by Gayla Twist
The train station was their first indication of the chaos that had gripped the city. Strangely, it had never occurred to Violet that she wasn’t the only magical being seeking refuge from the impending war. Travellers crowded the platform from end to end, and getting through the bustling swarm of humanity was like swimming through a hot, angry soup. It had been an exhausting journey of barely catching their train, then crossing the channel by ferry, and then a much lengthier train ride to X. Neither lady was in the mood to be jostled.
Once on the street, Vera realised that she had left her notebook on the train and couldn’t remember the name of the guest house where they had a reservation, much less where it was located. Violet suggested they cast a seeking spell, which sent Vera into a loudly whispered tirade. “Cast a spell? Here, on the street, where we might be seen by anyone?”
Violet hastened to remind her aunt that, “such cautions must surely be needless in X of all places.” Any Mortal living in this city who remained ignorant of magic must be deaf, blind, and terminally stupid.
Raising her hands in reluctant preparation, Vera admitted with some trepidation, “I’m afraid it’s been well over a century since I last cast this particular spell.” Having spent all her life in Surrey, she had little opportunity to get lost.
The incantation did not go well. Vera stumbled over the words in a barely audible voice, for fear of being overheard by the aforementioned blind deaf mute. Her trembling hands did not aid in the creation. By the time she reached the end of the third stanza, there was only a dim light pooling around their feet, leading nowhere discernible.
Violet had no desire to embarrass her aunt, but she also did not wish to keep wandering around the darkened streets where who knows what kinds of magical creatures were lurking down every alley. The girl was quite sure she’d seen a man in a black cape slip from one shadow to the next as they approached. Sneaking her wand out of her pocket, Violet created a quick enhancement spell, which she cast towards her aunt and herself. The light around their feet began to gain power. An illuminated path appeared, leading them down the street. After only a block, the trail ended at the steps of the Pensione Belladonna.
“There,” Vera said, brushing her hands against each other as if to remove some invisible soot. “That wasn’t so very difficult, now was it? There never really is any reason to panic.” They mounted the steps, and the man in the cape, who had been following them by way of the shadows, faded into the night.
* * * * * * * * *
“The proprietress had no call to deceive us,” Aunt Vera stated over dinner. “I don’t care how crowded the city has become. What does that have to do with our reservation?”
Violet had no choice but to agree. On entering the musty guest house, they were quickly bustled down a narrow wooden staircase to a pair of basement rooms with bare stone walls. The floor was damp flagstone, and both chambers strongly smelled of mold. Instead of the panoramic view of the River Stygia they’d been promised, each room had a small, arched window near the ceiling that offered views of passersby from the ankles down.
Violet cast her gaze across the dining table to the English faces who were just tucking into their evening meal. “Honestly, we may as well have stayed in Surrey,” she said with a sigh. “Except that there we’d be comfortable.”
“And better provided for. This mutton is entirely flavorless,” Vera replied in a disapproving whisper.
“I believe it’s been drained,” came a slow, creaking voice beside Vera. An elderly Witch with skin the color of parchment and matching hair had turned to address Vera with a smile that might have been sardonic.
“Drained?” replied Vera.
“You know. Of blood.”
Vera’s neighbour had been introduced to them as Miss Abigail Fate, one of three sisters who had been staying in X for several months. Violet liked them immediately, but she was currently positioned at the table to hear very little of what the ladies said. They were, to the girl’s mind, the best sort of elderly women—dressed in soft, lavender clothes and smelling of rosewater, with sweet, reassuring voices and ready smiles. The only odd thing about them was their three matching pairs of smoked eyeglasses, which instantly brought to mind the nursery rhyme “Three Blind Mice.” Violet prayed she didn’t accidentally hum the tune aloud.
Vera was in a position to hear Miss Abigail’s words quite clearly. “I’m sorry; I’m not sure what you mean,” Vera said, addressing the senior Witch.
“For the Vampires,” Miss Fate said with a smile. One of her sisters leaned in to see down the length of the table, holding a pair of opera glasses to the lenses of her eyeglasses and peering through them.
“It’s a cheap way of feeding both the Crafter and Vampire guests, you see,” said the sister in a hushed voice.
“Vampire guests?” Vera asked, her eyes growing very round. It became immediately obvious to the Witch that two of the patrons of the Pensione Belladonna had plates that were noticeably bare. In contrast, their wine goblets were full to the brim. And not with the Proprietress’s weak Chianti but with a thicker liquid in the darkest shade of crimson.
