by Mark Latham
The prince wept. John grabbed his sister’s arm.
‘Lillian, think what you do! This is a prince of England.’
‘He did it intentionally,’ she snarled. ‘He stood beside the Nameless King, and pledged his allegiance to the Knights Iscariot. It was all a plot, John. A plot that has robbed us of our queen. Of our father.’
John could not take it in. All he knew was that his sister had slipped once more into the guise of callous killer, and in her new form that frightened him more than ever.
‘Whatever he has done, he shall answer for it, but not here, not to us!’ John said.
‘He will live out his days under house arrest,’ she snapped, ‘or at worst in an asylum. A prince of the realm will not be hanged, not for any crime. Is that justice? He was complicit, brother. Should he not pay the same penalty as de Montfort? A price that you yourself meted out.’
Her words stung, for John had himself abandoned his mission for the chance of revenge. He had not thought it wrong to kill a vampire. But here was Prince Leopold, a human being, threatened by a vampire no less. A vampire who was John’s sister, who had earned his loyalty a hundred times over.
He touched her arm again, more gently.
‘And I was wrong to do it,’ he said. ‘I cannot take that back, but I can stop you from making the same mistake. You know that killing Leopold will not be forgiven. It would make you an outcast.’
‘I am already an outcast!’ she cried. ‘Look at me, John.’
‘I see my sister!’ he shouted back. ‘You have been mistreated beyond my imagining, I know that. But you are still the girl I grew up with. I would not have you live the life of a fugitive, or be incarcerated in Cherleten’s laboratory. I would have you restored to your station in the Order, to return to your people. I told you that there would come a day when even you cannot stand alone. This is that day, Lily, and I stand with you, as I promised I would. There are those who will look upon you with suspicion, but I am not one of them. Our mother will not be one of them. Do not let her lose a daughter as well as a husband.’
Lillian faltered. John did not know if she was still capable of tears, but she looked for a moment as though she might shed them. Instead, she blinked away her sadness, and put away the garrotte, placing the locket around her neck once more.
‘We need to find Smythe,’ she said.
‘Smythe? But—’
‘No arguments, brother. If we do not get you stitched up soon, the ladies of London shall gawp at you even more than they will at me.’
John wanted to smile, but could not. He did not protest when Lillian bade him lean on her, nor when she grabbed the wailing prince by his hair. Together, the three strange companions staggered to the gate, and to de Montfort’s carriage, leaving the chest of gold on the cliff’s edge.
EXTRACT FROM THE GAZETTE
7TH NOVEMBER 1879
In what is believed to be an unprecedented move on the part of the royal family, the heir to the throne, Prince Edward, has deferred his coronation until such time as the state of national emergency has passed. Speaking at an address to the House of Lords yesterday, the prince said: ‘What England needs—what the world needs—at this difficult time, is continuity and stability. There is none to whom I would entrust the stewardship of the Crown’s fortunes than my father. I hope, my lords, that I may count on you all to wish King Albert a successful reign, for his success will mean victory for us all against the rising tide of darkness.’
EXTRACT FROM THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS
10TH NOVEMBER 1879
WHAT IS THE SHADOW ON THE SKY?
In the wake of the devastation that saw Her Majesty the Queen murdered in a dynamite attack, a plague of madness terrorises London, and a strange phenomenon hangs in the sky about the city. The Prime Minister yesterday called the shadow, ‘An as yet unclassified psychical manifestation, linked almost certainly to the death of Catherine Fox, the Queen’s royal adviser.’ Though he would be pressed no further, leading Majestics and psychical researchers alike have expressed grave concern about what this means, for similar ruptures in the fabric of the world were felt upon the death of her sister Margaret, which spelt the end of the fledgling ‘United States’.
The violent tearing of the ‘veil’, and the resulting deaths of so many Majestics upon the streets has seen entire districts, from Rotherhithe to Dagenham, fall into the Thames, widening the river to almost four miles at its most extreme point. This tragedy only echoes the great catastrophe that befell New York City in ’73.
