Two nights of peace, two and a half days of holiday. The latter being on account of Prof. Wilson’s initially frantic desire to know why the ‘Murrays’ had abruptly cut their sessions short, followed shortly after by a marathon of questioning to do with the answer he was given.
“A repeating suggestion! Extraordinary! What is the schedule you have in mind by which to measure the effectiveness? Can you define in greater detail the difference between the effects of a trance induced for singular commands versus the long term? I would not impose a monthly visit by way of determining the lasting effect of the long-term command, but perhaps bi-monthly? Or at least a testimonial when it comes time to present the full demonstration planned for the university?”
The Harkers had dodged him as best they could, but even with Van Helsing’s patter as insulation, they’d had to parry him with assurances of written detail. Again.
“I will be as thorough in my description as possible, Professor Wilson,” Jonathan swore. “But any future visit to Tuppeton shall hopefully not by for some while, and should only be for pleasure’s sake. Not an exhibition.”
It was the best they could slip away with. To judge by the note sent to their rooms the day after, it appeared Miss Penclosa and Mrs. Wilson had had their own words with him. The interim was a soft span of rested nights and heady days. Among many diversions, they idled down High Street and, at last, found their way to the shop which Mr. Westman had mentioned to Mina before he made his exit. The Kodak they picked out was a lovely descendant of Jonathan’s old model at home. They took their way to sundry scenic corners with tripod in tow.
“We need at least two decent shots,” Jonathan insisted. “One for each of us.”
“Then we shouldn’t take them out where people are milling around,” Mina said with a nod to the milling streets.
“What do you suggest instead?”
Mina told him. Jonathan agreed. Both made their request of Van Helsing. He consented well before they could walk him through the process of taking the photograph. The man took to the role of photographer with speed, efficiency, and a finicking eye for staging that most in the profession did not attain for years. With Van Helsing behind the lens, the Harkers posed in their gifted ensembles standing, sitting, him left and her right, her left and him right, hands held, arms linked, with a bouquet of flowers taken out of their vase and shaken dry for her to hold while he had a stray blossom for his boutonniere…
“I think we have enough.”
“Maybe one more in the armchair?” They sat, they posed, the picture was captured. “Very good! …I think, perhaps, one more with the—,”
“Professor, we need to leave in a quarter of an hour.”
“And?
“You still have your day clothes on.” This fact was reluctantly acknowledged and the Harkers were freed as he went to get dressed. Mina set the flowers back in their vase, smiling. “There must be some fair shots in that pile.”
“If not, we know who to ask for another round.” So saying, Jonathan set the blossom head on the windowsill. For the first time, he did not feel harried about emptying their packed sachet of wild rose petals along the frame that night. They’d not stowed garlic flowers for the sake of sparing their luggage. Who knew? Maybe they would not bother laying out the petals at all that night.
You know that won’t be the case. But it is a daring thought just the same.
It was. He smiled anew when they made their last check before the mirror. His eyes were neither bloodshot nor shadowed. Energy hummed in him and seemed to circle back through Mina. En route to the campus, all eyes remained sharp, and all were rewarded with the sight of the promised stationery shop. It would be their last stop for the inner portion of Tuppeton before they started making more distant trips.
“We’ll need to get in as much activity as possible,” Jonathan said with a hand over where his journal hid. “We have to run out of pages to justify two new volumes.”
“Who is this ‘we?’” Mina’s eyes glittered with conspiracy. “I will make it to the seller first and get both journals myself.”
“She said, assuming I will not outpace her.”
“You won’t.”
“I will. I’ll go right out the window and make it to their door the next morning as they open. There will be no horse fast enough to catch up.”
“Professor, you have to help me thwart him. Make off with his laces or take the shoes themselves.”
“Madam Mina, he climbs like a spider with or without them. I am afraid it is a lost cause.” An impish edge took over Van Helsing’s smile. “For both of you.” Epiphany struck Mina and Jonathan in the same blow. There was much laughing quarrel in the final minutes of the ride, through which the Professor smiled innocently while humming about all the things a man could get away with while the young were out about town. In the interest of stopping them from purchasing double, he informed them that the gifted journals were petite volumes, made for carrying by pocket or purse. In this high mood, the trio arrived and were swallowed by the revelry.
It really was an artfully put-together backdrop. Scholars and students and guests of each had apparently jumped at the chance for a scene of finery. Greybeards and youths alike stood proud with the living gems of wives and fiancées on their arms, each their own dual blaze of mirth as they buzzed through chatter and dance and drink. Jonathan flushed a little at the flicker of memory. A boy and a girl, each short the funds for even thirdhand attire, each smothered in the efforts of study and work, missing the opportunity for a dance among dancers. Both had spun alone with each other on bare feet in a room without chaperones, a secret lamp burning low. Now, here they were. Mina’s hand moved in his with a squeeze. Their eyes found each other and saw the same sentiment glowing there.
“I hear another song starting,” from him.
“We should really find Miss Penclosa and the Wilsons first,” from her, though her feet edged subtly closer to the floor.
“So you should,” Van Helsing agreed, stopping neither of them as Jonathan’s feet glided after Mina’s. “All the more reason to dance and search them out as you turn. For myself, I shall take on the hunt starting from the banquet. They may be lurking under any one of the laden plates or in the crystal bowl. I shall look my way, you look yours. Good luck, my friends.”
