When saw who was stepping through, though, his legs went numb with relief. He sank back down onto the wall, clutching his sketchbook to his chest. “Arthur,” he whispered.

  Chapter 5

  Gray didn’t think he imagined the way Arthur’s face relaxed, his eyes brightening and his lips curving almost into a smile. Even his chest seemed to sag with relief. “At last,” he said, so quietly Gray wondered if he had meant for anyone to hear. “I’ve come here every day—sometimes more than once. I doubted you would ever return.”

  “So did I.” Gray surreptitiously made sure his sketchbook was turned back to the drawing of the gravestone so Arthur wouldn’t see the one of himself. “Er…I felt an obligation to finish my sketch.”

  “Of course. And I don’t blame you for staying away—from this place, from me. It was all my fault. I allowed you to be hurt in my own home, and then I was anything but forthcoming about the circumstances. I can only imagine what you must have thought of me. I have not forgiven myself for my appalling behavior, so I dare expect more from you. I can only apologize again.”

  “I wasn’t hurt badly. I told no one about what happened. You need not fear that. Yet I cannot help thinking there is something wrong in your house. Something I should not like to be involved in.”

  “I understand.” Arthur nodded, but he didn’t lift his head. Gray found himself staring at the brim of his tall hat. For some reason, Arthur still would not meet his eyes. He wished he could jump up and shake him until he blurted out the truth.

  “Can you not enlighten me—even a little?”

  “I don’t think I could find the words—either to express what I want to, or to explain the situation. Perhaps they are better left unsaid.”

  Gray stiffened, hurt. What did Arthur fear from him? He doubted he was speaking only of the mysterious attack. Yet without open communication between them, how could they ever progress beyond their casual friendship? Perhaps it really would be better to let go of unrealistic expectations now. Arthur did not feel the same as Gray did—his work, and his secrets, always came first.

  “As you wish. I have nothing to add, in that case.”

  “Still, I am sorry. I suppose that is all I really can say. Goodbye, Gray.”

  Slowly, Arthur turned and strode back through the gate and down the path. The sky had grown gloomy while they had stood talking, and a fierce gust of strong wind blew Arthur’s frock coat out behind him. Wishing he dared to call out and stop him, Gray watched him walk away. But his throat had clenched up again, and this time it had nothing to do with the bruising he had suffered.

  With a rainstorm looming, Gray thought it best to start for home. Now that his sketches were finished, he did not think he would ever have cause to return to the graveyard. With his book under his arm and his pencil back in his pocket, he turned and bade a silent farewell to the place—and so much more—before setting off down the same path Arthur had taken only minutes before.

  He quickened his pace as the sky grew darker, hoping he could make it back to his college before the heavens opened. Even more than slogging home in wet clothing, he feared having his sketchbook ruined. The drawing of Arthur might be the only token he would ever have to remember him by.

  A grunting noise from behind, like the snort of a horse but somehow harsher and louder, made him slow and glance over his shoulder. He expected to see someone riding up the path on a horse or pony, but instead his mouth dropped open in astonishment. A familiar figure came shuffling along the side of the road, looking entirely different than he had a few minutes before. Now he appeared bedraggled, even dirty. His hat and frock coat were gone and his face was pale and contorted. If Gray had not known him so well, he would hardly have recognized him.

  “Arthur?”

  The answer came in the form of another strange noise, this one an unnerving cross between a growl and a moan. The tone, however, did not sound friendly in the least. Unnerved, Gray tried again.

  “I say, Arthur. Has something happened to you? What’s the matter?”

  This time, Arthur didn’t bother to make any reply at all. He came loping toward Gray in an awkward manner that suggested he could hardly control his own body. His arms flailed in front of him and his feet turned in with every clumsy step. At first Gray wondered if he could be hallucinating. The only other explanation was what he had suspected on that very first day—that Arthur, for some reason he could not work out, was subject to fits of violent madness.

  Arthur closed the space between them in just a few ungainly steps. Gray realized he would have to run, especially when those strong, threatening hands reached out for his throat again. Wedging his sketchbook inside his coat, he lowered his head and took off in a burst of speed.

  Snarling, Arthur too lunged forward. Though Gray didn’t dare to look back, he heard the ragged breath growing louder and the scrape of boots against the gravel. How long could he hope to keep a safe distance between them? He mustn’t slow for a moment, he knew, but all the same he began to feel his own breath stalling in his lungs and a cramp beginning in his side. Worse still, the first few drops of cold rain struck his forehead and blew into his eyes. Seemingly unaffected by either fatigue or the weather, Arthur stayed close on his heels.

  “Why, Arthur?” Gray wasn’t sure whether he shouted out the words or just heard them in his whirling mind. “Why do you want to kill me?”

  He wasn’t sure he actually heard the other voice that popped into his head, either. It sounded like Veronique, of all people, calling out foreign words he couldn’t decipher. Just then Arthur’s fingertips met his shoulder, grasping the cloth of his coat. The contact was enough to make him lose his balance, and he hit the ground so hard it jarred the sketchbook from his hands. He saw it skitter away while a most astonishing scene unfolded beside him.

  Astonishingly, the Arthur he knew—well-dressed and lucid—leaped on the back of the Arthur who had been chasing him and dragged him off his feet. The two began to fight viciously, with each Arthur punching and kicking at a perfect duplicate of himself! Veronique stood nearby, by turns chanting and shouting in her native language. Neither Arthur nor his doppleganger seemed to pay any attention to her as they struggled. Gray was about to leap into the fray himself, even if he had no clear idea what was going on, when the better-dressed version of Arthur finally managed to subdue his other self.

  Gray stared in horror as he drew a large hypodermic needle from his coat pocket and forced the ugly steel tip into the other Arthur’s arm. The procedure looked painful, but the captive Arthur didn’t seem to react in any way. His contorted face never flinched as the other Arthur unleashed an unknown serum into his bloodstream. A few moments later, he kicked and waved his arms a bit and then collapsed into what looked like a grotesque sleep right there on the ground.

  Panting, his clothes and forehead smeared with dirt, the victorious Arthur stood and stumbled toward Gray. He shoved the needle back into his pocket and held out a hand. Gray took it and Arthur helped him up off the ground.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “N-no,” Gray stammered. His first thought, after making sure he and Arthur faced no further danger, was for his lost sketchbook. Hastily he retrieved it and wiped the raindrops from the pages. Luckily it did not seem to be damaged any more than he and Arthur had been. “What…what happened? What did you inject him with?”

  “A harmless potion that will make him sleep. I’m sorry, Gray. I never meant for this to happen—any of it.”

  Why did it seem Arthur said the same thing to him every time they met these days? Bewildered, Gray walked over to stare down at the man stretched out on the dirt. This, he knew, was the fellow he had seen on that first day at the graveyard, and again in Arthur’s parlor when he had almost been murdered. He was Arthur, and yet he was not. Gray thought he understood the situation at last. He wanted to hear Arthur confirm it, however.

  “Who is he, Arthur? He is like you in every detail—except that he is mad.”

  “My twin brother, Adam.” Arthur nodded grimly. “And he isn’t mad—not exactly—but I can’t explain it here and now. I must get him back to the house.”

  “Let me help,” Gray offered. It gave him some satisfaction to have guessed the truth, but the fact that Adam was clearly ill offset that mild pleasure. His skin held a hideous bluish tint, and his cheeks and chest were caved in. Gray wondered if he might in the last stages of consumption. Perhaps a fever had driven him insane. He had heard about such conditions among his father’s parishioners.

  “You don’t have to,” Arthur said, bending to take one of Adam’s limp arms. He slung it over his shoulder, unconcerned with contagion and unaffected by his hideous appearance. The obvious concern for his brother moved Gray to kneel beside him and grasp the other arm.

  “I know. But I will.”

  “Thank you, then.”

  They set off in a peculiar little procession. Veronique trailed behind them, carrying the sketchbook, while Arthur and Gray half-carried, half-dragged Adam the short distance back to the house. Arthur directed Gray to accompany him to a small room by the stairs, where they placed Adam on a small cot. Gray shuddered when he looked down and saw a variety of broken chains and bits of rope scattered on the floor. Putting a finger to his lips, Arthur motioned him out and locked the door behind them. He led Gray back into the room with the piano, though neither of them took seats.

  Heading straight for the liquor cabinet, Arthur poured each of them a drink and then rubbed his eyes in frustration. “I had no idea he’d escaped yet again. When Veronique told me he was gone, I grabbed the hypodermic and ran out to look for him. I hoped I would find him before he saw you. I failed.”

  “I’m not angry with you. He’s out of his mind—anyone can see that—but he isn’t responsible for his illness.”

  “No. He certainly isn’t. Truer words were never spoken.”

  Sensing that Arthur was on the verge of tears, Gray drifted closer and placed a hand on his arm. Thankfully, Arthur didn’t pull away. Instead, he slipped his fingers over Gray’s and squeezed. The small gesture told Gray more than any verbal declaration ever could.

  “I’m sorry he’s so unwell, Arthur. Is there…is there any hope for him?”

  “None, I’m afraid.” This time Arthur really did break down. Tears dripped down his grimy cheeks, and he sucked back a deep, shuddering sob. “In fact…he’s already dead.”

  “Dead? What can you mean, Arthur? What did you inject him with?”

  “No, no. I haven’t killed him. It’s too late, you see. The fact is, I’ve been keeping him alive…from a wound that ended his life well over a week ago.”

  Gray gaped at him. Surely he had heard wrong, but even when he replayed the words in his mind, he could not reach a different interpretation. “What? I don’t understand a word of this. I can’t help but wonder if Adam isn’t the only one around here who has gone mad.”

  “I share your sentiments.” Arthur’s hands shook as he poured himself another brandy and bolted it down, wincing. “Yet, incredible as it may seem, what I have told you is the truth.”

  Chapter 6

  A few tense moments passed before Gray managed to form a coherent response. He bought some time by sipping at his brandy, which he had forgotten in all the confusion. It helped to clear his mind, or so he imagined when he put the glass down again. “Your story is sensational, to say the least. Yet I can’t help but think you left out a few details.”

  “Well, let me remedy that now. My twin and I always had a peculiar bond—I doubt anyone without a twin can explain it. Both on the island and here in England, we both adored and resented each other, sometimes all in the same day and sometimes in the same instant. Our personalities were nothing alike—I was quiet, studious, determined. Adam lived a fast, reckless life, and he preferred it that way. Then, one night, he bested the wrong man at cards and was stabbed for his trouble. He made it home just in time to die in my arms. I couldn’t see how I could possibly go on without him—but then I had a wild thought—maybe I didn’t have to. Maybe we could bring him back somehow. Veronique knew a way—a way developed by her people on the island. I decided it was worth a try.”

  “You and Veronique decided to bring him back to life? But…that’s not possible.”

  “It is. The technique is well-known on the islands, though few outsiders know much about it. Nonetheless, everyone fears the zonbi, as they are called there. In English, we refer to them as zombies. They are dead, but they still walk—and they even have limited interactions with the living. They are no more than half alive, true, but in my opinion half a life for Adam was better than none at all. I knew I had to risk it.”

  Arthur paused to wipe his eyes. His voice seemed stronger now, almost hopeful. He truly believed in what he was talking about, Gray realized. But how could any of this be possible? Still, it seemed obvious that Adam was no ordinary living man, ill or not. Perhaps Veronique’s methods really could have some effect on a dying man. Island ways were not English ways, that much was certain. And, in all honesty, Gray knew very little about other parts of the world.

  “I…see,” he said cautiously, deciding to listen with an open mind.

  “Veronique and I have been mixing a potion that’s keeping Adam alive—or at least, upright, or among us, or whatever you want to call it. I admit things didn’t turn out quite the way I expected. Most of the zonbi I heard about on the island were just mindless beings—but I assumed that was just legend. I was sure that if I got to Adam quickly, I could reverse the damage. I thought with medicine, patience, and above all faith in the possibilities, I could restore him to the man he once was.”

