The Dickens Mirror

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “Music.” She aimed a look at the dense, dark bowl of a ceiling. “Upstairs.” Was this cellar part of a house? Possibly. She liked that idea, too; it felt right. “Whatever Emma made, she made quickly. This is a place she knows well,” she said, listening to the words roll off her tongue. Hearing her own voice above the clamor of all those pieces always had calmed her. Although—she cocked her head—there were no voices here, only that music filtering down from above. Why? Because Emma had carved out this private space? “So how much of Emma will show itself here?”

  Well, there was the candle. Never seen its like. Very odd little thing: no bigger around than a slender twig and blue, with those curious little ridges, too, like ribbons tightly curled around a maypole. Gobbets of wax spilled down the sides, and yet the candle was no shorter. She debated a quick moment, then held a finger above the flame. No heat. Hmmm … Moistening two fingers with her tongue, she pinched the wick. The candle died with a tiny ssstt, and on its heels came darkness, dropping like a black shroud. Her heart thumped, and she heard her breathing speed up.

  “It’s all right, Elizabeth.” Was there a quaver? The taste of fresh char drifted onto her tongue. “It will pop right back. It has to, because none of this is real. This is a simulacrum. Be patient and—”

  At her feet a yellow rose unfurled as the flame blossomed to life again.

  “All right.” She released a slow breath. “That’s good.” Picking up the candle, she studied the floor, running the flat of her free hand over a cool and slightly stippled slab. Was this stone? Now that she was looking, she spotted a metal disk that reminded her of a hob’s grate, only bolted over an opening in the floor. No air coming through. She studied the placement. Perhaps a drain of some sort. That could be.

  “But it’s an interesting piece of detail. Why put that here if it serves no purpose? I don’t need it.” Unless I’m to piss in it. A single sniff put that to rest. The scent that came back was dry and cool. So this metal disk had to be something peculiar to this particular place, and that meant she was right: this was a room Emma knew. You didn’t just put in a steam grate or drain or whatever this thing was on a whim. You did it because it was part and parcel of the place itself.

  This room is all Emma. Her eyes fell on the flame again. “You gave me a candle that won’t snuff out. All this is made from the energy that is you. Which means that energy is here.” Her eyes picked out a faint pink spiral scar on her left wrist. “And I am still me.” Did that mean she had some control in this place?

  “I don’t like you.” She twitched her drab skirt. “I want blue and a nice lace …” She broke off with a startled little laugh as the skirt wavered, then spun into loose blue folds; the weight over her shoulders eased as a lace blouse with an elaborate high collar melded to her body. “No corset either.” She despised bone stays.

  “That’s better.” She wiggled her toes, now clad in silk stockings and supple calfskin boots. “And you’ve made a mistake, Emma. You’ve left too much of yourself behind.” Emma’s essence shed energy the way a candle bled light and heat. Yet you lit a candle for light; you didn’t warm yourself with it. But that didn’t mean the excess energy of the candle’s heat couldn’t be used for warmth—or, in here, to make clothes. For that matter, Emma had given her a body, meaning she’d inadvertently left a smear, a smudge of herself, behind.

  For me to use. It was time to explore and know this place, its dimensions, its weaknesses. Every house had its creaky boards and hairline cracks and faulty joints. So did minds. So must Emma, and she would find this enemy’s weakness.

  Just wait and see.

  PART THREE

  RATS

  DOYLE

  Meater

  1

  DOYLE DIDN’T SEE a way out. With Battle gone and his orders to remain behind and let Kramer tend to him crystal-clear, Doyle was trapped.

  “All right, Constable,” the doctor said, crossing to a glassedin cupboard, “off with your coat now. Shirt as well. Both arms, if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s all right. I’m fine,” he said, too quickly. “It’s my right arm, not the left.”

  “Come, Doyle.” Kramer gave him a bland look. “I’m no fool.”

  Uh-oh, poppet. But Black Dog didn’t sound all that upset. Jig’s up.

  “I … I don’t …” Doyle’s eyes bounced to Meme, who had escorted Battle to the ward before returning with basins and rolls of instruments, which she was now setting out. Damn. “I’m a touch uncomfortable,” he said, and then added, hating himself, “With the girl, I mean.”