Thus they parted. The Harkers, to no surprise, were quite lackluster in their quest for Penclosa or the Wilsons. Their line of sight kept snagging on each other. Neither could help a matching flutter each time a turn brought the light directly onto their partner in full.
“…Can we?”
“There’s a difference between a few friends and a packed audience.”
“There is. That’s why I ask.”
“I believe a third of the room recognizes you, Jonathan. The third that’s staring.”
“Possibly. But I doubt if that many care.”
“We could always do it once we’re sitting down.”
“We could.”
“Then why are we still out here?”
“Because you have not answered yet. I would rather have two than one. And I would rather have one now, regardless of gawking strangers. Strangers who will forget me in less than a week if they have not already.”
“You make a compelling argument, Mr. Harker.”
“One still waiting for a result, Mrs. Harker. So. Can we?”
Mina gave her answer. She did not falter in it even when some heads turned and close voices cooed. No more than Jonathan pulled back when he felt a distinct prickle of eyes crawling on him like judging ants. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but her, but them, but now, but the bliss sealed in their kiss.
And then Jonathan straightened as if stung. In fact, he thought he had been stung, the jolt in him was so sudden. But there was no pain. He had simply spasmed upright from his bow to Mina’s lips as if jerked up by a cord.
“What? Jonathan, what is it?”
“I’m not sure. Had a—a shudder, I think.” He tried a smile. “That or this suit carries some static electricity in it. I didn’t shock you, did I?”
“Not at all. Perhaps the locket spared me.” She grazed the silver oval resting at her breast. “I would gamble on a second attempt once we sit and my face stops being an inferno—,”
“I don’t mind static or singes.” He said so easily enough, though he found he really couldn’t shake the sensation of a creeping gaze moving on him. Not their fellow dancers, he thought, but someone.
“—but I believe our quarry has spotted us first.” Mina nodded over his shoulder and Jonathan turned. There was Miss Helen Penclosa, sat at a far table with her hand raised in a wave. Her smile was placid, but even at a distance her look was one of mixed emotion. Joy and glumness intertwined. The hand not waving held her crutch against the chair.
“We shall have to postpone our second dose,” Jonathan whispered in her ear as they made their way from the dance floor. “There is another name waiting on my dance card.”
“I know,” Mina whispered back. “I spy Mrs. Wilson too, but Professor Wilson appears to be absent. Promise you’ll return to shield me before he makes it back.”
“I’ll do my best.”
They took themselves smiling to the table and greetings were made on both ends. The Harkers sat adjacent to the pair, not quite ready to make a pilgrimage for food and drink as they rested their feet.
“Rest as you need to,” Miss Penclosa insisted. Her gaze rested brightly on Jonathan a moment before it flitted away. “It may be best to sit a little longer than need be, if the rumour proves true.”
“What rumour is that?” from Mina. Her own eyes had sharpened.
“Oh, about Professor—,” Mrs. Wilson cleared her throat. “Well, Mr. Atherton now, I suppose. We heard from Bradford that he has not only lost his lectureship, but his full standing with the university. He was let go not two days ago following an inquiry. Bradford was present, of course, wanting to take note if Helen’s set command would take hold should they ask him the right questions. It seems it did. But that isn’t the issue.”
“Then what is?”
“The rumour that a friend overheard some choice oaths made whilst he was drinking his misery down in the nearest pub.” Miss Penclosa gave the Harkers a less than enthused glance. “Oaths with mine and Jonathan’s names involved. He is, of course, barred from attending this particular party, but…” She shrugged her narrow shoulders and resumed scanning the room like a steady raptor on her bough. “Well, it pays to keep one’s eyes open.” As she spoke, Jonathan caught a sudden cloud passing in her face. He tensed in turn and followed her line of sight. Atherton was nowhere that he could see. In fact, she seemed to be glowering in the direction of some couple whirling around on the dance floor. Penclosa’s look only seemed to freeze colder as they turned in their airy circles.
“Does this mean our dance is postponed, then?”
Miss Penclosa whirled back to face him as if she’d heard gunfire. Her hawkish stare was now owlish.
“Oh! No, no, of course not, Jonathan. Only,” her eyes lost a little light as they fidgeted between him and the dancers, “only it will be an awkward thing if we went all the way out in the center, wouldn’t it? If I were to misstep or spoil your grip somehow it would be an awful show.”
“We can stay at the edge, if you like.”
They began at the edge. Miss Penclosa held onto him as if he were the ledge over a massive drop, but Jonathan carried her easily enough. Her steps were not half so weak as either might have feared. Jonathan was a mobile crutch, taking nigh all her weight, and it all came off as somewhat graceful.
“You must forgive me if I seem a bit hesitant in the lead,” Jonathan said as they dared to inch a little further inward on the floor. “Mina is the one who keeps all the proper dances memorized. I believe you can tell that I am doing my best to copy my fellow dancers’ steps.”
“Not at all. You carry yourself more lightly than any other stumbler on the floor.” Penclosa beamed first at, then past him. “Like that Charles Sadler over there. The blond fellow dancing with the girl in daisies? To my eye he is the best lead of the lot here, and his tread is positively elephantine.”
