The first thing to do when one was about to attempt a lucid dream—at least when one was as well trained in the occult as Nan and Sarah were—was to decide that such dreaming would take place. Then, one simply relaxed and put the thought in the back of one’s mind. The trained will would take care of the rest. So Nan concentrated on the book of Celtic myths and legends that she had providentially found in the very bookstore they lived above, and left the rest to take care of itself. She didn’t make any special preparations, except that when she was in her own room, she made sure that the room was well warded and that all her shields were charged and intact.
Then she turned down the lamp and tucked herself into bed.
As most nights, she fell asleep immediately. As a child, before she had come under the protection of the Hartons and after her grandmother had died, sleep had been something she pursued only at her peril. In any season, drink took precedence over shelter for her mother; as long as the weather wasn’t absolutely freezing, it was even odds whether they would sleep in a cheap room, often shared with others, or under a bridge or in an alley. In winter, at least, her mother would try to get a room, but a room in winter always meant sharing, and sharing meant sleeping with one eye open. There was no telling what any of the other inhabitants might try, from rifling through her clothing in search of valuables to trying to take what Memsa’b called “liberties.” And never mind that she was just a child; to the minds of some men, that was an asset.
But after a year of living safely and securely at the Harton School, Nan had picked up the knack of falling asleep immediately, and staying asleep unless something woke her. She still had a hair-trigger reflex that brought her completely awake if there was any sound or movement she didn’t expect. Completely awake, alert, and ready to act.
It was a nuisance sometimes, here in London, where even on their quiet street there could be unexpected noises, but she reckoned it was worth it. Just in case.
She was aware as she drifted off of Neville muttering a little from his perch on the headboard of her bed.
Then she was somewhere else. She was someone else.
The hair on her head felt tightly braided; glancing down at herself, she saw she was wearing a checkered tunic of brown and gold, brown trousers, and over it all a sort of armor-shirt of leather, with bronze plates riveted to it. This was held in at the waist with a thick leather belt, from which hung a sword, a dagger and . . . a stick?
She was squatting on her heels in a circle, with several other personages. Two of them . . . if the colors they had been wearing had been as bright as modern dyes could make them, their ensembles would have been eye-watering. The bearded, red-haired man wore a cloak of sorts striped in yellow and green, a long-sleeved tunic checkered in red and brown, and a pair of trousers checkered in blue and black. The woman also wore a striped cloak or shawl; hers was red and green, her long tunic was brown and blue, and her skirt was striped in black and yellow. There were also men in checkered or striped tunics and plain or checkered or striped trousers, but no one wore as many colors as those two. It was enough to distract her from the conversation for a moment.
Well, it was distracting her. It wasn’t distracting the body she was riding around in. The personality in charge of this body was going right on with what she was talking about.
“. . . fearsome black it was, but like a shadow, and not altogether of this world,” she finished. Or rather, whoever was in charge finished. “I ran.”
The two . . . brightly colored personages looked at each other. Something whispered to her . . . some bit of thought that came over from the mind of the person she . . . had been? Because now she got the distinct impression this had been her, Nan, a very long time ago. Memsa’b and Sahib—and Karamjit and Agansing and most of the Hindu and Buddhist members of the Harton School—wholeheartedly believed in being reborn. Reincarnation, they called it. Nan had held on to her reservations, thinking that the Celtic warrior she “manifested” as in times of danger was just something she’d cooked up in her own head, out of stories.
And right now, well, her reservations had just gotten chucked out a window.
At any rate, without any previous knowledge of the lives of early Celts, she knew that the person she had been knew these two as druids, because only druids and bards were allowed to wear clothing of six colors.
She kept her mouth shut, and listened to the druids and the other tribal leaders talk. And the more they spoke, the more convinced she became that, whatever the dark thing was they were about to battle, it wasn’t a Fomorian. These people presumably knew what Fomorians were, and they never once referred to it by that name. They did call it “A Shadow Beast,” and “An Ancient Shadowed One,” and though she knew that the practices of these folk caused them to avoid speaking something’s proper name for fear of invoking it, she thought they would have said the word once at least.
But they did nothing of the kind. And she felt herself drifting out of the dream—or the memory—in a state of intense frustration. Once again, it seemed they were at a dead end.
Interlude: Valse Triste
IT had been surprisingly easy to slip into the unoccupied room below that of his target. No one looked twice in this fine establishment at a man dressed as he was, in expensive evening dress. Not even at two in the morning, since a man-about-town could be expected to be out as late as he pleased. None of the staff here would even think to question someone like him; if anything, the violin case he carried would make him appear even more trustworthy. The halls were quiet, his magical servants stood guard against anyone coming whilst he was unlocking the door, and the locks on these doors were no challenge to someone with his talents. Once inside, he did not, however, light a lamp. He didn’t need one, and there was no point in alerting any staff who might be roaming the corridors. A boot-boy looking for shoes left out to be polished or a maid sent for chocolate by a restless guest should not see light under the door of a room that was supposed to be untenanted. They might assume that the gas had been lit and left to burn unwatched, both wasteful and dangerous.