  That’s my darling. Black Dog’s chuckle was nearly lost in a clash of metal as Meme fumbled. To hell with chivalry when it’s your neck on the line, right?

  Oh, shut up. Though he couldn’t muster much indignation. He was a monster. But was this his fault? He had to protect himself. “If she’s to stay, I’d rather not remove my shirt. It’s not seemly.”

  “Seemly? She lives and works in a lunatic asylum. People tear their clothes off here, run round naked as jays, and covered in shit. You’re such a hypocrite, Doyle. This has nothing to do with protecting her delicate constitution and everything to do with shielding you.” Snorting, Kramer draped the long canvas tongue of a tourniquet on his desk and then, very deliberately, squared a fine morocco case of mahogany and turquoise inlay alongside. “So don’t let us pretend to a higher morality we both know you don’t possess.”

  Doyle barely heard. Oh. He was practically salivating because he recognized the case, at once, for what it was. The size gave it away: about ten inches long, four wide. There were only so many things that fit a case like that. Draftsmen’s tools, perhaps, or pens. Jewelry, he supposed, but he thought not. This was a doctor, and his office. So Doyle knew, exactly, what nestled in velvet plush.

  “Now, if you want my help, I need to see your arms. After all, we do want this going into a viable vein.” Kramer was regarding him with those stone-dead eyes again. “Don’t we, Doyle?”

  “I don’t …” He tried swallowing past the boulder in his throat and only choked. “I-I’m not sure …” For some stupid reason, he glanced at the girl, but her face was averted. She might be trying to spare him, but that somehow made it all so much worse. He couldn’t be more naked now than if he had dropped his britches and unbuttoned his placket to pull his pudding, exposing himself in all his miserable glory. “I think there’s … there’s a misunderstanding.”

  “Oh, shut your cakehole, Doyle.” Kramer sounded a little bored. “I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. Sweats? Agitation? Your guts have been singing quite the tune, too. Oh, and there are the longing glances you’ve been giving my vest here. I’m sure you’ve been trying to think of ways to nick that bottle. A fine wirer could manage it, and you look a bit of ruffian. I wager you’ve dipped into your share of pockets.”

  There was nothing to say to all that, particularly since it was true. Trembling, his nerves humming—with desire? fear?—he watched Kramer open the box, which was lined with purple velvet. Selecting a brass syringe, Kramer fitted a needle. Then, unlocking the hinges from that wooden box, Kramer folded back the sides to reveal ranks of glass phials. Tweezing out one, he held it at an angle to better scrutinize the amber liquid inside. To Doyle, the phial sparkled like a rare yellow diamond.

  “Now, we both know you want this,” Kramer said. “So you’ll do exactly as I say.”

  He wanted to say no. He wanted to bolt from that horrible office. Most of all, he wanted to explain to that girl, who was still so very careful not to look at him, No, I’m not what he says. I’m not like this. I’m not a monster. It’s just that things are so awful. I’m good, I really am. I could be good to you. He didn’t know why all that felt so urgent either, as if his life really hung in the balance here.

  This is a mistake, Black Dog niggled. Far better the devil you know, even if that is I.

  “What do you want?” Doyle’s voice was as flat as Kramer’s eyes. “You’re not doing this out of the goodness of
your heart, or because you’re such a humanitarian.”

  “No, I’m not.” Kramer gestured with the syringe. “Other arm, please, the left.”

  He was very conscious of Meme, only a few feet away, and the faint scent of lemons on her skin. It was bad enough to have the girl as a witness. It wasn’t even about dignity. He didn’t want her to see what a wreck he truly was. For some stupid reason, he cared what she thought of him, and wasn’t that pathetic? “I’d really rather not.”

  “It’s not a question of what you’d rather do. I doubt you’ve been scrupulous. I’ll not have you die of blood poisoning.” The half of Kramer’s forehead capable of a frown wrinkled, and he threw a quick look toward Meme. “Ah, your embarrassment’s misplaced, as is your pride. Meme is my assistant. You’re an addict, Doyle. She understands that. Don’t you, Meme?”

