Have you always courted danger, or is this a recent development? Alastair asked, flicking some cinders off his bowler as they rode back to London.
My family tells me it all started when I was about ten months old. One day when my mom wasn’t looking, I wobbled into a street of…vehicles, she began, carefully scripting her response not to reveal too much detail. My father saved me at the very last moment. He nicknamed me Daredevil, and I’ve been living up to his moniker ever since.
I was never like that. I took risks, but not of the physical sort.
Keats is always going on about how stuffy I am, Alastair admitted.
She smirked. You are stuffy.
Well, not always, he replied, sounding miffed she’d agreed.
Then tell me about a time when you broke the mold—acted on impulse.
He frowned in concentration. I went to Wales on a whim once.
Why?
A friend dared me to go with him, so I took off. My father was quite upset when I cabled him from Cardiff and told him what I was about.
So what did you learn on that trip?
He looked away. That love is fleeting, he murmured.
Caught by his sadness, Cynda took his hand and squeezed. He gave a wan smile in return.
‘Without a hurt, the heart is hollow,’ she said.
Alastair gently ran his finger along the side of her jaw.
Bending forward, he tentatively kissed her. When she didn’t pull away, he gave her another, stronger and more insistent. Cynda felt the passion behind the gesture. In another time or place, it would have been readily welcomed.
She gathered her skirts and moved to the other side of the carriage.
He blinked in surprise. If I have offended you––
No, you didn’t. It’s just… She felt heat rise to her cheeks.
Go on, he prompted.
I don’t want to make it harder to go home than it already is.
Alastair issued a low sigh and dropped his gaze. I agree. It is best we do not take this any further. He leaned back into the seat, crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.
Over time, the gentle rocking of the carriage worked its magic.
Alastair drifted off first, his head propped against the side of the moving vehicle. A lock of hair fell over his face, giving him a rakish appearance. Cynda smiled at the sight, painting a picture to take with her when the time came to leave. Taller than Jonathon, five-foot seven or eight, with a fair complexion.
Aristocratic brow, nimble mind. Jonathon’s mind was equally sharp, though his height was closer to hers, his complexion a shade darker. The glint in his eyes spoke of untold mischief.
Alastair’s reflected duty.
What a pair. No wonder they get on each other’s nerves.
Weary from the travel and the demoralizing lack of progress, she closed her eyes. It would start to rain sometime after nine.
Shortly after the deluge ended, two more prostitutes would be dead. The news of the socalled Double Event would encircle the globe. If Samuelson were caught in the police dragnet and pulled in for questioning…
She fell into a light sleep, the movement of the carriage not allowing her to rest properly. Something lightly touched her face.
It repeated the gesture. Cynda opened her eyes to find Alastair sitting beside her, caressing her cheek in that way of his.
Except it wasn’t Alastair. He was still asleep on the seat across from her.
She swiveled to get a better look at the apparition. A misty version of the original, she could see the carriage through it. The phantom’s eyes widened, as if it realized it was being scrutinized.
It wasn’t one of her hallucinations. Gotcha, she said.
Across from her, the doctor jolted from sleep, his mouth agape, murmuring something indistinct. The illusion faded from view.
So, what was that? she asked.
I don’t know what you’re––
She waved him off. What was it?
You must be seeing things again.
Cynda shook her head. You’ve done it before, in my room.
The doctor leaned forward and placed his head in his hands.
Cynda let the silence stand. When he finally raised his head, she saw the pain in his eyes. I don’t know how to explain this.
It can’t be any odder than what I told you the other day.
He frowned. In that, you might be wrong.
She slid sideways on the bench and patted the empty spot next to her. Sit here. It’ll be easier to hear you.
He didn’t move. She patted the seat again. He moved warily to her side and then stared at his hands for a time, marshalling his thoughts.
I’m a Transitive. He waited, but she didn’t reply. Surely you have them in your time?
Cynda shrugged. I’m not sure. I don’t know what they are.
We are shapeshifters, masters of illusion, he explained. We can mimic any form we choose.
Whoa, now that is weird. How do you do it? Is it magic?
The exact process is not known.
Do you chant spells, or something like that?
No.
Have you always been one of these…shifters?
No, Alastair replied. It is an endowment we receive from another Transitive at the time of his or her death.
Sort of like passing on the family silver, I guess, she joked, hoping to lighten the moment.
He frowned again. Not quite.
Cynda tempered her enthusiasm. So, you could look like me?
A nod.
Would someone be able to tell the difference? she asked.
Unlikely. The mimicry is an imprecise art; however, we are close enough for the average person not to notice.
But you’d still sound like yourself?
He shook his head. My voice would change, and any telltale physical deformities would be hidden, as well.
But I saw a hazy version of you, not someone else.
