Emily — A PostHuman Romance Ch.1

Victoriana
The Faerie Queene

As even the longest journey begins with the first small step, so a cosmic tragedy proceeds inexorably from a knock on the door.

Only silence and darkness existed, and a solid wooden door whose outline he could vaguely see as it glowed slightly warmer than the cold stone surround. He slammed his fist into it three times, at one second intervals, resulting in a deadened muted sound. And waited, growing more impatient and irritated with every passing second, since this was supposed to be his sabbatical. The fact that he had been summoned at all was curious, since there was nothing here that could pose a threat, as far as he knew.

Proceed to Number Nineteen and then find a particular person on a particular date in a particular place. The phrasing was, he knew, precise. Which is why it troubled him. In essence, it told him to retrieve, recruit, protect no matter what the cost and to keep everything secret. It was normally a menial task, and it greatly annoyed him that the Curia were treating him like a common errand boy, as if he answered to them. Doubly so because not only was he not allowed to question the orders but they arrived so late that he had not the time to properly change. It all reeked of panic and incompetence and he indulged in some retribution fantasies to pass the time as he stewed in his indignation. Meanwhile he considered kicking the door in, but had the sense to wait.

It always had to be three knocks — it was Tradition with a capital T. They loved their comfort rituals that made them feel like they were still one of us and if he did not do it as expected they would get annoyed by his petty abuse of power. The ossification of the younger generation, he thought, or perhaps it was because such people felt isolated in the borderlands far from the safety of home. It was bad enough where he had just come from and he suspected this was much worse.

Why recruit from these people? It was almost unheard of — troubling, and possibly unethical.

The door opened and yellow light from an oil lamp illuminated a man and a woman standing before him, both middle aged and conservatively dressed: “Welcome to Nineteen sir — we have never had a hound… a person of your seniority. Sorry.” She looked nervous and embarrassed, no doubt sensing his mood, so he reigned it in and flipped his persona to a more businesslike and friendly version.

“Don’t worry — I’ve heard that word used before and it doesn’t bother me. And drop the “sir” — my name is Karl. Pleased to meet you.” They were, he realized, not merely playing the role but were seriously Old School.

“May I present my wife, Alexandra. I am William Garrett. We are both members of the Curia.” They shook hands and visibly relaxed. All very local and conventional he was pleased to note, with William dressed in black trousers and jacket with a white shirt and starched collar. His balding pate and muttonchop whiskers made him look like a genuine country vicar. His wife was similarly attired in a black dress with white highlights, both radiating respectability.

“Do either of you know why I’m here?” he asked, quickly adding “That’s not a trick question, by the way,” not wanting them to think he was checking on them and risk their becoming formal and minimally cooperative. Sometimes the Curia were rather touchy about such matters, especially if they felt their autonomy or authority was being undermined.

Shaking their heads in the negative they studied him with a practiced eye before asking the standard question “Do you have any…”

He knew what they were going to ask and cut them short with a curt “No. Unfortunately I’m in a hurry.” It was not what he was carrying or wearing that was a problem. All the potentially offending items had been left behind as usual. He had been through this many times, although he had never come this far. It was what he lacked that was going to be problematic.

“If I may say so… Karl, you are not dressed appropriately for the society with whom you are about to engage. We have some clothes that may fit you so it won’t take much to tidy you up. Meantime, come into the drawing room and sit down while I rummage through the wardrobes. Alexandra can get you the usual accessories.”

Through the large window he looked out onto an early morning in spring, bright and crisp. A typical middle-class abode, he thought, complete with mementos from their travels and assorted knickknacks. It all presented an impression of clutter and over-decoration, although the carriage clock on the sideboard was rather nice. He had a weakness for elaborate mechanical devices, especially the more aesthetically pleasing ones since back home such things were extremely rare. The Garretts certainly seemed to be playing their parts well, although all this may be for the Laity and other employees or guests who ventured in. No gas lighting this far from the town, but lamps were scattered about the room. He could smell the paraffin hidden among the other odors — predominantly those of beeswax polish on the oak floor, food, and dominating everything was the archetypal aroma of carbolic soap.

The first to return was Mrs. Garrett, with a small engraved wooden box inlaid with ivory, which she opened with a key. Inside were some coins. Twenty gold sovereigns, eight half crowns, ten shillings, five pennies, a couple of half pennies and a farthing. Additionally, there was a folding knife and a used ticket, which he examined. It was from the SS Bothnia, a Cunard ship plying the New York and Boston to Liverpool route and was dated 1889, about a year previously. Third Class, he noted with approval, since nobody remembers the denizens of the lower decks, or at least, nobody important.

“We thought that since you are going to stand out you might as well be an American, only over here a few months. If anyone asks you can tell them you have relatives here. We will vouch for you if necessary as distant cousins, but if you need help or have to give someone long term contact details take this card. The gentleman concerned will provide aid if necessary, however, we have obviously not had time to inform him of your arrival. It may take several days. The address on the card may also be used for correspondence.”

Karl looked at the card and read the name: Samuel Liddell MacGregor Mathers, which he recognized. It was somewhat surprising, but which in hindsight made perfect sense. “Laity or Curia?”

“Laity. Do you know how long you will be here?” came the reply.

“I expect at most a couple of weeks. I assume the money will cover any accommodation expenses in London?” A rhetorical question since they knew their jobs. “Well, despite my poor preparation I have memorized various maps and any slips in terms of modern language, accent, manners and mores can be attributed to me being a foreigner.” He had long ago learned that being a foreigner in a foreign land was a lot safer and drew far less attention than trying to blend in and failing. Being not quite right drew immediate suspicion even if the locals could not consciously put their finger on what was wrong or out of place. People had a remarkable talent for spotting the other — best to give them a convenient and obvious explanation that would stop them digging deeper.

“Thank you Alexandra” he said, deliberately using her first name “You’ve done an excellent job at short notice and I shall enjoy being an American on holiday.” At that point William entered, carrying a long coat, and a large hat.

“A leather Duster coat and a Stetson, all very American. Your denim trousers and cotton shirt are appropriate as are the boots.” He idly wondered who had come through here and left this unusual clothing behind, and surreptitiously sniffed it but there was nothing of note. Probably worn by one of us he mused. It would certainly look out of place in this locale, but hopefully not too exotic for the cosmopolitan London of 1890. More than a century lay between his previous visit and now, and times most definitely do change. Even though he hated cities, he was safer from discovery in them than in some village full of superstitious snoops. He really did not like to kill people just for being vicious idiots. More to the point it upset the Web, and ripples of cause and effect made the world unpredictable.

“I don’t suppose you will consider a haircut?” Karl’s reddish-blonde hair fell past his shoulders, and he was grateful that wigs were no longer an indispensable fashion item. No was the answer, as he tied it back.

“Well, good luck sir… Karl. Since you have been sent here, might we be expecting trouble of some kind?” William asked. He told them sincerely that he had no more of an idea than they did, but best to be cautious.

“Well, the Curia has a lot invested in this project so please don’t upset the apple cart unless it’s really necessary. We are not at the point where we can exert enough control if things get out of hand.” Which, thought Karl, was his way of telling him to maintain a discreet presence, not get involved with the locals or tell anyone who or what he truly was.

After making inquiries as to directions from the Society to the nearest town, St Albans, Karl asked Alexandra for a list of items he might need and the expected prices he should pay. Everything from a loaf of bread to a train ticket to the cost of hiring a Hansom or riding in a horse-bus and whether tipping was expected and at what percentage rate. It was best not to stand out by being either too stingy or too generous.

He had six hours to get to Toynbee Hall in Whitechapel, East London, and meet one Emily MacKenzie, aged twenty-nine years, supposedly still alive. He knew the name of that desperately poor area because of the recent Ripper murders and he was keen to neither run across him nor be mistaken for him. His ignorance of the contemporary world was going to be a major source of frustration and therefore danger.

Miss MacKenzie was apparently due to attend a lecture, subject unknown. In fact, he did not know for sure whether she was single or married, but the fact she still shared her parent’s surname suggested the former. If she was married, or he missed her, the assignment got far more difficult as he was only given the address of her parents in a rather well-to-do part of the West End. In his mind he brought up the rather worn photograph he had been shown, which was probably taken within the past couple of years. It showed a young woman with lean, regular rather pointed features and hair tied back in a bun, not unattractive but nothing eye-catching either. Given the lightness of her eyes they were probably blue, so the hair he guessed may be brown. The eyes were staring intensely into the camera… sanpaku eyes as the Japanese called the look, often associated with either madness or illness and always misfortune. He could deduce nothing of her circumstance or demeanor apart from the fact she was not working class, but there could be no plan of action until he laid eyes upon her. He hated these impromptu expeditions because something nearly always went wrong, and often people died because of it.

Who are you Emily MacKenzie, and what makes you the most important person in the world? he thought, because that’s what his presence implied.

William delivered him to the railway station in a horse-drawn cart an hour later and the porter helped ensure he got onto the correct train, third class. Next stop St Pancras.

The capital city of the greatest empire the world had ever seen was a stinking quagmire of filth, disease, poverty and an all-pervasive stench of coal smoke and horse dung with an undertone of sewage and rotting meat. It overpowered his sense of smell and he wondered how animals like dogs that had a nose as sensitive as his could stand it. The air in St Albans was clean and clear, but here there was a visible haze as he looked into the distance and he noted the buildings were grimy with soot deposits. He was grateful that breathing was mostly an optional extra as he strode out on the Euston Road. At least there were wide pavements which minimized the necessity to venture onto the cobbled road with its random piles of manure spread far and wide by the wheels of the cabs, carriages and wagons.

The people looked short and stunted, and many had an almost skeletal appearance. He had read that the average height for men was five feet five inches, so he assumed that his six-four made him look like a giant. He stood by the side of the road appearing every bit the foreigner, just staring at the people and traffic, paying particular attention as to how fellow travelers summoned cabs. He idly wondered whether one of the cabbies would spot him as an easy touch and pull up in order to try his luck and over-charge him. The noise was surprising as was the amount of traffic. Iron rimmed wheels on stone did not make for a quiet journey it seemed. There also appeared to be some etiquette involved as he noticed a passenger make a hand signal to the driver who sat above and to the rear of him, as well as shouting to try and convey his instructions over the din.

He knew the way to the hall, in theory, from maps but had no idea of what the lay of the land might be or what he might encounter in terms of buildings. Not to mention the state of any roads as he moved away from what he assumed was considered the relatively civilized center of London. So despite having plenty of time he chose the easy option and raised his arm at the passing cabs. Better by far to be early than late. Within seconds one had pulled up next to him with a where to sir? The reply was, of course, the name of the hall and its location on Commercial Street in Whitechapel near Spitalfields Market. Predictably the cabbie did not know of the hall, but did know of the market. Climbing aboard the contraption was somewhat disconcerting as his weight made the cab flex and bounce on its springs and the horse took a step back to keep its balance. After gaining his seat they set off after negotiating a price he suspected was exorbitant, but this was not the time for parsimony nor was it his money.

It took about forty minutes to cover the distance, which was less than three miles. He could have walked faster, as well as got a better view. Sitting in a Hansom was like wearing a poke-bonnet. It might be good for shielding one from wind, sun and rain but it was at the expense of visibility especially given that the reins of the horse passed in front of the passengers. In fact, the best view was of the rear end of the horse, although a flat vertical board mercifully hid its hindquarters. It did nothing for the smell though, nor did it damp the noise of the dung hitting the road.

