5 March, 1920
I submitted my paperwork and strolled out to Tulip Cottage about two in the afternoon, where Mrs Ralston told me that Geordie was out. I'd expected he would be—he must be up at Oxford for some particular reason other than loitering at Mrs Ralston's house—and I'd really only meant to ask when I might come back to visit.
But she told me she expected him very soon, so I waited and chatted over a cup of cocoa. The conversation and the chocolate were both pleasant, but I had the feeling she was trying to get a sense of me. We had met only a handful of times, and we had never had a chance to sit and talk alone. She was certainly entitled to a bit of caution, a bit of protectiveness. Geordie might as well have been her grandson, and my sudden appearance in his life had brought nothing but trouble for him and for her son, Sir Hannibal, Geordie's father in every way that mattered. And then I'd curled in on myself and disappeared, which, in retrospect, could not have inspired much confidence.
So I tried to chat as amiably as possible. She asked after my studies, and I answered as honestly as I could without being depressing. She approved of my upcoming sabbatical. We talked about her garden, some about her family and then about mine, and while I knew she sensed the empty space where I talked around my mother, she did not ask. I sensed a certain lacuna, too, some very old pain she never named. We talked about Harold Lloyd and stargazing, and she showed me the telescope she sometimes took out into the country if the night was exceptionally clear. Hannibal had been an avid astronomer, as a child. She laughed and told me about the trials of raising boys.
It had been about half an hour when I heard the door, and Mrs Ralston got up and went to the hall.
I followed, hanging back in the door.
The moment I saw Geordie, I realised that some part of my restless anxiety had simply been missing him. There's something about fighting alongside a person that causes bonds to form very quickly, and between the nineteenth of December and the tenth of January, when I finally left London, I'd become accustomed to seeing him almost daily. Part of the knot inside me unravelled. Not a large part, but a small relief is still a relief. He was there. He was all right.
He'd joked that I never seemed to have a chance to see him at his best, which was irritatingly true, and that made it pleasant to see him well and whole, not injured or sick or exhausted. Gheorghe Apostol on an ordinary day, not pursued by dark sorcerers or the un-dead, was a treat. He looked as though he'd been cobbled together from the best bits of every moving picture star: smooth, planar features, high cheekbones, dark, mobile eyebrows, a straight, narrow nose, and full, pigmented lips. He was about average height in England, which I understood would have made him tall in Roumania. There was a bit of a wave to his black hair and an open, unpretentious warmth in his golden-brown eyes. He was so utterly perfect that, if one thought too hard about it, it became a trifle unnerving. Inhuman. As though a Renaissance sculpture had come to life, which, while a lovely, romantic descriptor, is not something that ought to happen literally.
Most people would never have the chance to think too hard about it, though. The overpowering, unnatural attraction he radiated had a tendency to cloud people's perceptions of him, as well as their good sense. We still had not figured out why it didn't affect me, though I had to admit that I had not recently been searching for that answer as diligently as I had promised.
He hung his coat and hat beside mine, and then he was waylaid.
Mrs Ralston appeared by his side and turned him to face her, her hands firm upon his shoulders.
'You've got a visitor,' she told him. She reached up to straighten his tie and adjusted his lapels and pocket square, then licked two fingertips and smoothed an errant strand of his hair. He stilled reflexively, careful that her skin should not touch his, but she was careful, too.
'Your Miss Van Helsing,' she elaborated. She plucked a salmon-and-white hothouse carnation from the vase on the hall table, amputating the stem with a sharp motion of her hands, and inserted it into his button-hole.
I smiled at the gesture, and at the nervous flush that darkened his pale ears.
Realising that I hadn't been seen, and that I probably shouldn't be, I crept back to my seat at the end of the settee.
In another moment, he was there.
But he didn't look at all pleased. He looked frightened.
'What's happened?' he demanded instantly. 'Are you all right? Is Miss Holmwood?'
I'd disappeared, and now he thought I'd only come around if the attacks had resumed. I sighed.
'No, everything's fine. Nothing's happened. I just thought I'd drop by. Just to visit. I... I hadn't, for a while.'
A lesser man would have agreed that it had been quite a while, and then I'd have felt even worse, but he only studied me closely for another heartbeat and a half. Then he broke into a beautiful, brilliant smile and crossed the room in two strides with his hand extended. I took it, and he folded mine in both of his, our flesh separated by the thin, white leather of his gloves.
Then he simply didn't let go.
I resumed my seat, and he sank down beside me.
'It's very good to see you, Meg. I hope you've been well.'
I wondered whether he'd been losing any sleep. 'Oh, you know. There was something of interest last night, though.'
I told him about Professor Sanderson and his wife, and he listened with a reserved sort of interest, as though not sure whether he ought to be alarmed. That story had turned out all right, though. No scarlet eyes in the dark, no violent death, only quiet and rest. 'I'll be satisfied when I hear she's been buried beside him,' I finished.
He nodded. 'Professor Sanderson was... Well, he was known to the Academy.'
I blinked at him. 'Oh, what do you mean by that?'
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. 'He was never a member. And he refused to speak to them, for the most part. But before me, he was the foremost expert in sorcery in the United Kingdoms.'
'Good Lord, and I just read Greek with him.'
'I don't think he'd have talked to you, either, if you'd ever wanted to know more. However he gained his knowledge, he kept it to himself.'