Already, the outpouring of Riftborn across London, visible to even the most unimaginative citizen for the first time since these troubles began, has caused untold suffering. Many loathsome creatures have not yet been banished whence they came, and are said now to stalk the streets and alleys of the notorious via dolorosas.
Assistant Commissioner Labalmondière of Scotland Yard yesterday warned citizens to avoid travelling alone, and to stay in their homes after dark until the ‘incursion is contained’.
On the great shadow, however, there is little official information. Your correspondent has heard from many who were present at the fateful Awakening seven years ago, who swear that Catherine Fox was several times seen with a ‘spirit familiar’ draped around her shoulders, that took the form of smoky tendrils. This has led some psychical experts to postulate on the nature of the familiar—was Kate Fox possessed by some Riftborn devil? Was she indeed holding shut the very gates of Hell? And if so, what does this mean for our future now that she is no longer with us? Already, those of means have begun to flee the city, even braving the embattled north of England in a bid to escape the reach of the great black claw.
The newly appointed security adviser to the Crown, Sir Toby Fitzwilliam, has today informed the gathered press that every effort is being taken to bring resolution to this crisis. Majestics are being employed by his agency to dilute the malign influence of the shadow. Until the situation is under control, however, citizens are advised to avoid looking directly at the shadow for prolonged periods. If symptoms of nervous prostration or strong, unnatural urges arise, sufferers must report at once to the alienists of their nearest hospital for their own safety.
TWENTY-FOUR
Wednesday, 12th November 1879
GRAVENEY, NEAR FAVERSHAM, KENT
It had not snowed in the south so early in the year for a long time, but a thick white blanket now greeted Lord Hardwick’s funeral procession to All Saints. Marcus Hardwick had been born in the small village of Graveney, the son of a clergyman of moderate means. He had come a long way. His wife had insisted on holding the funeral at her husband’s childhood church out of necessity as much as adherence to his wishes. Were it left to Sir Toby Fitzwilliam, Lord Hardwick would have received a state funeral in London. Given that the streets of the capital still played host to a war between men and demons, that was impossible. Only in rural environs, away from the influence of the Rift, did any semblance of peace persist, though it was tenuous, often reliant upon the frail sanity of the populace to hold an incursion at bay.
Lillian had submitted herself voluntarily to Cherleten’s custody upon returning to London, and John had not seen her until now. Sir Toby had lobbied for Lillian’s reinstatement as a full agent immediately following her father’s burial, and Lillian told her brother that she had been treated well.
John and the other pallbearers set down his father’s coffin, and he joined Lillian and their mother at the graveside, where they stood in silence while the vicar conducted the service. Lillian had done her best to look like her old self, but there was no mistaking the deathly pallor, the complexion made flawless by potent creams and powders, and the scent of perfume that masked an underlying scent of chemical preservatives. John was one of the few who understood the physical trials of maintaining a human appearance in her condition, and he felt sick for her. He nudged his hand towards her, and felt some comfort when she took it, though he felt the icy coldness of her slender fingers even thro
ugh his gloves.
‘You’re growing a beard,’ Lillian whispered to him, through a half-smile. ‘I’m not sure it suits you.’
He said nothing, but touched at his cheek instinctively, feeling the ridges of his stitches through his emerging beard. The cold made the scar ache dreadfully.
John looked about at what little family the Hardwicks had left, gathered in the snow-covered churchyard. Most in attendance were from the Order, or officers from his father’s old regiment. Sir Toby and Lord Cherleten stood on opposite sides of the grave. With Sir Toby was William James, an American scientist and philosopher of some international merit, who had made his name theorising upon the nature of the Rift and its relationship to Majestics. Lord Hardwick had met with him several times. Next to Cherleten stood a man John did not recognise, but whom he had been told was John Keely, the noted engineer who had been so lauded by Tesla.
