by Peter David
“Of course.”
“Good. Take me there, please.”
He clambered into the cab before the driver could say anything else. The driver shrugged and snapped the reins.
By the time Isaac Van Helsing turned around, he was astounded to see that his son was gone.
The Artful Dodger and Charley Bates sat in the Tower of London and wondered if they were ever going to see the light of day.
The cell itself was rather spare: a square room that didn’t seem to be more than ten feet wide in any direction. A chamber pot sat uninvitingly in a corner, and straw was strewn on the floor, presumably in case the chamber pot wasn’t sufficient to accommodate the needs of the person in the cell. A small window with three bars was situated in the wall above them.
The Artful was not remotely convinced that he would be entitled to any sort of trial, no matter how the laws of England were written. Due process under the law was more of a privilege for those that could afford it, and Dodger knew that he was not amongst that privileged few. There was every chance that he could remain locked up in the Tower for the rest of his life. He had, after all, murdered a man, in full view of the royal family, after illegally breaking into Buckingham Palace. Trespass and murder. It would not matter to any judge in the world that he had gained entrance to the palace because he was desperate to save Princess Alexandrina Victoria. Nor would it matter that the man he had slain had clearly not been a human being, at least insofar as anyone could determine by what had transpired with his body. No, what mattered was that the dead man had been a personal guest of the royal family, and you simply could not break into the home of the royals and slay someone with whom they were speaking.
“Don’t’ cha worry,” Charley Bates spoke up. “We’ll get out of here right enough.”
“You might get out of here,” said Dodger. “After all, your major crime was holding the guards back. So you might see daylight in ten, maybe twenty years. Me . . . either I’m going to die here or die out there. Latter, most like.” He nodded toward the small window in the wall. “They’re prob’ly buildin’ a noose to dangle me from right now.”
“Oh, I doubt that. They already have plenty of nooses, so they don’t have to build no . . . .” His voice trailed off and he looked apologetically at Dodger. “Sorry. Weren’t thinkin’ none.”
“Don’t’ cha worry, Charley. I think more than enough for the both of us.”
The Artful had lost track of how long they remained within the cell. No food was brought to them, and his stomach was fairly howling at him for sustenance, but he was hardly in a position to accommodate it. All he knew was that there was daylight out. Then he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching the door in steady rhythm. It wasn’t just that someone was approaching; the sound seemed to be marching. For some reason, Dodger found this to be vaguely disconcerting.
The footsteps were moving together in perfect synchronization, and that said to Dodger that it was palace guards. He had no proof that they were heading for his cell, but he suspected that was the case. “On your feet, Charley,” he said. “Think we’re about t’have company.”
Charley scrambled to his feet, and sure enough, there was the sound of a key in the lock of the door. Moments later it swung open, and a coterie of palace guards was standing there. The Artful briefly considered trying to run past, in hopes that he would be able to escape, but he quickly dismissed the idea. The guards were standing much too close together. It was almost as if they were expecting him to make the attempt.
“Come with us,” said the lead guard.
“Where to?” asked Dodger. “A court? Or Australia? Or straight to the hangman?”
“Come with us,” repeated the guard.
The Artful let out a deep sigh. He didn’t know what was about to happen to him, but he very much suspected he wasn’t going to like it. As the guards let Charley and Dodger out of the cell, however, at least he was able to take refuge in an irrefutable fact: No matter what they did to him, he had accomplished his goal. He had managed to save the life of the future queen of England. No matter what she did in her life, she would owe her existence to him, and he could take some pride in that. He just prayed that she did something worthwhile with the second chance that he had provided her.
The Artful and Charley were escorted down to a rolling cell, a sort of jail cell on wheels with a horse attached to it. Once the lads were locked in, the horse started moving, guided by the horseman. The guards were now all mounted on horseback and rode alongside. Clearly, they were taking no chance that Dodger might find some means of escaping.
The noose it was, then. He wondered if there would be a crowd of people watching. Perhaps even Fagin would be there, hiding in the shadows, safe from the sun’s rays.
No. There was little chance of that. His hanging would not attract a crowd because, at the end of the day, he was just some random youngster who had run afoul of the law, and who would give a damn about him?
The cart continued to travel for a time. They rolled past groups of people who stared in curiosity as it passed but who didn’t care so much that it distracted them from going about their business. The Artful wished he had some business to go about—other than that of dying, that is.
And then, to Dodger’s surprise, the cart began to slow. And then it stopped in front of an anonymous townhouse. The Artful stared at it uncomprehendingly. The townhouse was unfamiliar to him. It was certainly not a location for a courthouse. It was in a rather nice neighborhood, but beyond that Dodger had no idea of where they had been brought. He looked at Charley questioningly, but Master Bates simply shrugged. He was as clueless as Dodger.
A guard opened up the back of the cart and said sternly, “Come with us. Don’t try to run, or you will be shot immediately.”