A little shiver ran up Vera’s spine, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from darting again in the direction of the two barren place settings. The elderly gentleman seated behind one of the plates seized the opportunity to say, “My dear lady, perhaps it’s true that this little haven is not everything one could wish, but what place on this earth is?” he asked with a smile.
Violet had not held tight to the thread of the conversation, but she could detect nothing but kindness in the elder gentleman’s crinkled eyes.
“Surely,” he went on, addressing Miss Tartlette, “you must have come away from your comfortable and familiar home because you found it wanting in some way. And now that you are here, all is strange, and the shortcomings are not familiar ones. But what is that? I’m sure you’ll find the wonders of the great city of X are worth a few inconveniences. In my humble opinion, we who seek to drink from the font of perfection must be forever thirsty. Wouldn’t you agree, Sebastian?”
At this, the gentleman turned to his companion, an elegantly dressed and handsome young man, who remained silent, swirling his wine goblet listlessly. Undaunted, the older man returned his beaming gaze towards Vera.
It was obvious from the gentlemen’s appearance that they were father and son. But where the old man’s brightly colored waistcoat strained over an advancing belly and gleaming strands of silver-grey adorned his widow’s peak, the young man’s frame was still slender, and his widow’s peak was black as jet, matching his linen suit. Where the father seemed almost childlike in his jovial eagerness, the son was as somber as the grave. But it was not a sinister somberness—more the appearance of someone suffering from a severe case of melancholia. In fact, the two were so comically unalike that Violet had to restrain herself from smirking at them.
“I do not expect perfection from a pensione,” Vera indignantly replied to the elder of the pair, “but we were led to expect something quite different from what we got.”
They had been introduced to the two gentlemen in a general way when they sat down at table, but Vera was discomfited to realize that she had forgotten their names and wasn’t sure of the correct etiquette under the circumstances. Did the introduction actually count?
“We were promised two rooms on the top floor, with a view of the river and the cathedral,” Vera said to the table at large.
“Ah, I see,” said the old gentleman. “I see the trouble. Alas, in the confusion of so many arrivals, my son and I ended up in exactly two such rooms.”
Vera stiffened and retorted with a crisp, “How delightful for you. I do hope you enjoy them.”
“My dear lady, you misunderstand me,” the gentleman went on. “My son and I have rooms on the top floor in full sun every morning. It won’t do at all, though we had resigned ourselves to make the best of it.”
Violet could feel her aunt withdrawing into herself. Vera had no ability to dea
l with strangers who were overly forwards. She had turned her attention to diligently cutting her mutton into perfectly uniform bites. But the man seemed so kindly; Violet could not fathom why her aunt was always so suspicious. The girl saw no reason to snub him, so, replying for Vera, she said, “I wish we were so lucky.”
“But you can be,” said he, lighting the room with the warmest smile she’d encountered since leaving Surrey. “Please, allow me to explain. We have no use for morning views. Sebastian and I far prefer to slumber in the comfortable darkness of a basement room and cultivate our perfect view from within. For we believe that if the sun rises in one’s heart, then no darkness can take it away. Isn’t that right, Sebastian?”
The younger man persisted in his silence.
“So what I propose is this.” The gentleman continued undaunted. “We can trade our rooms for yours. Then everyone would be happy.”
Violet found his smile infectious and was unable to resist returning it when he directed it her way. She wanted to accept his kind offer at once, but she felt the restraining hand of her aunt pressing on her sleeve. “I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly,” Vera said in the slightly pinched voice she used when trying to keep her composure in extreme circumstances. Her eyes bulged slightly with anxiety as she fixed her gaze on her plate.
“But my dear lady!” the old gentleman protested. “Surely you can see the mutual benefit of my proposal.” He turned to the young man seated next to him. “Won’t you explain it, Sebastian? You always explain things so much better than I.”
“It would not be of any inconvenience,” Sebastian said in a deep, quiet voice. “It genuinely would be our preference as much as yours.”
“No, no,” Vera insisted. “We absolutely couldn’t impose upon you. It’s quite out of the question.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin and pushed away from the table, abandoning the mutton upon which she had labored so carefully. “Come along, my dear,” she said to her niece.
Confused and alarmed at her aunt appearing so outraged, Violet allowed herself to be led out of the dining room. She really couldn’t conceive of why Vera was so offended. At the door, Violet glanced back to see the old gentleman looking crestfallen. But the young man had finally lifted his eyes and caught hers in a gaze that she found difficult to interpret.