When we sleep, sometimes we venture from our bodies, especially if we have not been en mirage recently. During that time, we appear as ourselves.
Sort of like sleepwalking?
Somewhat. We do not physically move, but our…essence does.
Cynda was silent for a moment. You don’t like having this ability, do you?
No. I am attempting to subvert the inclination. I do not think it is entirely healthy.
Why not?
It’s unnatural. Why should I be allowed to appear as someone else?
What’s the harm in it? she countered. It could be pretty awesome. Lots of fun, actually.
He straightened up, his eyes lit from within.
Allow me to provide you an example, one that illustrates the dangers of this predilection. Let us suppose that I have a carnal interest in you; however, you’re married. Using this ability, I could wait until your husband is out of the house and then suddenly return, mimicking his form. I could slip into your bed and you would deny me nothing, believing me to be your husband. I could have my way with you under false pretenses.
Cynda winced. Oh. Hadn’t thought of that. Like Uther Pendragon, except Merlin had to help him with that one.
You would swear the man you’d had relations with was your husband, even though he would think you were lying.
Which could lead to all sorts of nasty complications.
Precisely. What if you became pregnant and the child did not resemble your husband? You could easily find yourself divorced and on the street with your baby. Even worse, what if you are assaulted and you give evidence against a man who is not the one who ravaged you? An innocent would go to prison.
Oh, lord. Didn’t think of any of those, either.
If not handled properly, the ability to change forms is a license for immorality.
Have you done any of those things? Cynda challenged.
He stiffened in response. God, no.
Then where’s the problem?
He cleared his throat and tugged on his collar, unwittingly copying Jonathon’s gesture. You appear to have a singular effect upon me, Jacynda. I’ve been venturing into your room every night since you arrived. I cannot stop myself. You are so beautiful, he said. You have every right to think me a monster.
He thought she was beautiful? That earned him a pass. Well, at least now I know it’s you, she said with a relieved smile. I thought it was one my hallucinations.
You’re not upset? he asked, astounded. I am a voyeur of the worst sort.
I’m the one who sees omnibus-sized spiders, so I’m not one to talk.
He returned his attention to his hands, still clearly ashamed.
I’ve not heard of anything like you in our time, she said.
That doesn’t mean they’re not there. I would guess they’re being careful about exposure.
We have similar concerns. The Conclave is pressuring me to–– A long sigh. She could almost hear the internal debate: clam up or tell her more.
The Conclave?
Our…leaders, as it were. They are pressuring me to shift like my fellow Transitives. When I refused, they grew angry. That night Keats met us at the restaurant, I was summoned before them. They demanded that I close the clinic and leave London.
That’s why you were so upset. Why make you leave? You have patients to care for.
They fear one of our kind might be the Whitechapel killer. As I work in the East End and am a doctor, they feel I might be a logical suspect.
You told them to go to–– She cut off the swear word, knowing he wouldn’t approve. You told them no, didn’t you? He nodded.
It doesn’t make sense to force you to join the pack. If you don’t want to, you shouldn’t have to.
It is believed that if we don’t honor our true nature, mental illness ensues, Alastair explained.
Use it or go mad, huh?
He looked up; a slow grin creased his face. I guess you could say that.
What scares you about shifting? she asked.
The grin slid away. She’d struck home.
I owned up to my fear about the train, she insisted. You owe me.
He looked away for a moment, and then back. Perhaps I fear a loss of control when I take another’s shape.
You can’t get stuck or anything, can you? Go around looking like a mailbox or hat rack for the rest of your life?
That elicited a chuckle. No. We cannot mimic inanimate objects very well, though it is rumored that some try.
How can you ever trust anyone? she asked, musing on the implications of his revelation.
Once you know we exist, trust is the first victim, he said.
Can you tell if someone else is one of these shifters?
I am able to discern the difference between some of them, and only when they are en mirage. Keats, for instance… He shook his head at the slip. I’m telling you too much.
And showing you twenty-first-century technology doesn’t amount to a hill of beans? she shot back.
A prolonged sigh. You’re right. You’ve been as honest as possible with me. I should be the same.
The constable who brought you home the other night––was that Keats? The doctor gave a nod. He slipped up, she remarked. He knew where your room was without being told.
Alastair’s eyes widened. I am impressed. You are quick.
Not quick enough, or I wouldn’t have ended up under those horses.
Indeed.
Which means the man who tried to kill me could look like anyone. Is that why they never caught the Ripper?
Or maybe…Alastair?
Humm? was the quiet reply. The doctor raised his head, his eyes distant, as if focused on some harrowing memory.
How is this ability transferred at the time of death?
By touching the dying Transitive. The Death Rite allows us to gift the ability from each hand—two at a time, if the dying Transitive so wishes.
Where did your ability come from?
