A Curious Beginning

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “It might, but the professor, he will not hear of it. Baby Alice makes too much money for him to consider losing her.”

  “What happened then?”

  She shrugged. “Stoker helps her to leave. She finds a place in another show earning fifty pounds a week and even Mr. Barnum is interested in her. And the professor does not forget. He has been losing money ever since she left, and for this he blames Stoker.”

  She turned again to her trunks as I thought about her story.

  “That does not explain Colosso’s resentment.”

  “He loved Baby Alice,” she said, her tone bored. Clearly other people’s love affairs were of little interest compared to her own, and she left the conversation there. It was enough. I understood both the professor’s resentment and Colosso’s, and I marveled that Stoker had chosen to come here of all places, where enemies surrounded him.

  Salome rose, her arms laden with garments, and began tossing the clothes onto my lap in a pretty heap of color.

  “A blue costume—it ought to be purple with those eyes of yours, but blue will do well enough. And a dash of color for the train. Ah, here it is! Cherry,” she said, emerging with an armful of taffeta. “So the color trails behind you when you move. Try it on.”

  She bustled me behind a screen, thrusting clothes at me. “What about this green? No? Perhaps green is not your color.”

  Green was most decidedly not my color, but I was too busy wrestling with the costume she had provided to discuss the matter. The blue garment was a sort of extended bodice that covered the essentials—barely. It joined between the legs to conceal one’s modesty but left the limbs bare, and the neckline plunged dramatically, revealing the shoulders completely.

  Salome was still sorting through costumes. “Scarlet?”

  “I think the blue will do nicely,” I told her, emerging from behind the screen.

  Her eyes widened and she gave a nod. “It is good. The décolletage is perfect,” she said, eyeing my bosom. She circled around me slowly, scrutinizing me from head to heel, her expression growing more sour by the second.

  “You are a striking-looking woman,” she pronounced finally, her eyes narrowing. “Tell me the truth. What are you doing with Stoker?”

  I summoned a newly wedded simper and batted my lashes in a revolting display of sentimentality. “I love him.”

  She snorted by way of response. “No, you do not. Otherwise you would ask me about him, how well I know him. And I know him very well,” she said, her expression dreamy.

  “Stoker’s past amours are of no interest to me,” I told her.

  “And that is how I know you do not love him!” she cried, striking at her chest. “A woman’s heart is not satisfied without knowing such things.”

  I was not of a mind to debate with her on the subject, so I merely gave her a noncommittal smile and stroked the blue taffeta. It was spangled with silver sequins and finished with tiny blue and silver glass beads.

  “This is pretty. Did you have it made in London?”

  She gripped my arm suddenly. “You need not pretend with me. I know it hurts your heart to think of him with me. You may ask me anything you like—anything at all. I will have no secrets from you because we are women together. And women must be strong against the ways of men. Let us share our secrets.”

  Her eyes burned with emotion, and her grip was starting to leave a mark upon my arm. I extricated it gently and gave her a pat. “You seem upset. Shall I bring you a cup of tea?”

  She plunged her hands into her hair, tearing at it. “If I am upset it is because you do not wish to be friends. You reject me.”

  She looked suddenly forlorn, and I hastened to reassure her. “Not at all. I would be very happy to be your friend. But I think if we are to be friends, we should put aside the lies. To begin with, your name is not Salome, is it?”

  She hesitated, then burst out laughing, dropping the Oriental accent and the portentous delivery in favor of an accent straight from the Chiltern Hills. “No. It’s Sally.”

  “And where are you from, Sally?”

  “Dunstable,” she said, a trifle sullenly. “How did you know?”

  I nodded towards her dressing table. “You have a letter there addressed to Sally Barnes in care of the traveling show. And, if you will pardon the observation, you were trying just a trifle too hard to feign exoticism.”

  “It is my bit in the show,” she told me airily. “I am Salome, an Eastern princess driven by misfortune to make her way in the world by dancing for the public.”

