It was still. The wires leading into it did not move, nor did the jellylike contents. There was nothing bobbing like an apple in a barrel of water, only stillness—like a jar of jam.

Could she have imagined it? She wondered as she rose to her feet. Her limbs trembled and her heart continued its throbbing rhythm, even as she doubted her own eyes.

The sound of footsteps grew louder on the other side of the door, spurring her into motion. She had barely ducked into the eerie bedroom at the end of the hall when she heard the door of the laboratory open. Through the crack, she spied Lord Vincent walking down the polished floor toward that room. Whirling on her heel, she raced toward the window and squeezed out onto the ledge, closing the glass behind her. She quickly climbed down to the grass and sprinted toward the wall, narrowly avoiding the patrol automaton.

The vision of that tank haunted her all the way back to Lord and Lady Morton’s, and continued to plague her as she lay in bed, wishing for a fast and dreamless sleep. She could not forget the image no matter how hard she tried. Not for the first time she doubted her own sanity, because she couldn’t have seen what she thought she had seen. But still…

She had seen something similar in an anatomy book Silas had in the store, and though the thought made her stomach churn, she could have sworn that what she had seen in the tank at Lord Vincent’s was a human brain.

CHAPTER SIX

The bright light of day made everything so much clearer.

When Finley woke up the next morning, mortified that the other part of herself had taken over and broken into Lord Vincent’s home, she told herself of course there hadn’t been a brain in that tank. It had only looked like one—not that she had any experience with brain examination. It had probably been something his lordship was working on—something machine related, and not human at all.

That was what she told herself, and part of her believed it enough to decide not to give it any more thought. Even when she went down to breakfast and found herself alone with Lady Morton, she said nothing.

“You look tired this morning, Finley, my dear,” the lady commented, her tone sincerely concerned. “Are you quite all right?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Lady Morton concentrated on spreading jam on her toast and did not look at Finley. “I thought I heard you come in quite late last night.”

Finley froze. “I… I went for a walk in the garden. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“You didn’t. I thought perhaps you might have gone out.” Now she raised her pointed, and somewhat unsettling gaze.

Frowning, Finley could only stare back. Was she correct in suspecting that her ladyship had hoped she had gone somewhere, or was the woman merely trying to control her anger? It was difficult to tell, but a little voice in her head—a voice she recognized as her “other” self, urged her to trust her instinct. Against her better judgment, she listened to the voice.

“Where do you suppose I might have gotten myself off to? Had I gone out, that is.”

The lady smiled and poured hot coffee into the delicate china cup in front of Finley before topping up her own. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps around the neighborhood? Perhaps you might take a walk around Lord Vincent’s?”

Finley swallowed. Hard. Had Lady Morton spied on her? She hadn’t seen anyone follow her—not that she could remember. Sometimes when her darker half took over the details were fuzzy. “Why ever would I go to Lord Vincent’s?”

This time her ladyship lost all pretense. She set aside her coffee and her toast, and leaned in. “Because you have become a friend to my daughter, and because, like me, you have an unsettling feeling about Lord Vincent.”

This was unexpected. Finley’s fingers trembled as she picked a piece of bacon from her plate and lifted it to her mouth. She took a bite of the salty, crispy goodness and chewed thoughtfully before answering. “He wants Phoebe to replace his dead wife.”

“Yes.” The older woman looked relieved to hear it said aloud. “But there is more. There is something in the way he looks at her, something that makes me shiver. It’s as though he has plans for her, Finley. Like she’s just another one of his inventions.”

This was obviously something that had been bothering Lady Morton for some time. “What does Lord Morton say about it?” It was impertinent for her to ask, but she didn’t think the lady would mind.

Lady Morton rubbed the back of her neck. She looked tired. “He says I’m being foolish, but he would sell Phoebe to a gypsy caravan if they offered to pay his debts.” She pressed her fingers to her mouth, a horrified expression on her face. “I should not have said that.”

But she had, and now Finley had a better idea of what the woman thought of her husband. And what Phoebe’s father thought of her. Poor thing. Finley might not have grown up in a fine house with servants and pretty gowns, but at least she’d always known that her mother and Silas would do anything for her—including lay down their own lives. Silas would never sell her off to protect himself.

“Why did you hire me, Lady Morton?” An unsettling suspicion had begun to form in Finley’s stomach. “It wasn’t merely to be a companion to Phoebe, was it?”

The lady wrapped her fingers around her cup of coffee, as though trying to warm them. “No. I heard from Lady Gattersleigh about your…altercation with that dreadful governess of hers. I knew you would protect anyone you cared about, and how could you not care about my Phoebe?”