Defy or Defend

by Gail Carriger

  Mr Theris shoved his wandering hands back into his trouser pockets and left the room. Horrible man.

  Dimity sniffed. She supposed she was going to have to get rid of him somehow. Except that would leave the hive with no drones at all. Something to think on. “Now, Lord Kirby, where were we? Oh yes, I wonder if I might ask your advice on a matter of grave importance?”

  “My advice?” The portly vampire twiddled with the tassel at the end of one long sleeve nervously. He withdrew his face a little farther behind his long hair.

  There was a knock at the front door, loud enough to be heard over the general bustle, but Dimity would not be distracted again. Besides, doors were Theris’s job, whether the drone liked it or not.

  “Where is your husband, Mrs Carefull?” Lord Kirby asked, pointedly.

  “Oh, he’s somewhere.”

  One of the seamstresses answered the door. A young milkmaid type stood there, looking nervous.

  Lord Kirby was shocked. “Oh! Finbar forgot. How could he? It’s her suppertime.” Lord Kirby cried out for all to hear. “Cinjin! She needs you, now!”

  Mr Theris reemerged and gave a mocking bow to the milkmaid. “Of course. But if I could simply–”

  “Now, Cinjin.” The vampire’s sleeve tassels quivered in agitation.

  “Yes, sir.” The actor escorted the young woman towards the back of the house and, presumably, through the kitchen to the mysterious cave where the hive queen languished.

  Dimity tried to follow.

  Lord Kirby grabbed her by the arm, his movement so fast as to be imperceptible to the human eye. Fortunately, no one around them noticed. Too busy. “I think not, Mrs Carefull. What are you after?”

  Dimity ignored him, calling, “Oh Mr Theris, just one moment, please?”

  She shook free of the vampire, who let her go or she wouldn’t have been able, and rushed to the piano in the drawing room where she’d left one of her Parisian fashion papers. She’d needed it to explain the exact color she wanted for the new curtains, because the seamstress seemed to believe there was no difference between sage and light olive. Heaven forfend!

  “Here you go, dear.” She handed it to the milkmaid.

  “What’s this, ma’am?”

  “Some light fashion-forward reading for the grand lady, when you’re in there. I think she might be interested.”

  Lord Kirby tried to intervene. “Now, wait just a moment there, Mrs Carefull!”

  It was Mr Theris who came to Dimity’s defense. “Really, Kirby, what can it hurt?”

  Lord Kirby muttered something dark about ballgowns being at the root of all evil (which made Dimity wonder) but he let the two humans continue into the depths of the hive unmolested – the baroness’s meal now clutching a French fashion paper to her breast.

  Dimity was pleased. “Now, Lord Kirby, about that advice I needed from you? This way, please. It’s this desk, you see, the lacquer. I’m not certain it’s quite salvageable...”

  With some gentle encouragement, grumpy Lord Kirby was surprisingly eager to be of use in making decisions about furniture and upholstery and the like. As Dimity had surmised, he wished to be necessary and have purpose within the hive. His general anger at the world rested in Lord Finbar’s neglect of his duties as praetoriani. Lord Kirby thought he could do a better job. Dimity tended to agree, but praetoriani or not, she could capitalize upon his interest.

  At first, he resented her distracting him with a lacquered escritoire, and accused her of trying to ingratiate herself. Apparently, he thought she was attempting to climb the social hierarchy of the hive when she was still new and only a candidate. Although he didn’t outright say any of that. But Dimity carved away at his defences throughout the course of the evening. By midnight he’d come around to her idea that making the hive house beautiful might encourage the queen to return to it, and the lack of staff (and drones) was a concern.

  “Theris ran them off,” he confessed. “Said some of them were lazy and found others stealing and the like. Finbar didn’t care. Then before we knew it, Theris was the only one left.”

  “You gave them marching orders, nothing more severe?” Dimity waited with bated breath.

