In Which There Are Pointy Bits
Fortunately for Cris, his airsickness wasn’t overly debilitating. He suspected it was partly rooted in abject terror. Not illogical terror – if you asked him, it wasn’t natural to be up so high. A chap was born and died on solid ground and not meant to spend time hovering above it, if he was lucky. Fortunately for his heart, the float was remarkably calm. The aetheric current that they hopped northwards, just inside the gray, was pleasingly sedate. Cris was delighted. Nothing would be worse than to be sick in front of his Sparkles.
Dimity returned to the dining compartment some hour or so later, the steward very much at her disposal and all incriminating paperwork safely disposed of. The steward’s face, when he discovered that Mrs Carefull did indeed come attached to a Mr Carefull of Crispin’s dimensions, was crestfallen. Then, when he heard Dimity cry, “Husband, I missed you. I do so hate to be parted from you for even a moment,” he looked like he might weep. Cris actually felt sorry for the poor blighter. He slipped him some coins in recompense and gave him a sympathetic smile.
Dimity collapsed next to him, not across from him as was proper, and smiled coyly, cheeks flushed from wandering the dirigible. She looked glowing, and relaxed, and pleased with herself. He shifted, uncomfortable.
Unfortunately for Cris, a lock of hair seemed near to escaping her elaborate coiffure. He was weak in the face of it, and was reaching forwards before he realized it, to tuck it back up under her hat.
Her smile deepened and she nudged into his hand expectantly. So he cupped her absurdly soft chin, annoyed at his lack of self-control, even as he told himself he was only practicing for the marriage show and that others might still be watching.
The door clattered as the steward closed it ostentatiously behind him.
Cris kept touching Dimity.
Dimity’s hazel eyes had flecks of green in them. It was rather extraordinary. And her lashes were ridiculous – no wonder she employed them so readily.
“Tell me, Sir Crispin—”
“You’d better start calling me Cris, at least from here on out.”
“Oh really, may I? How delightful.”
“It’s the name, remember? We’re Mr and Mrs Christopher Carefull.”
Her face shuttered only briefly. She had excellent control and pulled it back immediately. He, of course, was annoyed by how much he enjoyed that brief chink in her facade.
She pressed on. “So, I’m to be an aspiring painter of indifferent watercolors.” She pointed to the corner, where a portable self-folding easel and a stack of pressed paper resided. Some of the paintings were finished, some not, and all were carefully packed in a large leather portfolio.
“Indeed.” Cris nodded. “And are you an indifferent watercolorist?”
“Highly indifferent, I assure you. But I’ve enough facility to pass for raw, untrained skill to a hungry vampire. Even though I know, and so does anyone of lengthy exposure, that I’ve no actual talent to speak of.”
“No, your talents lie elsewhere, don’t they?”
Dimity tilted her head towards him, earrings swaying. “Do they? Are you certain of that, husband?”
Crispin’s throat went dry. “No, but I suppose we will be sharing a bed for the next fortnight.”
She blushed at that. Even she couldn’t entirely control blushes. He nodded internally. So not as experienced as she was wont to pretend. He would be stalwart and treat her with nothing less than complete respect and gentility – the looming spectre of his father’s lascivious treatment of young women making him shudder and pull back.
She looked slightly hurt at his recoiling, then brightened. “Oh, is your airsickness returning? Do you need a cold compress? Should I dab your fevered brow?”
He almost shammed indisposition to give her a reason to dab, she seemed so excited by the prospect. After all, that meant she’d be close and touching him, and who was he to muck with the inclination? He didn’t, in the end, but he definitely considered it. Then he realized that was exactly the kind of thing his father would do – take advantage of the chit’s goodwill – and felt like a cad.
“My brow, I assure you, can remain undabbed,” he said, perhaps a bit curtly, annoyed with himself.
Dimity nodded and settled back and away from him. She nibbled her lip. “So what is your artistic skill on display then, husband?”
Cris felt himself flush. He was grateful for a certain never-talked-about ancestor who’d gifted his family a dark complexion, himself in particular. He’d been teased at school for being swarthy. Until he’d grown into his shoulders and taken up boxing. He cleared his throat. “I believe they have let it be known that I, erm... That is to say, I have no little capacity for, uh, not to put too fine a point on it... dancing.” He almost whispered the last.
