My dear Mary,
I was disappointed to hear, from Ferenc pére et fils, of your abrupt departure. I would have liked to spend more time with my family—you and Diana. I see myself in the both of you—different facets of myself, of course. Perhaps someday soon we can spend more time together. Despite our differences of opinion and temperament, and some unfortunate misunderstandings—there was no need for Diana to shoot János, who is a good boy if an inadequate assistant—I am proud of my daughters, one so fiery, the other so sensible.
It is because you are so sensible and will know what to say that I write this to you: please tell Miss Frankenstein that Adam died the night after you left. He did not go peacefully, but raged against his creator and the woman who had rejected him. The last word on his lips was “Justine.”
I hope you are well, and please give my love to Diana. Tell her that I will try to send her some postcards from Switzerland. After we returned from England, in the expectation that he would not survive his injuries, Adam made me the executor of his estate, part of which comes to me. If you ever wish to visit me, I shall have a somewhat gloomy castle with inadequate plumbing for you to stay in. But the view is magnificent. How shall I sign this letter? Perhaps with the name by which you knew me once, and may perhaps know me again.
Your loving father,
Henry Jekyll
Mary stared at the letter, and then up at Mina.
“What is it, my dear? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Mary just held out the letter—how in the world was she going to explain it? How did one explain a man like Hyde? She watched as Mina read it—what would Miss Murray say? She was startled when Mina burst into laughter.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” said Mina, handing the letter back to her. “I know this is a serious matter—but he’s just incorrigible, isn’t he? Don’t you dare feel guilty for escaping from his clutches, and don’t let Justine feel guilty for Adam’s death. She has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility—as you do, sometimes. So now Mr. Hyde will move into some castle in Switzerland, to do what—try to become Dr. Jekyll again? Oh—” She wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Some parents are impossible, aren’t they?”
Mary put the letter into her purse. She must have looked thoroughly defeated, because Miss Murray smiled and said, “I know what you need. Do you remember what we used to do after our trips to the British Museum?”
“Tea and scones,” said Mary. The memory was a happy one—how she had loved those outings! Then, she looked puzzled. “Are we going to get scones? Here, in Budapest?”
“Well, it’s not quite teatime,” said Mina. “And what would Mrs. Poole think of me if I spoiled your appetite for lunch? But there is a place around the corner that sells ice cream, and I don’t believe there’s any particular time of day when ice cream is appropriate—or not! They have the most wonderful flavors—coffee, sour cherry, hazelnut . . .”
DIANA: Why didn’t you take me? Why didn’t I get any ice cream?
MARY: You got plenty of ice cream while we were in Budapest! And strudel, and those biscuits you pull apart in layers, and those fried dough things . . . If you didn’t have a stomach made of iron, you would have been sick the whole time.
DIANA: But I didn’t get any ice cream that day.
At three o’clock, they were all seated in a room they had never yet entered: Count Dracula’s reception room. It looked exactly how Mary would have expected, based on the Count’s style of decorating: all dark wood, velvet chairs, and gloomy paintings.
“Do you ever spend any time in here?” Mary asked. Then she realized the question might be rude. Goodness, was she getting as bad as Diana?
DIANA: As if!
MRS. POOLE: Miss Mary could never be that rude.
DIANA: She doesn’t have the imagination.
“Of course not,” said Carmilla. “Isn’t it a dreadful room? It’s only ever used to receive ambassadors and other dignitaries. I have no idea why Vlad doesn’t redecorate. Honestly, this entire house needs some cheering up.” She turned to the Count. “You should let Mina do something with it—anything, really!”
Mary, Beatrice, Catherine, and Justine were in their best dresses—even Diana had been persuaded to wear her new dress from Ilona Couture, although she was now seated on the floor with her arms around Hóvirág, probably getting it covered with dog hair and slobber. Lucinda was looking ethereal in the white dress she had worn the day before, which had been cleaned. Mina and Laura were both in respectable gray and looked as though they could have been sisters. Carmilla was in her trouser suit, and Count Dracula was wearing a military outfit of some sort with a great many medals. They looked as though they were ready for some sort of audience—as, in a sense, they were.
