Suddenly, Beatrice pulled her back by her sleeve into a doorway.
“What is it?” she whispered. “Ow!” Beatrice had accidentally touched her arm. It stung.
“You said they were going to an abbey,” said Beatrice, just as quietly as she had. “Look!”
At the end of the street, Catherine could see a high wall covered with yellow stucco. Over it rose a red-tiled roof and a bell tower with an ornate copper turret.
“How do you know that’s an abbey?” She licked her wrist where Beatrice’s touch had burned it.
“Did I—oh, I am so sorry!” said Beatrice, looking dismayed.
“I’m fine—I mean, ow, but it’s not important at the moment. How is that an abbey? It’s just a wall.” Her experience with abbeys was—well, nonexistent. Monks and nuns lived in them, right? Like in the romances of Mrs. Radcliffe.
“There are many such abbeys in Italy. You see the tower of the church directly above? And look, Dr. Seward and his friend are stopping at the gate.” As she spoke, she took her gloves from her pocket and pulled them back on again.
Catherine stepped out a little from the doorway. Yes, there was the front gate. Just then, she heard a deep clang—Vámbéry had rung a bell, and it echoed down the street. In a few minutes, a man in a brown robe, one of the monks she supposed, came to the gate. Vámbéry said something in Hungarian, and the gate was opened for him. He and Seward passed through. The gate closed shut behind them with another clang.
Then there was silence. The narrow street was empty, except for dust and sunlight. It must be around noon, thought Catherine.
“Now what?” she asked. “Should we try to get closer, to get a sense for what this place is?”
“If it is like the monasteries in Italy,” said Beatrice, “it will be completely surrounded by that wall—the front gate, and possibly a small gate in the back, will be the only means of ingress and egress. I have an idea. It is not a very sensible idea. Perhaps as we are traveling together, I am becoming a little like you, Catherine.”
Catherine grimaced. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. All right, what’s this idea of yours?”
“First, we must return to being holy sisters again.”
Ugh, that was the last thing Catherine wanted. But she was intrigued—Beatrice so seldom led. She was always the one who held back, who gave good counsel. Where would she lead now? So Catherine once again put on the coif, turning around so Beatrice could tie it up the back, then tying Beatrice’s. Then the bandeau, and finally the veil. How was she going to pin it on again with two broken pins? But the blunt ends, which she had kept in her pocket, went through the rough cloth and held it well enough.
“What about our aprons?” she asked.
“If we leave them in the street, it will look as though they fell from a balcony where they were drying,” said Beatrice. “Follow me, and do not speak—hold your rosary and pretend you have taken a vow of silence. I cannot get us inside—only men are permitted to enter such a community. But I can at least ask for information. Veni, panthera.”
Why exactly was Beatrice speaking Latin? But Catherine followed her to the end of the street, which opened into a small square. Along one side was the yellow wall with the gate in it. Through the gate, Catherine could see a church, the same color as the wall, with the red-tiled roof and bell tower she had noticed earlier. Next to it was a large rectangular building that looked like a dormitory.
Beatrice pulled the rope that rang the bell they had heard earlier, just as Seward had done. In a few minutes, the same monk in brown came forward—or at least, a similar monk in brown. How could one tell them apart?
“In nomine Dei, salvete, Frater,” said Beatrice. And then she continued to speak in Latin. Catherine’s Latin had only ever been rudimentary. Prendick had taught her some on the island, but it had mostly consisted of his own schoolboy declamations. Of what Beatrice was saying, Catherine could only understand one word: aqua.
The monk replied, then nodded and walked back toward the dormitory. He disappeared through a doorway.
“Look, there!” said Catherine, just loud enough so Sister Beatrice would hear. In front of the church stood Seward and Vámbéry. Another monk in a brown robe emerged from the church, and then there was a conversation of some sort—the monk was gesticulating a great deal. He motioned for them to follow him, and they all entered through the large church door.