My journey to Wales gave me this…
Curse. She heard the word, as if he’d spoken it. I’m sorry. Her mind raced forward. Is it possible to take this ability from a Transitive while they’re alive?
No. If that had been the case, I would have discarded it years ago. He slid closer to her, as if sensing the fire flickering in her mind. What are you thinking?
It was too far-fetched to believe the murders were anything more than a psychopath getting his thrills. Nothing, nothing.
Just wondering how it all works. Love is fleeting, he’d said.
Was the woman you loved a shifter?
A nod, one laced with loss. She took his hand, pulled it up to her mouth and kissed it gently. His moist eyes acknowledged the gesture. He reclined against the seat, his face betraying a parade of emotions. His hand remained in hers, and Cynda saw no reason to change that.
The remainder of the trip to Whitechapel passed in silence.
Cynda laid her head on Alastair’s shoulder and they held hands, the simplicity of their connection resonating without need for words.
The respite ended the moment they entered the boarding house.
Doctor? Mildred called, scooting down the hallway in an uncharacteristic bustle. A young lad was here for you. His name was Davy. He came to get you about his mum. Said she was quite ill.
Alastair halted at the bottom of the stairs. How long ago?
An hour or so. He said it was something to do with her lungs.
Yes, it would be. I’ll go straight away.
Cynda waited as he flew up the stairs, two by two, and returned clutching his medical bag.
I’ll go with you, she offered.
No need.
No, I want to go.
As you wish.
After purloining an umbrella from the stand near the front door, she fell in step once they reached the street. He halted for a moment as if to give argument, and then shook his head. After that, she struggled to keep up with his punishing pace as they hastened up Whitechapel High Street and onto Aldgate.
Where are we going? she called to the figure striding five feet in front of her.
To Bury Street, was the terse answer.
Why are you so upset? No reply.
Alastair’s pace slowed when they encountered a knot of people on the sidewalk. A constable knelt next to a woman lying on the ground while the crowd murmured amongst themselves.
Alastair elbowed his way through. I’m a doctor. May I be of assistance?
Not unless you can cure her of drink, the constable replied.
He hoisted the inert form to her feet and butted her up against the side of the building. She promptly slid back to the ground, insensate. Anybody know this woman? There were no takers.
Cynda pressed through the throng as Alastair knelt by the incapacitated figure. Something about the scene tugged at her memory. She studied the woman’s clothing: the usual Whitechapel attire of a black jacket with cheap fur around the collar and cuffs, a green skirt, a dirty apron and a pair of men’s boots. Her black straw hat was askew.
Hat. That was it. The woman had complimented Cynda on her hat at the pub the other night.
A second constable arrived, and after more discussion, Alastair returned to Cynda’s side. They’re taking her to the police station, he reported, turning up his collar. It’s just as well. It looks like rain. At least she’ll be inside on a night like this.
Cynda stared at the woman intently. Something clicked.
Which police station?
Bishopsgate.
What time is it?
He pulled out his pocket watch and studied it. About half past eight.
We’re on Aldgate, right? she asked.
Yes. Why?
Eight-thirty. Aldgate High Street. Two constables. Bishopsgate Police Station.
The dots connected. She covered the shiver slithering along her spine by rearranging Annabelle’s cloak. Nothing, she whispered.
The cops pried the drunk off the ground with considerable effort. She wobbled between them in an oblivious stupor. In five short hours, she would join the list of the dead, her name forever remembered as one of the Ripper’s victims.
Alastair continued his forced march, heedless of Cynda’s internal torment. The chill settling into her marrow had nothing to do with the night air. Being a Rover meant taking risks, visiting time periods that were anything but picturesque. Now it felt as if history had turned the tables, sweeping her along like a branch caught in a raging torrent. In its wake, all would perish.
She trailed behind Alastair, paying little attention to where they were going, the face of the drunken woman filling her mind.
He turned right onto a side street and then left into a passage, with Cynda ten steps behind. The moment she stepped out of the passage and into the open, her throat tightened. Though it was dimly lit, she could make out the giant lettering on the building to her right.
Kearley & Tonge.
Her eyes tracked the doctor’s movements, his footsteps echoing as he crossed the deserted square. Why did he come this way? She quickened her pace, her eyes instinctively drawn to a stretch of ground to her left near the back of a building. In a few hours, that piece of pavement would be covered by the rapidly cooling corpse of Kate Eddowes, the woman currently on her way to Bishopsgate Police Station.
Cynda bolted through the carriageway and onto Mitre Street, as if the killer were on her heels.
Alastair turned at her sudden rush. Is something wrong? he asked. He looked back the way they’d come. Is someone following us?
No, she said, I just… God, I don’t want be here. Not tonight.
We’re nearly there, he said, taking her elbow and steering her on with increased haste. I pray we’re in time.