Dust and Silver

Dust and Silver: A Short Story

I step into the room and find myself in darkness. There is little light from the window, whether because the sky produces nothing more than an ochreous glow or because the glass itself is rimed with a mingling of frost and filth, I cannot tell. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and then I see the outline of a bed, of a writing desk and chair tucked beneath the slant of the ceiling.

There is more if I give myself time. I gravitate towards a washstand in the corner, a pitcher and basin of what might be a beautiful blue porcelain in the full light of day. And there, his toiletries lined up—toothbrush and powder, a shaving kit kept in a wooden box, with razor, strop, and soap all arranged and ready for the next morning's use.

I reach out with one hand, then pull my fingers back. A quick tug and I remove my glove before stretching forward again. It is too personal, I think, to be here. To touch these objects as if I had any right to do so. I wonder how I would feel should I learn that he had visited my rooms, pawed over my belongings in the same way in which I run the edge of my thumb over the bristles of his hairbrush, but I cannot find the outrage within myself that should be there.

"What are you doing here?"

A flex of my fingers and I drop my hand back to my side. As I turn around, I raise my chin, though this paltry attempt to make myself seem taller is proved fruitless as he ducks to step through the low doorway.

"Mr. Muir." My pulse pounds in my throat, and I think of what a cacophony I must be to his ears.

"Lady Drummond." He returns the greeting, dipping his head low enough that his face is hidden beneath the brim of his hat. "What are you doing here?" he says again.

I could protest at his lack of etiquette, but instead I watch him. He moves fully into the room, shutting the door behind him with a quick snap that manages to produce only a small click of sound. Under my gaze, he removes his hat, his gloves, and unwinds his scarf from around his neck. There is water on the scarf, drops of rain and melted sleet that shine in what little illumination the window provides.

"They are coming for you," I say, the words pattering out so quick that I find I must stop and take another breath before I can continue. "There was another body, the same wounds... the same marks as the others."

As I speak, he picks up a flint and tinder. A spark, a whiff of sulfur, and a flame is born between his hands. His eyes glow brighter than anything else in the room for several seconds, shades of green and yellow both vying for dominance beneath dark lashes. He lights an oil lamp and adjusts the wick before setting the glass shade into place. "And you are here... why? Do you believe I'm responsible?"

I pace to the other side of the room, the edge of my skirts teasing the circle of light put out by the lamp. "You've seen the photographs. The violence of the attacks is too far beyond anything I've witnessed before."

He matches my stride with a few steps of his own, rounding the table before he hooks a chair leg with his booted foot, the spindly furniture scraping on the floor as he pulls it out and sits down. "And you've seen me kill?"

"I've seen—" I catch myself. I will not do this with him, not now. He will try to goad me, even when all I wish is to save him. "I know what you're capable of. This is the destruction of life for the mere pleasure of it. You take great care to abstain from such ferocity unless dictated by necessity."

Mr. Muir leans back in his chair, the two front legs lifting off the floor an inch as he crosses his right ankle over his left knee. "Necessity, yes." He tips his head upwards, and my gaze traces the length of his naked throat, the swift bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. "How austere you make it sound."