Lord Hardwick’s colleagues in Parliament were mostly absent, locked away in emergency talks in London with the newly crowned King Albert. The King had sent his condolences with his son, Prince Edward, who had temporarily forfeited the Crown. Pressure from certain elite peers—and, of course, Apollo Lycea—had been enough to persuade the other members of the royal family not to cause a fuss. The people, it was said, needed Albert to ‘steady the ship’. Marcus Hardwick had filled a position in government that had been created solely for him. As Minister for Defence, he had been promoted amongst the people as the solution to the danger posed by the Riftborn; a saviour. There had been much placed upon his shoulders. His death and his failure were intertwined, and no new minister had yet been named. John rued the lack of loyalty to a man who had given his all for his country; but these were politicians, inconstant allies at the best of times.
The vicar finished speaking, and frosty earth was thrown upon the coffin. The church bell tolled thrice, and one by one the mourners drifted away. High-ranking dignitaries, agents of the Crown and distant cousins alike shook John’s hand, gave their condolences to Dora Hardwick, and tried not to gawp at her children, before making their way down the hill to the local inn, where the wake was being held.
As John watched the mourners depart, he noticed Sir Toby engaged in conversation with Prince Edward; the two men looked periodically at him—or perhaps at Lillian—several times, before the prince took his leave. Sir Toby was joined by Keely, James and Cherleten, and looked over at the three Hardwicks. John knew that look; the men were giving John’s family some space to grieve, but they expected an audience. Something was amiss.
Dora Hardwick saw it too. She glared at Sir Toby from beneath her veil, and sniffed away a tear. The past weeks had been hard on her.
It was Sir Toby who approached them at last, bowing, and taking Mrs. Hardwick’s hands in hers.
‘Dora, you have my deepest condolences,’ he said. ‘I have made arrangements with the innkeeper at the Horseshoes—you and your guests will want for nothing. The Apollonian will settle the bill, naturally.’
‘You are too kind, Toby,’ she said, ‘but all I want is to be left alone with my children. Can that be arranged too?’ Her voice was hard. Sir Toby looked remorseful.
‘Alas, dear lady, I must trespass upon their time this afternoon, for duty waits for nothing in these dark times.’
‘You sound like him,’ Dora said, nodding towards the grave. ‘It was duty that took him from me—would you have it do the same to my children?’
‘I… Dora, if I could exchange places with Lord Hardwick, I would do so in a heartbeat.’
‘He would not have had it so!’ Dora snapped. ‘You were his only friend, Toby. He did not save your life so that you could wish it away. You men are all alike, with your duty and honour. And you have made my daughter like you too. Shame on you, Toby Fitzwilliam, to come here and—’
She stopped when Lillian placed a hand firmly on her shoulder.
‘Mother,’ she whispered, ‘do not fret on our account. The worst is surely behind us, and Father would want us to continue the fight—not for us, but for everyone.’
Dora leaned against Lillian. John stepped up and placed an arm around both of them, realising in a dizzying rush that he was now the eldest Hardwick man; that he was responsible for what was left of their family.
‘Will you have need of us terribly long, Sir Toby?’ John asked. ‘I must insist that we spend some time with our mother before returning to London.’
‘I will have you back home in time for dinner,’ Sir Toby said. He looked at Dora and added, ‘I promise.’
John saw his mother tense. ‘Mother, there is nothing to worry about. We have friends staying at the inn, do we not? Make use of the hospitality rather than return to an empty house. We shall come and collect you presently.’
Dora Hardwick sighed resignedly, and kissed both her children on the cheek. If she felt any revulsion towards her daughter’s ice-cold skin, or even fully understood what had become of Lillian, she did not show it. John thought his mother was the strongest woman he had ever known; he realised only now that Lillian was not so very unlike her.
John watched her walk through the churchyard with utmost dignity. Then he turned to Sir Toby. ‘Now, forgive my bluntness, Sir Toby, but what is so important that it must interrupt my father’s funeral?’
* * *
‘Believe me, Agent Hardwick, every word is true,’ Lord Cherleten said.