* * * * * * * * * *
Having retreated to the relative privacy of the sitting room, Violet turned furiously on her great-aunt. “What possible reason could there be for not accepting their offer? You yourself said that our dreadful rooms would be the death of you. You think you know all about proper etiquette, but in truth, you’re quite rude.”
“I do not understand this city,” Vera muttered aloud. “I was told that this house was Witch friendly.”
“Witch friendly does not mean Witch exclusive,” came a voice behind them. It was Miss Abigail Fate with her two sisters. They had followed Violet and Vera from dinner, concerned over the discomfort of the ladies. Miss Abigail shuffled into the room, guiding the other two and gazing about the sitting room through the opera glasses that her sister had been using at dinner. Violet hadn’t realized before how old and shrivelled the three of them actually were. So much so that, when they settled onto a small couch ideally meant for two, it accommodated them all with ease.
“Are you speaking of Count Du Monde and his son?” the third Fate sister asked. She had not paid attention to the conversation at dinner, instead devoting herself entirely to the task of chewing her mutton with an enormous set of false teeth.
“I’m not quite sure,” Vera confessed. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch their names. In any event, my young niece doesn’t understand how serious a thing it is to put ourselves in the debt of perfect strangers. Especially,” she said, her voice lowering, “that sort.”
Violet felt a wave of exasperation. She was so tired of people telling her she didn’t understand the ways of the world just because she’d only been in it for the interval of sixteen years. Vera was being a prig, as far as she was concerned. The old gentleman and his son were perfectly amiable, just sitting there enjoying a glass of wine and eating their… Well, come to think of it, they weren’t eating anything. Their plates were noticeably bare.
Violet’s eyes widened suddenly as realization dawned on her. “Just a moment!” she exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say that,” she began and then faltered. “That kindly old gentleman?” She shook her head, unable to get a grasp on it. “Surely not.”
“I’m afraid so,” said the third Miss Fate, taking the opera glasses from her sister and raising them to her smoked spectacles. “This house has always been tolerant of Vampires. Though just now, the Du Mondes are the only two.”
“Vampires?” Violet whispered, barely able to form her mouth around the word. The idea left her quite breathless.
“Vampires,” said Vera, disapproval rolling off her tongue.
“Not to worry. They’re the good sort of Vampires,” Miss Abigail assured them. “Well behaved and polite. Not at all the sort that go around biting people on the neck whenever the impulse strikes. We rather like them, don’t we, Hazel?”
“Indeed, yes,” agreed the sister next to her. “Count Du Monde can be a little informal in his manner. But as far as Vampires go, they’re quite acceptable.”
Vera drew herself up, her hand flying to the lace collar at her throat. “Well, I’m not willing to accept them. Just imagine, Witches and Vampires under the same roof. It’s too vulgar to contemplate.”
She turned to her niece, who stood speechless at the news. “Violet, what would your mother think if she knew I’d let you stay in such an establishment?”
“Well...” Violet began, not quite sure what anyone would think. She’d always known that there were Vampires in X. It was another wonder in a city full of wonders; Vampires and Witches coexisted peacefully within its walls. But it was her understanding that Vampires primarily dwelt in Night Town, the infamous under-city where Witches never dared tread. She had assumed that X was entirely segregated. In truth, she was as shocked as Vera by the idea of sharing a roof with the undead, the mortal enemy of all Witches, creatures with whom her kind had been at war since before history began.
And yet, when she considered the phrase “the mortal enemy of all Witches” and placed it in her mind under a portrait of the amiable Count Du Monde, the resulting image could only be described as absurd. How could such a kindly old gentleman be a danger to anyone? Perhaps, Violet thought reluctantly, he was using Vampire glamour to beguile her, putting her off her guard. But she’d been taught that Witches were immune to Vampire enchantments. Regardless, the Count’s behaviour could hardly be called glamorous. Mortals who survived an encounter with a Vampire always described them as “wondrous, fascinating, luminous creatures, with eyes like impossibly deep pools in which one could drown.” The words “well meaning but terribly awkward” were never part of those accounts.
Besides, the Misses Fate considered these Vampires perfectly acceptable dinner companions. And the Fate sisters were obviously very traditional Witches. So Violet didn’t see why Vera should be making such a fuss.
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xo ~ GT