As for how to justify my silence, being simply mute as I dare to enter a den of iniquity would be begging for trouble. How could I lend my silence a threatening quality? The answer made me grin despite myself.
I went to a small box I cherished from school. A makeup kit.
When the Connecticut Asylum attempted a theatrical production, it was a pitiful event, but I admired the teachers for their optimism and their efforts. I was the resident wizard of the brush; my artistic skills with greasepaint and prosthetic were legendary. Our presentation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was the height of irony, for our Titania was blind and could not see when Bottom had gained the head of an ass, and so the entire comedy of her infatuation was moot. However, the effects I offered the fairies and mechanicals were highly praised.
This evening, in under an hour I created such an ugly, off-putting gash around my throat that no one dared question why I was silent or, hopefully, the type of company someone with such a token would keep. It would be my most identifying mark, one that would disappear at the end of my night.
And where was I headed? Well, wherever the demon would lead. If his first strike was any indication, and if, like ghosts, he was a creature of habit, he would go again to the Five Points.
The infamous, legendary Five Points. A few miles south from my home but a whole world away. While the crime in the area was severe, I wondered if legend had made it larger than life. I recall some of my father’s friends championing the area as having been one of the most culturally interesting places in the city—a place where boundaries hardly existed and cultures mixed freely. That was the area’s virtue and its bane.
But the horrific Draft Riots had changed all that when I was a toddler. Negro men, women, and children were chased, mobbed, and beaten, a man even torn to pieces by angry Irish mobs who resented being drafted into the Civil War when the rich could buy their way out. So the ward certainly had its historical demons, let alone any who wished to terrorize it today.
As for the logistics of getting to this infamous neighborhood, I’d follow the demon’s lead and take a carriage—I would have one waiting for me. Handing a large enough bill to the driver would ensure service. I dearly hoped my poor father didn’t count his bills each day, lest he miss these few grand ones that would hopefully gain me entrances and keep me alive. I’d beg fresh ones from Mrs. Northe and claim dire necessity. Surely she’d understand the urgency.
I have tucked my small yet trusted knife into my pocket. One may wonder how a young lady might come to be in the possession of a knife. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I’d gained it by disarming a boy at school. Having threatened me, this boy justly deserved to lose the ivory-handled piece. If I’ve learned one thing about boys, it’s that they dearly need to understand the notion of consequences for their actions.
Here I pause to recall the moment of glory. I disarmed the cretin myself (I grow prouder of this moment the more I recall it), and while he was far larger than I, I was a quick study.
I’d been watching a fighting class from my window, looking down onto the green where the deaf and the mute boys (not the blind ones, of course) practiced fencing, sword fighting, and basic moves with a staff. I stole any moment I could to practice thrusts and parries, a stick in hand, while watching from two flights above.
I was, at least in perfect imitation, quite good. And so when the heathen (certainly no gentleman) brandished the knife in front of me, I disarmed him. He was appropriately shocked and too embarrassed to ask for it back, and I wouldn’t have given it to him anyway, as I had earned it. But I digress.
This is the story of my trip to the Five Points, not about my personal armory. However, the knife story is one that should go down in my annals, and so it has, to bolster me. But enough of proud memory. I tucked the knife in my trousers, in a place of close reach, and there it remains. A small comfort against the enormity of my nerves. Say prayers for me, dear diary. I’ll need them.
Later…
Here I sit in my hiding place at the museum, waiting for the fiend’s visit.
I could have easily walked the distance from home to the museum, but when I saw an available carriage, I hailed him by stepping in front of his lanterns.
Holding out a previously written note for the driver, I stared at him with hard eyes that didn’t wait for him to ask why I didn’t speak instructions to him. He nodded, and I jumped in. In moments I was out again and starting up the museum stairs, wondering how long I’d have to wait before a familiar, beautiful face with the shade of a devil might tread these same stairs.