Just then, the monk Beatrice had spoken to returned with a two tin cups of—ah, heaven! Cold, clear water. Even if they got no information out of this encounter, the water itself would be worth it.
Beatrice exchanged a few more words with the monk, then returned the empty cups and expressed what Catherine assumed was their gratitude. She followed Beatrice along the wall and then into another narrow street, where they were out of earshot of the abbey.
“It is called the Abbey of St. Ignatius,” said Beatrice. “He says there are about forty monks, and they live in complete seclusion from the world. His abbot is a very holy man. How holy, I wonder, if he has to do with the likes of Seward and Van Helsing?”
“And what are these forces Seward was talking about?” asked Catherine. “I didn’t see an army. The place looked as peaceful as—well, a church.”
“Could he have meant the monks?” Beatrice looked puzzled. “But why would a group of monks fight for Van Helsing? I don’t understand—”
“I could try to get in and look around,” said Catherine. “There may be a place along this wall where I can climb up. . . .”
“No,” said Beatrice. “Cat, I know you like to go off on your own and investigate. You are like Mr. Kipling’s Rikki-Tikki-Tavi—your motto is ‘Run and find out.’ But now is the time to find Miss Murray. She may be able to tell us how these things connect, and the most important thing of all.”
“What’s the most important thing?” asked Catherine. She sniffed the air. The river was to their right, and not as far away as she had initially assumed.
“Who is Mrs. Harker? If this Mrs. Harker has Mary and the others, our first duty is to find her and make certain they are safe. If I had known this detour would take so long, I would have urged you to contact Miss Murray first and then investigate Seward and Van Helsing. I see now that your instinct is to stalk—it explains a great deal.”
“You should be grateful,” said Catherine. Of course she had an instinct to stalk—she was a puma. What right did the Poisonous Girl have to criticize? “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know about Mrs. Harker, whoever she is. If we take the next right and walk a few blocks, we should get back to the river. Once we’re there, we can find the Franz Joseph Bridge. The road that crosses that bridge leads to the National Museum.”
Granted, they hadn’t found out as much as Catherine would have liked, but they had found out something. Now to join Miss Murray and combine whatever information they had so they could rescue Mary, Justine, and Diana—and of course Lucinda as well—from this Mrs. Harker and the Alchemical Society.
CHAPTER XXI
The Purfleet Vampire
Mary walked down the grand staircase, feeling a little overwhelmed and intimidated. She had been so tired the night before that after Mina had welcomed them and given them a light supper, she had gone directly to bed. There had been so much more to discuss, but Mina had said, “There will be time enough tomorrow. And the Count will be back—he’s expected late tonight, far too late for you to wait up. It will be better to discuss everything when we’re all together.”
Now, this morning, she felt mostly human again—and hungry! Last night, she had not paid much attention to her surroundings. She had gone to bed in a large bedroom, grateful to, for the first time in their travels, have a bedroom entirely to herself. No Diana to snore her awake! This morning, she had looked around that bedroom with astonishment. It was very large indeed, with a high, painted ceiling on which Greek gods and assorted nymphs seemed to be disporting themselves with pagan abandon. It was difficult to tell because
the paint was so faded, the plaster intermittently cracked. The bed was magnificent, although the hangings were faded as well, the once-crimson brocade now pink, with frayed edges and threadbare patches where sunlight came through. But the linen was old and fine, smelling of lavender. The basin in front of the windows was hand-painted with roses. Out of those windows she could see the linden trees in the park around the National Museum, a white neoclassical building just visible through their leafy branches. She could hear a cacophony of birdsong.
She had washed her face and dressed quickly, and then found the staircase again. It was carved of gray marble, with fancy balusters. On the walls, as she descended, were paintings so large that Mary wondered how they had been hung up. There were military scenes that featured men stabbing each other with swords or spears while horses screamed and rolled their eyes, and forested landscape with tiny huntsmen in the foreground, walking along with rifles over their shoulders, dogs running at their heels, tongues lolling. Evidently, their hunts had been successful, because they carried the carcasses of ducks or deer. Here and there, grim men or women in ruffled collars stared down at her. She felt that they would have disapproved of her intensely.
