“They can’t even give them blood,” Dylan muttered as we climbed into a horseless hackney. “Watson claims there are some instances when a blood transfusion has been successful, but it’s very rare. And forget about surgery. . . .”
“Blood transfusion? Transferring blood from one person to another?” I had the exceedingly improper urge to sit next to him and pat his (ungloved) hand. He had changed from calm and controlled to bereft and confused, and he obviously needed comfort.
“It’s such a common practice in my time. It’s so frustrating to see things that could be so easily treated . . . and knowing there’s nothing that can be done with current medical practice.” He worried Prince Albert’s cufflink, still studding his tie. His expression was bereft. “It’s just not fair. It’s not right. I can see what needs to be done, but I can’t do anything about it.”
“I’m sorry, Dylan.”
He shook his head, his mouth a thin, dark line in the drassy light. “I need to go home.”
I nodded. He was right.
Despite my own desires, he didn’t belong here.
The next morning when I came out of my chamber, I found our housekeeper, Mrs. Raskill, vigorously dusting the fireplace mantel with her Spizzy Spiral-Duster.
I glanced toward my father’s bedchamber. The door was open a crack, a sure sign he wasn’t here. “Has he been home?”
Mrs. Raskill shook her head, then went about her dusting, but not before I saw a flash of pity in her face. “Not as of late.”
While everyone in London—perhaps England and even on the Continent—knew and lauded my uncle’s deductive abilities, only those close to the Prime Minister and the Queen knew how valuable my father, Mycroft Holmes, was to our national security. He spent his days at the Home Office, doing whatever it was he did to protect and serve the British Empire. And more often than not, he carried out the rest of the evening and night at his gentleman’s club in Mayfair.
In contrast, my uncle went out about on the streets and to the docks, dens, and rookeries as needed. He worked any case that appealed to him, whether it was for an individual of means, title, or not.
My father did all his investigating and strategizing from a desk and restricted himself to working for the government.
And yet . . . they both possessed the extraordinary Holmesian mind. My uncle acknowledged that, should Mycroft ever bestir himself and become physically active in his pursuits, he would outshine even Sherlock Holmes.
And I was his daughter—the child of a quietly brilliant, neglectful man . . . and a beautiful, vivacious woman.
Grief squeezed in my chest. I couldn’t help but look at the mantel, at the picture of my stunning mother. It was the only photo of her remaining in the house. And she, at least, had been aptly named: Desirée. The only visible trait I’d inherited from her was my thick, chestnut hair. Why couldn’t it have been her charming nose? Or her petite figure?
Mother left a year ago. I didn’t know why. It probably had something to do with my father’s style of life. But it could just as easily have had something to do with her awkward, bookish, socially inept daughter.
And it was one puzzle I no longer chose to contemplate.
She’d been in Paris at least for a time, for I received three short letters from her, each carefully devoid of anything pertinent. Even close examination netted me little information except that my mother had indeed written them, they had come from Paris, and she had to change ink bottles while penning one of them. The inconsistencies in her penmanship indicated many stops and starts during the composition, as if she’d had a difficult time determining what to write.
They gave no explanation for her sudden departure, other than vague platitudes like It’s for the best, and You’ll understand the reason someday, Mina.
The last letter came ten months ago.
“Mina?”
Mrs. Raskill had been speaking to me and I forced myself back to the present. “Yes, a pot of tea and some toast would be excellent.”
“And a piece of ham,” she insisted, pulling on the cord of her Spizzy for emphasis. The duster whirred softly as she lengthened the string, then when it was released, whizzed into an energetic spiral that she claimed did a much better job gathering up dust than a manual feather duster.
While Mrs. Raskill was preparing my breakfast, I sent a message to Miss Stoker wherein I invited her to join me in calling on Miss Ashton. It wasn’t because I was particularly fond of Evaline’s company or felt that she would be terribly helpful in my questioning of Miss Ashton, but more of a professional courtesy. After all, the princess had engaged both of us on the case.
I didn’t expect my so-called partner to accept the invitation, for I assumed she’d been wandering the streets of London all night, searching for the elusive UnDead, and would still be asleep.
To my surprise, the messenger returned with an affirmative response, indicating Miss Stoker and her carriage would call for me at half-past ten. The convenience of having private transportation made up for having to wait for her arrival.
I had finished my tea and toast and nibbled on a slice of ham under the watchful eye of Mrs. Raskill when the Stoker carriage arrived. Bundling up a generous reticule, I bid our housekeeper good day and left the house.
“Good morning, Evaline.” I commenced to settling in my seat. This was no simple process, for aside from my heavy skirt, ungainly bustles, and ever-present umbrella, I now had the cumbersome reticule to deal with.
“What in the blooming fish is in your bag? Are you going on a journey? Am I dropping you at the train station?”
“Tools and other accoutrements. After the surprise I encountered yesterday, I vowed I would never leave my house without my investigative equipment.”
“You look like a new governess, arriving at the door of her latest employer.” Evaline gave a merry chuckle. “Or a Gypsy woman traveling about.”
“At least I won’t be caught unprepared.” My reply was haughty, but I became acutely aware of how frumpy I must appear, lugging my large bag. I was dressed neatly, but practically, in a simple cocoa-brown and cream-striped bodice with a dark green skirt. My fingerless gloves and small top hat were dark brown and with only minor embellishments. In a sly nod to my cognog tendencies, I’d pinned my favorite mechanical firefly brooch to the left side of my bodice.
On the other hand, Miss Stoker looked quite fetching in her fashionable but unexciting handmaker clothing. Her frock was of fine quality and excellent tailoring (from Madame Burnby’s shop), and in a style that resisted the urge to be too lacy, flowery, or ruffly—and certainly not like the new Street-Fashion mode, which I found quite fascinating.