  “We are not monsters! Even with our baroness below ground.” The vampire clearly wanted to say queen, not baroness, but there were workers about. But they understood each other. Lord Kirby, at least, hadn’t killed anyone. Dimity doubted Justice or Finbar had either. None of them seemed interested enough, let alone motivated enough, to deal out death. Too much effort.

  “I’m very glad to hear it. You must miss them all.” Her voice was mellow and sympathetic.

  He looked suddenly far more sad than grumpy. “Yes, yes, I think I do. But I miss her most of all. Although, of course, I understand her distress.”

  “What caused her to, you know, fade away?”

  Lord Kirby bristled. “I would never speak about such shame as darkened this house. It is enough for me to know that it was not my fault! None of their leaving was my fault.”

  Dimity believed him too. There was no artifice in Lord Kirby. If any of the former drones or staff had been killed, she suspected he would admit to it openly. If only because he still wasn’t sure about her and her husband, and would no doubt take any excuse to scare them off, or even simply scare them.

  This supposition was supported when a large, fierce older woman appeared at the door and announced that she was the cook who’d left six months ago, and if that Theris chap could be made to hold his tongue and keep his hands away from the maids, she wanted her job back, thank you very much. Apparently, she’d heard Budgy Hall was hiring, and had come to see if things had been fixed to her liking.

  “You know who you work for here?”

  “I do, and I don’t mind pointy bits so long as it’s not me. Pay is good and the work hours suit me and my family, so long as I can take on my former contract.”

  Dimity nodded eagerly. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”

  “You the new housekeeper?” The woman bustled in, already reaching into her sack and pulling out a pinafore.

  “Only temporarily. I’m Mrs Carefull, painter. Candidate for, well, you know.”

  “Ah yes, I see. Well, I do like what you’re doing with the place. You and yours have had supper already, I take it? How’s tea in an hour or so suit you?”

  “Can you serve for all those currently working?”

  “Certainly, if I can borrow one of the upstairs maids.”

  “Please do, Mrs…?”

  “Mrs Fwopwin. But Cook’ll do. My sister’s boy will come on for cook’s assistant and I’ve another nephew who might do for the boot boy, if you’re looking?”

  Dimity gave the bossy woman an assessing look. “I’ll leave everything below stairs in your clearly capable hands, Cook, shall I?”

  “You and I, Mrs Carefull, are going to get along fine.” Mrs Fwopwin gave her a wide, slightly mean smile and made her way towards the kitchen. “She’s still hiding out in the caves, is she?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “You going to fix that too, Mrs Carefull?” But Cook didn’t seem to want an answer to that, for she closed the staff door firmly behind her. Dimity knew the type. She was retaking possession of her domain.

  Accordingly, about an hour after midnight, Dimity broke her entire team for tea. Sir Crispin still had not returned and she was growing concerned. But tea took priority.

  Theris reappeared from his duty to the hive queen without the milkmaid (which gave Dimity another missing person to worry about) and surveyed the spread with shock. There were warm fresh buns and jellied eel from the local bakery, but only a proper cook could have produced fresh apple fritters and custard. Simple, wholesome fare that would buck them up for the rest of the night’s work.

  “Cook is back,” explained Dimity.

  Mr Theris flushed. “But I...”

  Dimity gave him her most innocent look. “You did
what, Mr Theris? Cook seems very capable. I don’t know why she had to take such an extensive leave. Sick family member, I suppose. I’m sure we are all delighted to have her back. Don’t you miss freshly cooked meals? I’m sure Mr Carefull and I will be pleased to have her, and it takes the burden off you. Surely an actor such as yourself shouldn’t have to worry about providing and serving at table?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “See, I understand you feel a great responsibility. But you can relax now, let us take on some of the burden.”

  “Now wait a moment, you haven’t even been officially accepted into the household. The baroness has to do that. You’re very high-handed, aren’t you, Mrs Carefull?”

  “Am I, Mr Theris? You think me officious? I only want what’s best. And prettiest. Surely a man of your discerning tastes could not abide such a house as this one was prior to my arrival? I’m sure no one meant to let it get so bad.” She patted his arm, letting her hand linger. His expression mixed confusion and anger. “Oh look, here comes Lord Finbar. Do excuse me.”

