Beneath it, the article is short:
Drowning victim rescued from Hampstead Heath Ponds – shortly after tragic death of the girl’s mother in a terrible accident at —— station, as reported in this paper – admitted to Hampstead Hospital, thought to be in critical condition – attempted suicide or accident?
Odette’s hands grip the paper so tightly it could tear. The sound of chatter and cutlery against plates and cups grows distant; there is only the ringing in her head, like she is a bell that has been struck, hollow and reverberating.
She has no doubt who this girl is. Her anger rips through her high and strong like storm winds against a sail.
Better anger, than horror, blame, grief.
No, she has had enough grief. She is sick to death of mourning.
Her mother coils around her, lank, rotting hair falling into her face.
She has her task yet: revenge.
Only Odette can put this right.
Everyonemust pay.
8
Odette
THE BOAT TRAIN ARRIVESin London on time. The station is crowded with travellers, jockeying hansom cabs and newspaper and chestnut sellers, and the smell of the river rises rank and thick from streets away. There is a dense thicket of scaffolding around new houses, and in the distance, the spires of Parliament and Westminster thrust through the fog.
Home. What a strange word.
Odette has not slept since she read the paper this morning. Not washed, not changed her clothes. A rime of sweat sticks her underthings to her skin and her eyes feel coarse with grit. Her bags are lost somewhere. She has only the last of Miss Rosebury’s money and the stub of the third-class return ticket.
Cecilia is drowned.
It is the only thing she can think of.
Her own dear, beloved, perfect Cecilia.
It is monstrous and unbearable, and the guilt makes her too sick to breathe.
She thinks she will kill Claudine with her bare hands.
She is owed that much.
There is a blessed crush of people who distract her with the smell of bad breath and hair oil and sweat rising from woollen overcoats, their elbows in her ribs, and someone steps on the hem of her dress as they are all disgorged at Victoria. She allowsthe flow of people to pull her down into the underground railway and onto a train on the Middle Circle route. People carry bundles of shopping – presents, she realises – and posters display advertisements for pantomimes at Covent Garden Drury Lane. Her mind is so full that she feels bloated, heavy, confused. There were moments like this in Cambridge, when she would find herself swallowed up, the world unreal, and she might lose two hours, more, walking in a circle around the market or rubbing her finger along the soft edge of a library book.
At Charing Cross, Odette comes back to herself with a jerk when a woman knocks into her hard enough that she cracks her arm against the side of the door, sending a wicked jolt of pain up to her shoulder. Shaking, she sits on the platform until it subsides. The next train takes the waiting passengers, and soon, she is alone.
Distantly, there is the rumble of wheels, and footsteps on the stairs to the ticket office. A mouse scurries over the tracks, quickly lost in the darkness of the tunnel. From the corner of her eye, something moves along the platform. Another mouse, she thinks – or a sheet of newspaper caught up in some subterranean wind.
She chances another look, sees pale skirts, white as a shroud.
Ah. Her mother is back. She lost her in the crowd for a moment, but now she comes to sit beside her and fold their hands together.
‘Why do you delay?’
‘I’m sorry, Mother. I’m so tired.’
A passing couple glance at the strange girl talking to herself. Odette ignores them.
‘Hurry. She must see justice.’