Besides, there was enough light coming in the windows for him to see, once his eyes adjusted. He moved out of the sitting room and into the bedroom, laying his case on the neatly made bed.
He opened the violin case silently, and just as silently removed the bow and the instrument. Everyone these days, of course, knew that a fine violin crafted by the hand of one of a few blessed luthiers was needed to create the most truly exquisite music. Few realized that the bow was just as important.
In this case, it was more important. . . .
His fingers caressed the neck of his favorite instrument, the “Boissier” of 1713. A Stradivarius, of course. She was special, very special. Only on this violin could he, would he dare, combine music with magic.
She was already tuned and waiting, and he imagined he could feel her quivering a little at his touch, ready to serve him and his task.
He lifted the bow, which flashed white in the light from a nearby window. A beautiful bow, he had made it himself, and it shone like the finest ivory. The bowstring, too, was shining, a shimmering gold, even in the dim light.
This required the most delicate of touches.
He teased out the merest whisper of music; faint, but hardly faltering. The harmonics were complex, and the tune . . . no one would have recognized it, since it was his own, but one he would never play in public.
But it brought forth what he summoned.
For a moment, the apparition hung in the air before him, a shimmer, a glimmer in the dimness. Not enough to tell that it was anything other than an errant wisp of fog somehow gotten into the room past the closed windows. But he knew who and what it was, and he played for her, giving her strength.
Strength enough to call to her all the other unhappy spirits still in this hotel—for every hotel, if it is old enough, has them. The unhappy ghosts of the suicides, of
the murdered, of the poor drudges worked to death and lying down for a sleep that turned out to be their last. And she called them, spun them around her in a slow, sad waltz to his slow, achingly sad tune. And when the music was over, he spoke a single word to them all.
“Go.”
And they went. She would show them who to haunt, although they would lose their power to stalk the dreams and make the night restless at worst, and a horror at best, once their quarry left the hotel. Unlike her, they were bound to this place.
But he would follow the quarry to her next abiding place, and he would call the spirit of that new place forth with his music and his bow, and then the dance would begin again.
The room was empty now, and he packed up his instrument and slipped out, locking the door behind him, leaving no trace of his presence or his passing.
4
JOHN Watson had insisted on dinner being served before Nan told them anything. The Watson’s pleasant sitting room stood double duty as a dining room, and Mary had made a point of providing for the birds as well. They had to stand on newspapers on the floor by the hearth and eat and drink out of spare teacups, but they didn’t seem to mind. As a child Nan had gone hungry more than enough times to appreciate a good meal when one was placed in front of her, no matter how she otherwise felt.
“Instead of focusing on what we do not know,” said Sarah, when Nan had finished telling the group of her fruitless quest into lucid dreaming, “What can you remember that the druids did say about these Shadow Beasts? Because it seems to me they had a plan to deal with the one they faced.”
“Oh, they did, indeed, have a plan,” Nan replied, staring glumly at her new peas. “To board up the door and stop up the smoke-hole of the hut where it seemed to be focused, and burn the place down with everything in it. If we try that at Number 10, we are likely to find ourselves cooling our heels in the gaol.”
“Burning the building down seems rather drastic to me,” Mary Watson replied, mildly. “What were their reasons?”
Nan thought, trying to remember. One of the warriors had indeed objected to the drastic procedure, wanting to remove valuables first. “The druid said that they could not be sure what object the Shadow had been bound to, or had bound itself to. He said that they were very good at concealing their presence.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “And he did say it was likely to attach itself to something valuable, so as to excite greed, and guarantee it would be taken and protected.”
“Well, at least we know that whatever the object is, one thing it won’t be is commonplace and modern,” Mary pointed out. “Did they say anything else?”
“It can’t abide sunlight, apparently.” She pummeled her brain for more facts, and sighed. “That’s all I have. Except that once the hut was burned down and everything left over exposed to sunlight, which would drive the Shadow into its object, they were going to take whatever was still left, put spells on it to seal it in further, and bury it in a lead-lined box under a fairy mound. They said the Fair Folk would guard it for them.”
“Which likely meant that they were putting some Earth Elementals in charge of guarding it,” John Watson said firmly, his tone making it quite clear he didn’t believe in “Fair Folk.” He stabbed at a bit of chop to emphasize his point.
“It could,” Nan admitted. “My Talent for reading thoughts evidently didn’t extend to reading theirs, whether it was dream or past life, or both.”
“Well, they were better equipped to destroy it than we are, and the fact that they weren’t even going to try suggests that they couldn’t.” John drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. “Perhaps we should follow their example after all. I’m getting the shape of a plan. Let me think about this a while.”
• • •
John still was not ready to discuss anything by the time they had finished their meal, and before they could settle down to discuss anything else, there was a knock on the door. Before Mary could answer it, Holmes thrust his head in.