  He stopped her with an iron grip on her arm. “I am still the only one she trusts. The only one she’ll see. My place here is assured. I’m necessary. The only one left who is. You can’t get rid of me and you can’t replace me.”

  “Really, Mr Theris! Have I got rid of anyone? No. I have, in fact, done nothing but bring people in. Give me some credit for good intentions.”

  “Oh, you’re certainly good at something, Mrs Carefull. I simply haven’t figured out exactly what that is yet.”

  “Painting,” replied Dimity, pertly. Then she twisted and dropped the weight in her shoulder, in a practiced move they’d drilled into her at Finishing School. It broke her free of his grip, although she’d have a bruise from it later.

  “You should go retrieve the milkmaid, Mr Theris. Don’t you think she’s been below long enough?”

  “Don’t presume to tell me my duties, Mrs Carefull!” he hissed. But he marched towards the kitchen to, presumably, do exactly that.

  Lord Finbar had trailed in after the vivacious Rosie, looking stunned but eager. Dimity went over to them, mostly to check on Rosie. The parlormaid seemed pleased as punch, with no marks to her neck as yet. But from the solicitous way in which Lord Finbar saw her seated and her plate filled, it wouldn’t be too long.

  Lord Kirby, in almost animated discussion with one of the carpenters on the subject of dovetail joints, looked positively chipper. Although neither one could partake of tea as yet, they both cautiously enjoyed the dining experience – in their way. They watched everyone around them eat with innocent glee, in the manner of children watching kittens lap at milk.

  Dimity suggested to the vampires, in a mild tone, how nice it would be if they considered hosting some regular event or another for the neighborhood. Tea dueling, she had come to understand, was all the rage amongst young persons these days. Perhaps something along those lines? Or if that was too close to a village fete for comfort, simply opening up the house to regular visiting hours, so that the local gentry might pay calls upon them, should suffice.

  Lord Kirby, of course, was against the idea instantly. For security reasons, if nothing else. But Dimity and Rosie, together, brought Lord Finbar round to the idea of perhaps a weekly artistic gathering or intellectual salon.

  “You might give recitations?” suggested Dimity, with a tiny nod at Rosie, who instantly turned big pleading eyes on Lord Finbar. The girl was wasted on housework. Perhaps the War Office could use another agent?

  Like the champ she was, Rosie picked up the gauntlet. “Oh dear me, yes, m’lord. You have a marvelous speaking voice. Do say you’ll consider it?”

  Lord Finbar said he would, indeed, consider it. And would Rosie like to hear some of his original poetry while she worked in the drawing room after tea?

  Rosie said she very much would.

  Dimity tried to give her a warning look.

  But the bally girl only winked at Dimity and left, her tea half finished, duster spinning in a hypnotic manner. Lord Finbar followed her like an enthusiastic, if dour, basset hound.

  Dimity distracted Lord Kirby from his open-mouthed shock at this exchange by relaying her concerns about the replacement window frame not exactly matching the rosettes of the old one and could he please lend his expert eye to such a serious matter?

  He said he would be delighted and went with the carpenter to do so.

  With tea completed and everyone mostly sorted, Dimity seized upon the opportunity to sneak down beneath the kitchen after Mr Theris and the missing milkmaid. Dimity wanted to see if she might pursue her actual primary objective of locating the missing hive queen.

  Justice Wignall was a loon. Crispin could only stare in amazement. A very beautiful, very dramatic, but decidedly loony sort of loon. Cris felt a wave of affection wash over him. He was fond of loons. But this was taking things rather far, literally and figuratively.

  The ethereal vampire ran the cold cobbles of downtown Nottingham so fast Cris was grateful for the general standards of his fitness regimen. Not fast by vampire standards, of course, more like a leisurely stroll for one of them, but fast for a human. Justice clearly wished to emphasize wafting over efficiency. The vampire was barefoot, the soft slap of his feet on the wet stone echoing through the streets. Nottingham was a lace-making city, and lace required good lighting, so the place was – by industry and nature – mostly composed of daylight folk. Nights were relatively quiet for a large urban town, especially to a man like Cris, who’d always made his home in London amongst the Progressive Set. So while there were a few people about and evening enterprises and tradesmen working away, it was nowhere like the hustle and bustle of old London Town.