After decamping he found himself outside the entrance to the market, a rather dilapidated affair with some building work in progress, and set off in a southerly direction along Commercial Street toward the river. It was unusually wide for a London street and could comfortably accommodate five wagons side by side, with the pavements actually being paved and easy to walk upon. It was lined with shops and businesses, which one might have expected given its name. Awnings stretching into the near distance on both sides, and there were a considerable number of people out and about on this Saturday afternoon. He watched as one young woman crossed the road at a clipping pace as she dodged between the vehicles while hitching up her skirt to avoid its hem touching any malodorous material. He noticed various men paying special attention to her now exposed ankles. Some things never change.

By his estimation the hall was only a few hundred yards further on but within a short distance he found he was being followed by a gaggle of half a dozen children, mostly a tough looking group dressed like adults complete with flat caps for the boys and dirty dresses for the girls, but all curious about his size. They appeared to be quite young, mostly well under ten years since older ones were probably at work. One of the girls placed her foot beside his gigantic boot and then they all wanted to do it. Karl was not overly keen on getting too close to them since they were almost certainly infested with just about every parasite known to this country, from worms to nits and fleas to lice. Whatever diseases they carried did not worry him, but things that could infest his clothing did, especially considering the company he was about to keep. They also appeared malnourished and at least one of them had the slightly bandy legs that came with chronic malnutrition or rickets — but these were life’s winners since most children died before the age of five. Looking at their smiling curious faces he contemplated their fate over the next fifty or sixty years, feeling grateful he would not see it. He was beginning to hate this place, despite having seen much worse elsewhere and elsewhen.

Then came the flood of questions. Everything from who he was, to where he came from to how tall and the eternal can you spare some change sir? Since he needed to get rid of them and since he spied a sweet shop nearby he led them across the road to J Matthews with the names of confectionery companies written on the windows — Rowntree, Macintosh, Fry’s and displays of their wares visible through the glass. He recognized all the names, including the rather vile Victory V licorice lozenges. Telling them to stay there he dodged inside, withdrew a shilling from his pocket and asked the disapproving white aproned woman behind the counter for as much broken toffee as it would buy. Once outside he distributed the loot and told them to go away, before walking briskly onward.

Toynbee Hall, at this point formally opened for only five years and relatively new, was built in the Tudor-Gothic style of an Oxford college as a deliberate and stark contrast to its environs. It was intended to be an oasis of education and privilege placed for the benefit of local people by Canon Samuel Barnett and his wife Henrietta. They named it for their friend and fellow social reformer Arnold Toynbee who had unfortunately died some seven years previously, and it was a hub of radical politics and thought. The building was obvious as soon as he laid eyes on it, being constructed of warm red brick with box-stone dressings, stone-mullioned and transomed leaded-light windows, multiple tall ribbed chimneys and steeply gabled rooves with Iv beginning to climb the front walls. It was set back from the road to a considerable degree and in its courtyard and against the wall rested a lone slatted bench, currently unoccupied.

The main entrance itself was paradoxically at the side of the building, and as he removed his hat and entered a formidable looking matron inquired as to his business.

“Good afternoon madam. If I may introduce myself, my name is Karl DuLac, late of the United States of America. I am here for the lecture. Actually, I’m here to meet a friend who will be coming, or so I have been told. Can you help me please?”

Which was the truth and again he inwardly cursed the lack of information, not even knowing what the lecture was about, who was speaking or indeed anything pertinent about it save the time and the fact he was ninety minutes early. Once again, being a foreigner and guest seemed to take the edge off her suspicions, whatever they might have been. He knew that he was clearly not dressed respectably and therefore not the object of easy acceptance and trust, especially in this area. Indeed, he could quite accept that he might appear as a dangerous ruffian, and found it mildly annoying when someone was right, but for the wrong reasons. When she inquired as to whether she might know his friend, he simply stated that he felt it was unlikely. There was too much about this that was being kept from him, and that implied he should do the same to everyone else if he were wise.

Apparently the meeting was arranged by a political party called the Social Democratic Federation and the organizer was a woman named Helen Taylor. The topic was Women and the Next Century, which was of no interest to him. He knew Human nature and could make a good guess as to what the future held for these people, and strongly suspected their implied optimism was sadly misplaced.

He was informed that he could wait in the hall if he so wished, and he therefore entered and looked around for an optimum seating position among the rows of sixty wooden chairs. The room itself was oak paneled and longer than it was wide, with a high table set up for the speaker at mid-point. Illumination was by several gas lights hanging from the ceiling, but these remained unlit in the afternoon as the large windows provided ample illumination. Those sixty chairs, set out in a hall that could accommodate twice that number, indicated that the organizers were not anticipating a large audience.

He chose a seat just inside the door and to the left rear, nearest a statue of Hermes, or Mercury in his Roman incarnation, the herald of the Gods. That way everyone who entered or exited had to pass through his field of view and he could see every other seating position. Another added benefit was that most would not notice him at the back. However, rather than just sit there for more than an hour he decided to do some minor exploring, but left his coat draped over the back of the chair to indicate occupancy. He kept his hat. Everyone wore hats in the streets and to go without one suggested a disregard for propriety that would attract attention. He informed the matron of his intention, but her only comment was that it was his coat. So, he stepped forth into the courtyard and onto Commercial Street once again and rather than backtracking he walked further South. Maybe he could pick up a souvenir of his visit, or perhaps a present for someone.

He passed a few businesses: corn merchants, hay sales, a veterinary surgeon, timber merchant and then a tailor’s shop. He decided to miss that one since they were unlikely to have off-the-peg clothing that would fit him, and he did not have time for much else. Drugs were not much use either so he passed by the East London Dispensary until he came to William Straker’s stationery business. Definitely possible he thought, and entered. It was not a large place but apparently well stocked with everything one might expect. The assistant was busy with another customer so he browsed the goods for sale, until he came to the counter where pens and pencils were sold. What immediately caught his eye was a remarkable gold filigreed fountain pen in what he assumed was mother-of-pearl. Eventually the young bright eyed shop assistant got to him and began explaining its features, including a solid gold nib and the requirement that it was dropper filled. It came in a polished wooden box with the dropper and a small square bottle of black ink. As he closely examined the items he marveled at the craftsmanship and precision, not having seen its like from a Human hand. It was his fetish for mechanical things again, he thought.

The price was one guinea. He could not decide whether that was overpriced or a bargain, but it appeared to be a surprisingly high-class item for the area. In Whitechapel that was more than a skilled laborer earned in a week, or a servant in a month, at least according to Alexandra. What he did know was that back home it would be worth far more than that, especially in its pristine presentation box, and so bought it using one of the gold sovereigns he carried, and some change. With it wrapped in brown paper and string he exited the shop feeling rather pleased with himself and some of the edge taken off his displeasure at the situation.

Next stop as he approached Whitechapel High Street was the Matthew Nicholas coffee rooms, again with a surprisingly tidy exterior. He could certainly kill some time with a cup of coffee and a slice of bread and butter if such were available, since he had not had food or drink for almost a full day.

Inside, it was a different story and he almost immediately regretted his choice. The interior was a series of wooden booths with a chest high partition between them each furnished with uncomfortable looking benches and a table. Once away from the windows the gloom deepened the further he moved inwards among the noisy clientele who were mostly seated. Again, all wearing hats. Some were wearing old battered top hats and he briefly wondered what the relative significance of that might mean. Was it a statement of social status? Among the voices he singled out conversations in Yiddish, Russian and Italian.

The roof was low, only slightly above his head height, and he could see the bare wooden joists and the planks of the floor above them, all supported by a thick oak beam that stretched the length of the establishment. The people of both sexes were generally ragged and old before their time. He briefly caught a glimpse of a woman wearing a kind of muslin cap smiling at her companion who was out of sight. Some of her front teeth were missing, again common. For the poor, dentistry here consisted of a visit to the local blacksmith or barbers for a foot on the chest, a pair of pliers and some laudanum. If they were lucky. He was eternally grateful that his teeth did not decay, or if they were damaged, would regrow rapidly and painlessly. The word Dickensian popped into his consciousness. He was familiar with the works of the author but did originally wonder whether he might have been exaggerating the conditions. It appeared not.

Curious hungry eyes turned upon him as he moved to an empty table, and a young boy ran up before he was barely seated. “What can I get for you sir?”

“A cup of coffee and a slice of bread and butter please.”

“That’ll be thruppence sir” said the boy, waiting. Money required in advance, it appeared. He handed over three pennies and was grateful there was not going to be haggling over change, or more likely being short changed. The boy raced away again without asking him how he liked it. There was no milk or sugar on the table itself and he braced himself for an interesting experience while leaning back trying not to make eye contact with the clientele.

Sitting on the end of the bench closest to the aisle he placed his hat on the table. Although it marked him out even more so as an outsider he did not want the brim to obstruct his upwards vision if someone walked past him or stood next to him. From long experience he prepared for a quick exit in case of trouble. That was the last thing he needed right now, not that he expected it in daylight and a crowded venue lacking that vital catalyst for stupidity and violence, namely alcohol. Still, best be prepared.

Across the aisle lay a rather lean looking mongrel with its ribs showing. As it saw him it whimpered and tried to ease itself under the table at which its master sat. Animals can tell, he thought. Their perceptions were unsullied by expectations or explanations, and it recognized an unnatural presence when it saw one. He started to speculate on what it might eat in this city of poverty and starvation and concluded the answer was probably rats. A working dog perhaps, maybe a ratter helping to keep down the vermin. He sympathized.

“What’s the matter Jess?” came the question from a rough-shaven heavily jowled man wearing a tawdry and battered old top hat. Looking up from the dog he met Karl’s unwavering gaze, quickly licking his lips. He hesitated briefly when he saw how big Karl was, and then… “Sorry sir, hope old Jess ain’t botherin’ you. We don’t get gents such as yourself here often. You lookin’ for anything in partiklar? If it’s company you need, I’m your man sir.”

What he did not need was company, especially that provided by the local pimp. These people could smell money. “Thank you. I shall bear that in mind should the need arise.”

“Suit yourself” came the sullen reply.

Further talk was interrupted in a timely manner by the return of the boy, bearing a plain white plate with the bread, and a matching mug which was laid before him. He took out his knife, opened it, and placed it beside the plate since no cutlery was supplied by the establishment. He noticed that the furtive glances he had been getting from one or two other patrons ceased when the blade appeared. Big and armed was obviously not a fortuitous combination that people in their line of business wanted to encounter.

The coffee was, to put it mildly, rather mediocre but reassuringly hot. Tasting it he noted that it was adulterated with chicory and… carrot? A puzzling addition, assuming he was correct. The proprietor had not added milk but there was brown sugar. Still, nowhere near as bad as the lead from the water pipes and assorted bacterial debris. However, the caffeine content was surprisingly high which, coupled with the sugar, may have accounted for its popularity. He adjusted his palate to make it more agreeable, then cut a chunk of the buttered white bread and popped it in his mouth. It was, unsurprisingly, mixed with the whitening agent Plaster of Paris. The butter was only slightly rancid and spread lightly on the generous doorstop. All-in-all, not as bad as he was expecting.

He threw the last morsel to the dog which snapped it up in an instant, looking to him for more in a manner far less fearful. How to make friends and influence people, or in this case dogs. Not that there was much difference he thought to himself. Standing without further ado, he retrieved his hat and exited the coffee house. Still half an hour remained, so back to the hall to wait.

Emily MacKenzie arrived early accompanied by her mother and took a seat front and center stage, not merely because she wanted a good view but for the more pragmatic reason of ease of access. She was feeling not at all well, having spent yet another uncomfortable and sleepless night that further sapped her strength. The thought of having to navigate between rows of seated people did not appeal. In addition, being front row made it easier to socialize with any friends and acquaintances who may also attend without the necessity of her having to move. The first thing she noticed upon entry to the almost empty hall was a chair at the back with a coat thrown carelessly across it, which was unusual, but thought no more of it.