At three o’clock exactly, Horvath úr, the Count’s majordomo, entered and announced Ayesha—at least Mary assumed that was what he had done, since the president of the Alchemical Society followed him a moment later, but it was in Hungarian, so he could have said anything, really. Goodness, she was being both rude and flippant today—what was wrong with her? Well, other than what had happened the day before.
Ayesha was not alone. She was accompanied by two other women: the gray-haired one who had spoken before her at the podium, and a younger one who was carrying her purse and parasol.
Dracula rose and bowed. “Welcome to my house, Princess of Meroë, Priestess of Isis, Queen of Kôr.”
Ayesha looked him up and down. Today, she was dressed in an afternoon ensemble of dark blue silk with silver stars woven into the fabric. Over it, she wore a blue-and-silver shawl that made her look just a little like a moonlit night, which was probably the intended effect. Mary had been right—she looked just as imposing when she wasn’t standing on a dais.
“My dear Vlad, you know perfectly well that flattery will get you nowhere,” she said. She took off her shawl and handed it to the young woman behind her, who draped it over her arm. “I have no intention of reinstating you in the Société des Alchimistes. Van Helsing has confessed—not only to the experiments on his wife and daughter, but also to the murder of Lucy Westenra. And may I say”—she turned to Mina—“how very sorry I am for the death of your friend. Anyway, my kingdom is long gone, overrun by the British in their thirst for African gold and diamonds. I am no longer any of the things you called me. You may call me Madam President. Or Ayesha, if you wish.” She smiled, in a way that did not reach her eyes.
“What will you do with my father?” asked Lucinda. “Will you punish—”
“He will not be physically harmed, but he will be punished, in the worst way a scientist can be punished. His research will be discredited. He will be forced to retire from his university appointments, and he will never again be allowed to publish a paper in a respectable journal. I think he would prefer death! We will, of course, continue to monitor his activities, to make certain he does not return to performing experiments in biological transmutation. Those are forbidden to him now, under any circumstances. I have personally dispatched the creatures he mesmerized into following his commands.”
“You mean you killed them!” said Justine. “Surely that was not necessary? They were not responsible for their actions. Perhaps they could have been released in some remote area—”
Ayesha looked at her with raised eyebrows. “So they could menace rural villages? These were not wolves, Miss Frankenstein, but human beings who would inevitably be drawn back toward human habitation, where they would feed and attempt to create others of their kind. I assure you, the death I gave them was less painful than what they would have suffered from superstitious villagers! As for Dr. Seward and Arminius Vámbéry, they too will be dealt with appropriately in time. Arminius, at least, remains useful to me, although I will put an end to his operations at the Abbey of St. Ignatius, which Van Helsing described after some . . . persuasion, let us say. I’m sure the Archbishop of Esztergom will want to know what the abbot has been up to! I doubt making vampires
is his idea of the proper role for a monastic community. Although the Royal Society may not give us credit for doing so, we do take responsibility for our own.”
Mina rose. “Madam President, how did you know—”
“About you? About the Subcommittee on Bibliographic Citation Format? My dear Miss Murray, I learned a long time ago that the most precious thing in this world is information. Is that not right, Frau Gottleib?”
“Just so, madam,” said the gray-haired woman standing next to her. Yesterday, she had spoken with a German accent. But today . . .
At the sound of her voice, Mary started, then stood up. “But that’s impossible,” she said, leaning forward and peering at the woman. The room was so dark and gloomy . . . if only she could let in more light! She wished she could pull back those heavy velvet curtains.
“Good afternoon, miss,” said Nurse Adams, in the accent of a respectable hospital nurse who had never left London in her life. Her voice, her expression—everything was different than it had been the day before! She was still thinner than Nurse Adams had been, with gray hair rather than brown, and yet in every other way . . .