“You speak as if you know him.”
“I had acquaintance with him in the past. If dear Bradford’s burden is an overabundance of passion, Sadler’s is a deficit. He is one of those common scientific minds who thinks only in dry mechanics. A teacher of anatomy, as I recall, and so it’s unsurprising that he has a fair grasp of the proper motions. But his partner is too enamored to notice she is dancing with an automaton rather than a man interested in more than counting his steps.”
Jonathan looked to the couple in question. The man named Charles Sadler and his companion both seemed equally enthralled to his eye, and each a capable dancer. He might have said something to that effect but for the realization that someone was staring at him. There were multiple onlookers by now, some looking out of curiosity, others out of pity, some out of recognition. But the gawker Jonathan was most concerned with was the one staring at him from the far end of the great room.
It was not Richard Atherton, but a younger man—perhaps Jonathan’s senior by a mere decade—gawping at him and Miss Penclosa as if he were watching the climax of some grisly drama unfolding on a stage. His eyes were so wide the whites showed on all sides and his mouth hung slack even as he tried to follow the dancing pair through the crowd. More than once, the forgotten glass in the man’s hand almost dropped.
“Helen, I think we should get off the floor.”
“Why? Are your arms tired?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the trouble?” Jonathan signaled with his eyes. Miss Penclosa followed his look. The staring man bristled. Miss Penclosa only smiled. “Ah, do not mind him, Jonathan. He has been in a poor state lately.”
“Who is he? Not a friend of Atherton’s, surely?”
“Not to my knowledge. Austin Gilroy has had his faults in recent days—rather, some unfortunate circumstances of health, I should say—but he is at least not so low as that fellow,” Penclosa sighed. “He was one of mine and Bradford’s former partners in the initial round of experiments done to examine my ability. Other priorities drew him out of the work, alas, and then some manner of mental attack upset his professorial prospects. Though I suppose that is a most unfair way to put it. You see, Gilroy was quite a sedate fellow in all his lectures; so Bradford implied. But then, for a stint, he dared to apply a bit of whimsy and humour to his lessons. This was apparently frowned on enough to have his lectureship taken away. Such is the lot for academics with none of the license of, say, the historian or the teacher of literature.” She shook her head. “There is some hope that he might convince those of influence to put him back to rights, but I fear it is still up in the air for him unless he manages to impress them thoroughly.”
Her expression was one of concern, but there was too much of a thoughtful gleam to her eyes to make Jonathan convinced of real worry. It reminded him of the look that had taken her the day she learned that the Harkers had no fitting attire for the ball. A mask of worry through which green lights burned, conjuring ideas all the while.
Perhaps she’s planning the antithesis for Atherton’s trouncing. If she sat the university’s heads all in a row and waved her arms, she could have them hire the man back in a heartbeat.
Jonathan nipped at his own tongue in rebuttal. There was too much ugly insinuation in the thought for his liking. He steered his focus back to Austin Gilroy, only to find the man’s attention had fled in the interim. Now he was sitting on a spare chair. A trembling hand had finally forsaken the glass to lay it on his acquired table as his eyes grew so large they might have fallen from his skull. When Jonathan followed the man’s stare this time, he had to stop himself from crushing Penclosa’s hand and back. She noticed the change regardless.
“Jonathan?” Jonathan couldn’t answer. His attention had shrunk down to the barest and most vital fact of the instant: Austin Gilroy was staring at Mina. “Jonathan.” Jonathan looked back down at Penclosa as if the motion were a great twitch of his neck. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s looking at—,” His gaze flicked over her head. This time it took all his effort not to tear one hand from his partner to rest on the kukri. “He’s going toward Mina.” It was true. Gilroy was on his feet again and making his way toward Mina and Mrs. Wilson’s table at a tentative pace that grew quicker the nearer he drew. Jonathan felt his own feet itch. He was ready to half-hoist Miss Penclosa on his arm to cut through the throng and reach the table first, but a second impulse warred with it, keeping him in the ring of dancers.
Decorum can wait. What are you doing?
He made a lurch towards the outer edge of the dance floor.
“Jonathan.” He halted just short of fleeing, his feet returning back to rhythm almost before he saw what Penclosa’s next words dictated, “It’s alright. Look, he’s just leaving.” So he was. Austin Gilroy paused mid-stride with a hand drifting up to his brow as if fighting a dizzy spell. Then he turned straight around and walked right out of the room. This he did with a far steadier gait than before. Jonathan didn’t lower his gaze to Miss Penclosa until the doors were shut behind him. “Goodness,” she said as he looked sheepishly back at her, “you look as if you thought he was ready to come at her with a broken bottle.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s ridiculous of me. Rude as well, considering he sounds like a friend. I shall have to do some work on my waking paranoia in the near future. I hope I didn’t startle you.”
“Not at all. He is a stranger to you who appeared to be heading for your wife. Gloria and I went and mentioned that nastiness with Atherton. Of course you would be on guard.” She turned a grin up at him that twinkled whitely in her thin lips. “It’s an admirable disposition to find in a young man when you so often see the opposite in action. Mina is luckier than most to have won a husband like you.”
“I do not know whether to be flattered or to wonder if Mina has paid you off.”