A few minutes later she was approached by Helen, one of the leading lights of the Party, accompanied by a young man who was apparently to be the guest speaker. The topic of conversation between them was one she disliked and wished she could avoid, namely her health. Or lack of it, and the necessity of having to withdraw from Party events and charitable works. It seemed that Helen too had similar problems and this was, thought Emily, the last time either of them were likely to be seen at such a gathering. When the embarrassing encounter was over the only thing she could feel grateful for was her mother, sitting adjacent to her, not interrupting or speaking on her behalf, which she hated. Since moving back to her old home it had been a sensitive subject between them, resulting in a number of arguments.

By then the seats had begun to fill up and the noise and bustle slowly increased. At once several people turned to look at the hall entrance. A giant of a man had entered, and then stepped to one side, presumably to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior or perhaps looking for friends or simply somewhere to sit. A fraction of a second later his eyes locked with hers, and he removed his hat and bowed slightly. Instinctively, she turned around wondering to whom he had gestured, but nobody was there. When she turned back again, he was moving to the chair with the coat. He was obviously not what might be termed a gentleman, nor did he appear to be a member of the lower orders. She searched her memory for any recollection of ever having met such a person, but could find none. At that point she was distracted by a fit of coughing and quickly removed a small embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve to hold over her mouth until it subsided.

Karl saw her immediately upon reentered the hall. She was in profile and seated centrally, surrounded by several older women. As he stood there she turned to look at him, and he bowed in acknowledgment, being rather amused that she appeared to think it was not directed at her. In the time since the photograph had been taken she had visibly deteriorated from some ailment. She still wore her auburn hair in a bun, but her face was far leaner and she had dark rings under her blue eyes accentuated by a deathly white complexion despite an attempt to ameliorate the pallor with rouge. In real life it also appeared she needed glasses, and wore pince-nez on the bridge of her nose, secured by a lanyard around her neck. She was obviously possessed of a certain amount of vanity, at least when it came to photography. The dress was, as far as he could tell, the one worn in the picture being dark blue, fully sleeved and buttoned up to the neck. As he walked to his seat he saw her coughing, and when that finally subsided he caught a glimpse of flecks of blood on the white handkerchief as she removed it from her mouth. Maybe the mission was not going to be as difficult as he had feared.

When everyone was seated he discovered that he and Emily MacKenzie had one thing in common. They were both taller than anyone else in the hall by a head. Looking around he counted forty-two people including himself, most of whom were women. A few minutes later a bell sounded from the speakers table and relative silence ensued.

An austere looking dark-haired woman in her early sixties who seemed to model herself on a young Queen Victoria faced them and introduced herself as Helen Taylor. There then followed perfunctory announcements concerning people and events about which he had even less interest than she appeared to exhibit. Finally, she introduced the speaker, one Herbert Wells who was about to graduate with a degree in zoology from the University of London. As he stood up to thank her for the introduction Karl noticed how thin he was, verging on cadaverous and quite as unhealthy looking as any he had seen in the street earlier. Something of a contrast to the well-fed middle-class people around him. Yet Karl knew of him as the twenty-three-year-old student stood there in his cheap jacket and trousers which had undoubtedly seen better days. This hall seemed to be quite a nexus of history and he half wondered what input if any came from the Curia, not that it was any of his business. However, he was beginning to think that these people might be dangerous and resolved to spend as little time here as possible, remembering what the Curates had said earlier in the day.

As soon as Wells began to speak in his high-pitched voice Karl started to listen, fascinated by his flights of imagination into the coming century. It was to be the era of Socialism, the emancipation of women and the triumph of the machine, of rationality in all things and the end of religion along with sexual repression. It would also be an era of free love where meaningless mores and conventions were cast aside and people were allowed to be their deepest selves. He spoke of self-propelled carriages revolutionizing transport, of flying machines and submarine boats, of electricity powering the world. It was to be a world under one united government where wealth was divided according to labor, poverty abolished, women occupied half of all positions of authority and scientific principles reigned supreme. Nor did he neglect to mention the dark side, by raising the specter of these machines being used for evil, but overall he was suffused by optimism and faith in Mankind.

At the end of an hour Karl was seriously impressed, so much so in fact that he resolved to stay well away from the man and even out of sight if possible. He felt uncomfortable when Well’s eyes roamed across the audience and wished he was a bit shorter and less conspicuous. There then followed questions from the audience, quite a few of which were highly skeptical of his prognostications, especially those relating to sexual matters. The session was formally closed by Helen Taylor, thanking their guest for an entertaining and thought-provoking talk, and inviting the audience to partake of light refreshments in the drawing room. As people began to make their way to either the exit or food Karl left his hat and coat, but not the valuable little parcel, and made a beeline for Emily MacKenzie who remained seated. Almost barging people aside in his haste, while apologizing profusely for his foreign bad manners, he finally stood before her.

She observed a strange handsome boy with great green eyes and rather unusual dress and hair, as she had noted when he first arrived, probably no older than eighteen or nineteen. It appeared now that his salutation was indeed aimed towards her and not someone else. Curious. He introduced himself as Karl DuLac from America, so maybe that’s what people were like over there. She had never met an American, but it would explain his peculiar accent and the odd phrases he used. He indicated that it was imperative he spoke with her privately for a few minutes.

Karl followed as one of her friends helped her to the library where she sat at a table. As he approached he could smell the disease upon her and confirmed her malady. Taking a seat opposite he placed his small parcel on the table and stared at her, waiting for her to speak after they were alone.

For her part, she noted that he moved rather strangely, with a very fluid gait. “Well?”

His first words surprised and offended her.

“I am going to treat you as my equal…”

She cut him off curtly, replying in a tone that dripped sarcasm: “Sir, your magnanimity is exceeded only by your generous condescension, and you a boy not even old enough to shave! Very precocious.” Leaning back to await his reply, she looked down her nose at him through the ridiculous glasses which made her look like an owl.

He laughed. “I have not been so eloquently put in my place for decades. My apologies for assumptions, with your reasonable one being the more forgivable. However, I did not say I would treat you as the equal of a man or a boy. I am neither. I said my equal. No Human comes close to being my equal in any sphere of activity whether physical or intellectual.” She froze in place, stunned at such an outrageous claim, but allowed him to continue. “I’m sorry, but I must speak clearly and to the point so that there is no misunderstanding. Please forgive me if you find anything I say offensive — it is not my intention, but we have little time. Do you believe me when I say you are dying, and will be dead within weeks or a few months?” She nodded slowly. Yes, that seemed a plausible guess. It was so unfair she almost cried at the words, but that would never do. Dignified to the end, she thought.

“I have come a great distance to meet you and ensure you live. I can cure the consumption that is killing you. However, in exchange you must promise to come with me and serve the organization to which I belong for a minimum of five years… and possibly much longer. In that time you will not be required to do anything that conflicts with your moral or ethical principles. Now — do you require some proof that my offer is genuine and feasible?”

“Of course I do,” affecting a weary voice in an attempt to hide the hope “You come along claiming to be able to accomplish what all the expensive doctors have failed to do and add to that the ludicrous claim to not be a person at all. Please show me.”

“In which case I require one more thing. Your promise that whether you accept or decline my offer you will never communicate what you learn about me in the next few minutes — ever.”

She nodded “As long as what you show me is not immoral or illegal.”

He agreed.

“First proof is indirect — what color are my eyes?” She looked closely — it was obvious. Emerald green. “Now, I am going to close my eyes and then open them. Tell me the color each time I do that.”

What was this supposed to mean, she wondered but quickly discovered the truth as he closed them and opened them. “Black!” She uttered in astonishment, becoming fascinated as his eyes cycled through the colors of the rainbow. “That’s quite an impressive conjuring trick you have there…” she remarked almost absent mindedly, intrigued and impressed despite her skepticism, and for the first time in two years felt that dangerous hope rising once more. She could not stand it should that be dashed again.

“One more time,” and when his eyes opened she recoiled slightly. There were two perfect spherical mirrors where his eyes had been — she could see her distorted image in them. “Now watch carefully…” and he slowly opened the eyelids a second time, the mirrors sliding upwards. “Like a cat! A… nictitating membrane I believe it’s called?” she wondered aloud.

“Yes” he said, mildly surprised “Most people don’t know the name for that extra eyelid. May I assume you are well educated?” She smiled and leaned forward slightly.

“Now for the second item of proof.” He pulled the knife from his pocket and opened the blade. It locked into place with an audible click. Bone handled and made of Sheffield’s finest high carbon steel honed to shaving sharp. Not that he needed to shave, as she had already observed. It amused her when he mentioned that. Holding his left hand open he slowly drove the blade through the palm of the hand where it remained sticking out from the other side. She flinched momentarily from empathy, almost feeling the blade slide through her own flesh. “Don’t be squeamish. You need to see this is not a trick with a fake knife.” She took his hand and examined it with fascination. “Now slowly pull it out.” At first, she was hesitant, but when she grasped the handle it slid out smoothly. She felt grateful it was so easy and that there was no grinding contact with bone. “And look at the wound please.” She watched as the skin sealed itself with not the tiniest hint of blood on either hand or blade.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” She looked at his hand again, which she was still holding. It was not a Human hand. The joints were bulbous and the skin unmarred by lines or even whorls on the fingertips. And the nails were… more like claws. Under normal circumstances she might have thought it a bad case of arthritis. It was a cold hand with a texture reminiscent of saddle leather — hard and flexible.

“Physician heal thyself… Now bend my fingers back slowly. You won’t hurt them.” She did as requested and they curled perfectly onto the back of his hand in a kind of reversed fist. “See — they are fully flexible both backwards and forwards. Would you like to learn more?”

She should have been frightened, but what was the worst he could do that God and Nature were not already about to accomplish? “What are you?”

He hesitated and then spoke: “There is a great deal that I am not allowed to tell you, at least for now. However, I can make you one promise, and my kind always keep their promises. I will never tell you an outright lie if you ask me a question. Of course, I might not answer the question, or I might not tell you the whole truth, or I might tell you the truth in a misleading manner. But never a direct lie.” As he smiled she noticed his teeth. They were translucent, and perfect. In fact, every feature of his was perfect. Perfect symmetry in everything. Perfect skin and literally not a hair out of place. She wondered how she had not seen all this the moment she laid eyes upon him, and stared openly. He returned her gaze, unwavering and unperturbed. Whatever social graces and conventions he affected were only skin deep she realized. “Now, as to what I am, all I can say is that I was once like you and I died and was reborn. It is the life I am offering you. Also, I’m not a supernatural creature and none of this involves selling your soul to the Devil or any other such ridiculous notion. Oh… and to put your mind at rest, you do not have to first die.”

She smiled despite herself — this was just unbelievable! “I have read of Varney the Vampire, but not from what might be termed a reliable source.”

“I have never heard of the gentleman, and I am not a vampire.”

“So someone like you travels from the ends of the Earth, or at least America, in order to save a dying schoolteacher. Why?”

“You are special. So special that what is normally a job for menials was delegated to me. If you really knew who I was you would be flattered, but even I have not been vouchsafed a reason. All I can say is that if you accept, your future will be full of wonders and your life will be as long as you want.”

She thought for a few seconds before replying: “How will this cure change me? Will I turn into a monster unable to walk in daylight, or need to suck blood? Will I still look Human? How is the cure administered?”

Karl explained the process. No, she would not become a monster. Yes, she could still walk in daylight. No, she would not need a special diet. Just the opposite, and the cure would be administered by the prick of a needle and not a bite in the neck or anywhere else for that matter. However, for the first week or so she would be fevered and during that time he needed to be close to her. She would also suffer from a ravenous hunger as her body was rebuilt. No blood though, just regular food in gluttonous quantities.