The moonlight was bright and illuminated the redbrick and gray granite details of the museum, making it look like a Gothic palace in a haunted tale. I’d heard talk of renovations and expansions to create a building that would loom large and luminously white over Fifth Avenue. How much more grand and ghostly would the museum look in the future?
I had no guarantee that the beast would come here. But instinct—and my dreams—told me that his visit was likely enough for me to try.
As I ascended to the arched doors, I held the keys Mrs. Northe had made for me tightly, feeling guilty for having lied to her. I had promised her I would do nothing rash and nothing alone. Denbury exists in the painting, a friend in this odd quest, though trapped and unable to lend a hand. But I couldn’t put Mrs. Northe in jeopardy in what’s clearly my task. I have been chosen for this. Forces beyond me have stated this implicitly. Perhaps I was born for this. I am just as capable as the young men I’d read about in adventure books (save that I’m mute and a girl). Then again, adventure often favors the improbable.
At the door, I flashed the guard a note saying I had been hired as a rear post. The note was stamped with a Metropolitan seal that I’d gained from Father’s desk. The guard could have cared less and opened the front doors for me. I’d hoped the guard would be lax, but his indifference did make me fear for the safety of the art.
As I descended to the exhibition room, I straightened masculine coat sleeves that felt oddly at angles on my body and wondered what Jonathon would think. There was no turning back, I thought, as I drew back the curtain. I did not hesitate to slip my fingers onto the canvas and into the cool pool, and to step through.
I fell, as usual, against him. But instead of the embrace I’d grown unashamedly accustomed to, I was greeted with: “Who the devil are you?”
“It’s Natalie,” I replied.
Jonathon gaped. “What on earth are you doing dressed as a boy?”
“When your double comes to call, I plan to follow him,” I replied.
His eyes widened. “You cannot be serious.”
I shrugged. “I cannot involve the police. They’d arrest your body, and then what would you do? We need information! We need to know about the runes and the poetry, the carving on your arm, the cartouche, and the ritual. We need to discover our lynchpin, to find out how it all comes together. I won’t interact with the beast, merely observe.”
Shaking his head, he stated, “I cannot allow you to undertake such risk on my account, to descend into the very depths of Hell itself.”
“It’s not Hell, it’s the Five Points. Though I have heard the two equated.”
“I will keep you here by force.” He grabbed my arm, his face flushed, defiant, and never more handsome.
“And what good will that do either of us? Let me take my hiding place in the alcove around the corner so that I may listen, slip out behind him, and see what occurs.”
“You’re mad!”
“Do you want out of this mess or not?”
Jonathon gaped at me. “You’re not frightened?”
My subsequent laugh sounded a bit hysterical, my nerves now on display. “Oh, quite. But Mrs. Northe has assured me that our fates have become entwined whether we like it or not, so I might as well try to be useful.”
“You’re the bravest woman I know…” He approached me, taking my hands, lifting my cap to touch my curls, and seeking the me who was more familiar t
o him. “Don’t do this—”
“Hush, don’t be sentimental and don’t act like I’m going to die, please,” I grumbled, though I couldn’t help leaning into his outstretched hand a bit. It was then he noticed the tip of the red gash I’d fashioned and he gasped.
“Good God—”
“Theatrical effect,” I assured him. “To explain my lack of voice in a way that denotes the company I keep rather than my weakness.”
His horror turned to admiration. “That’s brilliant. You are absolutely brilliant.”
“I’ve read too many books,” I replied, and we shared a grin.
“Promise me you’ll be careful. I couldn’t bear anything happening to you,” he said achingly.
“Of course you couldn’t.” I smiled. “Without me you’ll be doomed.”
“In more ways than one.”
My heart fluttered.
As he caught my hand, I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to second-guess this or have time to think of all the terrible possibilities. I needed momentum to propel me forward, but he grasped my hand and cupped my cheek, and I truly thought he was going to kiss me after all. My knees weakened at the thought of it, but he seemed to remember himself and kissed my forehead instead.