Miss Penclosa chuckled at that. Jonathan stopped himself from jumping when, like a girl with her beau, she laid her temple against his front. A hundred wordless exclamations and questions fired through his head. Confusion, embarrassment, and a perilous edge of awkwardness tinted them all, yet he danced on. He realized that at some point they had made their way back inward from the edge and were now nearly at the room’s center. They’d been on the floor three times as long as his and Mina’s first dance. He craned his head up to hunt for the sight of her.
“No, Jonathan.” Jonathan looked down. “No, I have not been bribed. Anyone with sense could tell you the same, provided they were not muffled by pride. That, or a desire to keep you cruelly oblivious to how prized someone like you would be if thrust into the field of those poor girls who have been raised into thinking they should never dare hope for anything but a new burden once the shine comes off a groom. Atherton is an extreme, but not rare. Look around the room and I will wager that half the married parties here are louts who look down on their spouse or are juggling private trysts of their own. The other half are wives.”
Jonathan considered trying to rebut. He considered agreeing. He considered trying to change the topic. But none of the words he needed managed to make it to his mouth as he was still preoccupied with the predicament of Miss Penclosa helping herself to his chest as though he were a pillow. It hardly helped that the change of position meant having to keep his arm pinned at her back to keep her from stumbling.
Ultimately he swallowed a lump and got out, “We should take a seat. I—,” her hands tightened, “—I’ve yet to get anything to eat for Mina or myself. I fear I’ll drop us both if we go around again.”
“When was your last meal?”
“Noon. Roughly.”
At that, Miss Penclosa stood up straight to chide both Harkers for failing to indulge while on holiday. This was followed by their finally making their return to the table. Prof. Wilson and Van Helsing had made their way there. Sadly, Prof. Wilson spotted Jonathan before it could be helped. The next hour was dedicated to giving the same answers in a dozen variations to the man’s questions.
Was Jonathan sleeping better? Had there been any new nightmares in the lull between trances? Was he sure? Could he describe the dreams he did have? Or lack thereof? Did he have it all down in writing? Splendid! Does he have them right now? Is he sure?
“Bradford,” Mrs. Wilson tutted. “This is a dance, not an inquisition. You shall have all the paperwork your heart desires before the Harkers escape, I’m sure.”
“Only taking care to be meticulous, my dear.” Prof. Wilson turned again to the Harkers. “Do forgive me if I overbear. I have suffered once already from the flightiness of those I trusted to remain steadfast in their contributions. A friend and professional no less! I fear the result of his shrugging everything off unfinished has turned me terribly boorish with crossing my ‘t’s and dotting my ‘i’s.”
“You have no need to worry on that point, Professor Wilson,” Jonathan assured as his glance slipped to Mina’s side. Her eyes met his just as her hand found his palm. “Someone has already taken the liberty of typing up a full manuscript of all observations for the past three nights.”
“Yes, well.” Mina affected an air of manufactured innocence. “Someone has a traveler’s typewriter that needed using. It was just to make sure the keys had not gotten stuck from disuse, is all. And that was only after someone else tried to collate it all first when he was meant to be getting his overdue sleep.”
“Which is all to be saying,” Van Helsing sighed. “My good friends will be needing a holiday from their holiday. There was much difficulty to convince them not to bring along work in their bags.”
After a murmur of laughter, Jonathan put in, “This week is the pre-holiday holiday. We have all of next week to see to the real thing.”
“Does that include tomorrow?” Miss Penclosa asked over her glass. Her eyes flashed at him with a glimmer of conspiracy. “If you wished to stop by briefly, Jonathan, you could not only drop off the awaited notes, but also see to a certain matter we discussed in the park.” She behind her glass as she silently mouthed, Found it.
Memory prickled and all at once the fare from the banquet tasted less impressive. Still, he hid his answers in chewing a canapé when the rest of the table inquired as to what this ‘certain matter’ was. For Mina’s benefit, he tossed her a look that declared a covert move was being made which would result in her being delightedly irate upon its reveal. Mina understood all and drew on an indignant face in turn.
“What are you scheming?”
Jonathan almost laid it out right there—he doubted if Mrs. Wilson had her own secret treasury of recipes to counter her friend’s with—but he saw Miss Penclosa put a finger to her lips. The universal signal of matrons wanting to keep a treat under wraps until the opportune moment. An absurd thought swam up:
I wonder if Hawkins would have liked her.
He kicked himself for such a sentiment. Still, he couldn’t shake it away. No more than he could ignore the surprisingly brisk period in which Miss Helen Penclosa had elevated himself and Mina from mere strangers seeking aid up to the level of nephew and niece.
Son and niece, rather. She is warm enough to Mina, but you’ve been having more than your share of flashes back to your time in Buda-Pesth. This time without the caveat of doing your best to convince the nuns you were only sick, not wholly mad. Sister Agatha was kind beyond words in the end, but Miss Penclosa is all that and more to you after less than a week.
But perhaps that was only her nature. There was every chance that she made a career of attentiveness and warmth to a whole cadre back in Trinidad or the temporary homelands before it. In that, she would be yet another addition to the mental collection of sterling figures the Harkers had collected respectively. Proof of the charitable spirit and hearts overfilled with enough love that it spilled over the edges without any effort at all. And, if Mr. Atherton was any evidence, something of wrathful justice as well.