Of all the houses she had stayed in on her travels, this was certainly the most magnificent. Irene’s apartment had been modern and artistic. Carmilla’s castle—well, that had been a medieval ruin. Did it even count as a house? Laura’s schloss had been comfortable—like an English country house transported to the Styrian countryside. But this was truly a palace. A sort of town palace, which made sense if they were staying with a count. This must be how counts decorated, with suits of armor scattered here and there instead of potted plants. Still, it seemed rather bare, and as she walked along the corridor on the second floor, hoping she would run across the others, or breakfast, or both, she noticed that everything was very old. The demi-lune tables against the walls were in the style of a previous century, the mirrors above them tarnished. She spotted an open door—even the doors were twice as tall as she was! And there were Mina, Justine, and Diana having breakfast.
“Good morning!” said Mina. “I hope you slept well. You’re on the park side, and I always find the birds wake me up at dawn. I like rising early myself, but I hope they didn’t disturb you.” She was looking very much as Mary remembered her—in a respectable gray dress with white collar and cuffs, her dark brown hair pulled back into a simple chignon. She did not look much older—some lines under her eyes and an even more composed manner, that was all. There was something thoroughly reassuring about seeing her here, presiding over a large, rectangular table of dark wood with baroque ornamentation as she had presided over the table in the dining room of 11 Park Terrace.
“I did, thank you. But I would probably have slept through a battle—with cannons!” Mary yawned and hastily covered her mouth with her hand. However much sleep she had gotten, it had evidently not been enough. “May I join you? I see some chafing dishes.” They were arranged along a sideboard as baroque as the table. In this room as well, there was an air of faded grandeur.
“There’s everything,” said Diana with her mouth full. “Eggs and sausages and pancakes, very thin ones that look like crêpes but Mina says they’re called palacsinta, and there’s jam to put in them and sugar to sprinkle over them, and coffee and chocolate and tea, and some fried fish that are very good, and some vegetables but I didn’t try those.”
“The Count does not eat—which may be why he always provides so much food!” said Mina. “Come sit. Can I pour you some coffee? Or would you prefer tea? And then I want you to tell me all about your trip. Justine says you encountered . . . your father. That must have been so difficult for you.”
Mary just nodded. She did not want to talk about Hyde right now. How frustrated he must have been to watch them drive off! No, she would not think about it this morning. It was a beautiful day, she was with friends, and there was food in chafing dishes on a long sideboard. She took a delicate porcelain plate and loaded it with eggs, toast, and grilled tomatoes. The cutlery was of heavy silver, beautifully polished.
She sat down next to Justine. Diana was regaling Mina with details of their life in London, including the antics of Alpha and Omega. By the look of her plate, she had already eaten a substantial breakfast.
“How are you doing?” Mary asked Justine in a low voice.
Justine gave her a tentative smile. “Better, I think? Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care . . .”
That was Shakespeare, right? Mary thought it meant Justine had slept well.
“And you?” asked Justine.
“I’m still pretty raveled,” she said. “Maybe breakfast will knit me up again.” She spread butter on her toast.
“Mary,” said Mina, “when the two of you are finished, I would like to speak with you, if I may.”
“And me!” said Diana.
“Certainly,” said Mina in her pleasant, reasonable voice. “Unless you would rather go down to the stables. One of the Count’s wolfdogs recently gave birth, and there are five puppies in a basket filled with straw. Of course, if you would rather not play with them, I completely understand—puppies are such a bother. And our conversation will be very interesting—all about making plans and allocating responsibilities.”
Mary smiled. Yes, that was the Miss Murray she remembered. She had been a very good teacher, a superior governess. Had she handled Mary in the same clever way?
