“Where are you going? I hope you don’t expect me to gad about at this hour.” Victoria craned her neck around as he strode towards the door. “It is almost dawn!”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I have a pressing engagement with a delightful little somnambulist.” And thus he left before Gabriel could raise another tiresome objection.
Chapter Sixteen
Peculiar Things
My Dear Mary,—I apprehend the strangest things are happening to me. I wake up with begrimed feet and am told that I have been perambulating along London streets in my sleep…with the mad butcher still about! And now there are indelible ink stains on my neck that I cannot account for, to say nothing of the uncanny dreams that beset me each night—always the same faceless lovers. Milli declares I am out of my senses, but that is the pot calling the kettle black. With love, your favorite potty cousin,
Emma.
The vestigial shadows of Emma’s dream had left its brand upon her neck long after the sun resumed its faithful purchase in the sky, albeit obscured behind the familiar London mantle of soot and cloud.
Perhaps Emma had been beset with one of those sleepwalking spells Milli kept insisting she suffered from and had somehow scraped her neck along the way? Yes, that was it! Emma studied her reflection with narrowed eyes, tracing the shape of the little smudge at the base of her throat. A higher neckline might conceal it from suspecting eyes, but if her uncle or Milli chanced to gaze upon it they would like as not only think it another of the many ink smudges Emma was wont to wear. Leastwise that was her hope.
As she dressed herself in one of the dreadful morning gowns that she knew would send Milli into transports of horror, Emma was struck by a peculiar fancy—it seemed to her that the room was leavened with the faintest hint of masculinity; she only had to close her eyes a moment and breathe in the wind blown salt and amber of some wild and ancient crag. Something about that masculine perfume embodied the night itself. It was arrant nonsense, of course, for how could one possibly smell such a thing. She was being fanciful again.
Howsoever fanciful she was, Emma decided not to dismiss any feelings of presentiment. Though she felt ridiculous doing so, she snatched up a long dark strand of hair from her pillow and therewith tied it inconspicuously around the hasp and loop of the window. She would make sure it was still in place before she went to bed tonight, and she would tie her braid to the bedpost for good measure, lest she herself open the blasted window in one of her stupors; a good dose of pain to the scalp would surely wrench her from a dream walk. And a dream lover. If the window should be tampered with in the night, she would know of it by next morning.
Satisfied, she left her chamber to join the family for breakfast. She found Milli uncharacteristically withdrawn, doubtless affected by the gloomy weather. The hush that ensued as they breakfasted was likely of no moment to Mr. Haywood who, Emma knew, believed silence necessary to digestion. And it was no secret he rather preferred when the ladies, the youngest especially, accommodated that quiet and left him to read his paper in peace.
Milli obliged him, however, only until Reid appeared at her side with an epistle atop his silver tray. “The post just come for you, miss,” he said.
She thanked him and broke the seal directly.
Emma recognized the Winterly insignia stamped firmly into the crimson wax. The handwriting, that so inspired her sister’s happy animation, was a neat feminine script that declared itself to be the hand of Victoria.
“Another invitation to Mayfair!” said Milli in rapturous accents. She then gave vent to an ear-splitting squeal, brandishing the letter at Emma.
Aunt Sophie gave a visible start, nearly spilling her tea, and their uncle harrumphed irritably behind his broadsheet. Emma calmly took the letter from her sister’s fervid hand and read.
Half Moon street, Monday.
My Dear Friend,—I fear the weather might prove to be as dismal all this week as it is today, but if you and your sister would honor me with your company to-morrow, I should be very much obliged to see you here at two o’clock for tea and light refreshments. My brother is from town to-day and shall not be returning till Tuesday a sennight. Yours ever,
Victoria Winterly.
“How exciting!” said Milli, her chair nearly toppling backwards as she rose from her chair. “I shall answer her at once!”
“Yes, please do.” Emma gave an irreverent wave as her sister dashed from the room in a flurry of muslin and petticoats. “These rich ladies can’t bear to wait till one has broken one’s fast.” Shaking her head, she tucked the invitation into her notebook for safekeeping.
