Are you courting someone at present? the lady asked after a diminutive sip of sherry.
That was over the mark. Is there some reason I’m here?
Alastair asked, chafing to be away from the probing questions.
Wescomb replied, We’ve been instructed to make these inquiries, Doctor.
By The Conclave?
A brusque nod. There are rare few of our kind that do not go en mirage, and The Conclave wishes to ascertain your mental health. It is not regarded as wholesome to avoid our true natures.
I am not unbalanced, if that is your concern.
Perhaps not yet. Still, you live outside the rules, and especially during this time it is dangerous to do so, Wescomb advised.
I remain circumspect. I don’t flaunt myself like Keats.
Wescomb quickly nodded in agreement. Keats does have his fun, but be assured that at present, all are under orders to appear as pedestrian as our fellow citizens. What with these unseemly murders in the East End, it is vital that we remain out of public scrutiny.
Then how does my behavior present a problem?
Our particular endowment must be exercised or it will run amok, the lady cautioned.
Alastair shook his head. It never has with me. I have control of it.
Lady Sephora’s expression grew stern. So you have said in the past, and I must admit you have mastered your need to go en mirage quite well. However, even the best of us will eventually succumb––
Alastair rose abruptly. I resent the implication that I cannot keep myself in check.
Wescomb rose as well, and his voice took on a hard edge. If my good lady and I are unable to overcome this…predilection, then why do you believe you are so invincible?
With all due respect, Lord Wescomb, I just am. May I now be excused?
His hosts studied each other until Lady Sephora gave a resigned nod.
Please be cautious, Doctor. Many eyes are upon you, she said.
As always, my lady, he replied with open discontent.
Without further pleasantries, he departed the room at a brisk march. Brushing aside the maid’s assistance at the front door, Alastair collected his coat and hat and exited onto the street.
Twilight hung in the air. The street’s deepening shadows matched his mood.
Inside the study, Wescomb sank into his chair with a long exhalation. The boy is riding for a fall, I think. No one is capable of denying our legacy. He is a fool to think he can.
His wife rose and closed the door in a rustle of silk. He’ll learn it soon enough.
What will The Conclave do? Wescomb asked.
I am not sure, she said. They are so skittish at present.
Knowing they have a rogue, even one as well mannered as Alastair, may cause them to react irrationally. They are most adamant that our young doctor be held accountable for his unhealthy behavior.
Let us hope this East End lunatic ceases his reign of terror and normalcy returns.
The lady’s face grew thoughtful as she returned to her chair.
And that the fiend is not one of ours.
Wescomb shook his head vigorously. Good God, Sephora, I really can’t believe––
It does not matter what either of us believes, John! It’s what The Conclave presumes. If they are convinced that Alastair is behind this butchery…
Silence descended as each mulled the implications. Wescomb poured himself another glass of sherry. His wife held out hers, and he performed the honors.
She studied the amber liquor. We must pray for Alastair’s future…and his sanity, she said softly.
Wescomb nodded solemnly. They drained their drinks. After only a moment’s hesitation, both hurled the crystal into the blazing fireplace. The remnants of the alcohol flared brilliantly, and then vanished in the flames.
It took many blocks before Alastair’s temper cooled, his anger replaced by gnawing unease. A sensible man wouldn’t have lost his temper. The Wescombs had shrewdly attacked his weakest point: the urge to go en mirage. By resisting it, the urge only grew stronger. Though the Wescombs were circumspect in their practices, others of his kind regularly adopted bizarre forms and saw it as a grand charade.
It’s still a dangerous game, he muttered, and I shall not play it.
When he became aware of his surroundings, he found himself on Threadneedle Street near the Bank of England. Pausing at an intersection, on a whim Alastair cut south toward the Thames, keen to judge how the new bridge was progressing. Something about the nascent structure always brightened his spirits, gave him hope.
As he stood along the riverside near the Tower of London, a slight breeze danced over the Thames. In the distance, he could see the massive concrete piers breaking the surface like two continents rising from the depths. Fascinated at this marvel of engineering, he’d eagerly followed the news articles, relishing every minor detail. He could hardly wait until the first time the structure’s twin spans rose heavenward to allow a ship to pass beneath.
Amazing, he murmured.