  “And how much of your clothing do you take off?”

  She gave me a bitter look and picked at a cuticle. “Just down to my drawers and a sort of chemisette. It’s all gauzy and Turkish-like.”

  “Well, whatever the professor pays you, I hope it is enough,” I told her.

  “Pays me!” she snorted. “He hasn’t paid me in a month. If you ask me, he’s on his last legs with this show. And then we’ll all of us be out on our ear.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  I made to change out of the costume, but she shook her head. “Keep it. You will need something for the act and blue makes me look bilious. It suits you,” she said, her expression sulky.

  “I meant what I said, you know. I should like to be friends.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “And you’re really not jealous that I used to lie with Stoker?”

  “No more than I am of the trousers he wears,” I said cheerfully.

  She was not certain if she ought to take offense at that, but it was to her credit that she chose not to. She shook her head. “If he were my husband, I’d want to slit the throat of any woman he’d been with.”

  “Then I suppose it’s a rather good thing you are not married,” I replied. “Remind me to send you some literature on the free love movement. I think you might find it illuminating.”

  She looked me over again. “You are an odd duck, missus. A face like that, you could be on the stage, making more money than you could count. You could have a duke, if you liked—or even that tubby Prince of Wales. What are you doing with Stoker?” she demanded again.

  “I told you,” I said gently, “I simply adore him. It was love at first sight.”

  She gave a sharp crack of laughter. “You lie worse than me. I’ll find out what he is up to with you, missus. There aren’t any secrets in this camp. Not from me.”

  “I shall consider that a warning.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In spite of our exchange of barbed words, Salome insisted upon giving me not only the blue costume, but also a cherry pink cape of sorts to go over it and a pair of tights that were more or less the color of my flesh. She also applied the necessary cosmetics. She powdered my face heavily with rice powder and wielded a kohl stick and lip paint with enthusiasm. Her skills were considerable, and I felt a completely different person as I made my way back to Mr. Stoker.

  “What in the name of Christ happened to you?” he demanded. His eyes darted to the plunging neck of the costume and flared wide, the pupils quite black against the dark blue of his eyes.

  If he found my costume and cosmetics a change, it was nothing to the alteration in his own appearance. Leopold had worked wonders upon him, shaving off the monstrous beard and mustaches, revealing a firm jaw that stood as counterpart to the proud nose and high cheekbones. The beard had, as I had noted before, hidden a perfectly delectable underlip, now entirely visible. His scar ran slim and pale down the landscape of his cheek, over his jaw, and beneath his collar. It sketched a parallel line to his jugular, perilously close to that region of mortality, and I marveled that he had come so close to death and fought his way free. It said a great deal about the character of the man, and I felt—not for the first time—that the fellow I had met was a shadow of what he had once been. The question remained, was the damage irreparable? Life had bro
ken him, but could he be mended?

  I nodded towards his freshly shaven chin. “That is quite a change.”

  He dragged his gaze up from my décolletage. “As is that.”

  “Salome,” I replied dryly. “It is a bit much; you’ve no need to say it. But I did think this would further disguise me should we encounter the baron’s murderer. Mr. Stoker, are you listening? You’ve gone quite glassy-eyed.” I snapped my fingers sharply in his face, and he nodded.

  “Yes, I heard you.”

  “Good. I suppose I might as well leave this nonsense on until the performance. Now, where are your knives? If I am to do this thing, I must have a bit of practice to make certain I do not lose my nerve in front of a paying crowd.”

  He recovered himself then and retrieved his knives, although I caught an unwilling glance or two directed towards my décolletage as we made our way to the little practice ground he had arranged. The cape had covered my legs, but I dropped it once we arrived, and Stoker made a sort of whimpering sound.

  “Are you quite all right?” I asked.

  “Entirely,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. I hoped he would not find my bared limbs too distracting, but as soon as he bent to his task he seemed to forget me entirely as a person. He moved differently, his very form suffused with purpose and his attention focused with an intensity I had seen only when he was working at his elephant.