“There will be numerous side effects, all beneficial. For example, your mind and senses will become sharper, you will become much stronger physically. Disease will never bother you again.”

The words flowed with an unseemly haste that betrayed her desperation “I accept. When will you do this?” As the words left her mouth it was almost as if someone else was speaking them. She felt disconnected from reality, like everything was a particularly vivid dream as the consciousness of her surroundings faded and the world took on a strange fluid ambiance. There was nothing but the two of them in a timeless world empty save for hope and promise.

He explained that he would need to take a blood sample and then wait a full day before administering the cure. “There is one more thing I need to tell you. After it takes effect, if you renege on the agreement, I will ensure you will revert to your current condition. This is not a trivial undertaking and you do not yet have any idea of the massive effort that has gone into this meeting.” What he did not tell her was that she was coming with him whether she liked it or not, and her being weakened by consumption would simply be a convenience. Nor did he mention that a considerable number of people might die if they tried to stop him — no matter what cost were the words used. “Now, hold out your hand, and open it please.”

It was not a hand used to manual labor, as he had deduced from her claimed occupation. Clean neatly trimmed and polished fingernails with the cuticles pushed back spoke of pride in appearance when she removed her cotton gloves and bared her skin. As she did so he laid what looked like a tiny wallet on the table, opening it to reveal several short needles. He took her wrist, removed one of the needles from the wallet and faster than her eye could follow he must have pricked her index finger, as she felt a sharp pain. Instinctively she tried to pull back, but her wrist might as well have been nailed to the wall. There was not the slightest movement. She stared almost hypnotized as a bead of blood grew on her fingertip. He then leaned forward and she watched his tongue lash out like a snake, again almost too fast to see, as he licked it.

“I thought you said you were not a vampire!”

“I’m not, but what I am doing is tasting the spiral of your life. Everyone has a different spiral and when I know yours I will know what changes to make. Tomorrow we must meet again at this time and I will complete the treatment. In the meantime you need to make arrangements for what is to come. Where are you staying?”

The address was that of her parents, 50 Berkeley Square, with which he was familiar but in an entirely different context and it made him slightly uneasy. Mystery piled upon mystery. Now comes the difficult part he thought: “I will need to be close to you for the first three days in case there are complications. You will also need to be attended every hour of the day. So, will your parents be amenable to me remaining in an adjacent room? And do they have servants who can take care of your bodily needs?”

The answer to the second question was yes, but the first would obviously depend on his meeting the parents and making a good impression. Finally, slaking her unspoken curiosity deduced from her glances at the parcel “I bought a rather expensive pen to take home with me later.” She seemed mildly disappointed and he wondered what she was expecting. No matter though.

He emerged from the library walking slowly with Emily on his arm, and they re-entered the hall. “May I introduce you to my mother? This is Mr. Karl DuLac, a friend of mine. Karl, this is my mother Mrs. Anna MacKenzie. Karl is visiting from America.”

He was immediately struck by the similarity between mother and daughter. If it were not for the obvious age difference they could have been twins, although Emily was at least twelve inches taller. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance Mrs. MacKenzie. Emily never mentioned she had such an attractive mother” he said as he offered his hand, which she took with a smile. It was something of a risk but one of life’s lessons was that everyone liked a bit of flattery, even if badly done.

“Well you certainly have a silver tongue for one of your age. How do you know my daughter?”

“I am a lot older than I look ma’am, and widely traveled. I know your daughter by reputation, which has spread to a remarkable degree.” Which is no lie, he thought, the word remarkable being a vast understatement. “She is quite a special person, and I have come to offer my services in her hour of need. I am sure she will explain all later,” dropping that one back into her lap.

“I have invited Karl to join us at home tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure he will be more eloquent than I, and will no doubt regale us with his adventures in foreign climes.”

Mrs. MacKenzie stared at him for an uncomfortable few seconds, looking directly into his eyes. “You are welcome, sir. I look forward to your tall tales.”

“Unanifanya nataka kuwa mwanamume bora” he said “It’s Swahili and means you make me want to be a better man. I speak many languages Mrs. MacKenzie and my tales are taller than myself.” The impression he planted was one of foreign and well educated. Emily smiled at the compliment that was also a joke only she understood.

“Tomorrow at four o’clock — incidentally Karl, where are you staying?”

“I plan to take a slow walk to Claridge’s and see whether they have a room for me. Nothing prepared in advance because I only arrived in London this morning.” Not that he needed to sleep, but he did need somewhere to get off the streets, especially at night. The price, at this point, was immaterial — he had his foot in the door. Upon hearing that Anna MacKenzie warned him that between here and there were some seriously dangerous and crime ridden areas where even police feared to go. To which he replied “Fear not Madam. To misquote Psalm 23, Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For I am the most ferocious thing in that valley.”

Emily completely understood, but Mrs. MacKenzie looked dubious and obviously believed it to be youthful bravado: “Well perhaps, but try to avoid the Rookeries and St Giles. Remain on the major thoroughfares.” He said he would do so, but not knowing where they were, and not wanting to inconvenience them further, his agreement was at best merely polite. Anna MacKenzie continued by saying that their house and Claridge’s were close together and he was welcome to share their carriage. He politely declined, explaining that he would like to see something of London on foot. The reality was that he did not want to give her the opportunity to question him nor examine him in detail before he entered their house tomorrow, let alone risk having the invitation rescinded.

He escorted the women to the carriage that awaited them, with Emily leaning heavily on his arm. “Are you able to ascend yourself, or would you like me to lift you?” As she put her foot on the step he took her waist in both hands and took most of the weight off her feet, easing her entry into the vehicle while her mother took her hand from above. As he did so he felt her body shaking from the effort, and gauged her weight at around eight stone. She was slowly starving to death. He watched them depart and began to make his way West on foot. It was nearly six o’clock and would be dark within the hour.

Once out of sight of Toynbee Hall Anna turned to her daughter and asked after that peculiar encounter. “He’s… offered to cure me of consumption and has shown me things that make me believe he can do it. The price he wants is my service for at least five years.”

“That boy? It sounds ridiculous. What did he tell you?”

“He swore me to secrecy. All I can say is that next time you see him, look very closely at him. He is no boy. And that bit of flattery in Swahili was literally true, as was his joke involving Psalm 23. I pity anyone who tries to harm him in the Rookeries or anywhere else, for they would likely not survive the encounter, no matter how many cutthroats there may be.” With that she lapsed into silence and would not be drawn further on the matter, partly because she was worried she might have said too much already. Karl had not said what he might do if she broke her promise of silence, but instinctively knew it would not be good.

“We will see” was her mother’s concluding remark as they made their way home, and she brooded upon the words of her daughter, hoping against hope for a miracle yet dreading disappointment. Nevertheless, she was intensely curious. For all her faults nobody had ever accused Emily of being either gullible or stupid. Quite the opposite. She must have seen something truly extraordinary. Still, if he was a charlatan of some kind it would become apparent the moment money was mentioned. Additionally that boy did look, well, strange would be an understatement even though she could not quite discern why.

In the meantime Karl started Westwards towards Claridge’s in Mayfair. By his estimation it should be a journey of no more than ninety minutes, even in the dark. So, back up towards Spitalfields then onto the Clerkenwell Road, through Farringdon and then to Holborn and Bloomsbury which he had known in more prosperous times. At some point he must have taken a wrong turn, or more likely had an inaccurate map, for he found himself in narrow unlit streets of dirty windowless houses and pubs noisy with singing, arguing and alcohol despite being early in the evening. It was also getting very cold, and he estimated it would go well below freezing since as he gazed upwards he could see stars in the moonless murky sky, not that it bothered him. The visibility must have been bad, for many people did not seem to notice him until his outline appeared as a deeper shadow in the dark, and they gave him a wide berth. Even a polite good evening did little to mollify their suspicions and possibly fear of the obvious and huge outsider. A little later he came across the bright warmth of a form huddled in the doorway of a large unlit building all but invisible to normal eyes, and heard the uneven breath of someone cold and shivering. The woman did not see or hear him until he stood immediately before her, and he could tell from the way she was losing heat that she had little in terms of clothing, and may well die of exposure in the coming hours. Karl could also smell the copious amount of gin she had consumed, which although providing the illusion of warmth would hasten death in these conditions. “I see you are cold. Have you no home or shelter?”

As he knelt she simply said “No money, no home” and turned her face back toward the wall. Gray haired, and in her fifties perhaps, was all he could immediately gauge. Judging by the colors his eyes could see it appeared her slurred voice was not merely due to alcohol but onset of hypothermia, and it presented something of a dilemma. The strong advice issued by the Society was not to get involved and let fate play itself out. At least, that was what was told to the Curates but he was not one of them and had his own code of conduct when it came to mortality. For every life he ended prematurely he tried to save someone, almost heedless of the effect on the Web. Additionally, here he was rushing headlong to save Emily, whose life and death would have far more effect than saving some drunken pauper who should die in the Rookery this night. Plus, in the balance of life he was still hugely in debit in his own mind, so he opened his coat and moved closer to her. “I have money for you and warmth,” he said as he raised his own body temperature far beyond Human levels, acutely aware that if anyone were to come across him in this position their first thoughts would be Ripper or Varney the Vampire. He found the caricatures somewhat amusing, but in reality there was no danger for he would see or hear any approach from far away.

After a few minutes she uttered a slurred “I’m hot. Who are you?”

Not only hot, thought Karl. Smelly with rotten teeth, bad breath and a serious lack of hygiene as he opened her hand and placed ten shillings in it, telling her what he was doing since she could not see in the darkness. “I am also going to leave you my coat. Wrap yourself in it and you will not die tonight. Tomorrow, get some food instead of gin and count yourself lucky. Tell me your name that I might find you in a thousand years if you survive Judgment Day.”

“Heather Jacques. Are you an angel?”

“Or a demon. Depends who you ask” he said glibly as he walked onward, his abstract numerically based conscience salved for the time being. Maybe she would stay there, or find one of the pubs and imbibe more gin before finding a cheap bed for the night. In any event, she would see the light of a new day with a new opportunity for life. Whether she took it was up to her — it was no longer his business.

Feeling for magnetic North to guide his footsteps he made his way beyond New Oxford Street and the tall church that loomed in the darkness, a shadow against night sky. He surmised it must be St Giles. From there it was not far to the hotel. Another sovereign compensated for his appearance and lack of baggage and he spent the night lying on a feather mattress in not-too-shabby accommodation listening to the other guests through the walls, after dining rather well. He resolved to buy a new coat to replace the one he had donated, and could imagine the repressed looks of disapproval from the Garretts. In the meantime, he checked for fleas.

Number 50 Berkeley Square was a Georgian terraced town house of blackened brick consisting of four stories and a basement. The main entrance was fronted by a wrought iron arch flanked by two link extinguishers, which since the advent of gas street lamps were surplus to requirements. Link boys no longer needed to escort visitors with flaming torches through the darkened street. The actual door itself was also black lending an air of gloom to the place. He wondered whether he ought to suggest to the MacKenzies that they brighten up the exterior since it was his experience that first appearances often set the tone of subsequent encounters and it was the same with houses. This one did not appear welcoming in the least. Perhaps his knowledge of another very similar dwelling colored his impressions.

Unfortunately due to the requirement that apple carts not be upset he could not simply show Emily’s parents who he was. However he could drop substantial hints of both the carrot and stick variety, but in the end he had to convince them that he was their last hope and that they had nothing to lose and everything to gain by acceding to his wishes. It did irk him that he had to navigate the complex weave of Human interactions consisting of hopes, fears, wishes and the ludicrous proprieties of this society when he would rather cut through them as a sword instead of performing this ritual dance. At exactly four o’clock he rapped three times and waited. The door was opened by a smartly attired manservant who told him he was expected before taking his hat and leading him to the drawing room to meet the family.

