by Gayla Twist
It was true; the fashions were quite breathtaking, so long as you liked black. Being a Witch, Vera understood that black need not be only for funerals and other ceremonial occasions, but its overwhelming prevalence here took her aback. Black velvet gowns with the deepest ruby red trim, black scarves, sable mufflers, even black linens were on display, as well as black starched collars and even undergarments.
Hippolyta ran her fingers over a fur-lined overcoat with admiration while Vera stood back keeping watch with darting eyes. The proprietor stepped forwards to attend his new customers. He was a round, moon-faced creature with no hair but immense eyebrows that jutted out like little devil horns.
“Ah, Miss Hopkins.” His voice was soft and eager. “Your eye for striking elegance never falters.”
The little man turned his owlish gaze towards Vera, eyes sparkling with barely shrouded excitement. Even more than the other beings lurking around the market, this creature’s pale countenance unnerved Miss Tartlette, and the circles under his eyes looked like smears of charcoal. He came towards her, leaning forwards and bobbing like a little round bird, smiling what Vera felt was the smile of a hungry cat who has just spotted an exhausted mouse.
“And for Madam?” he asked. “Can I interest you in some more metropolitan fashions?”
It was all too much for Vera. She staggered back, flinging her arms out to shield herself, trying to remember any kind of spell to repel a Vampire attack but finding her mind entirely blank.
“Don’t you come near me, you fiend!” she screamed. Her voice echoed through the underground halls, deafeningly loud in the hush. Everyone around them froze suddenly, turning to see the source of the commotion. To her absolute horror, Vera found herself the center of attention.
The proprietor hesitated, his smile stiffening. He straightened, adjusted his sleeves, and coughing a bit said, “Perhaps when you’ve had a chance to shop around a bit more.” He discreetly turned away.
Hippolyta pulled her friend from the stall. “Vera,” she hissed. “What possibly possessed you to cause such a scene?”
“I’m so sorry,” began the Witch, her voice quavering. “But when that Vampire came towards me...” She couldn’t go on. Perhaps she was simply too old to start a life of adventure.
“Vampire?” Hippolyta laughed. “Him? Don’t be ridiculous, Vera.”
“But I thought...” Vera began.
“My dear creature.” Miss Hopkins did little to hide her amusement. “We haven’t even seen any Vampires yet.”
Vera stopped and stared at her friend, entirely nonplussed. “These people? With their soulless eyes and lifeless pallor. They aren’t vampires?”
Hippolyta laughed a little too brightly. “I made the same mistake when I first came here. No, they’re all quite Mortal.”
“Mortals?” Vera felt her stomach lurch. Even though she dreaded the answer, she still felt compelled to ask, “Then what are they doing down here?”
Chapter 4: Yes, I Know It Well.
Vera had made Violet promise not to leave the Pensione Belladonna under any circumstances while she herself was out gallivanting around the city. But, Violet rationalized, her aunt really couldn’t expect her to stay cooped up all day; she had to take some air. Besides, the girl didn’t intend to go very far. She just wanted to mail her letter and buy a few postcards and, since it was on the way, possibly take in the Baphomet Cathedral. She could see its large dome dominating the landscape, proving that it was only a few blocks away. How dangerous could it be to traverse a mere few blocks in the middle of broad daylight? Even in a city where half the occupants were no longer amongst the living. Wasn’t she in X because it was safer than England?
To Violet’s eyes, everyone looked perfectly normal. Yes, there were a few more heavy cloaks and wider-brimmed hats than one usually saw at home, but fashions did alter from country to country, so that was no reason to be alarmed. Adjusting her own hat to a more determined angle, the girl trotted up the worn marble steps to the ancient cathedral.
As the shadow created by the Baphomet Cathedral loomed over her, Violet tried to recall the history of the structure. On their train ride over, she’d attempted to commit the facts listed in her Baedeker to memory. The building was, after all, supposed to be the center of Witchcrafting in all of Europe. It was also known for its magnificent frescoes and carved reliefs depicting the histories and fables of the Craft. Everyone knew the story of the celebrated Italian artist, Michelangelo, who was brought to X in secret and made to lie on his back for weeks, supported by four levitating broomsticks, while he painted the famous Witches at Valmar on the cathedral’s ceiling before being returned to his home with no memory of his adventure.