Milli returned a moment later, much becalmed, having presumably sent off her reply.
“Aunt,” said Emma, “may I have the carriage this evening?”
“Yes, of course but what for?”
“The Littérature Étrangère exhibition in Cavendish Square. I believe I told you about it yesterday.”
“Bless me, I quite forget!” Aunt Sophie pursed her lips, flustered. “You see, I’ve taken a box at Haymarket tonight, for I recall you did express a wish to see Castle of Andalusia. Will you not reconsider and postpone your outing till tomorrow?”
“I would give up any appointment but this one, Aunt.” She was indeed most eager to see that particular opera, but she knew it would be repeated on Saturday, and if she missed that showing too, there was always Macbeth, her favorite play. However, she had tried and failed to find out any information whatever pertaining to the mysterious Littérature Étrangère and, therefore, might very well never get another chance to see the like again. There was every possibility she might be denied admittance, but it was a venture worth the undertaking.
“Well, I’m very sorry to hear it,” said her aunt.
“And I,” said Milli, patting her aunt’s hand, “for she shall miss Mr. Braham singing Faithless Emma!”
Emma ignored the remark and continued poring over Milton.
“Really, Emma, I cannot comprehend your fixation for those moldy old books. They very likely shan’t even be printed in English, for heaven’s sake!”
“You, my dear,” said their uncle, extricating himself from his chair, “might well benefit from such moldy old books as might advance your organon. Perhaps then your wit might improve with your sense.”
Milli waited until he had repaired to his library before leaning forward to stick her tongue out at Emma. “I daresay my uncle would not think you nearly so witty if he perceived the volumes of grotesqueries you read at night!”
But Milli was not able to bring her sister to any proper sense of shame, leastwise none that Emma cared to betray upon her countenance. Emma closed her book with deliberate care and stood to her full height, which was considerably greater than Milli’s. “Then it is a good thing I don’t care sixpence what anyone thinks of me.” That said, she quit the room as calmly as she had delivered her lie.
Would that her assertion was supported upon firmer rectitude, but it was not. She did care what others thought of her, but she knew that what they saw was not who she truly was. She herself did not even know who she was; she durst never look too deeply for fear she would see something that frightened and appalled her. It was why she avoided mirrors, though, thankfully she had caught her reflection this morning or she might not have seen the mark. She couldn’t even have a wicked dream without it being broadcasted on her flesh!
If what she had said to Winterly last night was true, that one could tell a lot about someone by examining their taste in literature, what sort of character did her most private book collection reveal about her heart and mind? Who was Emma Rose really? A lover of grotesqueries? An unwholesome woman of unsavory tastes and peculiar ideas? A relisher of all things dark?
Emma always strove—or at least endeavored to appear—to be a more expurgated version of her true self, and to conform to the straitened template to which she was resigned by her family and society. Lately, however, it seemed the corruption within had gone so far as too mani
fest in dreams. Dreams that induced strange wanderings in the night and spawned incubi to ravish her.
They bedeviled even her flesh, leaving insidious, fragmentary suspicions in their wake—that Winterly’s presence had been no dream at all but, in truth, a living memory! Most alarming of all was that she, in the most shadowy and forbidden corner of her heart, desired that it was true, that he had come to her in the night! Faithless Emma indeed. She had precious little faith in herself of late. The thought was an unwelcome one and she shut the door to her bedchamber none too gently in hopes that evil thoughts would be trapped on the other side of it.
The sound of her aunt’s voice was a welcome reprieve from her thoughts. “And tell your sister,” Aunt Sophie was saying to Milli, “that her uncle wishes to see her in the library, I believe The Times is missing again.”
Rolling her eyes, Emma swiftly threw the door open and stuck her head out. “I don’t have the—” But the hallway was empty. That’s odd. She could have sworn her aunt had spoken right outside her door. Emma was still wearing a look of befuddlement when her sister appeared at the stairhead.