The moment he stepped into the room his senses were overwhelmed to a degree that approximated pain. Unlike normal people he did not have automatic sensory filters and saw literally everything. He saw every curlicue in the rug, every thread, every break in the thread, every stain, every minor asymmetry and so on ad nauseam. Not a square inch of floor, walls or ceiling was without fretwork or patterned surface and the attendant imperfections. The furniture likewise — there was no simplicity amid the sea of complexity upon which his eyes could rest, except for the interior of the fireplace. On that first step into the room he had already perceived and understood the title of every book the family had placed in view, all because it was what he classified as meaningful in the sense it related to his mission. He blinked slowly and adjusted his perception to reduce the discomfort.

To his left Emily sat on an overstuffed red floral pattern sofa next to her mother, looking rather better than she had the previous day although still pale and frail. Perhaps it was because of the rest, or perhaps because hope is a tonic and despair a poison.

A man rose to greet him of medium height and build, soft brown eyes, thin graying black hair and a well-trimmed mustache. Unusual, given his daughter’s hair and eye color, but not unprecedented. Karl guessed his age as early sixties and he was well turned-out in pinstriped trousers, tweed jacket and waistcoat, and a high shirt-collar with cravat. Mrs. MacKenzie was also looking well dressed, and he wondered whether it was for their guest, but decided it was what they called Sunday best. Perhaps for church, although Emily was considerably more informal and probably did not attend. Given her political affiliations and friends he would not be surprised if she was not religious at all, although as he was aware religion here was far more about social connections and community than mere belief. “Mr DuLac? Welcome to our home. I believe you have already met my wife and daughter. I am Eamon MacKenzie. Would you care to take a seat?” indicating an armchair facing all three of them, across a small table. After being seated he continued. “My wife, and particularly my daughter, have indicated that you may be of some aid in our predicament. However, it all seems rather… unusual, especially your request for Emily’s service. Are you a physician by any chance?”

“No sir, but I have a great deal of medical and scientific knowledge. As the saying goes, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, or in this case the cure. If I’m a charlatan then you have nothing to lose. Please allow me to show you something.” With that, he opened his coin purse and emptied it onto the table before them. Among the Gold and Silver were several uncut diamonds that he always carried with him. Like those precious metals, they were currency almost everywhere and at most times in history. Their worth was far beyond that of the sovereigns that clinked together. The MacKenzies leaned in and looked closely, particularly Eamon whose face held an enigmatic expression. “I’m showing you a small sample of my wealth in order to lay to rest any concerns you may have about my ability to support your daughter and pay her handsomely for her work. Also to dispel any fears you may have about the possibility that I might in some way be trying to take pecuniary advantage of your distress.” With that he returned everything to the purse, save for a diamond the size of a small cherry. “Please take that and have it examined at your leisure to establish its value.”

Eamon MacKenzie picked it up and examined it closely. “I have no doubt that you mean well Mr. DuLac and I did not for a moment countenance the possibility that you might be…” he hesitated as he sought for a diplomatic word that would not offend, but Karl interrupted: “In which case, Mr. MacKenzie, you are far more trusting than I would be in your position, which is to your credit. Emily trusts me because of things I have shown her, and you obviously trust the judgment of both her and your wife. Trust is something that should not be given lightly and I would if possible set your mind at rest to the degree I am permitted.”

“Thank you. You must understand how unusual your claim and request sound Mr. DuLac. Is there nothing in the way of evidence you can provide to convince us as you have done our daughter? I quite understand why Emily should feel it is vital that we accommodate you, but even so…” he trailed off again, looking expectantly, and waiting for the reply.

Karl considered the problem briefly and decided to indulge them in a manner designed to both partially assuage their curiosity as to whatever his unusual nature may be, but also to hint at his capabilities for violence should such be needed. Feeling into his pocket he fished out another gold sovereign, placing it on the table in front of them. Before they could inquire as to the reason he simply asked them to accompany him to the foot of the stairs in the hallway. There the banister terminated in a post topped with an oak ball approximately six inches in diameter, which he held with his right hand. He invited them to make sure they had a good view. “Watch” is all he said as he slowly tightened his grip. It made a creaking sound and after a couple of seconds there was a crack as of a gunshot, and then another and another until all that remained was crushed oak in his half-closed hand.

Mrs. MacKenzie was the first to speak. In a low voice “… the most ferocious thing in that valley,” as she looked at him with a studied neutral expression on her face. He returned her gaze, and he added “Or any other valley, anywhere. By-the-bye, the sovereign should cover the repairs. Shall we continue in the drawing room?”

When they were seated again Eamon MacKenzie agreed with his wife that it was the most impressive feat of strength he had ever witnessed or even heard of. “Was that what you showed Emily?”

“No sir — I showed her something far more remarkable than a simple strongman act. I really would like to show you as well but to be honest it is something that could cause great problems if it became common knowledge. If you will forgive me, there is an apposite saying. Namely to tell one person a secret is a risk. To tell two is foolish. To tell three, one might as well tell the whole world. I trust Emily because I must and because without me she will soon be dead, taking my secret to the grave.” He saw the expressions of worry, regret and premature grief wash across their faces at his brutal statement.

It was Anna MacKenzie who knew what she had just witnessed, prompted by what Emily had said the previous day and her own close observations over the past half hour. Karl was something inhuman that could kill any number of men in seconds. Or could, perhaps, save her daughter. “Would the room next to my daughter’s bed-chamber be sufficient?” Most certainly it would, he acknowledged.

At that, he requested that he and Emily be left alone for a few minutes. “Do you still wish to continue?” She nodded. He removed the needles from his pocket once again. “Then hold out your hand please.”

Her pulse was weak but fast as he felt for the artery in the wrist, just beneath the base of her thumb. With his other hand he chose a needle and pushed it partway into the tip of his own forefinger. He then held her wrist. Withdrawing the needle he then used it to briefly puncture her right radial artery. “That should be sufficient. I will know with certainty within the hour. If all is well, you will start to feel hot and develop a fever later this evening, and a serious hunger a little later. The more you can eat the faster your body will be rebuilt, but the process will take months to run to completion. We need to leave within two weeks.”

“Why so quickly? What is so important?”

The answer to that, he told her, was that he was out of his depth here and unprepared. The longer he stayed the more he felt he was putting everyone in danger, including the Society for whom he worked. In the end she had no choice but to agree with his assessment.

What next? A Sunday evening of tall tales and whatever these people did for entertainment. He desperately hoped it would not be a gathering around the piano for a rousing round of hymns, and had a dark vision of being asked to provide a solo rendition of Onward Christian Soldiers or something equally tedious and ironic.

When the family were together again, seated, Eamon spoke once more “Perhaps you could tell us something of yourself, Mr. DuLac. I understand you have recently arrived from America.”

“Please, call me Karl as does Emily. That story about America was somewhat untruthful since I come from elsewhere originally. Nevertheless, I have been there as well as every continent on Earth, and as Mrs. MacKenzie can attest, I speak at least one language beyond English.”

Eamon was about to query the every continent claim when he was preempted by the next question, losing the chance for a very enlightening exchange.

“How many?” came the question from Emily.

“Well, including dialects, all the major languages. Perhaps a bit less than two hundred in all, including archaic ones such as Latin, Greek, Sanskrit, Pali and Aramaic.”

That, thought the entire family, sounded like a challenge! Emily began questioning him in French to which he replied flawlessly, or at least as flawlessly as her ears could detect since she was not a native French speaker. Then she followed up with German, Russian, Latin and Greek, which rather impressed him. Her father then said something in Hindi, and he replied in kind remarking on the accent and incorrect grammar.

Having run out of verifiable tests they settled on asking him to translate sentences into Mandarin, Urdu, Swahili (again), Arabic, Italian, Polish, Hebrew and Hungarian. They asked several times to try and catch him out, trying to hear if what he was saying differed the second or third time around. When that failed, Anna changed the subject…

“So, Karl — what other talents do you possess? Do you play any musical instruments?”

“Piano, violin, guitar, and saxophone” came the answer, to which Emily countered with “The same for me, except clarinet instead of saxophone. Shall we play? You on piano,” gesturing to the upright across the room “and myself on violin?”

“Agreed!” exclaimed Karl “However, let’s make it interesting. I will sit at the piano but I would like watch your fingers on the violin. You can choose the piece and I will improvise around it as you play.”

It meant moving some furniture around so Emily could remain seated, but when that was complete Anna fetched the violin from a cupboard. As Emily removed it from the case he observed it closely and was rather surprised. She began by running through the scales in order to tune it, and after that was complete began playing an Irish Jig. For Karl time slowed to a crawl as he began to guess each note before her finger had finished moving, and to guess the loudness by how quickly she began bowing. With that information and the previous notes he could anticipate the music fractionally in advance, whereupon he modified his own response to match and complement her recital without copying it. After a couple of minutes she tried to trick him by moving unpredictably from one piece to another, one style to another, without a break. Karl did not make a single misstep even as Emily stared at him, almost daring him to try to follow, right up until she turned slightly and hid her fingers from his view, whereupon he faltered and their perfect duet ended. “You cheated!” he laughed “Emily, you are a superb musician.” He meant it.

“But not as good as you it seems” yet again impressed by him, but not feeling in the least slighted by his showing off given what she knew of him, which remained pitifully little.

He countered “I’ve had rather more practice than you.”

They both turned together and faced her parents once more.

“Karl,” said Eamon “You are beyond merely impressive. Nobody as young as you seem to be could have mastered all of those talents. Perhaps nobody at all for that matter. If I may be so blunt, who are you really?”

“Now that, I cannot tell you. Or rather, will not. Emily thinks she may know, but she is wrong,” looking at her with an amused expression. “However, I cannot stop you speculating, aloud if you wish. I will neither confirm nor deny, nor will you offend me. What about you, Anna? I have seen you watching me — I followed your eyes. What do you think?”

“I think, Karl, that although you appear Human you are not. Also, that you are incredibly dangerous.”

“Then let me set your mind at ease, if that is possible. I am no danger at all to you and your loved ones, let alone your daughter. I intend to be her protector, teacher and guardian for the next few years. As for dangerous in general, you are correct, but never to the innocent.” Even as he said it he knew it was not entirely true, being more a matter of intention than actuality on a number of occasions.

“I note sir, that you clarified that latter observation I made, but not the former” she said quizzically. Karl just tipped his head a fraction, and remained silent. “So, what is it that you intend to teach my daughter?”

“That is simple, but again I can only speak in generalities. I intend for her to mingle in the social circles that I frequent, which are very different from the present milieu. For that she will need skills that cannot be acquired here.” Beyond that, he refused to elaborate.

At the lull in conversation Karl picked it up again, keen to glean some real information “Perhaps you can tell me of yourselves” he said. “For example, the couple in the photographs” nodding towards the pictures on the sideboard. “A military man?”

Speaking with some pride, it was Eamon who answered. “That’s our son Felix. He is currently an officer in the Army of India and is stationed in Delhi but come the summer will be moving to Simla to escape the heat, so I’m told. Fought in the Afghan War ten years ago. He married Rebecca five years later and she maintains their house in Camberley.”

“My older brother” Emily added “I have two lovely nephews, the twins, aged four.”

“And you sir,” addressing Eamon, “may I inquire as to your occupation?”