Lillian looked at the assembled men incredulously. Her brother, who looked somewhat less surprised than she, warmed his hands near a crackling fire, which had been made up in the grand committee room of Faversham’s guildhall—Sir Toby had requisitioned perhaps the finest quarters possible for the Order’s excursion to the old market town. Club servants had been sent ahead to make everything as homely as could be on such a wintry day. The formality of Apollo Lycea’s proceedings was, however, stifling as always.
She had listened to a tale as rambling as it was unbelievable. Her father’s trip to the Confederate States of America had apparently ended in him chasing down a fugitive in Alaska, who had ultimately eluded him. That fugitive, Lord Cherleten had stated matter-of-factly, had come from another universe; a world like our own, beyond the veil. The fugitive had been none other than the doppelgänger—the very double—of William James himself, displaced between worlds.
‘And these… fugitives, or travellers, or whoever they are,’ Lillian said, ‘pass through the “veil” like demons through the Rift?’
‘Exactly so,’ said Cherleten. ‘We believe—in fact, we know with utmost certainty—that the universe from which the Riftborn come is just one in an infinite number of universes. When our scientists—Dr. James here foremost amongst them—discovered this, we thought for the longest time that the Rift was merely the closest universe to ours, a place veridical to our reality. But that, it appears, is not so.’
‘Indeed not,’ said James. ‘It is the most violent plane in proximity to our own, and bears similar laws of etheric resonance, certainly, but the closest is, I believe, the mirror-world. A world so like our own, but for a few quirks of historical fact, that its denizens are almost our exact doubles in form and deed. And because of its proximity, it is relatively safe to travel to, if only we could perfect the process.’
‘Perfect it? So you have already tried?’ Lillian could barely hide the derision in her voice. She had listened to these insane theories for almost two hours already, and her patience grew thin.
‘Several times, over the course of two years,’ he replied, ignoring her tone.
‘Agent Hardwick,’ Sir Toby interjected, ‘this is a lot to digest in a single sitting, but I expect nothing but professionalism from my agents. Given everything you yourself have been through these past few weeks, I would assume a little more open-mindedness on your part.’
It was unlike Sir Toby to scold her; that in itself made her pay heed.
‘It’s true, sis,’ John said, not turning away from the fire. ‘I… overheard a few things I oughtn’t have, some months ago. Fat
her admitted as much when I asked him, but swore me to secrecy. This was his “great work”, he said.’ John sounded rueful.
Lillian thought of the letter her father had written her while she was in a hospital bed beneath St. Katharine Docks, and which she still carried with her. He had spoken of his so-called great work there too. She took a deep breath—even now, even in her condition, the thought of that letter still brought feelings of sadness and bitterness into her heart. She savoured them.
‘I apologise, sir,’ she said to Sir Toby. ‘Please… go on.’
‘There is a man in the mirror-world,’ Sir Toby said, sloshing his brandy gently around the glass and staring thoughtfully into the liquid. ‘That he has the qualities, skills and experience to complete your father’s work is beyond doubt. His circumstances make him ripe for defection to our cause; it would take work, but we believe he would join us willingly. Additionally, we believe that, should he be thrust onto the public stage in our world, the general populace would take heart. His very presence would restore hope.’
‘Why would it? Who is this man?’ Lillian asked.
Sir Toby gave her the queerest look, half-sad, she thought. Then he said, gravely, ‘In their world he is called Brigadier Sir Marcus Hardwick.’
Lillian stared at Sir Toby, open-mouthed.
‘Our father… lives?’ Lillian knew the answer before she had asked the question, and felt very stupid. Sir Toby looked at her not unkindly.
‘No. And yet…’ Sir Toby hesitated. ‘Your father’s double is exactly that; almost everything that happened to him before the Awakening also happened to the man we knew. The Awakening never occurred in the mirror-world, and thus events took a rather less esoteric turn. There is but one notable difference in his life, as far as our spies can tell, and it is that difference that we shall use. Exploit, if you will.’