Inside, the air was cool and dry, and even Violet’s light tread echoed to the top of the dome. The cathedral buzzed with the sound of hundreds of Crafters from all over Europe, swarming like wasps, gazing upwards, whispering loudly, and bumping into one another repeatedly as they tried to take in the beautiful works of famous artists. Unbeknownst to most visitors, they were almost all at the cathedral with the same intent—to fully absorb each piece of art so that when they returned home from their travels, and for the rest of their lives, if someone should ask, “Oh, do you know so-and-such painting at the Baphomet Cathedral?” they could reply with a worldly smile, “Yes, I know it well.”
One voice in the edifice stood out among the rest, droning on at a steady pace, heedless of any competitive sounds. It carried an air of fussy authority, as though it were the last word on the cathedral and every work of art in it. Scanning the crowd, Violet recognized old Professor Yog, the official Warlock Representative of Great Britain in X. White wisps of hair made a sparse halo around the pale dome of his skull, and sunken eyes belied a fine set of lungs that could easily reach every ear within the vast space. The girl didn’t know him personally, of course, but had seen his photograph on many an occasion. The professor was leading a group of elderly English Crafters through the cathedral, pointing out frescoes of interest and giving historical information.
Violet had been thoroughly warned that numerous self-proclaimed tour guides prowled the cathedral in hopes of earning a few ingots by expounding their dubious information about the historical frescoes. Still, the girl was half tempted to hire one; she had, after all, left her Baedeker in her room. But since Professor Yog’s voice eclipsed all others, there was no real need to hire a competing guide. The Professor was not some tout trying to score a few shekels. He lectured under the determined conviction that the Crafter community at large would benefit from his knowledge. His clear drone had the proprietorial air of a proud owner rather than simply a student of history.
“If you will examine the large fresco to the left of the El Greco…” the professor gestured with the long staff he always used as a cane to help him along the cobblestones, “…you will see one of the works of Pedro Berruguete depicting the trial of an accused Witch during the Papal Inquisition.” Violet followed the group’s gaze towards a fresco depicting a lone, young Witch, half-denuded and bound with chains but standing brave and proud before a gathering of gaunt, ghoulish priests gazing at her lasciviously.
“The one next to it is the accused Witch having been convicted and her subsequent punishment of being burned at the stake.” Here, the professor directed his stick towards an expressive painting of the same Witch, her face twisted in agony as she was engulfed in flames while the ghastly inquisitors looked on with grim delight.
“I shall never understand why Witches took all those inquisitions so personally,” came a cheerful voice from the outer edge of the crowd that had gathered. “I mean, it’s not like Crafters were the only group that was persecuted.” Violet poked her head around to see the Count Du Monde standing at the back of the crowd, wearing his merry smile. “What about the Cathars?” the old man continued with a twinkle in his eye. “Those poor blighters were slaughtered en masse, but you don’t hear them complaining about it.”
Professor Yog cleared his
throat in irritation. A sunbeam streaming through a stained glass window caught the large crimson orb embedded in the tip of his staff, causing it to glint like an angry red eye.
“Moving along, you’ll want to examine the next fresco, expertly done by Ambrogio Lornzetti, depicting the effects of the Black Death, which many believe to be the work of the Goddesses to punish Europe for the Inquisitions. Shortly after this masterpiece was completed, Lornzetti himself succumbed to the plague.”
“Actually, it was the Crafters themselves who concocted the plague. And who can blame them?” Du Monde gave his jovial chuckle, completely at ease as he supplemented the Professor’s commentary with his own. “A nasty inquisition or two kills off a few hundred Witches, all the more reason to visit unspeakable suffering and death on a third of the European population.”