“I have worked for Coutts in The Strand for many years and will be retiring at year’s end. Not much excitement there, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t know about that — Angela marrying a man thirty-seven years her junior made something of a stir ten years ago, and an American at that. Quite the scandal and even the Queen herself got involved, and was rebuffed for her trouble” chipped in Emily, to the obvious embarrassment of her father.

That was also something that Karl had heard about, given the prominence of the banking family. He was also aware of something else and had to make a quick decision. So, throwing caution to the wind “May I suggest you bring your retirement forward by at least three months sir. Again, I cannot tell you why I give that advice. Merely that it would be prudent to do so.”

“You really are annoyingly enigmatic” stated Anna, which earned a disapproving look from her daughter. “May we ask what your occupation might be, especially given your apparent wealth?”

“At the risk of being even more annoyingly enigmatic, I work for an organization we call The Society which is dedicated to making the world a better place. Something we have in common with Emily and her friends, which may or may not be germane to her apparent fame and my appearance. As for the wealth, it’s not mine but I occupy such a high position within the organization that I have total discretion when it comes to disbursing funds. Hence one may view me as either being immensely wealthy, or alternatively being penniless.”

“Like the Knights Templar” added Eamon. Karl declined to comment.

“I feel hot” Emily suddenly said, and as Karl looked at her he could see it. Beads of sweat on her forehead and a deep red glow upon her exposed skin. He rose, took her hand and placed his thumb and middle finger around her thin wrist. He could feel the new blood flow as it spoke to him and told him all was well.

“You need to stay as cool as possible, so I suggest you lie undressed on your bed with the window open. Also, someone may need to stay with you and sponge you down with cold water regularly. You might also find it comfortable to take a cold bath on occasion.”

Addressing her parents, “If she becomes delirious then call me immediately. It should not happen though. Also, don’t forget the food. Now, if you could show me to my room I would be grateful.” He also mentioned the pen he had bought and asked them to look after it until his departure.

Anna rang a bell on a pull cord and the housekeeper, a rotund middle-aged woman named Mary, was introduced with instructions to show Karl to the room in which he would be staying as well as other locations and amenities within the house. That included a bathroom with both hot and cold water which came as something of a surprise, and an indoor outhouse with a water closet that flushed the waste away, presumably to the newly built sewers, although that was just a guess. Finally, he asked for a large jug of water and a bowl of sugar, adding that he was not to be disturbed unless needed by Emily’s condition.

As the housekeeper withdrew, the door closed and darkness reigned. He turned to face the wall behind which Emily lay, and became as a statue. With the loss of light his senses extended and simultaneously he became introspective as he listened to the sounds of the house, street and city. Beyond that he heard the flash of lightning halfway around the world, the hiss of the polar Aurora amid the faint cacophony of the deepness of the void and the birdlike chirping sounds of Jupiter. He felt a seductive and dangerous contentment creep up and deliberately succumbed to it as his mind constructed patterns from the dearth of sensation. At the center of all lay her heartbeat. Every so often he moved briefly to eat the sugar and drink the water. It was all he needed, for now.

Midday on Wednesday came a knock at the bedroom door, and Karl bid the visitor enter. The first thing Anna saw as she walked in was Karl standing and facing the wall of her daughter’s bedroom. The second was a bed that had not been disturbed. It was exactly as Mary had reported it the previous Sunday evening, with the exception that the flagon of water and bowl of sugar were now empty. “Have you been standing like that for days?” she asked, sounding incredulous.

“Yes” came the reply “I assumed you would not consent to me being in Emily’s bedroom all this time. This is the next best thing. I can hear her heartbeat and breathing from here and would know if anything was wrong.”

The first thing that went through Anna’s head was the realization that if Karl’s hearing was that sensitive, then he had probably heard everything everyone in the house said. “And you have had nothing to eat except… sugar? I’m so sorry. We should have had meals sent up here for you. None of us realized quite how… dedicated you would be.” Karl smiled as he heard the euphemism. The word she first considered was fanatical, or possibly obsessed.

“That’s no problem at all — it is as I requested. I take it Emily will be joining you for lunch downstairs?”

The improvement in Emily was visible for all to see. Gone were the overt signs of disease, her cheeks had a rosy glow and some of the weakness appeared to have evaporated. She smiled as he entered the room and sat at the dinner table. Nevertheless, he could feel the heat radiating from her and noticed beads of perspiration on her forehead which she dabbed occasionally with a napkin. He also noted that the window was open to the cold air outside and the room temperature must have been slightly uncomfortable for Anna. Emily, on the other hand, sat at the table dressed in something he could not quite identify but which was clearly thin material and might have been underwear. Another failure of knowledge on his part, but he assumed it was more comfortable than the usual women’s dresses he had seen out and about. Perhaps it had something to do with the hushed argument he had overheard between her and her mother, possibly concerning the entertaining of guests at the dinner table while only partially clothed.

“Mother told me that you have been standing facing me for three days. Don’t you need to sleep?”

“I do sleep” he replied “like a dolphin.”

“A fish?” queried Anna.

In a slightly exasperated tone “Mother, please do not be so ignorant. It is a mammal, not a fish. So, how do dolphins sleep?”

He could see how that annoyed Anna and spoke rapidly before an argument erupted. “With only part of their brain at any one time. And for your next question, yes, I do dream but they are more like your daydreams.”

The conversation was thankfully interrupted by Mary arriving to serve lunch, but he did not appreciate the numerous sidelong glances from the housekeeper. Wondering what the correct signal to begin eating might be, he waited for one of them to move first. It turned out to be Anna “For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly grateful.” So, the religious one he thought, noting Emily’s lack of interest.

It all seemed to be going rather well as they spoke of inconsequentials until Anna asked him what he made of the talk they attended as he raised a teacup to his lips. He halted, choosing his words carefully… “I think Mr. Wells will be correct in his assessment of the wonders of the coming century. But I also believe him to be far too optimistic concerning Human nature. Combine the two and you will see horrors unmatched in history. Life will go on though.” Anna sat back and looked somewhat smug while Emily seemed angered. It was obvious that there were two clashing views here possibly revolving around the notion of the perfectibility of mankind, and he had inadvertently picked a side, so he continued… “I also believe he is correct about the position of women in society and to some extent about politics.” Which pleased neither. Finally, “I’m not a prophet. I too work as Emily does, to make things better. It’s why I gave away my coat the night I left you at Toynbee Hall and got lost in the Rookery. Someone needed it more than I did, and I could afford to help.” This surprised both and he explained what had happened, omitting certain controversial facts.

“So, what of your beliefs Karl. Are you religious? Do you have faith?” asked Anna pointedly. Once more the probing questions that he found tiresome, so he answered in an aggressive manner. “The woman to whom I gave my coat asked whether I was an angel. Her fellows left her to die in the street, but I didn’t. Angel or demon, Heaven or Hell are just matters of perspective and two sides of the same coin — sometimes just a shilling. What of you Anna — is your faith in the risen Christ strong? Would you have given away your coat?” He knew she would know the biblical allusion, albeit probably incorrectly, and judged she would not give money to the undeserving poor as people like her thought of them. At this she shrank back, realizing that this was not a fit subject for conversation. “I’m sorry. Anyway, to answer your questions, I am a Christian and I don’t know whether I would have done as you.” She began eating a piece of cake in order to excuse herself from speaking for a while. Then Emily jumped in bluntly. “Is there a God? Is there an afterlife?”

“If I answer truthfully, will you both cease your questioning?” They nodded. “Then here is your answer. There are many Gods and many afterlives. Dying is not the problem. Living is.” Nobody is ever satisfied with the truth, he concluded.

Anyway, he needed a new coat and would have to go shopping that afternoon. Aquascutum was the single word Anna spoke, which turned out to be a rather fine tailor shop within easy walking distance. Two hours and two pieces of gold later he was the owner of an Inverness cape, loose fitting, waterproof and sleeveless allowing his arms free movement. He chose the less formal version without lapels, as worn by coachmen. He had considered the Ulster which was, according to Conan Doyle, the favored apparel of Sherlock Holmes but decided to go with practicality over fashion or sentiment. Nevertheless, as he exited the shop he stole a furtive glance at himself reflected in the window. Definitely the well-dressed monster-about-town. He wondered if Anna would approve, and then wondered why he cared what she thought.

That evening Eamon returned home and after dinner placed the diamond onto the table. “I did as you suggested, and had it appraised in Hatton Garden” he said, almost apologetically. “It is genuine and worth a fortune, which doubtless comes as no surprise to you I imagine. The estimate is just under two thousand pounds. I felt somewhat unsafe carrying it upon my person after I learned that.”

Karl just left it lying on the table. “For fifteen sovereigns it is yours. I need the gold to repay a debt when Emily and I depart.” Well, that raised several issues and after much discussion between the family Karl forcefully insisted, pointing out that for him the sum was trivial and he had several more, as they had already seen. “Give it to your son as a belated wedding present from a stranger, or give it away to the poor. You have enough of them dying in your streets for lack of a few shillings.” Anna remained silent after that.

For the remainder of the week he kept to his room, only venturing out occasionally during the day for a single meal and to check on Emily’s progress, acutely aware that every movement of his was noted. His visits to the bathroom were timed to allay speculation as to his metabolism and forestall what he suspected would be a barrage of questions, whether subtle or not, as time went on. Soon offers to wash his clothes would arrive if he stayed much longer. Wearing the same clothes for a week, or even two, was commonplace here especially among the poorer segments of society but three would be an unwarranted risk. They would soon wonder why he did not smell.

With Emily improving by leaps and bounds her family no longer had any doubts as to his claims. She was up and about now, albeit dressed for summer and spending a considerable amount of time outside in their tiny garden to remain cool, especially at night. She leapt at his suggestion that he needed a tour guide for London, with Primrose Hill being their first early morning destination. As he explained, he had been there once before and it offered a panoramic view across the capital. It would be interesting to see the changes that had been wrought across the decades. Given her needs, they decided to make it an early morning picnic since it was clear and cold the previous night. Breakfast was at six and they arrived at the hill after a three mile carriage ride, taking in Regent’s Park, just before dawn. Although somewhat extravagant compared to a Hansom, Emily insisted on both the means of transport and paying for it. The least she could do after his generosity she said, and he finally got a leisurely and relaxing drive that revealed more than the rear end of a horse. Telling the coachman to wait for them Emily stepped down and Karl got to carry the wickerwork hamper and thick woolen blanket towards one of the paths leading up the hill.

The view, when they arrived at the summit, was disappointing. A haze of smoke from a million chimneys lay over the slowly brightening city and the only landmark visible was the spire of St Mark’s Church in the near distance. He had wanted to see St Paul’s Cathedral and maybe the Tower of London, but it was pointless. Perhaps it might clear as the day brightened and warmed and people no longer needed their early morning fires, but he doubted they were going to stay that long. “I was hoping to see the new bridge at the Tower being built.”

“And so you shall. It will be our next destination” she said.

Laying the blanket on the wet grass some way down-slope they sat and Emily removed her hat and opened the hamper. He watched her eat a sandwich, and then broke the silence “What makes you special?” It was really a rhetorical question spoken aloud and he doubted she had an answer.

“Apart from you? Nothing that I know of. I’m just Old Beanpole, the schoolteacher who never amounted to anything” she said with surprising bitterness. “It was a name they called me at school when I did not stop growing and has dogged my footsteps ever since. Before that they called me Bonehead because I have a knobbly head.”

“Well, soon you will have a second chance, although somebody at my end of things already believes you amount to a great deal. The irony here is that you know more about me, than I about you. Who are you Emily? What has made you who you are?”