As the ball crawled on, Jonathan kept his eye out for any sign of the man. Mina likewise. He noted, to mingled affection and worry, that her hand toyed daintily with the dress’s accompanying powder blue reticule. Were anyone else to lift it, they might be boggled at the unexpectedly leaden weight inside. One already loaded and ready should the need arise. Each bullet etched with certain symbols and daubed with holy water. Just in case.
The Wilsons and Van Helsing fell into conversation about less scientific matters, leaning more into stories made old by a decade. Van Helsing had mentioned the show they had taken in back home with the magician who doubled as a mesmerist while Prof. Wilson countered with the rise and fall of a ‘Doctor Messinger’ who had been the leading authority on hypnosis on and off his garish stage.
“He got a bit too theatric, so the records say,” Prof. Wilson said with a clicking tongue. “One of his last shows saw him playing up the ‘act’ of battling wills with someone in the audience. Poor reviews and calls of charlatanism shuffled him off into the doldrums of authorship rather than carry on with his shows. Which is a shame, for his writing on the subject was most intriguing. Made extraordinary claims about the mechanics of mesmerism if done by one of exceptional will and ability…”
And on the murmur went. Jonathan found he couldn’t quite make himself focus on the conversation, though he tried. The chatter seemed to slip off his mind like grease and so his attention had no choice but to drift. It lingered happily on Mina for a time, who was able to play a better audience to this latest sermon. Only when his gaze touched on Miss Penclosa did something of worry rise in him. For one hideous instant, he felt certain he was looking at her corpse.
There was a horrible grey stillness about her that suggested funereal photographs of the departed propped up like dolls for the camera. The tint of her face had gone out and she sat lolled in the chair with her hands lax in her lap. Her eyes were half-lidded, neither moving nor seeming to see Jonathan looking into them.
“Helen?” Mina looked up at his tone. Van Helsing and the Wilsons followed suit, each turning pale. Mrs. Wilson half-stood from her seat.
“Helen, are you alright?”
Miss Penclosa didn’t say. It wasn’t until Jonathan put a tentative hand on her arm that she finally blinked and shuddered back to herself. She peered around at the worried faces before summoning a smile.
“Well, it seems I am showing my capacity for parties is less than it ought to be. To think I rested so well before this to be alert for the night!”
“Are you certain you’re well, Helen?” from Mrs. Wilson again, who seemed to be considering circling around the table to her. “You looked as if you were—,” she floundered for a polite word that did not sound too much like ‘dead.’ “As if you had fallen into a stupor. Could you see us at all? Hear us?” Miss Penclosa waved the worry off with her hand.
“I did, Gloria, honest. But it was only in the way that Bradford and his colleagues’ students might ‘see and hear’ a lesson that holds far less of their attention than daydreaming about what they’ll get up to once freed from class. I confess my mind was wandering so far I may as well have been asleep with my eyes open.”
“Ah, I fear that may be my doing,” Prof. Wilson put in. “Talk of a well-spoken charlatan would hardly engage a true champion in any field, let alone the already beleaguered realms of mesmerism. Apologies.”
“No need, Bradford. It is my own fault.” Still, she rubbed meaningfully at her eyes before turning them on the Harkers. “What I need most is some air. All the heat and hubbub in here makes me quite drowsy.”
The message was received and passed by a questioning glance to Mina. True to form, there was also a book in her reticule.
“We could use a breeze as well,” Mina rejoined, already standing. Jonathan made three as they took their leave of the raucous space. They made it out of the building and into a cheery square of greenery. Moths danced about the lamps, ignoring the wan moon. All the music and talk of the ball was no more than a murmur as they aimed for a nearby cluster of benches.
At which point they heard the click of a gun.
“Well now. The witch, the bitch, and the bastard,” a familiar voice slurred through a fog of liquor. The barrel rose until it caught the glow of the gaslight. Atherton smiled. “Lucky me.”
He pulled the trigger.
AUSTIN GILROY’S DIARY
May 4. If just barely. The clock tells me I have but a quarter of an hour until midnight and this entire freakish day concludes. I am shocked that I made it home before midnight with all that has occurred. Where can I even begin?
I made it to the ball. I spoke with those who I imagine will have the final say in whether my chair is still empty or not. Though I will give myself some credit for a convincing plea, I’d also some hints that, what with the far greater debacle of the outright ejected cad of ex-Professor Atherton, my own standing might stand out as an ignorable hiccough by comparison. This might have heartened me on its own merit if that were all I discovered tonight.
Atherton has always been a boor to colleagues and a bully to the very concept of the fairer sex for all that I have seen him salivating over the pretty young companions of his own students. I’ve come near to bashing a textbook across his teeth for the comments I have overheard with regard to my Agatha. Comments I have no doubt he intended for me to hear, the better to flex the muscle of his seniority over me. The man was one of the loudest voices when it came to voting me out of my lectureship. He is no loss to the university or to personal society.
However, it is the reason behind his termination that shot my heart plummeting down into a cold pit. I have been so wrapped up in my own nightmare that the gossip of faculty—indeed, of the town, as I see now by my neglected newspapers—has been quite ignored. It seems Wilson hosted another, far larger party with Miss Penclosa as the star of the gathering. Atherton, more a born contrarian than a skeptic, had been unable to resist the chance to sit for a mesmeric trance of his own to out her as a fraud. Instead, she apparently upended his whole list of sins on the ears of the guests, including many important ears from the university. Sins that had only been speculation until then. One of which had, apparently, resulted in the usually quailing Mr. Daniels nearly pummeling him right then and there.
