what’s best for my little girl.”

I let out a laugh. “You think spilling the blood of twelve innocent children is what’s best for your little girl? You think, even if you succeeded, even if she lived, that wouldn’t haunt her in the middle of the night? You think she wouldn’t carry their souls around with her wherever she went? That their ghosts wouldn’t become shackles hanging from her ribcage?

“No,” I say. “I’m afraid you don’t know what’s best for your daughter. You only know what’s best for you. You’re not trying to end her pain. You’re trying to end yours.”

“Do you not wish for her to live?”

I’m weeping now, tears pooling on the shaking wrist holding the blade. “Some of us weren’t supposed to live. We were supposed to be at peace by now.”

“She’s my child,” he says. “If you had any, you would know that life and peace are one and the same.”

I’m not sure why that’s what breaks me, but I let out a cry. And when I carve Peter’s blade into Renslow’s throat, when I watch him gargle on his blood until the life spills out of his blue eyes, it’s not him I see.

It’s my father first. Then my mother, so insistent that everything she did was for my good, my benefit. I see Iaso, bleeding out in front of me from the past, spilling her blood unwillingly so that I could live a miserable existence. My parents offering her beautiful, joyous life so that one day I could be shackled to a prison of my own making.

When Renslow’s body hits the floor, somehow it doesn’t feel as if it’s enough. Somehow, it doesn’t feel as if he’s dead enough.

As if they’re dead enough.

As if their spilled blood was enough suffering for all the pain they put me through in the parlor. For the never-ending agony I’m trapped in now.

But then again, my parents aren’t the only ones I hate.

“Wendy Darling,” Peter whispers, putting his hand on my shoulder. When I turn to face him, I realize I must look crazed.

But I’ve never felt so crisp. So clear.

So I hold Peter’s gaze, watch those blue eyes widen in fear—fear of me—when I snake my hand down Renslow’s arm, to his wrist, until I feel the bulge of it beneath my thumb.

Then carve the blade through the divot of his wrist.