She lay back and considered the question. Should she confide in him her innermost thoughts and feelings? He was a stranger, a very strange stranger, and was hardly likely to gossip to her friends and family, so why not — she did owe him her life and perhaps this could be part payment. Besides, her old existence seemed so far away and was fading rapidly in this new reality. It would be more like describing the life of a friend rather than herself. “Do you know the most humiliating event of my life?” Well, obviously he did not, so he waited expectantly for her to continue. “I was eighteen and going to attend my first real dance, accompanied by my mother and aunt as chaperons and brother as my escort. It was all very exciting, especially since I had not danced with a man before, except my father and brother, and there would be a good number of boys of my own age in attendance including some of my brother’s friends. Of course, in our all-girl school they taught us the steps and allowed us to practice with each other for the purpose of learning the social graces. Most popular were the Galop, Polka, Two-Step and the Viennese Waltz. Generally I played the part of a man because I was so tall compared to the others. Anyway, I was dressed in my best finery — a new gown bought specially for the occasion and was greatly looking forward to it. That all changed the moment we entered the ballroom and people stared at me. I was taller than anyone else. For my first dance I was partnered by a friend of my brother who was a foot shorter than me. Seeing the nudges, nods and smirks on the faces of the onlooking boys I got so flustered I started to dance the way I normally did, with the man’s steps. That was my first and last dance. I feigned illness and retired shortly after.”

Karl wondered how much of that was true, as opposed to imagination stimulated by self-consciousness and anxiety, right up until she spoke again after finishing the sandwich. “Some of my brother’s friends later sent me letters of apology, but it was all too late.”

So maybe not all her imagination… and one of the turning points of a life. We all have them, he thought and it is the perception that matters, with facts only secondary.

“Of course, all of this was part of the endless attempt by my parents and relatives to find me a suitable match. The problem is that few men want a woman who is taller and more intelligent than themselves. Most introductions were to men who were ugly or stupid or both, and the ones I felt might have been suitable rejected me.”

Perhaps having a sharp tongue and a sarcastic cutting wit may also have something to do with it, he thought. She certainly did not tolerate fools and made no secret of it, being quite willing to brutally correct her mother in front of a guest. He could imagine her bullying and belittling some husband with her intellect and cool invective, and probably so could they. In a society as male dominated as this one they had any number of pejoratives for such a woman — shrew, scold, harridan, nag… The partners of such women were themselves often the butt of ridicule and jokes. She lay down next to him, staring into the brightening sky, hands behind her head, refreshed by the cold air.

“Perhaps your standards when seeking a partner are too high. In my experience a good heart compensates for many perceived deficiencies, and without that those other accomplishments pale into insignificance over time. As the years go by, that is the only thing that matters.”

She turned her head away from the sky and towards him. “Do you have a good heart?”

After a pause of a few seconds came the soft cold reply. “No.”

Yet he gave away his coat to the needy, she thought. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, “that I do things for rational reasons, not out of the goodness of my heart.”

She still failed to fully understand but did not want to press him further.

“Karl, do you know the story of Gawain and Ragnelle?” He answered with one word: Sovereynté.

“Yes — that which I cannot have even with a perfect husband, for law and custom dictate otherwise. Until eight years ago I could not own property if I was married — everything would belong to my husband. I cannot vote, I cannot stand for Parliament and I cannot even play in an orchestra no matter how good I may be.”

He knew full well what she meant, having experienced many societies at many points in history. Roles for each sex that were rigidly defined by custom and behavior, with those boundaries strongly defended by arguments both genuine and bogus but always attempting to maintain the status quo. Humans liked certainty and if they were content with their place in the social order they did not welcome change. Change derived from malcontents like Emily and Wells and the people at Toynbee Hall. At least now transgressions did not invite death penalties, at least in Britain, and to be fair this place was far from the worst in that respect and appeared to be getting better, as Wells predicted. He approved but would make no attempt to change things himself. He had done so once before, long ago, and to say it developed in an unfortunate direction would be an understatement.

“Then I was diagnosed with consumption two years ago, which turned me into an instant social pariah. I had to resign my job at the school and move back in with my parents. My friends stopped visiting and I was even told that my mother’s church would rather I did not attend services. That might have come as a relief had it not been for their vile hypocritical attitude and it led to numerous arguments with my mother culminating about a week before you arrived when I cursed her useless God and told her that if the Devil fared better I would follow him.”

He laughed as he pondered the seriousness of that statement. If it became public she would have lost any hope of a teaching position, and despite her protestations of being merely a schoolteacher it was at the relatively new, progressive and prestigious Cheltenham Ladies’ College under Dorothea Beale, a prominent suffragist. Despite ideological sympathies they could not afford to employ an outright atheist let alone someone who professed a preference for Satan, even in jest. Also, thought Karl, it certainly explained Anna’s attitude. From her point of view it must have seemed like Emily had sold her soul to the Devil and a week later a demon turns up to collect. He would have to try and disabuse her of these rather serious notions, and not feed her superstitious fears with displays of unearthly power. “I am definitely not a demon from Hell and your only pact with me is what we agreed. Your soul is your own, and you do not even have to do anything I tell you once we have left here. At that point you are totally free.”

She heard him and pondered those words. Was she free once he had taken her away from this place? It seemed too good to be true, but in the meantime his threat to return her to death’s door if she left now was very real. However, she genuinely did want to go away with him so it presented no dilemma, nor was she having second thoughts. Quite the opposite — she was looking forward to an adventure.

“Of course, my parents consulted all the best doctors and for a while it went into remission. I could imagine my friends saying things like poor old Beanpole — dead at the age of thirty — what a pity. And putting flowers on my grave. When it returned I knew it was the end. It was all so unfair. I could have done so much and everything I learned and yearned for was now finished, with not even the comfort of the religion my mother clings to. All for nothing like dust in the wind.”

At that she paused and stared at the brightening post-dawn sky once more before realizing that there was something else… “You know, I was somewhat annoyed by your suggesting that the diamond goes to my brother, since he already has everything my parents can lavish on him. A fine education, money for his military career. It’s not cheap being an officer in the army. If I had the same opportunities afforded him I would have outshone him like the sun to the moon.”

He believed it. Both her musical and language skills were extraordinary. In the former she was world class, at least judging by recitals he had heard on other occasions by celebrated musicians. With the latter her speech was almost flawless. Indeed, he could hear in them the local accents of her teachers who were native speakers.

“My apologies. I gave it to him, and not you, because your destiny exceeds his to a degree you do yet comprehend. You are leaving home and will have opportunities you cannot imagine, and to be honest I don’t think you will ever want to return here except for the occasional visit. Of course, if you want a diamond, have one” he said as he took one of them between thumb and forefinger before casually tossing it towards her. She snatched it from the air with a pleasing dexterity. “When you discover what you have, and he does not, you will weep for him.”

Holding it against the rising sun, she squinted at its irregular surfaces and imperfections as it sparkled with reddish light, and handed it back. “It looks like a lump of quartz. Anyway, I would rather earn it and not be the beneficiary of charity.”

“The charity of which you are already a beneficiary could not be bought for all the gold and diamonds in the world. That bauble is trivial,” as he replaced it in his pocket.

“Perhaps,” she replied “but I was under the impression that it was you who wanted me, and I suspect I may well end up paying for your largesse in the end.” He could hardly deny it since he himself did not know what her ultimate fate may be. “So what made you what you are?”

“Stupidity and a talent for killing, but I too was given a second chance. I wanted to be a better man.” With that they lay in silence until Emily decided it was time to leave.

The trip to where Tower Bridge was being constructed was another disappointment, as it was in the early stages and only the support towers were partially visible. The river also smelled, and when he mentioned it to Emily she told him that thirty years previously the House of Commons had to be evacuated because of the stench, which was what prompted the building of London’s sewer system for which the Thames had previously served. Even so, as he looked into the dark waters it was obvious that the only life there consisted of toxic scum. He also wondered about the fate of the young children, mudlarks, he had seen scavenging along the shoreline at low tide in their bare feet. At one point he walked to the water’s edge, dipped in a finger and tasted it. “Chateau Thames vintage 1890. A strong bouquet of fecal matter with tantalizing hints of cholera and assorted heavy metals.” Emily wrinkled her nose in disgust and told him not to do that again. “People who drink that die. And don’t touch anything of mine with that finger please.” However, he doubted she would take that directive as far as carrying her own luggage.

During the remainder of the final week Emily showed him other places of note, such as St Paul’s Cathedral, the Royal Albert Hall, Palace of Westminster and the Palm House in Kew Gardens. Additionally, they patronized numerous eating houses not frequented by the criminal underclass. He did note that Emily seemed strangely happy when they went inside St Paul’s. He half expected her to throw some holy water over him just as a test if he did not first burst into flames merely by setting foot on holy ground. He wryly thought that one day she would find out that his specialty, if one could call it that, was sacred earth.

The day of departure loomed and Emily was occupied writing letters to her friends, colleagues and her brother explaining her change of fortunes and the fact that she would be leaving for parts unknown. Hence all correspondence should be through her parents address for the time being. Karl had also made a stipulation concerning the amount of luggage she may bring, limiting it to one carpet bag and her violin case. The rule being, if she could not carry it single handed she should not bring it, and that everything necessary would be provided at their destination. In consequence, she had one change of clothes in the form of a summer dress and whatever she wore on departure. He also advised her to bring her clarinet and any jewelry to which she had a sentimental attachment. To her mind, it all seemed rather sparse considering they might not return for an unknown number of years.

A little later Anna called him into the drawing room behind closed doors. What she said took him by surprise “Do you have any romantic intentions towards my daughter?”

He laughed and then hesitated. She was serious and deserved a serious answer. “No, but she is going to a place where her stature will be normal, her intellect appreciated and barriers to her progress in any field she chooses will be unimpeded by her sex. She may find such an interest among the young men there, but I doubt it. I suspect she will never be satisfied in that respect. It’s going to be a long journey.”

With that he watched some of the tension in her face and shoulders ebb away. She believed him, or at least wanted to, but what came next gave him pause for thought. “My daughter has high standards, perhaps unrealistically high, and now you arrive, save her life and demonstrate how superior you are to every man she has met or even heard about, like some kind of Greek God. Then you laughingly dismiss the possibility of any romance, perhaps because you feel about her the way she feels about others who are beneath her?”

Karl was loath to admit that she had discerned the truth of the situation, but not how it suited his future plans for her. “In time she may well be my equal — we will see.” Yet how could Anna believe that, not knowing what he was not allowed to tell her?

“I still don’t want her to go. I had hopes that she might meet someone…”

Karl finished the sentence for her, in his thoughts… who is not you.

“I understand, but you will be able to write to her regularly and to be frank, there is nothing for her here beyond her family other than loneliness and disappointment. Also, something else. I do not want you to tell her this, but she is destined for a great life.” Which, he thought, was certainly true when compared to the mundane lives of these people.

Later that evening he heard Anna and Eamon speaking in low tones, and a short while later the latter invited him to the study to discuss matters. In other words, the long overdue Talk that Karl had been expecting. It seemed clear that Eamon, a rather mild-mannered man who disliked confrontation, had been put up to it by Anna.

The room was at the front of the house with a large window overlooking Berkeley Square, now illuminated by the wan light of the street lamps. The expected polished mahogany desk and leather upholstered chairs were there, along with books relating to finance, geography and military matters. After accepting a proffered brandy Eamon invited him to peruse his small library of specialist tomes, all first editions he was informed.

Something that did mildly intrigue him was the presence of books printed by the Kama Shasta Society, most notably the 1885 printing of The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night and the 1883 edition of The Kama Sutra, all translations by Sir Richard Burton. Apparently Eamon was something of a collector of highbrow literary pornography, for had these works been openly published instead of being limited editions for private circulation there may well have been prosecutions and prison sentences. It seemed that the sexual dynamics of the family were something of a contemporary cliché but he was disinclined to pursue that avenue of inquiry this late in the mission. Nevertheless, he did express his admiration for the collection, noting that its investment value would doubtless increase over the coming years as would the Dickens first editions in the drawing room.