Once Atherton was roused from the trance and realized he’d shamed himself in damning fashion, he snatched up Miss Penclosa’s crutch as if to brain her with it. But it was not to be. I have the news story of the event in front of me now. The photograph is an eerie thing, if quite crisp.
Here is Atherton with his arm caught and twisted in a man’s free hand. The man’s other grip is upon a startlingly large kukri blade. At their feet, two halves of the wooden crutch lay forgotten. Behind the man in the middle is Miss Helen Penclosa, ‘Madam Mesmerist,’ frozen with wide and unpleasantly luminescent eyes. Atherton was stopped from delivering my salvation by a misplaced hero from some Romantic adventure. I do not know whether to curse or pity him. If my eyes did not deceive me tonight, I think I must admit it is the latter.
The man is younger than the picture shows. I know, because he was at the ball tonight. He wore my fine new suit that I was forced to package and send away.
He is Jonathan Harker, the paper says. Not some traveling soldier of distant India or Araby, but a mere solicitor. There was no mistaking the strange cloud of his white hair or the charming profile of face and stature. No mistaking that it was him I saw dancing with the creature. My gaze had followed her to the dance floor from where she had been sitting and glowering. At intervals she would watch me. At others she would drill her stare through poor oblivious Sadler and the second Miss Thurston twirling about to the music. I might have more fear for him except that, between this and my talk with the higher heads of the university, I rediscovered her being danced around the floor by Mr. Harker.
He seemed content enough in this. Happy, even. I tasted nausea at the recollection of my own…no, I will not pen it twice. Not least because the joy I saw in the young man’s face was of that innocent chipper quality one sees in a friend who is delighted that the service or gift given to another is satisfactory. His mien was guileless in its cheer. Only cheer. Not love. But, God, God! The creature!
She might have been a girl of Agatha’s age swooning over some Galahad. Dread flowered into an entire garden of dawning horror as I first realized Mr. Harker wore a wedding band—and that its mate was worn by a young lady sitting in the company of Mrs. Wilson at what was apparently the group’s table. The apparent Mrs. Harker. She was wearing Agatha’s stolen dress.
Puzzle pieces whirled and slotted in my head at these sights and all the implications therein. Something has gone awry while I’ve hidden myself away from Wilson’s home and the clutches of that devil woman. Though I have not slipped away as easily as Charles Sadler, it seems I have fallen out of style enough that she goes targeting another. This time her errant protector, all ignorant of her intent! So it all appeared to me in the moment, clear as crystal.
Perhaps it was too much to assume on such sparse proof. It could be these Harkers were already friends of the Wilsons or Penclosa. It could be the delivery of mine and Agatha’s attire was some petty prank done to benefit those the creature cares for. It could be I misread all the longing glances of the witch as Mr. Harker waltzed her around in a hold that must have hidden tremendous strength. Could be, could be, could be tolled in my brain as I prayed the suggestions before me were not as they seemed.
But conscience would not let me risk it. I could, if I dared, take a seat with Mrs. Wilson on the pretext of catching up or waiting on her husband. I could talk with the girl who must be Mrs. Harker. I could try to…
I do not know. Do something. Hinder her work in some way, if it was some fresh evil she was seeding. I suspect my initial panic was proven right. For, as I made a move to approach the table, that abominable dizziness seized on me again. Without cause or word to anyone, I found myself marched straight out of the building. I had not even been able to approach Sadler to ask if I might speak with him on his return home. I confess to a unique new beat of fear in my chest as I was walked out and away like a doomed puppet into the night.
If she did indeed have a new would-be lover to pursue, what point was there left for me? There was no reason to carry on punishing me if there was no expectation that I might be cowed into groveling at her skirts. Those strides into the lamp-spotted gloom were the longest and quickest of my life, for I feared—expected, even—that each one was now ushering me along to some fatal destination. I had outlived her interest as a paramour or a victim.
But the moment I was walked around the building’s side, I was stopped. I was tucked into a shadowed alcove and left to stand there waiting like a statue. I tried more than once to shake off the inexplicable orders of her will. But she was not ill in there and so her ailment was not my ally tonight. I stayed put. Waiting as moths rested on my face, as my legs and feet began to ache, as my head throbbed from the sheer anxiety of the lull. What was the point of this? Why shoo me out and leave me frozen like some living topiary? Was I to stand there like a fool all night? At least it was better than being ordered to take blade or pills to my person; so I thought. Think.
Yet as time rolled on, irritation and helplessness combined to make me want nothing more than to scream and stamp and strangle the damned woman.
I stood.
I stood.
I stood.
Until I saw.
Richard Atherton passed me in the murk. He should have seen me, I think, if his senses were not so hazy with the pub’s worth of courage I could smell wafting off of him. Were it not for the iron grip still on my mind, I would have gagged. More, I think I might have gasped to see what he had in his hand. He did not have to wait long before his apparent quarry traipsed out. Miss Penclosa with Jonathan Harker and his wife in tow. The gun raised.
The last clear thing I remember of that moment was the sight of the barrel taking crooked aim in their general direction; whether he meant to put a bullet in their fray indiscriminately or not, I cannot say. But by then my feet were moving and the world fell away to that queer senselessness that comes when the parasite steals me in full. Though there were flashes of events. Supposing it isn’t my imagination filling it in.
I have an impression of my wrestling with Atherton, of voices raised in alarm, of my hands grasping or striking. There were gunshots. The fourth introduced itself to me personally.
Pain exploded in my arm and tore my mind and body fully out of the possession. Atherton’s bullet had fired straight through the meat of my left shoulder. I howled and staggered. Before Atherton could take advantage, Mr. Harker had pounced on him like a lion, catching and wrenching the man’s arm until the Atherton squealed. I believe I heard bone crunch in his wrist as the gun was wrenched away. Mrs. Harker had put herself between myself and the grappling show, her reticule suddenly emptied of her own revolver trained squarely on Atherton. The latter was already prone on the ground. If I had not seen the difference myself, I would have assumed Mr. Harker had been replaced by some ghoulish brother for how brutally he had dismantled Atherton into the broken heap in his hands.
“Jonathan,” from Mrs. Harker. “That’s enough. He won’t run.”
I did not doubt her. Nor the distinct impression that she herself was almost daring Atherton to make another try for her husband, for anyone, for escape itself, if only to give her the excuse to relieve the man of his knees with a shot apiece. Jonathan Harker stepped away from his work, his gaze darting around for the fallen gun.
“I have it,” came the creature’s lightly quavering voice. She did. It was held carefully away in her free hand. Her gaze drifted from Mr. Harker down to me. “Thank God you were there, Austin. How bad is your shoulder? Can you sit up?”
I don’t remember what I answered—or what she made me answer. The ensuing period was all muddled with the vagueness of a dream. All the noise had brought a swarm of men out the door while voices rose to cry for police, for a doctor. I recall the curtness of the Harkers’ description of events versus Miss Penclosa’s nigh Shakespearean retelling. To my shock, she quite thickly laid on the import of my timely heroics. Atherton had the advantage with his surprise, and one or more of the trio might be dead were it not for ‘my’ intervention.
A Dutchman I recognized as none other than Professor Van Helsing appeared from the fray to examine my shoulder. He was apparently a man with a staunch belief in preparedness, for he had brought a small cache of medical supplies with him to the dance. He tended the wound admirably as he babbled out his own thanks, for the Harkers were dear friends of his. The Harkers had their kind words for me too. But whenever I tried to speak, I found my tongue either nailed down or else spouting some benign mumble to do with how it was no trouble, I was simply grateful to be there at the right time.
It was even likewise for Wilson and his wife when they muscled their way to the center of the circus, white-faced and ruddy with turns of excitement or relief. Professor Pratt-Haldane and Charles Sadler joined them soon after, likewise the authorities who came to collect the battered Atherton and witness testimony. Even now it feels so much like the hectic whirl of a fever dream. Fantastical too, for how adamant Miss Penclosa was in painting me and Mr. Harker as the heroes of the hour. Especially, I saw, when those silver heads of Hollick appeared. To hear her speak, I should be owed a medal, a statue, and a holiday in my name. Baffled and half-muted, Sadler was the one to take me home after we had deposited Miss Thurston at her own doorstep.
He was all wide-eyed at the night’s adventure and the state of my arm. I found myself free to make responses more wholly my own. The topic of the creature still needed to come to light, but how could I drop in such a twist then? I had just risked my life to save her and her new friends, after which she sang my praises. More—and this confuses me deeply—she did not maneuver me so that I was forced to take the bullet outright. She could have had me dead right there, making a shield of my own heart or head to block the bullet.
She has not seen fit to throw me to the cemetery. She has even all but cemented my return to professorship and more than repaired my dented reputation.
Why?
Why, why, why?
I ask it because it is a safer question than how? For the latter question frightens me. Deeply.
How did she know to have me out there waiting for Atherton?
How did she know Atherton was coming?
How did she maintain her hold of me so perfectly without buckling on the spot? The only sign of physical frailty I saw was her leaning up against the wall, kneading the high collar of her dress as if she were sprained. Beyond that, she was remarkably hale, though I saw her play up her hobble when Mr. Harker laid eyes on her, the young man and his wife going to support her. The gallant lad offered his arm to help her to hers and the Wilsons’ cab.
Wilson himself stopped at my side before the crowd dispersed.
“The moment you’re able, Gilroy, do come around again. Not for any work. I feel as if you’ve vanished off to some other world for some while now. I admit much of that may be on my head. I’ve perhaps been a bit of a dunce with my attention buried only in the work. Until this moment, even tonight had my brains all abuzz with a new addition to the study. Even if you’ve no intention of resuming our experiments, I should like to have you over again when you’re fit for it.” He had glowed a moment, trying and failing not to cast his gaze after the Harkers. “There is a fresh portion to do with Miss Penclosa’s ability as a healer of psychological trouble added to the pile. A case of a,” another flick, poorly hidden, at Jonathan Harker’s back, “a Mr. Murray seemingly cured of recurrent nightmares by way of mesmeric intervention. I should appreciate your opinion on the section. If not that, the pleasure of your company. Rest up, my friend. I hope to hear from you soon.” And with that he had spirited himself away. Blissfully oblivious.
I know no bliss and I am still at least half-oblivious. But what I can guess is apparent.
One, that Jonathan Harker is a potential new target of Miss Penclosa’s attentions.
Two, that Miss Penclosa knew Richard Atherton was coming with a gun and she led Mr. and Mrs. Harker out at just the right awful moment.
Three, that she had me easily in her clutches through the whole scuffle.
Four…God. I do not want to write it. To think it. But the guess is there.
Four, that there is a possibility that she knew Atherton was coming because she compelled him to come. Which implies:
Five, she is powerful enough to exert her will to such a degree that she can maneuver two puppets at once. I cannot say how much of Atherton’s will was his own if that’s the case. Perhaps he will give something away later once he’s behind bars. I shall have to visit him and see what he has to say. I wonder, will he wake in his prison with no recollection as to how he got there? How he earned his wounds and breaks? I shudder to think that I have been handled delicately by her so far. I shudder more at the final revelation. One I am trying desperately to convince myself is my rewriting the moment in hindsight.
Six, as hazy as my recollection of my part in the fight was, I do know where Atherton was aiming when I took my shot to the shoulder. I know the bullet only found me because however much his mind might have been influenced by outside forces or not, the liquor was powerful enough to make him take a drunken misstep and ruin his aim. Possession cannot erase inebriation. And I know I have the impression of that barrel trying again and again to find the same target before the gun was torn from him.
The gun was meant to aim at Mrs. Harker. With his help and mine. I have vague flashes of my struggles somehow always managing to angle his hand to line up with the girl. To an observer, it surely looked like I was fighting to keep him from firing, but…
I think of it and tremble. I think of Agatha, who will be back home and in my tainted reach so soon, and I want to scream. Whether I imagined that aspect of the fight or not, the threat is still there. Even worse than I had feared. Her power has either been hidden from me or else she has tapped some new well within herself. And now she has yet more lives in her clutches. Sadler has already taken himself to bed. I must pour out as much as I can to him tomorrow. Supposing I can dare to wait so long while these Harkers may already be in danger.
But I am all burnt out now and cannot think straight, much less tear off to mount a rescue that has no shape in my head. Sadler must be told, the Harkers warned, Atherton interviewed. The creature—the parasite—must be shown she cannot make dogs of people indiscriminately, even those she throws a bone.
I must wake early and pray clearer inspiration comes to me.
May 5. I thought myself merely on a precipice. In truth, I am in the Pit. I’d not realized it until today.
For the entirety of the morning, I could not leave my home to go to Wilson’s. I could dress myself, wincing through the mechanics of wriggling my suffering shoulder into shirt and coat sleeves, shaving and donning my shoes. There was even a cab passing by the door as I was about to step out. But when I put my hand to the doorknob, I found myself seizing, then turning straight back up the stairs. This occurred twice more before I was walked back to the mirror. I was influenced into grasping my shaving razor and rolling up my sleeve.
I stood before the glass that way, staring at a haggard reflection, for a quarter of an hour. Unable to set the razor down, unable to roll down my sleeve. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
When I was finally released, I nearly threw the blade across the room. I admit I trembled. It is one thing to consider such a final act in terms of putting oneself to sleep. But to be murdered in such a grisly fashion by puppeteering is revolting.
I sat. I thought. I could do nothing else. Charles Sadler came to check on me. I had shed my coat and shoes already, so he did not suspect I’d intended to leave the house. I opened my mouth to speak to him of Miss Penclosa. To begin the whole mad ramble in earnest. Perhaps if I said aloud that I ‘could not’ leave the place it would magically make her free her grip enough to embarrass me when Sadler might guide me out to prove it was a delusion. Imagine my surprise when I couldn’t wring out a word against her; even about her! It was as if a blockade had formed against my tongue with ushers denying the words I needed most while other, paler topics were let out.
Has she always been so able to manipulate a victim? Can she know my will, my very thoughts, at such a distance and work against me? I had suspected her ability was keyed to acting on certain times. She knew when I held my lectures, she knew when I might be asleep—the ‘when’ of it was surely the main factor in her attacks. Surely she must be blind to me when she isn’t attacking!
So I have assumed. But now I cannot help pondering worse realities.
Perhaps it isn’t thoughts she reads, but intention. A thought is not half so neat as sentences on paper. Thought is all garbled and wordless and piled into each other. A true mind reader would go mad with disentangling it all. So I’ve theorized. I waited until Sadler had come and gone. No doubt the man suspects I am taken ill after my heroic night. My mirror shows I have gone quite wan.
Eventually, I found I was able to leave at noon.
I intended to go to the police. And oh! The thinking and action of it terrified me! She could have ordered a hundred horrid confessions out of my lips for all of Tuppeton’s authorities to hear. The failed bank break-in might very well be the least of it! This I thought was the worst to fear.
Upon reaching the police, I learned otherwise. She had three surprises waiting for me in its stead. A mercy, a muzzle, and a murder.
I confessed nothing she might have forced from me. I still could not mention her name. Stuck, I weakly asked to speak with Richard Atherton. The authorities informed me it couldn’t be done.
Richard Atherton managed to hang himself in his cell last night.
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