“This is Eva Gottleib, currently the secretary of the Société des Alchimistes,” said Ayesha. “Eva had an English mother and received her training in London, although her nationality is German. Many years ago, when I needed an agent in your household, and you, Miss Jekyll, needed a trained hospital nurse to care for your mother, she applied for the position. She spent seven years in your employ, until you could no longer afford her services. You see, like the Royal Society, we too like to keep an eye on situations of interest!”
Mary sat down in the velvet chair with a thump. Nurse Adams was Eva Gottleib? This was getting ridiculous! Next, she was going to discover that Mrs. Poole—
MRS. POOLE: Not me, miss. Whatever anyone else may be, I’m Honoria Emmaline Poole, thank the good Lord. To think that Nurse Adams, who was so proper, and so particular about her tea, should be a German! It just goes to show that you never know about people.
“Heinrich Waldman was one of your spies as well, was he not?” asked Justine.
“Oh, Heinrich!” Ayesha sighed. “What a stupid young man. He was returning from England, and Lady Crowe thought he could keep an eye on you on the train from Paris to Vienna, since she had other business to attend to. He was never supposed to make contact. Then he lost you in Vienna, and we could not find you again until you had come to Budapest, to stay with Vlad. You see, despite all I am telling you, we are an organization not of spies, but of scientists. This is not what we ordinarily do. We were keeping watch here, of course—we knew about Miss Murray, and anticipated that this would be your eventual destination.”
“The lavender seller!” said Mary.
The rest of them stared at her, and Laura raised her eyebrows, as though to say What you are you talking about?
“That’s her! The lavender seller.” Mary pointed at the young woman holding Ayesha’s shawl. “You’re the one who’s been selling lavender across the street, aren’t you? I recognize you now . . .”
The young woman held out one hand as though offering a bunch of flowers, and said, “Levendula, csak egy fillér! Yes, I am your lavender seller, Miss Jekyll.”
Mary looked over at Mina, who had noticed the absence of the lavender seller that morning. Mina nodded and gave her a small smile. I bet she realized that girl was the lavender seller as soon as they came in, thought Mary. Well, at least I noticed it eventually.
“Very good, Miss Jekyll,” said Ayesha. “This is my assistant, Ibolya Kovács, who will begin medical school in Zurich next month, since the medical school here in Budapest is too prejudiced to admit women. She has indeed been monitoring your movements since you arrived. You seem to be learning from your friend Mr. Holmes.”
Mary was not at all sure of that. There was so much she had missed, so much she had not seen. Where were her powers of observation, of deduction? When she saw Mr. Holmes again, he would no doubt lecture her about all the things she should have noticed. The thought made her feel particularly gloomy.
“And I really ought to return something that belongs to you.” Ayesha reached into the purse that Ibolya was holding and took out a piece of paper. She handed it to Mary.
It was a telegram. Incredulously, Mary read it aloud. “ ‘To Miss Mina Murray. C.M. and B.R. coming to Budapest. Beware danger from Dr. S. and Professor Van H. at S.A. meeting. Bloodbath! From Mrs. H. Poole.’ How in the world?”
“Please tell Mrs. Poole that I appreciate the advance warning. Leo and Holly have confessed to me that you and Miss Moreau tried to warn us as well. It was very stupid of Leo not to listen to you. He can be impulsive and judgmental, allowing his emotions to determine his actions—I have no doubt that his old rivalry with Vlad disinclined him from taking your message seriously. And Holly is too influenced by him. I assure you that they are thoroughly ashamed of themselves.”
“But if you knew,” said Mary, staring down once again at the telegram as though she could not imagine how it had gotten there, and then looking up at Ayesha, “why didn’t you do something? You could have warned the members of the Alchemical Society beforehand, or hired guards to keep Van Helsing out, or . . . well, any number of things. And if you knew we were coming, why didn’t you keep us out? I don’t understand. . . .”