Despite his earlier inclination, the Artful had no intention of running. Granted, he had the impulse to try and sprint out of there, but also he was overwhelmingly curious as to where they had been brought. So he simply nodded to acknowledge that the instruction had been received and eased himself out of the rolling cell. Charley came out behind him, and together the boys were led into the townhouse.
It was even nicer once they were inside. The Artful nodded approvingly; there were pristine paintings and fine china as decorations in the small but well-furnished rooms.
They were taken to the right, rather than up the stairs, and brought into a small sitting room.
Sir Conroy was standing there, straight, tall, and proud.
Seated next to him was Drina. Sunlight was beaming through a nearby window and straight on her, but she was displaying no ill effects. That alone caused Dodger to let out an inward sigh of relief.
“Master Bates,” said Sir Conroy stiffly. “Master . . . Dawkins, I understand your name to be?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dodger.
“My further understanding is that you have met the princess before. Nevertheless, I feel constrained to officially introduce you to Princess Alexandrina Victoria.”
The Artful nodded and then realized that something more profound was in order, and so he bowed deeply. When he stood upright once more, he blinked in surprise. Sir Conroy was holding Dodger’s top hat in his hands. He also had a coat draped over his arm.
“These are yours?”
The Artful nodded and, realizing that the gentleman was proffering them to him, stepped forward quickly and took them off his hands. Then he stood and waited, although he was unsure what he was waiting for.
“The princess’s mother would be here,” continued Sir Conroy, “but she is . . . not well, at the moment. Recent events were rather stressful for her. She may be part of the royal family, but she remains ultimately a woman.”
“I wouldn’t dismiss her on that basis,” said Dodger. “I’ve become rather impressed with what women can do once they sets their minds to it.”
Sir Conroy did not s
eem similarly impressed, but he clearly decided to let it slide. “So . . . Master Bates. Do you wish to return to your employ at the palace?”
Charley looked astounded. He had clearly not wrapped himself around what was happening, but he wasn’t about to let an opportunity slip away from him. “Yes, sir,” he said immediately. “I love it there.”
“Very well.” He gestured toward the Buckingham Palace guard who was standing by the door. “This officer will escort you there immediately. Good day to you.”
The message was clear: His time in this small, puzzling room was done. His crimes, such as they were, had been excused. He took a moment to look briefly at Dodger, who shrugged in response, and then bowed quickly toward Dodger. The Artful bowed back and just like that, Charley Bates was gone.
“Now, sir, as for you—” Conroy began to say.
And then to Conroy’s obvious surprise, Drina interrupted. “Sir Conroy, I would like to handle this. You may leave.”
Conroy smiled patronizingly. “Princess, I have honored your request to be here, but I cannot—”
“I am not asking you to honor my request. I am giving you an order and am expecting you to obey it.”
“Princess, I—”
“Now. Before I call a guard in here and have him enforce my will. ”
Sir Conroy clearly had no idea how to respond to that. So he took the proper way out by bowing deeply and heading for the door. Moments later, the Artful Dodger was alone in the room with Princess Alexandrina Victoria.
To Dodger’s utter shock, the princess rose from her chair walked to Dodger, and bowed deeply before him. “Thank you,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “Thank you for saving me from my own folly.”
“I saved you from a vampyre is all,” said Dodger. “It weren’t no folly to want to get out on your own for a bit. If I was in yer situation, I’ d probably want t’do the same thing. In fact, I think you should do it more. With a proper escort, of course. Go around and visit different parts of England. In a few years, you’ll be runnin’ it, after all. Think it might help you t’be familiar with it.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “And I am looking forward to you coming with me on those trips.”
“Comin’ with?”
“I would like you to be a permanent advisor to me, Dodger. Come live at Buckingham Palace. Become a true gentleman of the court. Never want for anything, ever again.”
“Is that an order?”
She blinked in confusion. “Do I need to make it such? I would assume that you would jump at the opportunity. Are you not interested?”
The Artful, as much to his own surprise as hers, looked away from her. “I . . . can’t see myself livin’ as a gen’leman, if you want t’know the truth. I mean, in my own mind, I am. I am as much a gen’leman as anyone could be. But I know that that’s . . . .” His voice trailed off and then he said, “I’d rather be a gen’leman in me own mind than in title or reality. Because if it’s real, then that means I might become too much like that which I despise. I mean, the thought of turnin’ into Sir Conroy . . .” He shivered slightly at the notion.
“Are you quite certain?”
“ ’Fraid so, Drina . . . sorry. Highness.”
“Very well. What about a cash reward?”
“Oh, that I’d have no problem with.”
Drina laughed slightly at that. She reached into a large bag that was situated on the floor nearby and extracted a small but bulging purse from within. “Here you go,” she said.
The Artful immediately took it from her, restraining himself from actually grabbing it out of her hands. He felt the heft of it and was extremely satisfied.
“Be aware, though,” continued Drina, “that there may be times in the future where I have need of your services. May I feel free to call upon you at those times?”
“Of course,” he said. “You are still my future queen, after all. Whatever ya need me for, I will be there. Oh! And please contact the police at Mutton Hill and make certain that Bram is reunited with his father.”