“May I—”
“Of course.” Mary gestured to a free chair at the fireside. “I don’t suppose you need the female perspective again, do you?”
“Not precisely.” He closed the door behind himself, took the offered seat, and accepted a brandy from Watson. “I just wanted to know if the latest development in my case seems as peculiar to you as it does to me.” He turned the glass in his long, sensitive fingers. “The fiancé is now affianced to the sister, Magdalena von Dietersdorf.”
Nan blinked at him. She glanced at Sarah, who looked just as surprised. Mary looked more than surprised. “That . . . seems extremely odd to me,” she said, finally. “Coming on top of all the other oddities. . . .”
Nan suddenly knew what was going on. Sherlock wasn’t here because he wanted to know if they found any new aspects of his case peculiar. He was testing them. Testing her and Sarah, in particular.
“If this case were entirely in England,” she said slowly, “I would go speak to the young man’s friends, and find out if there had been reluctance on his part to marry Johanna—if it had something to do with inheritance, for instance, that the greater portion was being settled on the younger daughter because she had no brilliant future as Magdalena does. I would speak to Johanna’s friends, and find out if she was lukewarm about her prospective husband. But with all those friends being in Germany, that does make things difficult.”
Holmes nodded. She hesitated a moment. “I do have . . . another ability, although it is not as reliable as telepathy. If I could hold an object belonging to Johanna, I might be able to tell something about her, her emotions, her personality.”
“Not where she is now?” Holmes asked, a little sharply.
She shook her head. “No, this is something that allows me to ‘read’ the past of an object. Once it parts company with someone, it’s rather like being handed a diary someone has abandoned.”
“Ah.” She got the impression that Holmes was both satisfied and dissatisfied with her answer. Maybe he’s satisfied because it matches what he thinks is logical, that items can record impressions, but dissatisfied because it would be useful if I was something like a psychic bloodhound. The image that conjured up was faintly amusing.
“Well, unfortunately, Johanna packed up all her personal possessions and took them with her. I am given to understand that these were not many, as she and Magdalena were of the same size, and shared a wardrobe.” He raised an eyebrow at Nan. “I suppose offering you a bonnet they both wore would get the—er—‘impressions’ muddled.”
“Definitely. Especially if Magdalena has the more . . . forceful personality, which Johanna’s letters would certainly seem to have indicated,” Nan replied.
“Well, if you want the feminine perspective, I honestly cannot imagine any young woman tying herself to a man who was marrying her only for her inheritance,” Sarah said slowly. “Which . . . actually makes her elopement with this ghostly Canadian more likely, I suppose. And might account for how dull her letters were.”
“Yes,” Nan put in, “Except . . . if she was dull enough to submit to being married off to someone who was only marrying her because of her inheritance, how did she suddenly get the spirit to run off with this stranger? And if she had the wit and spirit to manage to escape undetected and run off with a stranger into the unknown, then why did she put up with being affianced to someone who was only after her money in the first place? Surely even in Germany, in this day and age, young women of spirit are not inclined to being handed off by their papas like that!”
“Unless she was very plain. . . .” Sarah said, suddenly uncertain. “Sometimes plain girls will marry the first man that asks because they don’t think it likely they’ll get anyone at all.”
Nan snorted. “The more fools they. But you’re right.” She looked to Holmes. “So, was Johanna plain? Is Magdalena the one that got all the fairy gifts, and Johanna got none?”
; “Actually, Magdalena is the plain one,” Holmes replied. “It is her voice and force of personality that makes her remarkable. According to the mother and father, it is Johanna who has the winning personality and intelligence . . . and as for her looks, well, you may judge for yourself.” He handed Nan a photographic portrait, Sarah leaned over to look.
What they saw was a young woman . . . very Germanic, with her round face, apple cheeks, broad forehead and wide mouth. Her eyes were probably blue, her hair very fair. By anyone’s standards, a beauty. She looked directly at the camera with no hint of pretense, coyness, or shyness.
Nan handed the photograph back to Holmes. “I can imagine a girl like that running off with someone she was in love with. I cannot imagine her being engaged to someone she did not love. So if she was in love with her affianced, why did she run off with a stranger? And if she was not in love with him, why would she act contrary to her nature and become his fiancé in the first place?”
“All good questions, to which I should be seeking answers,” Holmes said blandly, pocketing the photograph. “I shall go back to my case, and leave you to yours. I assume you have a case?”
Watson nodded. He started to open his mouth, but Holmes waved at him with a little irritation.
“Please, don’t tell me, I’ll only become annoyed at the superstitious twaddle,” he replied brusquely. “Unless it’s purely psychical in nature?”
“No,” said Nan, before John could answer.
“Then I’d rather not hear about it,” Holmes said firmly. “Carry on. I’ll let myself out.”
And with that, he did just that.
“You know,” Sarah said, after a bit. “I had a thought that has nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes.” She looked at each of them in turn. “I think we would be fools if we didn’t ask Sahib and Memsa’b to help us with this.”
A Study in Sable Page 7