  “Yes, Doctor.” A monotone. The girl’s face was so still, almost waxen, yet when her dark blue eyes touched his, Doyle thought he saw something soften. “But perhaps,” she said to Kramer, “I might be of service elsewhere?”

  “Nonsense. I’ve no more time to waste, and several more patients require my attention. So, decide, Doyle: either do as I say, or Meme here can stitch and then send you on your way. Not to worry; she’ll do a fine job. But that is my last offer.”

  He almost told Kramer to do something anatomically impossible. Instead, wordlessly, he shrugged out of his jacket.

  “That’s better.” Inserting the needle into that phial, Kramer said, “Any fevers?”

  “No.” Doyle watched his fingers work the buttons of his left cuff. His neck was hot. “Just the shakes.”

  “Excellent. No blood poisoning then.” Loaded syringe in hand, Kramer rounded his desk. “How long since your last … ah … well, whatever drug you favor, or cheap gin and tin-pot beer?”

  I’ll take whatever I can get, damn you. “Morphia, and then a dram of laudanum. Been three days.”

  “Oh then, yes, you are in a bit of a twist. When was the last time you et?”

  A flicker of rage. “You sod.” He looked up, conscious of the shimmer of humiliated tears that, even in this bad light, Kramer—and God, that girl—must see. “Why do you think I even started? You bloody well know the drugs kill hunger.” Although he did have food from the police stores, most of which was confiscated: public and private supplies brought under civil control, yet another benefit of joining the force. What he’d carefully gathered was hidden. He took only what was necessary for him to put one foot in front of the other. Even now, he had a small paper packet of real toffees tucked in an inside pocket, and another parcel of peppermint humbugs at his hip, though he suspected his craving for sweets was because of the drugs. Nonetheless, tuck a candy into his cheek or slide a toffee to slowly dissolve under his tongue, and the sugar kept him going for hours.

  “Yes,” Kramer drawled. “Of course, the devil of it is that once it’s got its talons in you, you’re feeding quite a different hunger. Before you go, though, you will have some tea, with plenty of sugar, and biscuits. It will calm your stomach.” Taking hold of Doyle’s left arm, Kramer twisted it this way and that in the light. Doyle didn’t have to look; he knew every scab and scar, each swath of inflamed flesh, that rock-hard sclerotic vein he’d used ten times too often. Kramer paused over the pale zigzag of a thick scar that jagged over Doyle’s elbow and halfway to his shoulder. “What’s this? Quite the rip.”

  “Knife. It’s old.” His throat bunched again. “Kid stuff.”

  “Mmm.” Arching the only eyebrow he could, Kramer let that go. “How is it you avoid detection? I assume the police doctor or surgeon holds routine inspections.”

  “He does. But he also has his needs.” When Kramer only stared, Doyle snapped, “He likes boys, all right?”

  “Boys.” Kramer said it as if speaking a foreign tongue. “And you find them …?”

  Any street corner. Pick the scrawniest, promise a biscuit, and ya can go at the doggy back way as many times as you like. Doyle’s left leg jiggled. He was swimming in sweat. What was the girl thinking? He wished he could read her face. Her dark blue eyes were steady, though her cheeks were hectic. She must think him a monster.

  “Why you want to know?” His voice was brutal and hard as Kramer’s eyes. “Ya fancy one?”

  “No, but I like to understand what manner of man you are, just how far you’re willing to go. Very far indeed, it seems. Splendid.” Returning his attention to Doyle’s arm, Kramer ran the pad of a thumb over that petrified vein. “Are you injecting between your toes? Or under your tongue?”

  “No.” Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the tremble of a tear that welled over his lashes to wet his left cheek. “Why you doing this? Ya want me to grovel, beg? I never asked you for nothing.”

  “But you’re willing to take. Unless you wish to walk out of here with only stitches, and an unfortunate desire to soil your trousers. Or you could tell Battle. It would be my word against yours.”

  “And stupid,” Doyle spat. “Battle’ll want to know why you bothered. I’d be cutting my own throat. There’s no way to win this.”