“I will make sure that it is done,” said Drina, unaware of what had transpired with Bram and his father.
“Oh, and the carriage that I arrived in, with the dead man . . . it belongs to a Mr. Brownlow. I don’t know his first name, but he has an adopted son named Oliver. And he asked me to send his regards. So I’ve done that. Could you see that it’s returned to him?”
“Absolutely.”
For a moment, Dodger wanted to give her a fast embrace, but just as quickly he discarded the idea. With all that had happened, she was still the princess, and there were certain things that a young street robber such as the Artful Dodger simply did not do. So instead, he simply bowed to her again, extending his hand.
To his surprise, she took it firmly, drew her to him, and kissed him on the cheek. “Your Highness, that’s . . .”
And then she kissed him on the mouth. Passionately. Deliberately.
For a moment, part of him froze because, of course, he was aware of whom he was kissing. And then the thought flew from his head, and he was simply kissing a young woman who was clearly interested in . . . .
In what?
He pulled back from her and stepped back a few paces to reconfigure his thoughts. “Highness . . .”
“Drina,” she said. “Please call me Drina. ”
“Drina, then. What do you . . . I mean, I don’t . . .”
“Come with me,” she said with greater urgency. “I know you don’t want to. I heard all that you said. But I’m offering you so much . . . a life that you could only have dreamt of.”
“A life as what?” He was tempted to laugh but managed to suppress it. “Your advisor? Your . . .”—he gestured helplessly—“whatever?”
“Whatever,” she said. “I’m going to be the queen, Dodger. And you can be my whatever you want.”
“Drina, I can’t . . .”
“Then I can,” she said. She pointed behind them, and he saw there was another door out of the room. “We can go out that way. It’s unguarded.”
“And go where?”
“Wherever. Wherever we want. I have plenty of money. We have enough to get us wherever we wish to go. We can have adventures together, you and me.”
“And what about England?”
“They’ll be fine without me. My mother can rule. She can . . .”
He took her firmly by the shoulders and whispered to her, “Drina . . . what’s going on?”
To his surprise, she looked downward as if ashamed to be staring into his eyes. “I care about you . . . Jack. I care about you a good deal.”
“And ya care about your realm as well. You know it, and I know it. And some day our adventures will wear thin, and you’ll feel the need t’go back, and ya know what else? You’ll wind up blamin’ me for draggin’ you away from it all.”
“I’d never!”
“Ya might.”
“I know I wouldn’t.”
“But’cha might. And I don’t want to take the chance.”
Her face hardened. “This is so easy for you, isn’t it. Just tossing me aside. Just . . . .”
“Easy?” He was unable to keep the incredulity from his voice. “Ya think this is easy? Ya think I don’t want to . . . to run off with you? To hide from the world with you? I . . . .” His voice choked and he looked away from her. “I’ve loved two women in me life b’fore you came along. And then there’s you, and what I feel for you . . . I felt it for them, and they’re both gone. It ain’t you, Drina. It’s me. Whoever I love, I lose. Bad. And I almost lost you, too, and I can’t ever take the chance again. I can’t go through it.” He turned to her and angrily wiped the tears from his face. “I beg you not to make me. Please. I never asked you for nothin’. I’m askin’ you for this.”
For a long moment, Drina sat there and stared
at him. Then she held him tightly, giving him one final squeeze, and she whispered in his ear, “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“I do.”
She stepped back, and the Artful watched as she assumed her regal bearing, cloaking it around her like a shroud.
“Off with you then, Jack Dawkins.”
“Yes’m,” he managed to mutter and quickly hastened out of the room.
He strode into the street, bowed to the guards who were still there, and then walked away. The streets of London seemed to summon him. Still, he found himself considering the invitation that she had extended him and wondered—for what would not be the last time in his life—whether he was right, or in the right mind, to pass it up. Then he decided to stop thinking about it, for Dodger had already made up his mind, and that was that, more or less.
“’Scuse me, sir? Help us, sir?”
The Artful stopped in his tracks. He was passing an alleyway, and sitting there was a young boy, no more than ten years old, and a young girl who was several years younger. They were shabbily dressed and shivering from the cold and crisp London air. They had a small box in front of them that had a couple of crumpled pound notes strewn in it.
The Artful said nothing for a time. Then: “Where are your parents?”
“’Nother street, sir. They’re beggin’ too, sir.”
The Artful let out a long sigh. Then he reached into his pocket and held the weighted purse. He jiggled it slightly, then opened it and extracted a few gold coins from it.
Then he dropped the rest of the purse into the box.
The children’s faces registered their astonishment. “Have a good meal,” said Dodger, knowing that the money within the purse would be more than enough for quite a few good meals to come.
He turned on his heel and walked away, dropping the few coins he had extracted into his pocket.
“My, my.”
He looked up in surprise. Wiggins was standing a few feet away. He seemed impressed. “Givin’ money away. What’s happened to you?”