Taking a seat opposite the desk, glass in hand, Karl savored the smell and taste as he swirled the Cognac around, inhaling and then tasting. Although almost never consuming alcohol himself he could appreciate the quality. It was pleasing from an aesthetic point of view and definitely a work of art. Sometimes he regretted the fact it had no effect on him. Still, sitting there he felt as if he had just been summoned to the headmaster’s office, and so decided to cut the process short, judging Eamon as being disinclined to speak to the point. “I assume you have been talking with Anna and wish to discuss your daughter and our departure tomorrow? In case you are wondering, you may be as direct with me as you wish.”

“To be blunt Karl, we do not want you to take Emily away from us. I know that you have seemingly wrought a miracle, but you must understand our reservations.”

Karl certainly did understand the word our and where this was coming from, so he was equally blunt. “Emily and I have made a bargain, and it will be kept. You know that as well as Anna. I assume Emily has told you what will happen if it is not?” He saw the man’s face grimace for a brief fraction of a second. He recognized that Eamon was in a bind, caught between his wife and daughter in such a manner as to anger one or the other irrespective of his own decision. He needed Karl to take that decision from his hands.

Eamon leaned back and took a sip of the brandy, staring at Karl with a now neutral expression clearly striving for some kind of emotional equilibrium, waiting. “Eamon, this is about the wishes of Emily. She wants to come with me and there nothing you, Anna or anyone else on this Earth can do to stop us so please accept this graciously. Wish her well and smile — don’t make this hard for her or yourselves. Despite what demon haunted superstitions Anna may harbor I can assure you that Emily will be far better off where we are going. All this place offers…” he said, gesturing at their surroundings with his glass, “is disease, death and thwarted ambitions. An interesting place to visit but nobody in their right mind would want to live here. Yet visit we shall, although it may be months or years before we return.” With that, the discussion was over.

Next morning he joined Emily, her parents and servants near the front door for the departure while awaiting the coach to the station. For her part, Emily had dressed conservatively in a durable sand colored woolen skirt, and a cream jacket with sand colored matching lapels, cuffs and shoulders. He half wondered whether she was dressed for fox hunting or something equally bizarre. Perhaps he should have mentioned that they were not destined to ride horses in the arctic nor were they going on safari. Not a good choice considering her new metabolism. As usual it was the hat that bemused him — he had never seen anything like it on a woman. It looked like a short black top hat with a wrap of some diaphanous material that extended into a tail hanging down to the nape of her neck. He resolved to ask about it at an opportune moment.

In the meantime, turning his attention to Eamon MacKenzie, he retrieved the card from the Society before handing it over. “You can write to Emily via this address. I’m afraid the postal service where we are going is a touch unreliable so any response may be rather tardy.” Whereupon Emily took it out of her father’s hand without a by-your-leave and looked at it. “I know that name” is all she said before handing it back.

At the station he purchased two tickets to St Albans, first class, and a picnic basket from a platform vendor. This time he promised himself he would enjoy the journey unhampered by haste and poor preparation. The carriage was empty and he took a window seat, pulling down the window to better hear the clicking of the wheels on rails, although as the clatter increased it rapidly became tiresome and he closed it once more. Unlike his earlier journey in third class the seats were well upholstered with arm-rests and it was clean with a carpeted floor instead of grimy wooden boards. Of course, Emily expected nothing less in her world of casual privilege but he did not begrudge her that nor think any less of her. As they proceeded out of London at the breakneck speed of fifty miles per hour he also noted it was refreshingly cool since there was no heating. Again, it suited both of them.

So, St. Albans was the destination. She felt a vague mix of disappointment and relief. She had been expecting something far more exotic. The pyramids of Egypt, or some mysterious temple in India or Tibet, perhaps a hidden city in the Himalayas. Or even America, though he had dispelled that story. She had attended meetings at the Theosophical Society a number of times, but was rather skeptical of their claims of Hidden Masters, Adepts, Secret Chiefs and so on, who guided the world towards a spiritual dawn. Rather too convenient, especially the secret part, but here was Karl who was something more than Human, or something other than Human. The feeling she got from him was not one of enlightenment, compassion or wisdom but that of an ancient supernatural child with an aura of naivety blended with knowledge, power and more than a hint of violence. He had promised to tell her the truth, or rather, not to lie to her, but could she believe it? He had told her she was special and that he did not know why. To have someone say that was always flattering. To hear it from him was troubling. He claimed he was to be her teacher and guardian and that she had a lot to learn, but to what social circles had he referred? Surely not St Albans! She looked at him sitting opposite, with his unfashionable long hair tied back in a pigtail like a schoolgirl, staring out of the carriage window, unblinking, not moving or indeed even breathing. He might as well have been a corpse. “Penny for your thoughts” she said, and smiled at him.

He turned instantly and locked his eyes with hers. They were slightly too large, but beautiful and she wanted to stare at him, but it would have been impolite. Then he spoke: “I was just enjoying the world. It’s so lovely and untouched. And this steam train — amazing! You know, in all my long life I had never been aboard a steam train until I visited your London. It’s a real privilege. Such an iconic means of transport.”

He had just raised the topic, so she took her chance, risking giving offense by unseemly prying into his personal life: “All your long life, you say. How long would that be, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“You can ask me anything at all, on any subject and I will never take offense. Of course, that doesn’t mean I will give an answer!” he teased. After a short pause, he added, “It’s difficult to say, but something over three thousand years.”

“But that’s all the way back to… beyond… ancient Greece and Rome!” she exclaimed. “Did you meet anyone famous?” leaning forward eagerly to hear his answer.

He laughed. “You will understand better in a few hours, if you can contain your curiosity that long,” and returned to looking out of the window.

She hazarded one more query. “Why don’t you know how old you are? When’s your birthday?”

Smiling again… “My birthday is the first day of Nemoralia. As for why I do not know precisely how old I am, well, time is a slippery concept as you will learn.”

Forty minutes later they arrived and hired a Hansom at the station, for an outrageous five shillings, to take them to their destination. Emily was about to complain and make a fuss, but Karl insisted it did not matter. It was, he said, also a novelty and he might as well make the best of the last of his holiday. However, when he told the cabman the exact address she was surprised. “That was where my parents lived before I was born.”

“What year?” he inquired, suddenly interested. It turned out to be 1860 and Emily was born later in the year after her father had sold it to some foreign businessman, allegedly from South Africa, for a very significant sum. It was a famous family story, as her father was paid in uncut diamonds. In fact, they became the basis of their fortune. Now he understood her father’s quizzical look when he produced the diamond upon first meeting.

She noted his surprised expression “Does that matter?”

“Well, it might go some way to explaining a few things although I have no real idea what the link may be. Have you ever been back there?” The answer was no.

An hour later they clattered onto the cobbled forecourt of a large house and Karl helped her alight while the cabman unloaded the sparse luggage. A minute later they were standing alone, so he picked up the bag and walked toward the door. Evidently they were not expected, thought Emily. Then she noticed the bronze plaque affixed to the left-hand side of the large oak door which read Society of Diana. Karl rapped three times using the ornate knocker in the shape of a woman wearing a long flowing robe. Probably the Roman Goddess herself she guessed.

The door opened and before them stood Mrs. Garrett. Karl made the introductions and she beckoned them inside. “Mrs. Garrett, Emily is to be one of us so you may speak freely, and I suspect she is going to need some substantial food fairly soon. Can you arrange that please?”

They were shown into the drawing room and seated. “How are you feeling Emily?” asked Mrs. Garrett. “You’re shaking. What you need is a good strong cup of well sugared tea to keep your strength up as your body changes. I’m guessing you also still have a slight fever, but that will pass.” Turning to Karl “How long do you intend to remain here sir? Transit is available at any time for someone of your seniority.”

“I think we will depart in about an hour, after refreshments.” He handed back the hat and the new coat, explaining that he had given away the duster to someone who needed it more than he, and noticed the flash of expected disapproval. He also returned the ticket, knife and the cash to the penny.

The refreshments turned out to be rather substantial, consisting of two pounds of rare steak and a large loaf of bread, with butter and jam. Emily could barely restrain herself. She had often heard people say they were starving but now she knew what it really felt like. As soon as Mrs. Garrett had left them alone together Karl simply said “Do it — eat and much and as fast as you want. Doctor’s orders” — which she did. It was humiliating to be so at the mercy of unquenchable hunger. “I’m sorry” was all she said between mouthfuls.

“As soon as your body has fully adapted this will pass and you will be normal again. Or rather, feel normal. You most certainly will not be normal — you will be better than you have ever been in your life. And do not be a slave to contemporary manners — none of that matters here.” After she had blown her nose and then wiped her face and hands on the napkin provided, he held her hand. “We have all been through this.” Not quite true. Most people had it a lot worse. “By the way, I see that you have forgotten your glasses.”

“I don’t seem to need them anymore. So, what is this place, the Society of Diana?”

Think of it as a secret embassy he told her, of The Imperium of Diana within a… nation… called the Confluence.

“Like the Imperium of Rome, or the British Empire?” she joked.
“Yes — but The Imperium is vast beyond your imagination in terms of size and power. Are you ready to step forth and discover the truth for yourself?”

She saw his face and it was serious. Something was about to happen as Mrs. Garrett entered, and he nodded. Carrying a lamp before them she led them down to the cellar and along a wide paneled corridor, the floor creaking underfoot. The luggage was sitting in front of a sturdy door and taking a black iron key from around her neck placed it in the massive lock. With a click the door swung open to reveal a room about eight feet square, with a ceiling almost as high. The walls were stone and the ceiling oak, with the floor consisting of worn dark gray flagstones. It was completely empty. There were not even any shelves.

“What is going to happen now is that we will go inside with the bags, turn around and face the door. Mrs. Garrett will then close it. We will be in the dark for a few seconds. If you are worried you may hold my hand. I will then knock three times on the closed door, which will open.”

“Is this some kind of initiation ritual? I have heard about those from the Theosophical Society”- and the Penny Dreadfuls, she diplomatically omitted.

“Yes. A brief one of utmost importance. I am going to introduce you to that world of wonders and adventure I promised. With you by my side.”

“In a cupboard?” she asked, somewhat bemused “Aren’t we supposed to get dressed up in ridiculous costumes and chant or something?”

“You have been doing that all your life. Now it’s time to wake up” he stated as they stepped inside.

The door closed quietly with an understated finality and darkness reigned. The silence was almost painful, she thought. It felt like she was having her ears sucked out of her head, then they popped forcing her to swallow. Perplexing.

She heard him knock three times with the sound being dull and muted and coming from far off, then the door started to open again, letting in a stream of brilliant light against which she closed her eyes momentarily.

“Welcome to Narnia” Karl whispered in her ear.

It was not Mrs. Garrett who opened it and the corridor was now brightly lit, almost like daylight. A man and a woman stood in front of them. “Welcome to Twenty-One” said the woman smiling. Emily barely grasped the words, because she was staring at their clothes, or lack of them. The man was dressed in his underwear, with bare legs, sandals and a thin white shirt with pictures on it. The woman was similarly dressed but with a skirt that did not even reach her knees.

“Good grief! Has this turned into a bordello?” Then she noticed the picture on the wall. A moving, glowing picture.

Meanwhile, Anna found a letter addressed to her. The handwriting was the most perfect and elegant she had ever seen and even before reading it she knew the author. It simply said: You know where we are going. You attended the lecture.