Page 58 of Lucy Undying (Dracula #1)

58

London, October 7, 2024

Iris

“Oh! Hey!” I try to keep my tone easy. Maybe Elle won’t notice the diary isn’t a normal book. “How did it go? Do they want the paintings?”

Elle sets down a bag and walks to the bed but doesn’t climb on. She looks flat, like a bottle of bubbly left out on the counter, all effervescence escaped.

“Is that a journal?” she asks.

I glance down at it and grimace. “Yeah. I found it hidden in the house.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“Because,” I start, and I can’t help but grasp the diary tighter to my chest. “Because it doesn’t belong in a museum. I knew this would be the thing you’d want in exchange for all the help. You can have anything else in the house. Hell, everything else in the house. But not this. Lucy, the girl who wrote it? Everyone around her told her who she was, who she had to be. She was constantly pretending, faking every feeling and smile and conversation, just to survive, because she was a teenage girl no one listened to. And because she was queer.”

I lower the diary and look at the cover, trying to explain why it means so much to me. “I don’t know if she even understood what she was feeling, but she was desperately in love with her governess. Writing in here was the only place she could ever be herself. I can’t let her story go into a museum to become an object of interest. She’d be a novelty. I can’t break her trust that way.”

Elle’s voice is surprisingly cold. “You’re the one reading her diary. You’ve already broken her trust. Besides, it was a long time ago. Just the scribblings of a silly, spoiled girl, right?”

Defensiveness rises around me like a flock of startled pigeons, flapping and clacking and clattering in my chest. I can feel my face turning red. “She was so much more than that. She was brilliant and funny and insightful and yes, also probably super rich, but that didn’t help her! People always think being rich negates bad things or makes abuse somehow tolerable. I promise, it doesn’t. It’s just part of the cage they trap you in. And everyone in her life was using her— everyone. No one respected her or listened to her. No one really saw or understood her or even wanted to. I know I’m being irrational, Elle, I promise I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Lucy. But I can’t let the museum have this. I know her better than maybe anyone else ever got to, and I love her.”

Elle softens. Some of the life returns to her face. “She’s that great, huh?”

“She really is. Here, come.” I pat the space next to me. “You can read it.”

Elle climbs into bed, sits between my legs, and leans back against me. She rests her head on my shoulder and snuggles in. “Read it out loud,” she says. “Your favorite parts. Bring her to life for me, too.”

Some of the tightness in my chest loosens. Elle’s not mad, and she’s not going to demand I give the diary to the museum. I knew she’d understand that teenage girls’ feelings and heartbreaks and hopes matter, and they always have. Especially Lucy’s.

I go back to the beginning and read all the funniest passages—particularly the vicious but fair mockery of Americans. But I also read the saddest sections—the descriptions of her mother, the way she’s so desperate to be happy for Mina even though her heart is breaking. The full depth and breadth of Lucy. I breathe life into her so Elle understands.

Elle doesn’t say anything, but she laughs at both Lucy’s jokes and my horrendous attempt at an English accent to narrate her thoughts.

“Oh, oh,” I say, excited. “Let me read you the triple-proposal scene. So awkward. All those idiots in love with her and refusing to notice that she wasn’t attracted to any of them. Poor Lucy. First up is Doctor Seward.” I pause and tap the page where Lucy describes how her mother always gets worse after he visits. “He’s one hundred percent making Lucy’s mother sick so he can have access to Lucy.”

“What?” Elle asks, genuinely shocked.

“Oh, I have so many theories. But Doctor Seward is for sure a bad, bad dude. He’s constantly trying to drug Lucy, too. Thank god she doesn’t trust him. Anyway, where were we? So, he proposes, and she’s shocked because she’s always been polite but never given him any romantic encouragement. He basically treats it like a job interview, listing all his many qualifications.” I switch back into my Lucy voice and read the rest.

Elle snorts a little laugh at Lucy’s descriptions, and I laugh with her. “Right? She’s hilarious. I wish I could have known her.”

“Mm,” Elle says. “You really think she was special.” She traces a finger along the inside of my wrist, then up my palm and each of my fingers. Not touching the diary, just touching me where I’m touching it. “Should I be jealous?”

“Pretty sure she’s my great-great-whatever, and also she was nineteen like a hundred and thirty years ago, so I think you’re safe. But she was definitely special. And I care about her. So much in here is funny and charming, but also sad. See, look at this section. Things are crossed out. Even though her diary was private and hidden, she still felt the need to erase her own thoughts sometimes. She was trying to edit her feelings. It breaks my heart. I wish I could tell her there’s nothing wrong with her.”

When Elle doesn’t immediately respond, I push on. I’m determined to win her over. She’ll agree with me that Lucy was an incredible person, and that we need to protect her private thoughts from being put on display. I flip back to the proposal section. “But just wait. It gets worse for our girl. Because it’s not Doctor Seward at the door next, it’s the cowboy! Who has also showed up to, drumroll please…propose! But he uses super-weird turns of phrases and talks in circles like he’s lassoing his thoughts. I swear he might not even have been American, his folksy sayings are so odd. He was definitely making them up to create an Ultra Cowboy persona and impress all the Brits. Anyway, he’s so confusing, it takes Lucy a long time to figure out he’s proposing, too. Here, I’ll just read it, it’s so funny, you’ll—”

My phone rings from the nightstand. The number makes my heart sink. Dad’s nursing home. I put my free arm across Elle’s chest, holding her like a life preserver as I answer.