“What? You mean to say, ballroom and the like?”
“Yeeessss...”
“There are further terpsichorean pursuits for a man of your position?”
“And, erm, ballet.”
Dimity’s hazel eyes went very big indeed. “Ballet! Ballet? With pointy feet and fluffy skirts and dramatic collapses? And the waving arms above one’s head like a spring breeze and everything?”
Cris rolled his eyes at her. “Yes, Sparkles, pointy feet and everything. I never performed, of course – too much a soldier to take to the stage. But when our childhood dance instructor discovered I had the acumen, and with six sisters, all of whom number grace as their only saving grace, so to speak, ballet seemed a natural progression. Once we learned all the quadrilles we could muster, he had us leaping and twirling.”
“Twirling, you say?”
“Yes. Twirling.” Cris tried to keep his voice as bland as humanly possible. “Even the occasional pirouette.”
Dimity angled herself next to him, presumably so that she could stare up into his face in delighted awe. “And what happened next?” She smelled faintly of milk and honey and rosewater, like a French pudding of refined delicacy.
“Father came home early and put a stop to the dance master, but too late. The ballet had already taken. It’s actually proved quite useful over the years. Surprisingly broad applications, ballet. Improved my bowling arm no end. Helped me master fencing and fisticuffs. After all, no one expects a pirouette. Especially not in battle.”
Dimity’s face went slack with carefully hidden amusement. “Especially not from a man of your stature?” She gestured with her chin at his broad frame.
“Exactly.”
“Interesting secret weapon you have there, my knight.”
“Stop it, Sparkles.”
She sniffed and returned to the mission. “At least you have barterable skills for drone status. We should make an appealing pair. I intend to gently indicate some difficulty conceiving children and with the marriage bed, as well. To make us, you know, more tempting.”
Everyone knew vampires did not recruit breeding humans. Went against nature, that did. One didn’t pot about with one’s food supply.
Of course, Cris nearly said, “Do you have any troubles in that arena?” as revenge for her teasing him about the ballet. But he stopped himself because all upbringing to the contrary, he wished to be gallant, not crass, and Dimity was still a lady, for all her worldly ways and ready quips.
Instead, he turned his jaundiced eye on the veritable mountain of additional baggage his so-called wife had brought along in addition to the leather portfolio of indifferent watercolors.
“Really, Sparkles, are we not supposed to be artists, suffering pecuniary struggles and eschewing material concerns in pursuit of a higher spirit of creativity?”
Dimity pouted at him.
He wanted to nibble that sticking-out lower lip. No doubt she would taste as sweet as the honey of her moniker.
“Well, yes, but I’ve never been to Nottingham before. And I’ve never infiltrated a vampire hive before, either. I mean to say, will there be social events? Do I need a ball gown? How many ball gowns? I don’t ride, but Nottingham is the countryside, so I had to pack a riding habit. Then there’s my small crossbow with the wooden bolts, not to mention enamel-inlaid muff pistols to consider. Then once I had muff pistols, I had to include muffs, because surely it gets cold up north? And I thought, foxglove – is it indigenous to the area? And would I have time to make poison if I needed it? So I packed some ready-made, to be on the safe side. And then, well, if I’m taking digitalis, why not throw in a little arsenic and some cyanide? And then I thought perhaps werewolves might be involved, so I added a few bottles of silver nitrate and a silver letter opener. I was only going to bring a few, mind you, but suddenly I felt my entire apothecary case might be necessary. And frankly, if I’m bringing the ball gowns, matched jewelry is also quite, quite necessary. Before you ask, I do need all five jewelry cases – you don’t call me Sparkles for nothing, now, do you? And if I’m packing the poison rings, there are bladed fans to consider, and hats with garrote ribbons, and heat-resistant reticules, and in the end—” She finally paused for breath. “I packed the whole of this season’s wardrobe, and all associated accessories, even the deadly ones.” She tilted her head. “Especially the deadly ones. I mean to say... vampires.”
“Very perspicacious of you,” said Crispin, because really, what else could he say? “I begin to think espionage is merely an excuse for advanced accessorizing tactics.”
“Can you think of a better reason? I also packed the very latest fashion papers out of Paris. Did you know bustles are the next de mode on the horizon? I never would have believed it. In my lifetime... bustles? I mean to say, what’s next, a bum roll?”
“What’s a bustle?” Cris asked, confused.
Dimity put her hand to her chest, pressing against the brooch at the ruff of her carriage dress. “What’s a bustle? What’s a bustle! You ignoramus!”
Crispin never pretended to be more than a man of a soldiering mindset. If he could wear his uniform for all time and never think about proper attire, he probably would. He disliked making such decisions and left his toilet and dress entirely up to his valet. He supposed, as a starving married ballet dancer without staff, his sham wife would be dressing him forthwith. No doubt Dimity was up to the task.
“I don’t follow the fashion papers,” he confessed, without shame. “And bustles have yet to come up at my club.”
Dimity giggled. “I certainly hope they don’t come up at your gentlemen’s club.”
“So, what is a bustle?” He was intrigued now.
“That’s for me to know and you to admire later.”
He shifted a bit, slightly concerned for the state of his trousers if this bustle bum roll was what he was imagining it was. Some foundation garment perhaps, light and filmy, floating around Dimity’s slim legs and flared hips and round... Could such a thing be depicted in fashion papers, and how could he get hold of the ones she’d brought to find out? And would Dimity wear one for him, without much else, if he asked very nicely?
Then he hated himself for such thoughts. He was trying to be a better man and yet around this woman, his mind would keep sinking gutter-side.
Unaware of his heated looks and stiffening nether regions, Sparkles was affectionately regarding her mountain of trunks and suitcases, carpetbags and hat boxes. “What else is there? Oh yes, of course. Well, one or two things from Mummy and Daddy, mostly explosive. A book of Latin verse that my brother left last time he visited, and a recipe for Nesselrode pudding from my aunt, which she swears by.”
“Fearful they don’t have Latin verse and pudding in Nottingham?”
“One can never be sure,” replied Dimity darkly.
“No sporting accoutrements?”
“Oh, dear me, no! Unless you count the riding habit? Should I have brought ice skates? It is the north, of course, but it’s also April. Have the lakes not thawed?”
Cris decided to stop teasing her. “We are visiting vampires, Sparkles. I doubt we’ll even leave the house.”
“What, no shopping?”
“No shopping. Worried you haven’t brought enough to wear?” This was safer ground – he was accustomed to teasing his sisters about such things.
“You won’t deny me shopping when the mood strikes. Not even you could be so very hard-hearted.”
“Are you sure they have shops in Nottingham?”
“Fair point.” She twinkled at him, clearly enjoying their banter.
Cris was seized by the horrible realization that he was having a marvelous time and enjoying her company immensely. And he tried so hard never to do that around Sparkles. Because everyone was susceptible to her wiles, even he, and he didn’t want to be one of the enamoured crowd. He wanted to be special. He wanted to be more difficult for her. He wanted to mean something.
Pathetic, really.
Cris drew away, pressed his head back against the seat rest, stopped his natural inclination to smile back, and forced himself into calm, dour seriousness.
Dimity sighed at him. “You could relax around me a little, you know? Occasionally? I don’t currently intend to slit your throat or do anything sinister.”
“It’s not my throat I’m worried about.”
“It’s not?”
“No, lower down.” She blushed furiously at that and he realized that might be taken as rude, when in fact he’d meant his heart, not his prick. He struggled, wondering if he should explain. Then finally allowed her to believe he was crass. Because the other organ that might be involved was more fragile, and he didn’t want to give her the slightest inkling she had any control over that part of his anatomy. Because she’d crush him, and wouldn’t even realize she was doing it. Because along would come the next mission, and off his Sparkles would flit, to winkle his secrets out of the next susceptible male.
He’d be left behind knowing that she’d already extracted from him the fact that he was passing good at ballet. And then where would he be?
They arrived several hours after sunset, the night a gloomy one, thick with fog. Dimity was pleased it wasn’t raining, as it was difficult enough to manage baggage without holding an umbrella. But it was colder than London, the night heavy and damp, like a cold stew. Smelled a little like wet donkey too. They were met at the Nottingham dirigible embarkation green by Lord Finbar himself, Praetoriani to Baroness Octavine Ermondy, queen of the Nottingham vampire hive. He was waiting for them outside the customs offices, sitting inside a carriage, window sash down, arms along the frame, and chin resting upon them, like some winsome schoolgirl.
In a world where it was fashionable to be very pale, because fashions were set by vampires, it was often difficult to tell a vampire from a young man of breeding. So Dimity initially thought this was someone’s wastrel son, waiting on sufferance for a visiting aunt. Except that when the other passengers had been taken away by friends, family, or hired conveyance, only he was left, and he was staring at them. And he was very pale indeed. Then, deeming it safe now that the plebeians had gone, he flashed his fangs at them.
It was a bad sign that the hive had to send an actual hive-bound vampire to retrieve them. One simply didn’t do such a thing. One sent servants. Therefore, the presence of Lord Finbar at the station along with a very old and run-down carriage meant there were no servants left. A vampire hive without servants was like a cake without icing sugar – functional, but not particularly nice.
The carriage was absurd, all ornate curls and finials and excessive turrets, like something out of a fairy tale. It had been retrofitted for steam and weight assist, so it had no wheels, but instead a rusty propeller attachment at the rear. It was suspended from a large black balloon. Mounted at the front, as though it were the figurehead of a ship, was a taxidermy squirrel. The creature was pierced through the heart by a golden arrow and arranged as if in mid-leap.
“Are those cobwebs?” Dimity hissed at Cris, as they approached. “I do believe those might be cobwebs.” She didn’t mind if the vampire heard her – it was too shocking for words!
The carriage had once been gilt and possibly red, but someone had thought it a grand idea to paint it over black, except now the gold was peeking through at the tips and edges of all the curlicues, and the red was peeking through everywhere else. It looked like a child’s toy that had been played with too often.
Lord Finbar exited the conveyance to assist Dimity inside. Or he started to, but he moved so slowly that Dimity was already in and settled by the time he recollected his civil duties. He ignored Sir Crispin entirely and did not help load the baggage (which Cris did without complaint), merely settling back into his seat and staring in gormless distraction at Dimity. Or possibly, at Dimity’s neck.
Lord Finbar had a long face with sunken eyes and a mouth that could have been nicely shaped had it not been so utterly downturned. He had oily black hair combed back to show off a pronounced widow’s peak.
“How do you do, Lord Finbar?” Dimity smiled as big and bright as she could.
The vampire recoiled from her. “Mrs Carefull? You’re not at all what I expected from your letters.”
Dimity looked down at her respectable carriage dress in alarm. She’d made sure to pick one that was older and a little worn, but she’d added a few bows and trailing ribbons in an asymmetrical manner for dramatic flair. “Am I not artistic enough?”
“That’s not it at all. I thought someone less cheerful.”
“One can hardly change one’s disposition to meet expectations, Lord Finbar. Nevertheless, I apologize. I shall try to diminish my natural inclination to good humor. Are you well?” She continued to smile, since it seemed to unsettle him, and how much fun was that, with a vampire? Besides which, she was an artist, wasn’t she – dramatic disposition, excited to be visiting a different city, pleased to meet a vampire and prospective employer.
Lord Finbar resisted her smiles. “Not at all well, not at all. The hive is suffering. Suffering most painfully. You’ve come to us at a grave time, very grave. Possibly literally grave, although who can know for certain? Doomed, one is tempted to think. Yes, doomed.”
Dimity was taken aback. He was hardly putting any effort into recruiting her for drone status. In fact, quite the opposite. While she supposed there were some young ladies who were attracted to a certain level of Byronic melancholy, this was laying it on rather thick.
“Oh, well, it can’t possibly be all that bad, can it?”
Outside, she heard Sir Crispin’s warm, rumbling voice telling the porter who’d finally appeared that he would take care of her baggage. The carriage began to shake and creak as it undertook the burden of her excessive packing choices.
Apparently, Lord Finbar was only getting started. “All is crumbling into ruins. My queen is turning her back on the world of the living and the living dead. We do not sleep, we do not eat. The necks are scrawny, the pipes are dry, words wither on my tongue. All is lost and fallen into tragedy. It’s like the great poets said—”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure they did say. Pipes, you mentioned? Do you mean... plumbing?” Dimity was worried. Were all her fears to be realized?
“We’re flattered to have you, of course, and for your interest in our little painting,” he said, finally seeming to realize she was right there, a living, breathing human artist, sitting across from him on the extraordinarily threadbare red and black brocade cushions of his carriage. “Both of you.” He added, reluctantly, as Sir Crispin let himself inside and sat down next to Dimity.
As Cris closed the carriage door behind him, the entire door lost its casing and came off in his hand.
“Erp!” said Sir Crispin, straining under the weight of the thing, which might be wrought iron for all she knew.
Dimity hid a snigger with a simulated gasp of horror.
Lord Finbar merely lifted the door from Sir Crispin with barely three fingers and a weary sigh, and set it next to him on the bench as though it were a fourth passenger. He didn’t even shift out of his slump.
He intoned a formal welcome with both of them sitting before him. Although his voice was so sepulchral, it was as if he were leading a eulogy. “Mr and Mrs Carefull, it is such a great honor. We have not been visited these many nights by any so vibrant and talented as yourselves. But surely you might consider turning away from us now. Will any float to your rescue, if you enter our doomed hive alone?”
Well, yes, thought Dimity. Quite a few, I should imagine. Cris had even mentioned that BUR would be in after them, if they hadn’t managed anything substantial in a fortnight. Dimity snorted at the very idea of BUR needing to come to her aid. She could fix a hive in a fortnight, surely she could. Not that she thought they’d need rescuing even if she couldn’t. Currently the greatest threat seemed to be excessive sentimental melodrama.
Admittedly, things could get dire if he would keep going on so. Dimity had experienced a romantic poet phase herself, of course. What young lady didn’t? But honestly, she’d left it when she was sixteen. How old was Lord Finbar, four hundred? There was no excuse for purple elocution and aggressive morbidity at his age.
Sir Crispin shared a sympathetic look with Dimity.
He had rather lovely dark eyes, Sir Crispin did, and they were currently wide in what Dimity assumed was an effort not to burst into laughter.
Dimity privately agreed. She had met many a poet in her day. Real live ones. And opera singers. Tenors, from Italy. And not a one had laid it on as thick as this vampire.
She reached across and patted Lord Finbar gently on one bony knee. “Well, yes dear, but that seems to be putting things rather strongly, don’t you think? Can’t be all that bad, can it?”
His coat – should one dignify it with that word? – was moth-eaten and, without question, made of black velvet.
Black velvet.
Dimity recoiled in horror.
He was wearing a lace cravat as well, gone cream with age, not intent. The cravat was ill tied and droopy. In fact, everything about the vampire drooped. The jacket sagged off his shoulders, the hair straggling from his head wisped against his neck, the lines from the corners of his mouth and eyes stretched downwards. Even his long face seemed to droop.
“You are, perhaps, fond of poetry, Lord Finbar?”
“I am a poet, Mrs Carefull.”
“Oh, you are? I was under the mistaken impression that when one became a vampire one never versified again. Sacrifice of talent for immortality and so forth.”
“I shall never give it up. Never! Even as the very act of creation is a torment. One bleeds through the pen, Mrs Carefull. Bleeds! One finds this is eternally the case, suffering for art, doesn’t one, Mrs Carefull?”
Which meant he was a poet without talent. Which meant Dimity, at least, could hardly tell the difference. Still, it explained his terrible melancholy.
“Oh dear me, no, of course you shouldn’t surrender your passion. I myself have a terrible weakness for a good meringue. Crispy and fluffy and chewy all at once, you see?”
He regarded her as if he thought she might be crispy and fluffy and chewy all at once. Which she supposed she probably was, to a vampire.
“Are you scribing anything profound at the moment, Lord Finbar?” she tempted him further.
“A sonnet.”
“Oh yes?”
“An ode to my lost youth, my forgotten life, the crumbling of the past, the impossibility of the future, and the ruination of my dreams. It is a lyrical treatise on the passing of time, like moths through an hourglass.”
“Moths is it, in your hourglass? How tiresome. I should get it cleaned, if I were you.”
And so went the conversation. Fortunately, it was a blessedly quick trip from the green to the hive house. Not because the carriage was fast, but because the distance was short.
The hive house, Budgy Hall, was located in the heart of Nottingham on one of the oldest streets, next to an extremely decrepit church, overlooking said church’s graveyard. Because... of course it was. Why be gloomy when one could go all the way into morbid? Still, it was a good address for pretend aristocrats. Well, not pretend exactly, since all hive queens were given aristocratic titles, but Budgy Hall pretended to be for eccentric human aristocrats.
Dimity tried not to be impressed by the consciously gothic nature of the hive’s arrangements. There were even some very old oak trees looming overhead, crooked branches and prickling leaves and ominous creaking. It was all a bit much, and certainly not stylish, but they had chosen their motif and stuck with it. One had to respect that. At least a little.
Lord Finbar did not help Sir Crispin with the baggage. He only looked over the mountain stacked atop his carriage and groaned. He had supernatural strength and no reason to complain and every reason to be a gentleman and help. But he did not.
Dimity rescued her jewelry cases, and stopped a hat box from rolling into the street, and then tried to help Sir Crispin put the bags on the stoop. He frowned at her fiercely, managing even her biggest trunk with aplomb. It was very gallant and sporting of him. Dimity was delighted, of course. His arm muscles even bulged a bit under his greatcoat. Dimity had read about this phenomenon but never seen it, not in real life.
Lord Finbar and the carriage disappeared around the corner. Dimity and Cris were left standing on the stoop, in a heavy mist that was trying to become rain, smelling a musty odor of decaying mortar and moldy fabric.
“This is ridiculous,” said Sir Crispin. “That man can’t possibly be real.”
“He’s been reading far too much Byron.”
They looked at each other. They looked at the baggage. They looked at the door.
“Do we knock?” wondered Dimity. There was a bell pull, but the cord was so frayed that with one tug it’d fall to pieces.
Sir Crispin, a man of action, knocked loudly.
They waited.
Dimity shivered.
Sir Crispin knocked again.
The door creaked open and there stood not a butler but a chunky gentleman with long silver hair that he wore pinned half back, with ropey strands loose down each side of his round face. Dimity assumed that, given the expression of hauteur on his face, this was another of the hive’s vampires. On him the pallor of an undead constitution looked sickly. He wore what amounted to medieval robes, a tailboard or whatever it was called. He even had long trailing sleeves. It was black and made of velvet, of course. It was as if he had delusions of portraying King Lear. Dimity was not best pleased by any of it.
“Oh. Yes? Who are you?” said the vampire, quite rudely.
Dimity and Sir Crispin exchanged glances.
Sir Crispin stepped forward, gave a small bow. “Mr and Mrs Carefull.”
“Do you have an appointment?” He seemed somewhat angered by their presence.
Dimity tried one of her best smiles, gesturing behind them to the mound of luggage. “Oh, but we aren’t paying a call. We’ve come to stay, from London?”
The portly vampire only sniffed at them fiercely.
Sir Crispin tried this time. “We are artists invited to visit by Lord Finbar. My wife’s a painter and has come to assess one of the watercolors in your collection. I dance and we were to consider…” He paused and delicately touched his own neck with two fingers, glancing furtively around as they were still on the stoop, in public, although the street seemed mostly deserted apart from her luggage. “You know.”
“Oh.” The vampire nodded gravely without looking any less angry. “Artists. Come in, if you must.”
“Were you not told of our arrival?” Sir Crispin grabbed up one of Dimity’s trunks and muscled it inside.
Dimity stared. More bulging.
This vampire seemed utterly disinclined to help with the luggage either, although as he was no doubt supernaturally strong, it would have been the work of moment. Dimity resented this, since it had started to rain in earnest. She very much appreciated Sir Crispin’s efforts on her behalf, and what said effort combined with said rain did for his physique.
Dimity helped, despite his stern expression, and between them they got everything inside. Then they stumbled over and around the pile, as the long-haired vampire began to walk slowly away, as if he were in a wedding ceremony, presumably leading them to their room. Without checking to see if they followed. He still hadn’t introduced himself, either.
They left the baggage in the entranceway and trotted after.
The house was exactly as advertised on the outside – old, worn, and decrepit. The wallpaper was stripped, the carpets threadbare, and the curtains hadn’t been washed in a millennium. Out of the rain the mustiness persisted, and Dimity contemplated the saturation of the stench, wondering if it had ever been aired in its lifetime.
Dimity was terrified of touching anything, lest it break off or leave her smudged. She tried holding her skirts against herself, but the fashion was for wide crinolines, to allude to the grace of dirigibles floating about the feminine figure, so skirts were bound to touch things.
Fortunately, the grand staircase, once they attained it, was wide enough to accommodate her skirts. She had on a dove gray carriage dress with bright purple trim to protect against the dust of travel, but little could help her now because the stairs themselves did not appear to have been cleaned in the last decade.
At the top of the staircase an extremely handsome man lounged in staged dramatic aspect. He leaned against the top railing – a brave fellow. Dimity wouldn’t have trusted it to hold her weight, let alone his, as he was built with operatic proportions. He had curling light brown locks, perfectly coiffed, a prominent chin, nose, and brow. His eyes were large and dark and speaking, in a way that suggested extensive theatrical training. He was also flushed and ruddy in a way that screamed humanity.
The portly vampire wafted past him with only a glance. “There’s baggage wants seeing to, Mr Theris.”
So this must be the hive’s one remaining drone.
“Artists up from London, are they?” Mr Theris looked them over with a glance that was part envy, part lust, part disgust. “Don’t look very artistic to me.”
Not a subtle man, Mr Theris. Curious that he should be so resentful from the start. One would think that as the sole remaining drone, he would be eager to share the burden of vampire feeding and maintenance with new prospective candidates. Yet he sounded almost jealous of their presence.
“How fancy are your southern ways, then?” He waggled his eyebrows at them.
“Mr Theris, is it?” Dimity took point. This was what she did best, after all. She reached the top step and offered a dainty hand.
Mr Theris seized it with alacrity and bowed low over it. She was horribly afraid, for one moment, that he might clutch it to his breast or kiss it.
But with a quick glance at Sir Crispin, who was now looming behind Dimity, he backed away slightly. Dimity glanced under her lashes sideways. Her safety had folded his arms and was not-quite-glowering. Really, did he have to impede her progress so?
She back-kicked him in the ankle.
“Mr Theris,” she tittered, gently withdrawing her hand. “The actor? How delightful.”
The man instantly brightened and relaxed, looking almost schoolboyish. “You’ve heard of me?”
“Word of your brilliance has reached even London, I assure you, good sir.”
He seemed to remember himself and came over all seductive. “Honored to hear it, Madame.”
“Mrs Carefull, painter,” Dimity introduced herself brightly, and then allowed a certain dismissiveness to enter her tone, “My husband, Mr Carefull. Of whom you won’t have heard – he’s only a dancer.”
Sir Crispin nodded at Mr Theris.
Mr Theris tilted his chin after the vampire. “His lordship won’t wait for you. Best not lose him in this wretched tomb of a house.”
Sir Crispin nodded and trotted after Lord Kirby.
Dimity batted her eyes at Mr Theris. “My bags will make their way to me eventually, won’t they, Mr Theris?”
“A few might make their way to my room, Mrs Carefull. Should you like to come searching for them?”
Dimity disguised her repulsion easily – she’d been prepared for this style of man. “That would entirely depend on which ones, now, wouldn’t it? Not all baggage is created equal.” With which she gave his nether regions a speculative glance and waltzed past him to trail Sir Crispin down the hall.
The vampire waited for them at an off-kilter, scratched door. Behind which their room was a picture and not in the right way.
It was big enough, but cluttered with broken antiques of varying kinds. All the cushions and blankets were dusty and threadbare. There were framed and embroidered poetry samples hung on the walls, mostly Biblical, mostly exemplifying the sins of the flesh. These were complemented by thickly pigmented paintings of Greek and Roman ruins.
There was no fire in the grate and the room was glacial. