The sudden death of a beloved brother leads a young woman on a quest to find a missing boy and into a tangled web of mystery, blood and fear.
Maitland 1892: When Viola Oswald’s beloved brother Sebastian dies of a hereditary blood disease, Viola suspects her stepfather, prestigious surgeon Elias Sinclair, has used Sebastian’s illness to enhance his reputation. But Viola has no proof until she discovers a letter within the pages of Sebastian’s favourite book – Lambs’ Tales of Shakespeare. A letter that sends a determined Viola on a journey to the country town of Maitland to find a homeless boy who suffered at her stepfather’s hands and can provide the proof she needs.
Once there, Viola finds help from an independent local seamstress and a clever lawyers’ clerk, as well as a ragtag bunch of urchins. As the dark story unfolds it becomes clear that the missing boy’s fate is intertwined with her own and that terrible cruelties are being committed by her stepfather in the name of medical advancement.
Viola fears for her pregnant mother, the child she is about to birth and all the homeless boys caught up in a terrifying web of deceit and death. Will she find the evidence to bring her stepfather to justice in time to save them?
Prologue
Thursday, 7 June, 1892
Sydney, NSW
A corona of sunlight illuminated Sebastian Oswald’s golden hair, the dust motes dancing around his head like angels’ kisses. He turned, hearing Viola enter the room, then patted the wide sandstone window seat. ‘Come and sit here, oh sister mine. The view is delicious this afternoon, the sea as luminous as lapis lazuli.’
A perfect match for his eyes. ‘You’re better,’ Viola announced with a smile.
‘I am. The transfusion stopped my bleeding. It didn’t cause any of the effects I suffered when you gave me your blood, thank goodness. Sinclair’s busy at his microscope trying to work out why. He is convinced it’s because the blood came from a boy about the same age as me.’
‘Move over.’ Viola squeezed onto the windowsill and swivelled around until her legs were dangling next to his, high above the gardens of the imposing Italianate mansion on the ridge at Potts Point. Not wanting to dwell on their stepfather’s obnoxious practices, she rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a somewhat crumpled handbill.
‘Look what I found blowing down the street.’ She unrolled the sheet of paper and held it up.
Sebastian glanced at it, gave an appreciative hum and then closed his eyes against the sun. ‘Read it to me.’
Viola cleared her throat, threw back her shoulders and adopted her most theatrical tone. ‘Her Majesty’s Theatre. Saturday, 9 June, 7.30 pm. Our one and only showing of Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare. Charming disguises and mischievous tricks. Tickets available from the box office at the corner of Pitt Street and Market Street or at the door until sold.’
‘Charming disguises and mischievous tricks. How perfect.’ Sebastian’s voice held a note of pure delight.
‘Shall we go?’
He looked so well. His skin clear, the slightest touch of colour on his cheeks, and eyes the brightest she’d seen for months; none of the usual pallor that followed a bleed. Nevertheless, a nagging doubt hovered, making her second-guess the wisdom of bringing the playbill home. ‘There’s only one showing. Maybe next time the theatre company is here?’
He swung around and jumped to the floor. ‘It’s in three days’ time. I am perfectly fine. Never better.’
‘But a reaction might set in.’
‘It was immediate last time. Remember?’
How could she forget? Sebastian had fallen and all of Sinclair’s traditional treatments had failed. It seemed nothing would stop the incessant bleeding, and his knees had swollen to the size of melons. Sinclair had decided—in his infinite wisdom—to implement Dr Blundell’s technique. It was a disgusting system involving a gravitator, a horrifying piece of apparatus that used a syringe and a funnel to transmit blood from one person to another via a thick rubber tube. Sinclair had believed it would succeed where all other treatments had failed, and had demanded Viola give her own blood to Sebastian for the procedure. The entire prospect had sickened her to her stomach, but she had agreed. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to save her darling brother a mere moment of the pain he so frequently suffered.
She had stood above Sebastian while Sinclair had inserted the needle into the soft skin of her inner elbow—the antecubital fossa, he had informed them pompously. He had punctured Sebastian’s skin with a second syringe, then joined the rubber tubing linking their bodies. ‘All will be well,’ he had assured them both. ‘All will be well. We will give your blood to Sebastian and his bleeding will, within a matter of moments, cease.’
Viola and Sebastian’s eyes had locked, Sebastian’s question easy to read. She’d nodded and offered a brave smile. It might save him days of torment; the agony of incessant ice packs, leeches and bandages. She threaded her fingers through his and squeezed his hand, trying so very hard to still the hammering in her heart and the sheer terror that had brought a sheen of perspiration to her skin.
Sinclair had been wrong—very, very wrong. Within moments of her blood entering his body, Sebastian’s face turned a virulent shade of red, then purple, as his limbs began to shake and his moans reverberated through the room, deep and raw.
It was as though hemlock had entered his system. Minutes later, his body began to spasm, his face contorting with pain. He gasped for breath as he tried to speak.
‘Sinclair!’ Viola screamed.
Sinclair stood over them, blind to Sebastian’s agony, pen and notebook in hand, intent on writing what she knew would be comprehensive notes for his treatment log.
When Sebastian’s agonised cries reached a crescendo, Viola had reefed the syringe from her arm, hoping to halt the flow of her blood to her beloved brother. She snatched the matching syringe from Sebastian’s arm and pressed a cloth over the wound in an attempt to stem his bleeding.
His head flopped to one side and his eyes fluttered closed.
‘Sinclair!’ she shrieked again.
‘A mismatch,’ he muttered. ‘Most obviously a mismatch. Nevertheless, an interesting outcome.’
An interesting outcome? Viola ran her hands over Sebastian’s fevered skin and dropped a kiss on his brow. ‘Sebastian, wake up.’
He had remained insensible for hours, blood seeping from the wound at his elbow, his knees swelling to obscene proportions, his breathing shallow and his pounding heart visible through the fine lawn of his shirt.
Finally, Sinclair had scooped Sebastian’s listless body into his arms, carried him from his bedroom up the winding staircase to the turret, and locked the door.
It had been days before Viola had found Sebastian back in his own room, frail and pale, but almost his usual self. Her blood had come closer to killing him than any bleed had.
She shook away the horrendous memory. This latest transfusion might have worked, but she truly didn’t want to risk a repeat of that first ghastly experience. ‘Let’s wait and see. I’m sure there’ll be another performance of the play.’
‘Rubbish. I am as fit as a fiddle.’ He stood tall, spread his arms and turned, displaying his perfect balance and broad smile. ‘Shall we wear our charming disguises and indulge in mischievous tricks?’ He tapped the playbill. ‘And sit high in the gods—please say yes.’
Sinclair and Mama wouldn’t countenance a visit to the theatre. ‘Viola, please,’ Sebastian wheedled. ‘It’s Twelfth Night. Our play.’ The play they had both been named for. Sebastian’s favourite, and therefore hers.
‘We can sneak out after supper, once Sinclair repairs to his study and Mama to her room, the same as we always do.’
Sebastian wasn’t permitted to set foot beyond the house and garden because of his wretched disease, but years earlier they had devised a plan and since then had embarked on all sorts of adventures—adventures Sebastian cherished above all else. Inspired by the antics of Twelfth Night, they would dress in clothes purloined from the gardeners’ boys and sneak out of the house. Revelling in morsels of normality, they’d made trips to the zoological gardens, visited the museum and the art gallery, or simply roamed the streets under the cover of darkness, embracing each fleeting opportunity to sample a brief taste of freedom.
Viola couldn’t refuse him. They would go to the one and only showing of Twelfth Night while they had the opportunity.