“Iris?” Dad’s voice trembles with fear. “Iris! She was here again! She got into my room. I hid under the covers, but I could hear her, pacing around and laughing the whole night. She’s going to come back tonight and—”

“Dad,” I say. “She’s dead. Mom’s dead. She can’t come back. I promise.”

“But she is, she—”

“Call your nurse. Put them on the phone.” I wait. There’s some muted chatter in the background, and then a tired-sounding man answers.

“Hi, this is Greg.”

“Hi, Greg. I left very specific instructions for my father’s room. Have they been followed?”

The pause on the other end is all the answer I need. Bastards. As much money as we gave them, and they can’t follow a few silly instructions?

“If my instructions are not followed to the letter, our contract is void. I’ll move my father to another facility and sue for a full refund.”

“That won’t be necessary!” Greg understands how much my father is worth to them. “I’ve got the list right here. You’re right, some of the items haven’t been taken care of. I’ll see to them personally.”

“Thanks, Greg. I’m trusting you with this.”

“Would you like me to put you back on with your dad?”

“Nope,” I say, and hang up. Then I immediately dial another number.

“Is everything okay?” Elle asks.

“Nope,” I answer. But before I can expound, Dickie picks up.

“Miss Goldaming,” he says. He always emphasizes “Miss” so it’s clear he’s not saying “Ms.”

“Dick,” I say. I always inflect it so it’s clear I’m being crudely offensive, not using his actual name. “Stop fucking with my dad.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit. You’re terrorizing him so I’ll come back.”

“I’m doing no such thing.”

I roll my eyes. “Right, sorry. You’re delegating the task of terrorizing him to someone else. You have plausible deniability and an alibi, and I’m still forced to come back. And what’s with sending Ford here to keep an eye on me? She about broke my arm threatening me.”

“That seems excessive.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Listen.” It’s not a stretch to sound exhausted and pushed past my limit. “Just…leave my dad alone. Put Ford on a shorter leash. Preferably so short she chokes herself on it. Let me finish pretending like I’m a philanthropist, donating paintings and shit to museums so I can feel a little better about the piles of blood money I’m sitting on. Then I’ll come home. Three days. You can even book my flight.”

“The private jet will be available then. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Great. Let’s kill the environment while we’re killing all my hopes and dreams. A clean sweep of destruction. Awesome. But when I get back, things are going to be different. Okay? I get a say. I get an actual voice on the board. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it my way.”

“I’m looking forward to getting you settled where you belong. Where your blood is. Because—”

“The blood is bloody life, yup, got it, bye.” I end the call and throw my phone across the bed in disgust.

Elle scoots around so we’re facing each other. She takes my hands in hers. “We’re running out of time,” she says.

“We are, yeah. I’ve got to go back to the house tonight, sleep there so they don’t suspect anything. We have to make it look like you’re just working for me. Like I’m doing exactly what I’ve told them I’m doing. It’s the only way to keep you safe.”

“But—”

“Please trust me. Go to the museum tomorrow morning. Do your normal routine and job, like I’m not a priority. Sell the paintings if you can, but if not, don’t worry about it. Come over tomorrow afternoon and we can plan more.”

Elle looks torn, but she nods. “I have travel arrangements to make, and I can’t risk being followed. Promise you’ll be careful.”

“They’re not going to hurt me. Especially now that they think they’re getting exactly what they want.” And because I let them think they know how to control me. Threatening and harassing my dad won’t change anything. I’m fully prepared to abandon him. It doesn’t make me a good person, but I already know it’s what he’d do in my shoes.

I climb reluctantly out of bed, then hesitate. “Do you want to keep the journal? Read it for yourself?” I don’t want to leave Lucy here and stop reading, but I trust Elle with it.

Elle smiles and shakes her head. “I wouldn’t be able to do Lucy’s voice nearly as well as you.”

I laugh and throw a pillow at her. “Mean.”

“Bookmark more of your favorite parts for tomorrow. And maybe one of these days you can read the whole thing to me?”

I wish I could. “We won’t have time before I run.”

Elle bites her lip and looks to the side. The light seems to pass straight through her, rendering her nearly translucent. So fragile and vulnerable and breakable. “We will if I come on the boat with you.”

My eyes close. I don’t mean to close them, I just can’t process everything I need to in this moment. None of it feels possible. Not after the life I’ve had, being shown time and again that no one puts being with me over what Goldaming Life offers them—or threatens them with.

“Are you sure?” I can barely force the words out, certain she’ll laugh. That she’s teasing or flirting, or that I somehow missed a cruel streak hidden by her sweet face.

“Ask me to come with you,” she says.

I open my eyes, surprised to find her standing right in front of me. That sense of translucence is still there. It’s not just vulnerability. It’s sincerity. She’s not hiding anything from me. Elle is the only truth I’ve ever found.

“Kiss me,” I whisper, “and come with me. Please.”

She presses her lips against mine, sealing our hope between the two of us. Because that’s what Elle is: hope. That’s what she feels like in my arms. I haven’t had it for so long, I’d forgotten what it was.

Emily Dickinson is right. Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

But things with feathers are always so fragile, and I can’t help feeling afraid of what I’m asking Elle to take flight into alongside me.