I think of my father, and my stomach tightens at the memory of finding him in the opium den.
“But cocaine is perfectly harmless,” Ann says. “It is in many tonics and lozenges.”
Dr. Van Ripple’s smile is strained. “So they say, but I think otherwise, my dear. For I saw how it ruined the girl so that she no longer knew what was truth and what illusion. She was suspicious in the extreme, seeing haunts in the shadows. She insisted that she was the only one who might stop this terrible plan, and she wrote long into the night on a secret tome which she said was of the utmost importance. Once, I surprised her as she worked past midnight in the studio, the candle burned nearly to the last of its wick. She startled and covered the pages quickly. She would not show it to me. I suspected her of divulging the secrets of my magic. I dismissed her, and that was all I saw of her for many months, until one spring day three years ago. Just after I’d dined, she knocked upon my door.
“I scarcely recognized her, so shocking was her appearance. Her eyes were those of the doomed. She’d not slept or taken food in some time. And her behavior was most odd. She asked for paper and pen, and I provided them. ‘I am wicked,’ she wrote. Naturally I thought her unsettled in mind and implored her to stay. But she insisted that dark forces were at work. ‘They will keep me from revealing the truth,’ she wrote. ‘I must act quickly before I am found.’”
“What forces did she speak of?” Ann presses.
The doctor stretches his long fingers over the top of his walking stick, preening like a rooster. “It seems we shall never know. The lady left my home—and vanished.”
“What became of the pages she wrote?” I ask.
He takes a deep breath. “I cannot say. Perhaps that terrible secret she feared died along with her. Or perhaps, even now, some diabolical plan is at work, and we are at its mercy.” The doctor smiles like a kind uncle. He offers his card. “For your mother. She might have need of a magician to entertain her guests some evening?” I take the card; he closes his hands over mine. “Open them.”
When I do, they are empty. The card is gone. “How did you—”
He pulls the card from behind my ear and places it triumphantly in my palm. “Ah, there it was! Such mischievous calling cards I have, I’m afraid.” Dr. Van Ripple pats his pockets and frowns. “Oh, dear. Oh, my.”
“What is the matter?” Felicity asks.
“I seem to have misplaced my wallet. I do hate to impose, but might you lend an old man a few shillings? I give you my word as a gentleman that I shall repay you in full on the morrow—”