  He positioned me in front of a large circular target, spreading my arms like the outstretched wings of a bird. He secured my wrists in a pair of soft leather restraints, giving me a brisk nod.

  “These are mostly for appearance. You can pull out easily enough if you have a mind to, but they will serve to make it all the more dangerous in the eyes of the crowd. They are also a good reminder to hold still. If you do lose your nerve and flinch at the wrong moment, you could be badly hurt.” He bent to secure another restraint at my feet, nudging my ankles far apart. His hands were warm even through my stockings, and I indulged in a delicious little shudder as he took his time about the buckles.

  He strode some ten or twelve paces away and laid out the knives with a surgeon’s precision. After a moment, he turned back to me, one knife resting lightly in his palm. He grasped it by the blade. “Do you want to know when I mean to throw it or shall I surprise you?”

  “Just get on with it,” I told him, my teeth gritted hard against the chattering that had set in. I was suddenly glad of the restraints, for I suspected my nerve might have failed me then, and I was certain my knees would have. I did not close my eyes. I merely waited, forcing myself to breathe slowly and evenly, a patient lamb waiting for the slaughter.

  Suddenly, he stopped and dropped his arm. “You might stop muttering the Lord’s Prayer, you know. It is thoroughly distracting.”

  “Oh, how curious—I did not realize I was. Odd, I am not even religious.”

  “Shall I pause whilst you sing out a few verses of ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee’ or do you want to move directly to committing your soul into the hands of Jesus? I can wait.”

  “I am ready,” I said firmly.

  He resumed his throwing stance again, and this time I did not have a chance to give way to my nerves. I felt a whisper next to my ear and a hard thud, and the next thing I knew, a blade quivered beside my head, a breath away from my face.

  “Hm. A little too close. I ought to correct for that,” he said blandly.

  “That would be an excellent notion.”

  The next blade was on the other side of my head but a little further out, and the one that stuck in just above me was perfectly positioned. He placed a dozen knives about the outline of my body, most of them sitting precisely where he intended. He unfastened the restraints and gave me his hand. I stepped forward and felt my knees give way instantly.

  His arms went tightly about me, holding me upright. My head was pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, and I could hear the slow, solid thud of his heart under my ear. It was exquisitely comfortable, but I swiftly regained my footing, pushing him firmly aside. “I am quite steady now, I assure you,” I told him.

  His features were stony. “Mind you don’t do that tonight. Neither one of us can afford it.”

  He strode to the target, where he wrenched the knives free, then stalked away. I did not wonder at his sudden churlishness. We had been thrown together under difficult circumstances, and in spite of his casual air, I knew he was keenly aware of the fact that every time he hurled a blade, he held the power of life and death over me.

  I thought of the baron then, and his assurance that he was trusting my life to Mr. Stoker’s hands—and I wondered if he could ever have imagined how literal that promise would become.

  A few hours later the camp stirred to life in preparation for the evening’s performance, and I found myself unaccountably restless. I knew it could not be nerves, for I do not have a nervous temperament, but I decided a sip or two from the flask of aguardiente would not go amiss. I was still drinking from it when I heard Otto’s accordion begin a seductively rousing song, beckoning the townsfolk to the show. I could hear the professor reciting his patter, charming and coaxing the local people, seducing them into parting with their money as they visited the various tents. He lauded the Herculean strength of Colosso, a hero straight from myth, and rhapsodized about the size and beauty of Tilly, the Fattest Woman in the World. Colosso’s musculature was certainly impressive, but his long flesh-colored garments of an unmentionable nature and the furry loincloth he wore over them somewhat detracted from his Olympian appearance. And Tilly, while enormous indeed, was not quite as advertised, given that the professor promised she outweighed a steer. Only Madame du Lait lived up to her name, happily lifting her blouse for an extra copper to show the audience her ancient bosom.

