A Curious Beginning

“It is his idea of free advertising,” Mr. Stoker replied, thawing a little. “He knows every farmhand and small child we pass along the road will stare goggle-eyed and then tell half the county. So smile and nod as we pass. The more cash we can make for him, the more welcome we will be.” He flicked me a glance. “You did rather well last night. I quite expected you to faint.”


“I cannot think why.” I bristled. “I am not prone to nervous attacks, and I do not know why you believe I might be. I am stalwart as a lion, Mr. Stoker. Stalwart as a lion.”

He made a strange sound then, like a rusty squeezebox, and then, as it warmed and lit his entire countenance, I realized he was laughing. I poked him firmly in the ribs.

“I do not appreciate being laughed at.”

“Oh, I am not laughing at you, dear Veronica. I assure you. I am laughing at myself for being so foolish as to ever have doubted you,” he assured me.

I was not entirely persuaded, but as he had unbent enough to laugh, I did not pursue the matter. Instead I turned to the scenery, drawing in great, deep drafts of the soft June air. All was fresh and green, the trees unfurling their tender leaves, the hedgerows budding in the gentle sunshine. The entire land was awash with newness, and in the air was the sharp tang of cool earth, newly turned by the plow to receive the seed. Something about the fragility of it all pierced me then, and when a bird began to sing sweetly in the trees, I felt overcome. I had no words to describe my feelings; I was no poet, and neither was Mr. Stoker. But he must have felt something of the same, for he let the reins rest slack in his hand and drew in a deep breath of that bewitched air and began to speak.

“‘I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride, Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly leaved and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those starry diadems, Caught from the early sobbing of the morn,’” he recited. Then he gave me a glance, only a little self-conscious. “Keats.”

“Yes, I know,” I managed. “But you surprise me. I should have thought you would prefer autumn.”

“Oh, you have the right of it—I do love the ‘mists and mellow fruitfulness,’ but I can summon enthusiasm enough for any season. As much as I want the rest of the world, there is some part of me so rooted in this island, I cannot shake the pull of it. For all the glories I have seen, the mountains and the seas and the horizon itself, stretching to the furthest reaches of the eye, there is nothing to touch an English morning in spring.”

I could scarce speak for the emotion that rose within me—a tremendous longing for some unnameable thing I had never known and was terrified I should never find. I was struck with a bone-deep love for my native country, an affection so tender I could scarcely breathe, and I turned away.

“Veronica, are you weeping?” he asked suspiciously.

“Don’t be ludicrous,” I returned tartly. “I do not weep. It is a symptom of the rankest sentimentality, and I am never sentimental.” I bent my head to study my compass. “West southwest.”

His lips twitched in the semblance of a smile. “We are headed in the correct direction, Veronica. We have only to follow the tail of the horse in front of us.”

“I like to know where I am bound,” I replied. “Now, let us discuss the matter of money. How much will secure the professor’s goodwill?”

We fell to talking of financial matters then, and Stoker explained to me that the coins collected for the price of admission were enough to keep the show itself traveling, but not sufficient to pay the performers. The acts were expected to supplement their own salaries, either by passing the hat or through the sale of the cartes visites, the photographic postcards each act had printed up at their own expense. Some of these were gruesome—such as the one that showed a painfully thin professor and Otto, bared to the waist and exposing the band of sinew and muscle that connected them. Others were faintly salacious. (It needs little imagination to understand that I am speaking of Salome here.)

“Unfortunately, there isn’t much excitement to be had in a card depicting a conjuror,” Mr. Stoker said ruefully. “And no time to have some made up with you bound to the target and knives scattered all around.”

“Probably for the best,” I reminded him. “Such cards would only advertise our presence when we are attempting to behave as discreetly as possible.”

He quirked his brow at me. “We have gone about that in the most curious way, haven’t we? Joining a traveling show. I must have been out of my mind.”

“On the contrary,” I said with some briskness. “I found it to be a stroke of inspiration. We will be the purloined letters, hiding in plain sight, just like the story by Mr. Poe.”

“I do wish I shared your optimism.”

His voice was uncharacteristically soft, and I turned to him sharply. “What is the matter with you? We have now agreed upon something. Furthermore, I said something courteous to you and you have not cursed at me in a full five minutes. Have you a fever? Are you delirious?”

I put a hand to his brow and he slapped it away.