“You are describing practical considerations, Miss Jekyll. My primary considerations were political. I wished to remain the president of the society. I wished to retain the confidence of the membership, so I could implement the changes I believe will be necessary to take it into the new century. The best way to do that was to let Van Helsing attempt a coup, and fail. I thought I could count on you to make certain he did fail, without my appearing openly in the matter. He failed quite spectacularly, did he not?”
“But people died,” said Mary. “Three of your own members died. How can you justify—”
“Child, I did not come here to discuss ethics,” said Ayesha. Her cool, appraising glance made Mary feel like an insect indeed. “You came to the annual meeting of the Société des Alchimistes all the way from England, by way of Vienna, bringing Miss Van Helsing with you, because you wanted something from me, something you thought I could provide. What is it?”
“We want you to stop these experiments,” said Catherine. “You yourself said they were failures—even Rappaccini’s and Moreau’s. Look at me, look at Beatrice, look at Justine. No one should be allowed to do what our fathers—our creators—did.”
“Is that what all of you want?” asked Ayesha. “Is that what you came to ask of me? Miss Jekyll? Miss Rappaccini? Miss Frankenstein? Miss Hyde?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Diana “I mean, that’s not what I wanted, particularly. Ow! Why did you kick me, Mary? I hope Hoho bites you!”
“Yes,” said Mary. “Yes, it is what we all want. Look at the harm that’s been caused, the people who have died, because of these experiments. Look at us. . . .”
“I am looking at you,” said Ayesha. “I am looking at all of you, and what I see are intelligent, capable, independent young women. Why should I stop experiments that have produced your like?”
“Because we are monsters,” said Beatrice. Her voice was soft and low, but it resounded around the room like a note played on a musical instrument.
“Indeed?” said Ayesha. “Then I am a monster as well—indeed, the chief of monsters! Do you know how long I have lived?”
“About two thousand years?” said Mary. Approximately, if you considered when the temple of Isis must have existed at Philae . . .
Ayesha nodded. “Compared to me, Miss Frankenstein is as the infant of an hour, Countess Karnstein as a day-old child, Count Dracula as a toddler barely learning to walk. As a priestess of Isis, I learned that death is not the inevitable end of human life, but only another state of matter, which is also energy. The priestesses of Isis were the alchemists, the great scientists, of the ancient world. They are gone now, and only I remain.
. . .” For a moment, she was silent, as though mentally back in the past. Mary had never seen anyone look so sad, and so very alone.
“But . . . you chose to be who you are,” said Justine. “We did not choose. We were created without our knowledge or consent.”
“Nevertheless, you should consider yourselves fortunate,” said Ayesha. She looked at Justine with respect, but no sympathy. “You have one another, I can see that . . . I, Ayesha, envy you. I cannot give you what you want. I will not forbid experiments in biological transmutation—we cannot stop scientific progress, and the next century will see advances in the biological sciences that as yet we can barely conceive. But I will give you two things you have not asked for. First, membership in the Société des Alchimistes. If you wish, you may join our organization. Second, I will allow you to examine the archives of the society so you can see the theories that went into your own creation. You can read your fathers’ papers, the records of their experiments. Perhaps those will convince you how very special, how singular and extraordinary, you are.”
She turned to Catherine and addressed her specifically. “Miss Moreau, you have suffered a grievous loss. A funeral will be held this Wednesday for Edward Prendick. He will be buried as a member in good standing of the society. I hope you will attend. Now, I have a plenary session to chair. Frau Gottleib will arrange for your access to the archives. It has been a pleasure meeting such a group of extraordinary young women. We shall meet again, I am sure of it.”
And then she was gone, before they had finished rising and bowing to her.
“Well, that was . . . ,” said Mary. She stood there, mouth still open. She was not certain how to finish the sentence, and no one else finished it for her.
JUSTINE: She chose. We did not choose. We did not get the opportunity to choose what we are.
MARY: I know, and you can keep telling us that as often as you like. But it’s not going to convince Ayesha, is it?
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 62