“Our uncle,” said Milli, “wishes to see you about—”
“The Times, I heard. I don’t have it.”
Milli threw a disconcerted glance behind her. “You heard us? All the way from the breakfast room? That’s not possible.”
“You…you were in the breakfast room? Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Milli,” said Emma, frightened, “I think I’m going mad.”
“Yes, I’ve wondered that for some time.”
“I am in earnest, sister! Peculiar things are happening to me.”
“That’s all right”—Milli lifted her shoulders and turned to head back downstairs—“you would not be you if you weren’t a little peculiar. Make sure you wear something pretty to tea tomorrow.”
Chapter Seventeen
Library Of Occultsim
My Dear Emma,—I shouldn’t worry too much about the sleepwalking. Last week I found Sister Margret arguing with a teapot in her sleep. You are to understand she is quite rational when awake; a little potty in her sleep, however. Nothing to fret about. God bless you and your dreams,
Mary.
Postscript:—In somnis veritas—in dreams there is truth.
The building that occupied 28 Great Castle Street was wedged so tightly between its neighbors that it appeared to stoop inward so that the eave above the door was bent like a frown. All was in shadow save that forbidding door, which was lit only by a cheerless lamp. Nothing moved below, within that glare of light, except the gathering heft of unfallen rain clinging darkly to the red bricks and vacant stairhead.
“Must be the wrong address, miss.” The coachman raised a wary gaze to the laden sky. “We ought to head back.”
“Nonsense,” said Emma, climbing the stairs, “we ought to at least knock on the door before giving up.” This was done with a determined knock. Somehow, she felt sure she was in the right place.
Almost immediately, the door swung open, the force of which released a warning gust, throwing Emma’s mantle into a welter. A fine-boned woman of uncommon beauty stood barring the entrance with a sever look upon her pale face. Her hair gleamed like a crimson halo beneath the yellow light. “Yes?”
Emma gathered her wits and stepped forward with the invitation. “I believe this was dropped—”
The woman snatched the invitation with shocking speed. The eyes that had, until then, frozen Emma to the stairhead were a peculiar tawny color. They were now bent sharply over the invitation. Her brows gathered in bemusement when she lifted her gaze from it, then she stood aside to admit Emma. “Enter.”
Emma was so appalled at the woman’s curtness that she nearly turned on her heel and marched off. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder at the carriage driver and bade him return for her in an hour.
“Very good, miss.” And off he went.
Emma all but scrambled after the woman who, as soon as the door was shut, marched off down a long corridor and then a flight of stairs that was very poorly lit. Emma was on the verge of retreating when another door was shoved open to reveal a sight so unexpected that she nearly tripped over her own jaw.
They had emerged into a vaulted room of ancient grandeur and iron chandeliers. There were soaring walls of twisting pilasters and book-lined shelves ornamented with gilded stucco and strange statuary. The ironwork staircases spiraled up towards the upper gallery like stairways to heaven where yet more books were lit by golden candlelight. All was shadow and light and mystery. And it defied reality, for she had seen the drab lines of the building from without and there had been no hint of the magnificence and magnitude disguised within.
There were not very many patrons milling about the area, and those that were—bibliographers and book collectors, no doubt—seemed to have purpose, their heads bent and their eyes scanning deliberately over the catalogues.
“Wait here,” said the woman, handing the invitation back to Emma. Without waiting for a reply, she stalked off. Emma nodded, staring about her in wonderment.
In fact, she was so absorbed in her surroundings that she did not notice the man who approached her until his voice dispelled her awe. It was as though he’d dropped down from some hidden espial, quite out of nowhere and silent withal. “Good evening, mademoiselle.” He was a striking man with long locks of unbound silver and eyes so strange a shade of mahogany that Emma misgave herself they were red. His features were as beautiful as the churlish red-haired woman who now stood behind him. Although, his countenance was a welcoming contrast to hers. “Welcome to our little collection.”
“Monsieur De Grigori is the curator of our family collection,” said the rude woman.