“You beautiful fool, be careful,” he murmured. “I’ll be with you. If your dreams are connected to me, then surely I can project myself to you.”
“Like my guardian angel.”
“Always.”
I think that if I hadn’t been dressed as a boy, we might have kissed, then and there. I resolved to come back very soon. In a dress.
“Why are you putting yourself at such risk for me?” he asked.
I paused and almost said it was because I loved him. But a nervous wash came over me and kept me from the words. I wasn’t sure how he’d take them. “It feels like destiny,” I said instead, breaking from his gaze. “When the demon comes, press him for answers—where he’s going, what he’s doing. Mrs. Northe insists our best clues lie in why. Make him explain himself.”
Jonathon smirked wearily. “You mean we can’t rely on literary convention and wait for the beast to simply state his evil plot to his unwitting prey?”
I chuckled. “Oh, it’s a better tale if you bait him. And if you’re furious, I daresay he’ll tell you more.”
“Of course. I’ll do whatever I can,” he promised.
I smiled, turned, and stepped forward. He instinctively reached for me but drew away as I stared at his hand. “I’ll see you soon, Jonathon,” I said over my shoulder. “I’ll return in a dress.”
I tumbled back out and into my disguised self, and turned to the portrait, where his lordship stood as handsome as ever, if not a bit worried looking, at the center. I took my place behind the small, nondescript locked door opposite the open one that awaited the demon of the hour.
It’s here that I’ve written down these most recent accounts while I wait. Since having fallen through worlds to meet Lord Denbury, time seems so differently fluid, even when I am outside the painting.
I feel the temperature around me chill.
There’s a hissing crackle.
The beast has come!
Fifteen minutes later
Back in the carriage, I’ve instructed we maintain pursuit. I must take down details!
It was a shock to see the devil of Denbury again in the flesh. From the keyhole I could see him framed in the doorway, standing in my reality, his beauty unmatched in this world or in any other.
My breath stilled. There stood the man who had changed my life. A strong impulse made me want to fling open the door and run to him, to shake him loose of the demon, to speak as I knew him, to save him by my very presence. He already knew me and was already intrigued by me. He wanted me. Meeting in our mutual world could set him free to be my prince after all.
But then the creature laughed, and I was jarred by the cruel illusion. I couldn’t trust my senses. If the painted world of Jonathon’s spirit had witchcraft that lured me, his bodily reality had the same magic outside the prison. But this stolen vessel was a murderer, made beautiful and cruel. The trouble was that both Denburys continued to have a profound effect on me.
Looking at this Denbury played tricks of the mind, so I stayed against the wall, straining to hear through the keyhole. The villain spoke, pressing his face in through the barrier of the painting, as if it were a basin of water. His words careened around the room through a supernatural echo like wild birds flapping desperately with no way out. I shuddered. The demon owned Jonathon’s voice but with something inhuman layered upon his fair British tone.
“Hello again, my vessel,” it said. “My, you look well. We’ll soon fix that right up, though.”
There was a rustling sound, muffled but angry. I felt a surge of pride. Jonathon was doing what we had asked, baiting the demon with his fury. The more defiant he became, the more the demon would drive home his hopelessness. It was the way of evil. Just as Iago condemns Shakespeare’s audiences into becoming accomplices to Desdemona’s murder by the provoked Othello, so were we, Jonathon’s soul and I, condemned to this eager confession.
“You can do nothing to stop me, boy. Barbara’s blood is hardly dry, yet there is plenty of other tender, vulnerable meat directly nearby.”
There must have been a further challenge. I could not hear it, but the creature made a chuckling reply: “It is human nature. Hypocrites will tear down one house of sin only to help build another next door. Sin moves easily, a vagabond, and we move fluidly within our own. I feed on the weak, and you suffer the consequences. It is as the Creator intended—”
I started at this blasphemy and so did Jonathon, evidently, for his response had the beast roaring with amusement.