  If Justice was aware of Sir Crispin shadowing him, he didn’t show it. Honestly, how could he not be aware? Crispin’s boots positively clopped. He might be fit, but he was no expert on running long distances in inappropriate garb. What worried Cris was the distance. Generally speaking, hive-bound vampires, especially young ones like Justice, had to remain within a few blocks of their queen at all times. As they got older they could go farther away, and the queen’s praetoriani, by necessity, had a large range of motion. The fact that Justice could even leave city limits was worrisome. The queen’s hold to his tether was clearly weakening. And a vampire’s tether only stretched so far until it snapped.

  They eventually reached some kind of unkempt park, and within that, some species of coppice or diminutive wooded area.

  No doubt this was the objective, for Justice slowed and began a dramatic stumbling run, arms flailing gracefully – artlessly lost and forlorn in the vast forest (of two dozen or so trees, mind you). The stolen white nightgown trailed behind the vampire, pulling along loose leaves and branches. The hem dampened. A sleeve caught and tore.

  Cris worried about Dimity’s reaction.

  Finally Justice cast himself dramatically down upon the roots of a massive oak tree. He arranged himself to look like some painting out of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Sir Crispin felt that Justice might be going for an interpretation of Tennyson’s appalling poem, Lady of Shalott.

  Cris hid behind a scruffy shrub and waited to see what might happen next. Above him, through the branches and occasional cloud, the night sky twinkled. Cris took a brief moment to appreciate seeing the stars once more. It had been so long.

  A gentleman came riding through the coppice and dismounted with the ease of one truly comfortable in the saddle. He was dressed for the hunt – red jacket, tight cream-colored jodhpurs, a high top hat, and a crop in his hand.

  He clearly was not hunting foxes, however.

  The man was on the stout side, of the kind that would go comfortably to chubby in his twilight years. His face was wide and ruddy, with a pronounced divot in the chin and an impressive set of whiskers.

  “Justice, my own, my love... How beautiful and tragic you look.”

  Justice leaned up on one arm and beckoned him
over. “Oh Gantry, my dearest treasure, I am overwrought.”

  This, then, must be the lover, Gantry Ogdon-Loppes. For surely Nottingham boasted only one Gantry.

  The Gantry in question stumbled over a root, and eased himself down to one knee – no doubt a challenge in such tight trousers – to bend over the prostrate vampire.

  “Come into my strong arms that I may cherish you.” He caught the vampire up and clasped him to his chest.

  Justice flopped about in what was no doubt meant to be a faint of overwhelming emotion, but which looked remarkably dead-fish-like.

  The moon cast a thin, reedy light through a break in the clouds above. This made Justice glow pale as the underbelly of said fish.

  “I say, you are quite the finest of fillies!” Gantry was no doubt going off script with that statement, but his admiration sounded genuine.

  Really, it was quite the performance. Cris wondered if they were taking advantage of his presence, or if they always acted this way with one another. In which case... measures would need to be taken.

  Justice turned about and clutched Gantry’s ruddy checks in perfect lily-white hands. “Oh, but I have missed you so. The day spent sleeping alone seemed an eternity.”

  “Then let me come to you! Beg your queen.”

  Queen? That was interesting. It meant Justice was out to Gantry as a vampire.

  “We never see her anymore, she has rejected the world. I am unmoored. I have only you, my darling, while we await her return,” Justice intoned.

  Gantry pressed, “Then you must take me into your hive so that I may hold you and we may weather this storm together. I will be your succor.”

  “But your parents!”

  “Hang my parents! They’ll come around. If I could but tell them of your unnatural state. Become your drone and love in truth.”

  “But my queen! She sees no one, ever. She has locked herself away from the world. How can I ask? She will not allow me into her presence.”