Professor Yog banged his staff on the floor so hard that it sounded like a gunshot reverberating throughout the cathedral for several seconds. “Excuse me,” he said dryly. “I find that too many competing voices creates an unpleasant discord. Will those in my group please follow me?”
The Crafters all shuffled forwards, shooting indignant looks in Count Du Monde’s direction. Soon it was just the Count and Violet standing by themselves. The girl couldn’t help but notice that the old Vampire looked a little deflated. “This is the great tragedy of our world,” the old man sighed. “We have allowed lies and self-righteous justifications to perpetuate a meaningless conflict.”
Violet looked around but already knew that it was she whom he was addressing. Not wanting to be rude, she reluctantly wandered over. “And both sides are guilty, I’m afraid,” the Count continued. “I do not absolve Vampires from this charge. I, of all people, should accept responsibility where it is due.”
The Vampire gestured across the wide marble floor towards a solitary figure in a long black cloak, pacing slowly. He alone among crowds cast his eyes downward, ignoring the soaring majesty of the cathedral. “Take a look at my son, Sebastian.”
A would-be tour guide approached the young vampire and began to babble in a language Violet didn’t recognize. The vampire slowly turned his eyes towards this intruder and gazed fixedly at him, neither threateningly nor with annoyance, but with the same inscrutable expression he had turned on Violet the night before. The stranger’s voice faltered. Wordlessly, he turned away, leaving Sebastian in peace.
“I know he appears silent and grim,” continued Count Du Monde, “but that is because he has come to loathe Crafters and Vampires alike.” He added, as almost an afterthought, “himself most of all. The undead are not exempt from the pain of living.”
Violet’s heart felt a sharp pang of pity for the poor old gentleman. He looked sincerely bewildered by the sorrows of the world. Not knowing what to say, she reached forwards and patted his sleeve.
The Count immediately clasped her hand in his, which were cold and dry. “Would it be too much to hope,” the Vampire ventured, “that you, Miss Popplewell, would befriend my boy? I know I ask much, but I can see that you have a kindly heart and look past the foolish prejudices of the world that nourish only hatred. I just want someone to show him that some magical folk, at least, are capable of kindness. It would give him hope.”
Violet wasn’t sure that her mother would approve of a friendship with a Vampire, especially a young male Vampire. And she knew for a fact that Vera would be apoplectic with shock if she found out. The most she could commit to was, “I... I’ll try.”
With that, she gently removed her hand from the Vampire’s grip and retreated to the cathedral’s immense front doors. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed the Count watching her go, looking more dejected than ever.
* * * * * * * * * *
After her frightening encounter with the owl-like shop owner, Miss Tartlette was determined to leave the subterranean world behind as quickly as possible. She explained to her friend that she’d had quite enough adventuring for one day and really should check on Violet.
“Oh, don’t be such a fussy old hen,” was Hippolyta's response. “I’m sure your charge can handle a half day on her own. She seems a perfectly capable girl. Besides, we haven’t even begun to explore the real X. There’s more to La Villa de la Notte besides fashionable shopping.”
Vera wasn’t sure how much more of the real X she could stand, but she also had no idea how to escape the underground city, so she found herself at the mercy of Miss Hopkins’s whims.”
Hippolyta wandered through the fashion stalls, buying a scarlet scarf here, ordering an ermine muff there. As the two Witches waded deeper into the market, the merchants’ wares began to shift from the latest finery to more sinister offerings. “Are those bird skulls?” Vera asked in a half whisper, gazing down at a table covered with what at first she took to be decorative carvings.
“Yes,” was Hippolyta’s simple reply.
“Why on earth are those offered for sale?” Miss Tartlette leaned forwards to get a better look, squinting at the little bones.
“Don’t be so naive, Vera,” Miss Hopkins told her. “There are people who practice the dark arts, and they must get their necessities somewhere.”
Vera took a decided step away from the table. She was feeling tired and had the beginnings of a headache. “Do you think there is anywhere we might rest for a while and maybe have a spot of tea?”