  “But you couldn’t—or at least, you haven’t,” Gray surmised when Arthur’s voice trailed off. He recalled seeing Veronique exiting the apothecary’s shop—no doubt the parcel she carried contained some elixir they hoped would restore Adam’s personality.

  “At first, I thought perhaps we had made progress. The day you heard the piano—that was Adam, not me. Somehow, he could play by rote, the way he used to in life. I believed all would be well again, and he would gain his old self back, bit by bit. However, that never happened. He grew worse instead of better as the days went on. And finally, he attacked you when he found you in the parlor. Can you imagine? He thought you were a danger to him in some way.” Arthur reached up to rub his forehead. “I couldn’t stop his deterioration. I tried everything science suggested I should. I used every skill my medical training gave me. I pushed Veronique to attempt any additional magic or spell she could conjure. All of it for nothing. Adam is no longer himself. He’s…like a husk, a rind from which the sweet part of the fruit has already been extracted. You wouldn’t have believed it was the same man if you’d seen him when he was alive. He was cheerful…funny…so intelligent…a brother any man would be proud to have.”

  Fresh tears pooled on Arthur’s dark lashes, and Gray felt his own heart breaking too. He knew what Arthur was feeling—he felt it, too, just by imagining what it would be like to watch Arthur die in his arms. He would have done anything to keep him alive.

  But was Adam really alive? Gray couldn’t say for sure. He seemed more like a ghoul from a penny dreadful than a man. It had to be destroying Arthur to know he was responsible for turning Adam into a monster.

  He saw Arthur gazing at him expectantly, as though hoping Gray might come up with some new method they hadn’t yet tried on Adam. Gray had no choice but to disappoint him.

  “I don’t know what to say about any of this,” he admitted. “Of course you only meant to help Adam, and to discover something that would benefit mankind. But the truth is, you haven’t done either. Surely death is the one thing we can’t tamper with. It’s not our place, Arthur, be we men of science or of faith, like my father. What happened to Adam would seem to prove that. We should not interfere in what we do not understand. The results are destined to be tragic.”

  Arthur fell silent, considering Gray’s point. At last he banged down his empty glass on top of the piano and then slumped into a seat. He covered his face with both hands. “I have to let him go, Gray. He needs to move on—to wherever lost souls go when their bodies are done. Where that is, I cannot imagine. Yet, at the same time, I can’t be alone. I need him with me, as I always have—since we were children.”

  “But it isn’t Adam who is with you now. The Adam you knew has already gone to that other place, it seems. And besides…you won’t be alone, Arthur. I can personally assure you of that.”

  Moving to stand beside Arthur’s chair, Gray put out his hand. Arthur reached up and grasped it. He pulled it tight against his cheek. “I think I understand that now.”

  They stayed in the same position for what seemed like hours. Then, finally, Arthur pushed himself up from his chair and went to the door, where he called for Veronique. When she arrived, he stepped out into the hall and spoke to her privately. His face looked haggard when he returned to the room. Gray marveled that he seemed to have aged several years—though he was still the handsomest man Gray had ever seen, or hoped to see.

  “It will all be over tonight,” he told Gray. “Veronique knows what to do. Actually, she’s been begging me to take this very action for days, but I refused. No longer. She will prepare one last potion. Then Adam will be at rest forever.”

  “I’m sorry.” Gray’s own eyes grew moist too. Then he was in Arthur’s arms, sharing his grief and echoing his quiet sobs.

  A short time later, Veronique returned.

  “It is done,” she said in heavily accented English. Her dark eyes moved from Arthur to Gray, though Gray detected none of her earlier hostility. He might have been imagining it, but it seemed as though she was expressing silent gratitude for helping Arthur through his ordeal. “Your brother will be at peace now.”

  They went into the room where they had left Adam earlier, holding hands as they stepped inside. Adam lay on the bed with a blanket pulled up to his chin. The ropes and chains had been cleared off the floor, giving the room the look of a hospital room where the patient has finally reached the end of his suffering. He was still and pale, but nowhere near as hideous as he had seemed before. Gray sensed that he had, indeed, been a forceful presence in life and wished he could have met him, at least for Arthur’s sake.