  The image was not a pleasant one, and I drank a little more to banish it. Just then Stoker appeared in his altered black suit, the seams straining dangerously and the shirt open at the collar.

  “You need a cratav,” I told him grandly.

  “A what?”

  “A vacrat. Wait, that isn’t right either. You know, that thing, that cloth that ties about your neck,” I explained helpfully.

  “You mean a cravat?”

  “Yes! Precisely. Oh, you are clever,” I said. I brandished a bit of scarlet silk. “Salome gave me a castoff scarf. I think the scarlet will do quite well, don’t you? It ought to hide the blood quite nicely if you miss.”

  He started at me, comprehension dawning slowly. “Holy Christ, you’re drunk as a lord!”

  “I am not the slightest bit incoxitated! Really, Mr. Stoker, the very suggestion, the very idea. My aunts were on temperance committees.”

  He reached for the flask of aguardiente and took a healthy draft for himself. “Did you at least eat something?”

  “Oh yes. The hairy fellow, looks like a lion. He brought me something to eat.”

  I was smiling broadly at him. For some unaccountable reason, I felt quite happy and very relaxed about the prospect of permitting him to throw knives at me, and I decided to tell him so.

  “You know, Stoker, I am really quite content that you should throw knives at me. I have perfect faith in your abitilies.”

  “My abitilies? Yes, they are quite remarkable,” he said. “Now, I want you to stay here. I have a quarter of an hour to sober you up and I guarantee you shall not like it. Do not move.”

  He disappeared and returned again before I could find my slippers. Salome had given me a pair of high-heeled satin mules beaded with crystals. I swayed on them as I walked, but I fancied that was rather the idea. “Mr. Stoker. I cannot seem to find my slippers.”

  “They are on your feet, you daft woman. Now, pay attention. I want you to drink this coffee. It is black as the devil and twice as strong. Drink it all.” I did as he bade, pulling a face at the taste of it. “Good girl. Now, pull back your hair,” he instructed
as he placed a basin of water on the table in front of me.

  I tried, but the locks kept slipping through my fingers. With a muttered curse, he strode behind me and gathered up the hair in his hands. There was no warning for what came next. He pushed me forward, holding my face under the cold water for a full ten seconds, then lifted me out. He did it twice more before I emerged, panting and a good deal more alert than I had been.

  “I think that will do, Mr. Stoker. I am quite recovered,” I assured him. He did not release me immediately. No doubt he wished to ascertain for himself whether I was in full possession of my faculties. He merely stood behind me, his hands heavy in my hair. I turned my head slightly, regretting it instantly, for the room moved a little as I did so. “Mr. Stoker?”

  He stepped backward very quickly, removing his hands as if I had suddenly scalded him. He flung a towel at me and I dried my face and hands. “Thank you. I am a little giddy, but I am quite sure that, too, will pass.”

  “Good,” he said sharply. “The next remedy was slapping you across the face, and I doubt you would have thanked me for it. Now, can you stand?”

  I did so slowly and with great deliberation. “Perfectly.”

  He snorted. “Not by half, but it will have to do. I’ll support you as we walk. I had thought to let you walk around as I did a bit of conjuring, but it won’t do. I shall have to put you in restraints to begin with, so just stay there and smile mysteriously as if it were all part of the act. Whatever you do, do not say a word, do you understand?”

  “Oh, perfectly.” I smiled broadly and he muttered another curse before taking my hand and leading me from the caravan. Once outside he quickly tied the scarlet neckcloth and then put his arm firmly about my waist, holding me securely on my feet as we made our way to the tent where we would be performing. He guided me to a flap at the back, and from the front I could hear the professor explaining that the great Rizzolo had been called away and that in his place they were privileged to have Rizzolo’s own mentor, the greatest of the greats, a man who held the secrets of magic within his fingertips, the astonishing Stoker and his beautiful assistant. I giggled, and Mr. Stoker lifted his hand, his palm flat.