Miss Hopkins examined her watch. “My Goddess, it’s half past twelve. My, how time flies when you don’t have the sun to guide you.” Slipping her watch back into her pocket, she said, “Now that you mention it, I am rather hungry.”
She led Vera past dozens more stall-filled streets, under several carved arches with devils and maidens in stone relief smirking down at them, and over a canal via a charming bridge that split down the middle and flipped up like the lid on a jewelry box when barges stacked too high with cargo needed to pass.
“Here we are,” Hippolyta said, pushing open a tall wooden door and revealing an enormous room filled with long tables and crowded with people. “The banquet hall.”
The hall was illuminated by several rose-colored Italian glass chandeliers, which gave off a warm glow that enhanced the pallor of many of the diners. Long banquet tables were covered with starched white linen and staged with candelabras and crystal glassware. Even at a distance, Vera could tell solely by the sounds of the forks on the plates that the flatware was sterling.” Oh, I don’t know,” Miss Tartlette said hesitatingly. Her mind was on the measly contents of her pocketbook. “I really only need a cup of tea.”
“You can have whatever you like,” her friend said, breezing into the room. “There’s no bill. It’s all complimentary.”
Vera goggled at the closest table, where Mortals were quaffing champagne and devouring a heavily frosted cake. “You mean there’s no charge?” She was quite sure she’d seen someone being served a dish of caviar. “For all this food? How is that possible?”
“The Vampires provide it,” Miss Hopkins explained as she scanned the different tables, looking for a good spot. “There is an indirect bill for some diners, of course, but nothing the likes of you or I will likely be asked to pay.”
Vera was alarmed by her friend’s cavalier comments but also too afraid to ask for further details. She had to just trust that Miss Hopkins wouldn’t lead them into any real danger.
“Here’s a good spot,” Hippolyta said, indicating two open chairs that were at one end of a table crowded with young women all happily chatting and feasting on ices.
“Wouldn’t you prefer something a little more quiet?” Vera asked, wishing for a table a bit more out of the way where she could rest her eyes.
“No, I don’t believe that’s wise. This table will do nicely,” Miss Hopkins told her, sitting down with a decisive air. “Trust me, Vera. I know what I’m doing.”
Poor Vera had little choice but to take a seat, wanting nothing more than a hot cup of tea and a few biscuits.
“Tea, ladies?” A waiter magically appeared at Vera’s side prof
fering a tray with a steaming pot.
“Oh, yes, please,” Vera said, feeling excessively grateful that he hadn’t come over flapping menus at them.
“How about a few biscuits to nibble on while you gather your strength?” he asked, providing two bone china cups.
“That would be lovely,” Miss Hopkins assured him.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to settle in before bringing the rest of your order,” the waiter said, departing with great efficiency.
Vera gave a contented little sigh over her steaming cup as she relaxed slightly for the first time since entering the subterranean neighbourhood. “What a charming waiter,” she said. “It was almost like he could read my mind.”
“That’s because he can,” Hippolyta informed her as she added a lump of sugar to her brew.
“What?” Vera craned her head around to look after the waiter, her hand flying to the lace of her collar.
“Of course,” Miss Hopkins said. “All of the servers here are mind readers.” Then, in response to her friend’s horrified look, she added. “Only about food, of course. They all have been charmed so that they can tell exactly what you want to eat and drink and when you want it.”
“That’s astonishing,” Vera couldn’t help but exclaim.
“It’s convenient,” her friend told her. “No fussing with all that nonsense of menus and specials. What you want is what you get.”
While they rested, Vera was at her leisure to regard the other people surrounding her. They were almost all clearly Mortals by the fact that they were in the banquet hall supping on fine food and drink. But their pale complexions and large eyes, unused to squinting in the sun, made it clear that they were not just visitors to Night Town, but inhabitants.
The people at their own table were a family of beautiful young women, shepherded by their still-handsome mother. Their skin was flawless and pale, as if they’d been consuming small bits of arsenic as a beauty treatment, but Vera shuddered when she thought about the real reason. It made no sense to her to shut such vivacious young women away from the sun.