  Unless you refuse to play. Black Dog had been silent so long he almost started. There are deals to be made with worse than the devil you know, far more ruinous than you can imagine.

  Really? Oh believe you me, I can imagine quite a lot. He had, after all, been fourteen once and bearer of a secret that even now burned his brain like the vengeful eye of a lunatic god.

  2

  HE LISTENED, CAREFULLY, as Kramer told him what he wanted. When the doctor was done, he only stared a moment, then said, “You’re mad.” He glanced over at the girl, but Meme’s face was a fixed and steady neutral. He looked back to Kramer. “Steal evidence? I can’t do that. I don’t know where they even are. No one does.”

  “But you could find out. Then you bring them here,” Kramer said.

  “But why? What good are they to you?”

  “Playing the detective? It don’t suit. You’re no bricky boy, Doyle.” Kramer leaned so close Doyle could smell the sour tang of horehound on his breath. “You’re a meater, a coward, and weak. Now, you want what you want, and so do I.”

  “If I’m caught, I’m sacked, on the street.” He wanted to add that he was dead, because there would be no more money and, therefore, no more morphia or cocaine or opium. He could barter food for more drugs, but one way or the other, it would all catch up with him. He couldn’t live on drugs, and he couldn’t live without them.

  “Then don’t get caught. A shame that only a few years ago, this would all be quite legal. You seem quite resourceful, Doyle. You’ve managed this long with your little … habit?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask again: Why, why this? What you want something like them for? What’s so important about them?

  Want is want. At the end of the syringe, a golden drop swelled. For an insane moment, Doyle yearned to take that honey-colored drop on his tongue the way a lover catches the tear of a beloved. The color was very different from what he’d expected, but who bloody cared? Kramer needed him, and this was payment.

  “Here.” The tourniquet, a Petit’s, was one with which he was familiar, but you were talking about someone who’d have jerry-rigged a rat’s tail to plump up a vein if needed. As Meme came forward to help, Doyle stopped her with a look. “No,” he said. “You shouldn’t be made to do this.”

  “I do not mind, Constable,” Meme said. “I want to help.”

  No one can help me. He wouldn’t let her sully herself over the likes of him either. “Thank you, no.” Turning aside, he used the bloody fingers of his right hand and then his teeth to fix the tourniquet’s canvas strap through the steel buckle. He tightened the winged brass screw, then pumped the fingers of his left hand. Ahhh, there you are. A fat blue vein wormed at the base of his thumb and crawled over his wrist.

  “That’s a good one.” He thrust his arm at Kramer. “Hasn’t failed yet. I try to rotate and rest it because …” He stopped talk
ing. What an idiot, going on like a couple of boy apprentices comparing notes on which brick ought to go where. I’m a person. I must count for something. But he couldn’t think what.

  Then don’t do this, poppet. Black Dog, again. Walk away.

  “Ah.” Kramer’s ravaged mouth parted in a surprisingly boyish grin that made him look only half a monster. “You know what we call that? The intern’s vein, because any fool can hit it.”

  And which of us is more the fool now? Doyle honestly couldn’t tell if that was his thought, or Black Dog’s. It probably didn’t matter.

  “Shut up.” Doyle closed his eyes, mostly because he couldn’t bear to see the pity in the girl’s eyes turn to disgust. “Just get on with it, can’t you?”

  3

  IT WAS NOT what he expected.

  For a few, long moments after Kramer depressed the plunger and he felt the cold thread of liquid stream into his vein, nothing happened. Kramer was silent, though his gaze, bright as a raven’s, scraped over Doyle’s face. Studying me. Then, a more horrible thought: As if I’m a specimen. He had to throttle back a scream. Black Dog was right. Kramer was using him for some mad experiment …

  And then the drugs hit. Oh God. A warm and liquid rush filled his chest and ballooned in his head. God, this is good, so gooood. He heard himself sigh.

  “Better?” Kramer’s voice sounded far away.

  “Yes.” That was true enough, but at the same time—Doyle swallowed against an odd taste on his tongue—something wasn’t quite right.