I thought back to the little bungalow house and tried to remember whether I had seen anything otherworldly. Other than the man, himself, of course, and his wife.
'But that might explain how he managed to hang around intentionally. I'd never heard of someone rising deliberately, before, but if he'd had time to plan, prepare, make sure it wouldn't be for very long and that he wouldn't hurt anybody...'
A touch of the expression drained from his features, leaving his face fixed. 'Sorcery is never harmless, Meg.'
'That doesn't mean that an otherwise clever man, at the very end of his life and concerned for someone he loves, might not think it a good idea. At least, I've been keeping an ear open today, and I haven't heard that anybody was found exsanguinated.' I frowned. 'He was a very kind man. I can't imagine he'd ever have done anything he knew to be evil.'
He shifted uncomfortably and finally released my hands. It was likely a difficult subject, the dark things one might do for love, even though I had not meant it as an accusation. But with a reaction like that, it would be impossible to ask him again for the name. I wouldn't get anything by asking. I wouldn't get anything by trying to guilt him, even if I could bring myself to do it.
I sat back and reached for my cooling cocoa. 'How is Sir Hannibal?'
That seemed to be difficult, as well, though I was not sure why. He paused for just a beat before responding. 'He's out of the chair. Not all the time, but he's getting around well enough on the crutches.'
'That must be a relief. He doesn't strike me as the sort who'd take to being chair-bound.'
His lips twitched. 'I was keeping him supplied with books, but he's very selective. He doesn't care for chess, and I don't know backgammon.'
'If you want somebody to teach you, I could ask Chessie. I'm convinced she's actually found a way to cheat.'
We both relaxed again.
'Or you might. If you've the time. Mrs Ralston has a board.'
'We could do that. Make an evening of it. Would you like to go out and find dinner, later?'
He smiled. 'I'll go get it.' His gaze dipped to my cup. 'And perhaps cocoa for myself.'
He rose and moved away.
And then there was a knock.
Geordie stilled as Mrs Ralston bustled past the door, and I understood. He didn't know who it was, how they might react to him. He seemed in good health and good spirits, but those weren't the only considerations, and I had seen people rendered helpless on encountering him for the first time, their minds overcome by the reactions of their bodies. The fact that he had no control over it did not make it any less horrifying for those who experienced it.
He reached back, gloved fingertips just barely brushing my shoulder, gesturing for me to follow as he changed direction and went for the parlour's other door. I rose, frowning.
But then his steps slowed. I pulled up to avoid bumping into him as he drifted to a stop, his head slightly tilted.
I listened, too, but no one had even spoken, yet. The door clicked open.
'Good day,' Mrs Ralston greeted the visitor. 'How may I help you?'
Geordie had begun to move, again, back toward the front door, his expression intent. I saw concentration give way to astonishment an instant before the second voice spoke.
'Mr Apostol is here, please?'
The voice was brisk, frank, feminine... and either Austrian or German, though I could never distinguish between the accents in English.
Beside me, Geordie let out a little breath. I looked up to see his pupils very large, always a sign that something was wrong.
'May I ask who is calling?' Mrs Ralston replied, perfectly polite, perfectly friendly. There was no edge of suspicion to the question. I wanted to scream at her to shut the door.
Two quick steps brought me beside Geordie, and I took firm hold of his arm, tugging him back toward the other door, but he covered my hand with his for only an instant and then pulled away, out into the hall.
It had been nine weeks since I had gone anywhere unarmed, even to the WC, and a quick, thoroughly improper rearrangement of my skirts brought the knife out of its garter strap and into my hand. A good blade, nine inches long and thin, but sharp enough to shear a leaf of paper. I pulled on the chain about my neck and drew the tremendous, four-inch crucifix from beneath my blouse, then slipped into the hall behind him.
The woman might have been in her middle fifties, with frosty blonde hair cut into a bob even shorter than Chessie's; the tips grazed her sharp cheekbones. She was dressed cheaply, in a charcoal-grey suit that was neither fashionable nor overtly ugly and did not hang quite right over her broad shoulders and hips. Her hat was broad-brimmed, the style at least ten years out of date, and adorned with nothing but a neatly tied black ribbon and a single pheasant feather. Her dark-grey eyes were very, very wide, and they were fixed on Geordie.
It was not the sort of threat I had imagined. If she was a monster or sorceress, she made no attempt to attack. I didn't think she could. Shivering with undisguised desire, she took an involuntary step forward.
Mrs Ralston blocked her, and I stepped in front of Geordie, but he had stopped his advance.
'Mathilde,' he said hoarsely. There was a difficult silence. Then, in German, 'Why would you come here? You shouldn't have come here.'
She shook herself, closed her eyes, and wound her arms around her torso as though trying to hold something inside. Then her severe mouth curved in a wry smile. 'Still charming, I see.'
Geordie made a small sound, almost of pain, and the woman's smile vanished as she opened her eyes again. She looked from Mrs Ralston to me in surprise, as though not sure how either of us had come to be there, sparing barely a glance for my knife.
'Gheorghe...' She switched to English. 'Whether you ought to find out as quickly as possible or as delicately as possible, I did not know, but a telegram seemed just too cold...' With a herculean effort, she seemed to master herself, and the lust dimmed in her eyes, replaced by uncertainty and compassion.
'Arsenie Apostol is dead.'
—
For early access to chapters, plus exclusive extras, sketches, profiles, ramblings, and read-alouds, visit http://www.patreon.com/mrgraham