“And this delightful creature,” said he, “is my…sister, Minerva.”
“Mina,” she said, peering down her nose at Emma.
“Emmaline Rose.” Emma’s smile was almost apologetic as she held out the invitation to him. “I’m afraid, Monsieur De Grigori, I have come here uninvited.”
It was not, however, the invitation that seemed to interest him. He ignored the card and took Emma’s hand in his, fixing his gaze to hers as he brushed a light kiss over her knuckles. It was most irregular and unexpectedly bold. A queer energy thrummed over her skin at the point of contact. She might have dismissed it as fancy had not his eyes widened with intrigue, and then narrowed with something akin to wrath. But the latter was so fleeting an impression, gone too soon, that Emma questioned its ever being there in the first place. The smile had never really left his face. “We are delighted you’ve come at last, Miss Rose.”
It was an unusual thing to say and though she wanted to snatch her hand back she was obliged to smile. “I have never seen such a library. It is so beautiful.”
“You are most kind.” He released her hand at last. “Is there a particular breed of literature that brings you here tonight?”
“Well, I…” She wished she had the nerve to declare her interest in supernaturalism, but that was not a subject a refined young lady ought to take interest in. Refined young ladies also did not have unexplained, mouth-shaped bruises on their necks, nor did they confer with incubi. “Something rarified, I suppose,” she said. But that was not the right word. “Something…”
“Recherché, perhaps? We have many books on the occult.”
“Yes, exactly!” It was her very heart’s wish, as though M. De Grigori had divined the desire imprinted there.
“You must permit me to introduce you to my sister, Ana—the occult is her particular expertise.” He nodded at Mina who took it as a directive, for she instantly disappeared down one of the many arched corridors that lead off from the main hall.
At length Mina returned, trailing another woman whose features were so similar that it was impossible to mistake them for anything other than sisters. Only their hair contrasted, the newcomer’s being nearly black—even their eyes were similarly chlorotic. The lady was then
promptly introduced as Diana De Grigori. However, she too corrected her brother and insisted on being called Ana.
“Now I shall leave you in Ana’s capable hands,” said her brother, his eyes flashing at his sisters with some tacit message.
“This way.” Ana’s similarity to Mina’s, fortunately, did not extend towards discourtesy. Smiling, she lead Emma away down the same corridor she had emerged from with Mina. This artery soon spilled them into a much smaller hall, though no less dramatic.
Mademoiselle De Grigori forthwith invited Emma to browse the thick volumes at her leisure. “I think you shall find what you seek here.” The room was empty except for the two of them. Once Emma had assured Mlle. De Grigori—“Please,” the lady insisted, “call me Ana”—that she required nothing more, Emma was left alone entirely with an indomitable little candle and a marvelous wealth of marble bookshelves populated by bizarre little gargoyles.
How perfectly gothic! The thought made her smile, for she felt just like one of the heroines from her novels. But underneath that distinct bouquet that all the very best and most illustrious libraries in the world must possess—parchment, ink, ancient dust motes, and rare knowledge—Emma detected something a little…unpleasant. The very strangest whiff of charnel house rot. Most disconcerting, and fortunately very faint. So obscure, in fact, that it was soon absorbed by the more redoubtable smells of venerable old books.
She must have been distracted, indeed, for she hadn’t noticed the unexpected presence in the room until it gave a croak of annoyance. A beetle-eyed raven was reposing on a perch by the door, a large, formidable bird with a disconcerting black gaze. Really quite the most peculiar pet anyone ever owned, Emma was sure. How had she missed the creature?
It ruffled its coat of iridescent black feathers and continued glaring like an old dowager disturbed from her slumber. Emma was struck by an absurd impulse to make a deep obeisance and apologize for the intrusion. Instead, she endeavored to ignore the occupant and set about exploring the shelves and stiff leather bindings and the stacks of vellum protected behind glass cabinets. She might very well have spent the rest of her life in this room with these wonderful old tomes if permitted.
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