Shifting his gaze toward the East End, he felt his melancholy return, descending on him like a thick London ‘particular’.
Such deprivation within sight of such a marvel. How can it be like that? he mused.
The Tower of London’s high gray walls loomed in the darkness as he hiked the Minories and then north toward St. Botolph’s Church. As always, he was transfixed by the women trolling the exterior, circumnavigating the church like fallen angels in search of holy redemption. They’d learned that if they kept moving, they wouldn’t be arrested for prostitution.
Various offers came his way, but he ignored them as he made his trek along Whitechapel High Street and then onto Commercial Street. The thoroughfare bustled with bodies; costermongers hawked their fruits and vegetables in strident voices. A newsboy chanted the latest scandal while a potman dished out pints of porter and stout to waiting customers. A lamplighter descended to the street, his task complete. Above him, the gas lamp spread its limited glow. All-a-bloomin’, a flower merchant called as a young man chose a red rose for his sweetheart. The grating squeak of a wheelbarrow announced a scrap iron merchant wending his way through the teeming throng.
Sir, spare a tuppence? I can get a bed if you do that, sir, a tattered woman wearing a threadbare shawl called from her place on the street. Before her sat a battered wooden bowl inhabited by a solitary copper coin. Alastair knelt and placed two pence in the woman’s hand, rolling her dirty fingers over the disks. She blinked in surprise at his touch.
Bless you, sir, she said. I’ll not use it for drink. I swear it.
I know. He could ill afford to give away even a few pence, but something about the woman struck his heart. May God bless you, he said as he rose.
Partially obscured in the shadows of a doorway, a young woman asked in a husky voice, Fancy some company, luv?
Alastair ignored her. She persisted, catching up with him as he navigated his way through the dense crowd.
Come now, luv, don’t be that way.
He gave her a sharp look. Something felt odd, though her appearance gave no doubt as to her station in life: a plain, lowerclass girl wearing a cheap straw hat, mismatched clothes and carrying a worn umbrella. Grabbing his arm, she forced him to match her pace. A strange tingle flooded through him, heralding the presence of one of his kind en mirage. Only one person would be so bold as to approach him in this manner.
Alastair glared and whispered, By the devil, Keats, is that you?
The young woman tittered. Why do you think that?
Indeed, it was Jonathon Keats, the rascal who claimed to be his friend. Alastair tried to shake himself free, but his companion clutched his arm like a beggar would a gold sovereign.
Stop squirming, the girl whispered, and then flashed a smile at a passing tradesman. You’ll attract attention.
That was rich. What are you doing?
Hunting the killer, you see, Keats replied in a conspiratorial whisper, revealing no hint of the man underneath.
Do you not realize the danger your stunt poses?
I’m not the one who was summoned to our lordship’s house tonight. Leaning in closer, pressing against his forearm, Keats asked, Just how did that go? Did they give you twenty whacks on the bum and make you stand in the corner?
This time, Alastair did manage to shake the nuisance free, and none too gently. In a swift gesture, he propelled them down an alley. Jamming her up against the sooty brickwork, he snarled, How did you know I was with the Wescombs? Is Keats spying on me for The Conclave?
Oh, really, Alastair. Your name is on quite a few lips, old boy.
Word is that you’ve gone Opaque on us.
Alastair’s mouth twitched. I prefer not to play around like you do, he retorted.
I don’t play; I conduct experiments, Keats announced in a grand tone. Just like any great scientist.
Just like any proper madman, you mean.
A couple entered the alley: a tradesman and a prostitute by the looks of them. After a quick glance in their direction, the woman hiked her skirts and leaned back against the brick wall as the man undid his pants, seemingly unconcerned that they were not alone.
Oh, God, Alastair said, averting his eyes. With a smirk, his companion did the same.
Just a knee-trembler, Keats said, employing the vernacular.
Nothing to be alarmed about. In fact, if you want to blend in, she said, mischievously reaching for her skirts.
Alastair shoved the irritant further along the dark alley. Why does The Conclave care what I’m doing? he whispered, mindful of the couple behind them.
That earned him an amused look. You confound them. You don’t play by the rules. They’re uneasy with anyone who doesn’t blindly follow their lead.
I am minding my own business. Can’t they see that? Alastair insisted