“Oh, well, I think you all can take care of that,” said Diana. “I want to see the puppies. Are they like Hades and Persephone?”
“Yes, but smaller and fluffier,” said Mina. “I’ll ask Attila to take you down.” She rang a silver bell on the table and a footman appeared through a door in the wall that did not look like a door at all—it was disguised as part of the wall itself. He must have been waiting in an adjacent room in case he was needed? He seemed quite young, just a little older than Diana, dressed in the most ridiculous getup—knee breeches? In this day and age? Mary felt like laughing, but he looked so dignified that she hastily put a hand over her mouth.
Mina spoke to him in what seemed, to Mary, a fluent stream of Hungarian. He bowed to Diana and said, “Hier entlang, Fräulein.” Diana smirked, shoved a last forkful of palacsinta into her mouth, and followed him out of the room. She’s going to be insufferable, isn’t she? thought Mary. The last thing Diana needed was a footman treating her as though she were an aristocrat!
“You speak Hungarian,” she said. “When did you learn?”
Mina laughed ruefully. “Only a little, and not very well. I just told him to take young lady to stable to visit tiny dogs, more or less. I’m not even sure I put it in the imperative. Attila is a good boy, a sort of footman in training—his father is the Count’s majordomo, what we would call a butler. He’s around Diana’s age, and she can amuse herself trying to make him understand English. I assume she’ll get him into trouble of some sort, but at least we’ll have time to talk. We have a great deal to discuss. Don’t worry, Mary, there’s no rush—you don’t need to gulp your coffee. Whenever you’ve finished, we’ll go to my study. The Alchemical Society meets in three days, and we need to figure out what we’re going to do.”
“Good morning! Mina, I see you are making plans with our guests.”
Mary looked up, startled. There, in the doorway, stood a man dressed all in black. He appeared to be foreign, but of course that made sense because this was a foreign country. He had prominent features—dark eyes, high cheekbones, and an aquiline nose. Black hair waved back from his face and down to his shoulders. She would not have called him handsome, but he was certainly striking—the sort of person who captured your attention when he entered the room. His accent reminded her of Carmilla’s, but it was heavier, more noticeable in his deep voice. He was not particularly tall, but stood very straight, like a military man.
“Vlad,” said Mina, turning toward him and holding out her hand. “We were just about to go to my study, to talk and plan. Do you have time
to join us?”
He walked to Mina’s chair and took her hand. “Of course, kedvesem. And anyway I would like to meet Miss Jekyll, whom I have heard so much about—all good, I assure you.” He bowed to Mary. “Also it is a great honor to meet Miss Frankenstein. I did not know Victor well when he was a member of the Société des Alchimistes, but I met him once at a conference in Geneva.”
“You met my father?” said Justine. She sounded—startled, nonplussed. Her fork clattered against the side of her plate.
“He was a brilliant student,” said the man in black who must be the Count, because he looked exactly as one would expect a count to look, if he had lived for hundreds of years and was a vampire. Or had been infected with vampirism, as Carmilla preferred to put it. Mary had no idea what to think. Why was he holding Mina’s hand? And what did kedvesem mean? Carmilla had used that word for Laura, back at the schloss. What there something between the Count and Miss Murray?
He bowed to Justine as well. “There are those who believe that his experiments were foolish, that he should never have meddled with the material of life itself. But that was a different time—we felt that we were bringing light to a world still tainted by the darkness of medievalism. Mina would argue that we were wrong, but how can one judge the past by the standards of the present day? Victor was a brilliant young man, and I was sorry to hear of his death. He would have been proud of such a charming, intelligent daughter.”
“Thank you,” said Justine, looking both pleased and embarrassed.
“I’m so sorry,” said Mina. “I haven’t properly introduced you. Mary, Justine, this is my friend Vladimír Árpád István, Count Dracula. If everyone is finished, perhaps we can move this discussion to my study? It will take some time, and I think we will be more comfortable there.”
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 49