“Yes, yes, blind fealty to your Creator, but where is He now? I walk among you, but He does not. Fitting to do my work in your form, you who are so fond of weaklings. Where are the holy namesakes of these women as their lifeblood runs through my fingers?” He cackled, a disgusting laugh. “The world is not prepared for our new dawn. These first sacrifices are but the birthing pains. We’ve an empire to build, my dear Englishman.”
And then the beast withdrew from the painting. He walked away whistling, life and death his playthings.
Thankful for deep shadows, I followed, my heart in my throat and terror at the ready to overtake me in a swoon. But I thought of Robinson Crusoe and the Count of Monte Cristo, of the Musketeers and all the idols whom I’ve worshipped since I had first devoured their adventurous tales. I was doing them all proud.
The hired carriage awaited per my instructions, sheltered from moonlight by a copse of trees on the uptown side of the building and ready to follow surreptitiously down the avenue. Knowing the building intimately, I slipped out a shaded side entrance devoid of guards and hurried to the driver, pointing at the fine carriage already paces ahead. He nodded, and we were off.
The demon’s words ring in my mind, my dread of him pounding in syncopation with my heartbeat. I had hoped for an insight into the beast’s specific madness, not premonitions of some infernal revolution…Forgive my bobbing script. It was good that I hardly ate anything at supper; otherwise, I might lose it as the carriage tosses and turns.
We proceeded on a slanting course down Broadway, where the finer blocks are lit by gas lamps but many others are not. We passed the occasional theater, stable, and grand palace where ill repute supposedly reigns in back rooms. Farther down we passed the even grander shopping palaces lining Ladies’ Mile, a place I’ve always yearned to promenade.
But promenading is the talk of fine ladies. Fine ladies don’t journey to the Five Points to track a demonic murderer inhabiting the body of the man they love.
Well, if I’m indeed living an adventure novel, there must be a love story. There’s always a love story. I’m so fond of literary tradition, and right now, its consistency remains my only comfort.
The carriage ahead of us slows. The puddles are thick—the street hasn’t bee
n cleared of horse manure or foul human waste. We must be nearing the Five Points area. The carriage appears to be slowing near Anthony Street. Searching for what, I don’t know. Number 66. And there goes my quarry! Down from the carriage and gliding up the stoop. I shall wait a moment and then follow him. You, dear diary, will remain tucked into the bandages binding my chest, right over my heart. You may make a nice shield against a bullet or a blade.
• • •
I’ve been captured! I know not where I’m going. I’m in a carriage. Heading north, I think. I can write only a quick note:
Dear Father, if you find this diary, please know that I love you and that all of my actions have been to try to help a dear soul who deserved help. You’ll never believe a word of it, but it’s all true. I love you and thank you for everything you’ve done for me.
Later…
Obviously I’m not dead.
Thank the Lord, I live to write these words. I must recount what happened inside that frightening residence turned house of horrors.
I’ll have to tell you of Cecilia and Midge and the whole of the events in the Five Points, but first let me say what happened in regards to my capture.
You see, I had relaxed too soon. All seemed well and my escape assured. I had gleaned important information while inside 66 Anthony Street. Upon leaving the premises and breathing a sigh of relief, I was grabbed roughly and tossed into a cab heading uptown. I tried the door—willing to fling myself into the street to escape—but it was locked from the outside.
Could Crenfall have trailed us or discovered that I was a spy? How could anyone have known? I was so unremarkable…Or maybe my disguise was absurd.
I did recall that a carriage had pulled in behind us, making a trio as we headed downtown. It was a cab that had sidled onto Fifth Avenue from the shadows. In my recollection, the traffic had been heavy around Longacre Square and Forty-Second Street, a place so filled with carriages that it was impossible to determine whether we still had a tail. I gazed out the window and couldn’t stop shaking.
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