“Thank you,” Stoker replied. “That was precisely my intention.”
Spyridon frowned, studying my face. “A little colour here,” he said, gesturing towards my cheekbones. “The other one has a pretty flush. As though she were sleeping off a fever.” Stoker agreed, applying a little waxy rouge to my cheeks.
“And to the lips. They must look inviting, as if waiting for the kiss of the prince to awaken her,” Spyridon offered.
“Someday,” I said, a trifle acidulously, “perhaps men will stop finding unconscious women to be an allurement.”
“Some men prefer a lady who is silent,” Spyridon replied sagely, “because they like to think they are smarter than their women and if she talks, he finds out he is stupid. Me, I prefer a woman to talk. It is better this way.”
“I think, Spyridon, we are going to be very good friends,” I told him.
“If you speak again, you are going to crack the wax, and I will not be responsible for my actions,” Stoker warned. I made a noise of assent, and he applied the finishing touches, darkening my lips and adjusting the lock of hair that flowed over one shoulder.
“There,” he said, stepping back and gesturing to Spyridon to look. “I think the resemblance is as close as we can make it.”
Spyridon studied me a long moment before nodding his head. “Good enough to fool anyone who wants to be fooled,” he said.
“Most people see exactly what they want,” Stoker agreed. He bent to me. “We have modified the casket slightly by removing a small pane of the glass on the end.” He gestured towards the open area I had not noticed above the top of my head. “If we had not made the modification, you might well have suffocated in there. At the very least, your respiration would have shown up as condensation on the glass.”
I swallowed the curse that sprang to mind. I ought to have considered either of those—both, in fact—and it was a mercy Stoker had. Together, Stoker and Spyridon lifted the glass lid and settled it into place. Even with the open pane, the immediate sense of suffocation was tremendous. The wax lay heavily on my skin, and I knew I dared not move for fear of cracking it, but I was seized by an immobility far greater than that. I had put on the guise of the Beauty, and I had assumed something of her detachment as well. Sounds were muffled, and though I peeped through my lashes, my vision was veiled by the old, heavy glass.
They drew a long drapery of dark silk over the top of the casket. Stoker hesitated just as the fabric was about to cover my face. He saidnothing, but he took one long, lingering look. Then a rush of silk and darkness. I knew he had arranged with Lord Rosemorran to borrow a few of the porters to transport the casket to Plumtree’s, and I lay in sombre quiet as they bumped and thumped, throwing a tarpaulin over the silk shroud and lashing it into place with a series of ropes.
Just then, Elyot appeared, for I heard a new voice. “You have already covered her. I confess, I was hoping to see her again.”
“Later,” Stoker said shortly.
After this was a sense of movement, an awkward rocking as they conveyed me to the wagon that was to carry me on. Stoker kept up a conversation with Elyot, and although I could not make out the words, the familiar low rumble of his voice was my consolation. More than my consolation; it was my lifeline, I fancied, the only thing connecting me to the world of the living. I had the oddest sensation that I might simply float away as the Beauty had done in the canal, drifting and dreaming as everything else passed me by.
They settled the casket into the wagon with a thump. A moment later the wheels began to turn, conveying us through the darkening streets towards Plumtree’s. We drove slowly, for Stoker would take no chances in breaking the casket, as the illusion would be ruined.
We had discussed at length the necessity for keeping young Plumtree as safe as possible, and he had agreed to keep well clear of the premises of his establishment until the appointed time, remaining all the while under Mornaday’s watchful care. There was a chance that Eliza Elyot, upon reading theHarbingerpiece, would assume the Beauty was at Plumtree’s. If so, Eliza might preempt our plan and attempt to retrieve her trophy well before we meant to move the Beauty to Plumfield. If that happened, I would not have wagered a tuppence for Wilfred’s safety, and Stoker had concurred. Mornaday, with no official work, had been only too willing to play the watchdog over our young friend. But Eliza Elyot had killed once, and I knew that to underestimate her mightprove fatal. She was a desperate woman with nothing to lose except the obsession that had fuelled her existence, and it was chilling to think what violence she might employ to obtain the Beauty. I was therefore relieved when I heard Wilfred’s voice as the wagon drew up to the kerb, rolling to a gentle stop at Stoker’s explicit instruction.
“Hallo, Wilfred. Mornaday,” I heard Stoker call.
They exchanged a few words—very few, for speed was of the essence in getting the casket off of the street where Eliza might be watching. Together the men coordinated the removal of the casket, carrying it into the mortuary. They set it down, and I heard the clink of coins as Stoker bade the porters farewell.
Suddenly, Stoker’s voice came, quite near to the casket, so he must have bent near to the missing pane of glass. “Mornaday and Elyot have gone with Plumtree to see the porters out. They’ve put you on a plinth that will be lowered by a hydraulic winch to the floor below, so don’t be alarmed when it begins to move. Give me a quick kick of your foot to let me know all is well.”
I did so and heard a soft sigh. “Thank god for that.”
“Mr. Templeton-Vane, is everything quite all right?” Wilfred’s booming tones were audible even through the tarpaulin.
“Certainly,” Stoker said, his voice more muffled now.
“Only, I thought I heard you speaking to someone,” Wilfred pressed.
“Myself,” Stoker returned swiftly. “Now, was there trouble today? Anything to report?”
“None,” Mornaday assured him.
“Mr. Mornaday and I went to a travelling show on Hampstead Heath, and we passed the day very pleasantly indeed. They had the most interesting folk,” Wilfred told him excitedly. “There was a woman who had the body of a spider. And a mermaid. And a fellow actually conjoined to his twin—” I suppressed a laugh. Mornaday had also worked for Professor Pygopagus when Stoker and I had joined the troupe as he hadundertaken a clandestine investigation of Stoker as a potential murderer. I was not surprised he harboured a nostalgic fondness for the place.
Stoker’s voice cut in shortly. “Good.”
Just then the clock began to strike, slow, sonorous chimes of the hour.
“Our friends will be in position,” Stoker told him. “Time to set the snare.”