backward glance at her. “You have already found good luck, sir,” she called.
Lillian heard him mumble “Loony” as he left, whistling for his dog to follow. “Gave you the willies, didn’t she…?”
She sat on the slimy threshold and cried into her hands. What would this life be if she couldn’t bear to frighten a scrawny hound, much less his innocent master? Worse, if that was even possible. But she also thought of the daughter she’d never met, how at the very least she could one day tell the girl that she had never harmed an innocent man or woman. Your mother is no monster, my love.
At least, not yet. Not fully.
She wiped at her tears with her cloak, wondering what the others would think if they saw her in this state: George, his brother Phillip, her own butler and governess, her friend Bess, her maid Aileen. Her Musketeers. They would not believe their eyes.
Lillian stood tall, pulled her cloak around her, took a deep breath and reached up to a windowsill where a rat scampered in the dark. She clutched it quickly, wrung its neck, and carried it with her off into the night.
CHAPTER TWO
Our heroine is attacked from all sides.
Dear Miss Holmes,
Thank you for your most recent letter. How wonderful that you have begun to follow in Mr. Holmes’s footsteps! I sincerely hope that you are able to locate the relatives about whom you spoke, and I am greatly calmed that you now have a beau to assist you. Certainly you will be safer in his care, if he indeed approves of your avocation.
I fear you will not welcome the news that I am no longer writing Sherlock Holmes stories. This fact has brought some small outcry from readers in England, but certainly they will forget about him in time. My efforts are fully turned towards my studies of spiritism, a subject that engrosses me in a somewhat obsessive fashion. As a person of great intellectual passions, if I may presume to know you well enough to say it, you might understand.
You asked me about vampires in your letter. Indeed, a rather surprising question from a young lady, but you intrigued me greatly. Might you expand upon the reason for your interest? I cannot comment on a belief one way or the other about vampire souls, however fascinating the question, but, yes, I am well acquainted with Mr. Stoker; he is a friend. His interests of late involve Mesmerism, and he now loathes discussing the subject of “vampire folktales,” as he calls them. He chides me regularly on my interests. In London there has been much talk of late about a supernatural connection to a recent spate of unusual murders. Most laugh at such notions, but I am not among them.
I understand your interest in me arose from my novels, and I will not presume that you desire to continue a correspondence. I am, however, quite curious about your talk of vampires. Might you humor me with a reply?
I wish you all the best in your future adventures, and of course on your forthcoming nuptials!
Cordially,
A.C. Doyle
Postscript—I will be in Baltimore within the month to speak to their chapter of the Learned Order of Psychic Scholars and will scour the newspaper for an announcement of your wedding and latest detective pursuits!
“Wedding’?” Lil murmured, folding the letter and tucking it into her desk drawer. Wedding?
“What’s that?” George wrinkled his brow, struggling with a jeweler’s tool to fix a tiny handmade spyglass she had found in her former butler’s workroom. He turned to her and complained, “I can’t do this, dear! You must send it to Thomas. It is his. I am a complete failure at normal male occupations. And I’m starving. I think the postman will have to do today.”
“You are not so bad at some male occupations,” she replied, thinking of the night before. He snickered, and she winked. “And please do not eat the postman. He’s the most punctual I’ve had in ages.” But Lillian’s joke felt flat to her own ears and George always saw through her weak attempts to
Lillian heard him mumble “Loony” as he left, whistling for his dog to follow. “Gave you the willies, didn’t she…?”
She sat on the slimy threshold and cried into her hands. What would this life be if she couldn’t bear to frighten a scrawny hound, much less his innocent master? Worse, if that was even possible. But she also thought of the daughter she’d never met, how at the very least she could one day tell the girl that she had never harmed an innocent man or woman. Your mother is no monster, my love.
At least, not yet. Not fully.
She wiped at her tears with her cloak, wondering what the others would think if they saw her in this state: George, his brother Phillip, her own butler and governess, her friend Bess, her maid Aileen. Her Musketeers. They would not believe their eyes.
Lillian stood tall, pulled her cloak around her, took a deep breath and reached up to a windowsill where a rat scampered in the dark. She clutched it quickly, wrung its neck, and carried it with her off into the night.
CHAPTER TWO
Our heroine is attacked from all sides.
Dear Miss Holmes,
Thank you for your most recent letter. How wonderful that you have begun to follow in Mr. Holmes’s footsteps! I sincerely hope that you are able to locate the relatives about whom you spoke, and I am greatly calmed that you now have a beau to assist you. Certainly you will be safer in his care, if he indeed approves of your avocation.
I fear you will not welcome the news that I am no longer writing Sherlock Holmes stories. This fact has brought some small outcry from readers in England, but certainly they will forget about him in time. My efforts are fully turned towards my studies of spiritism, a subject that engrosses me in a somewhat obsessive fashion. As a person of great intellectual passions, if I may presume to know you well enough to say it, you might understand.
You asked me about vampires in your letter. Indeed, a rather surprising question from a young lady, but you intrigued me greatly. Might you expand upon the reason for your interest? I cannot comment on a belief one way or the other about vampire souls, however fascinating the question, but, yes, I am well acquainted with Mr. Stoker; he is a friend. His interests of late involve Mesmerism, and he now loathes discussing the subject of “vampire folktales,” as he calls them. He chides me regularly on my interests. In London there has been much talk of late about a supernatural connection to a recent spate of unusual murders. Most laugh at such notions, but I am not among them.
I understand your interest in me arose from my novels, and I will not presume that you desire to continue a correspondence. I am, however, quite curious about your talk of vampires. Might you humor me with a reply?
I wish you all the best in your future adventures, and of course on your forthcoming nuptials!
Cordially,
A.C. Doyle
Postscript—I will be in Baltimore within the month to speak to their chapter of the Learned Order of Psychic Scholars and will scour the newspaper for an announcement of your wedding and latest detective pursuits!
“Wedding’?” Lil murmured, folding the letter and tucking it into her desk drawer. Wedding?
“What’s that?” George wrinkled his brow, struggling with a jeweler’s tool to fix a tiny handmade spyglass she had found in her former butler’s workroom. He turned to her and complained, “I can’t do this, dear! You must send it to Thomas. It is his. I am a complete failure at normal male occupations. And I’m starving. I think the postman will have to do today.”
“You are not so bad at some male occupations,” she replied, thinking of the night before. He snickered, and she winked. “And please do not eat the postman. He’s the most punctual I’ve had in ages.” But Lillian’s joke felt flat to her own ears and George always saw through her weak attempts to
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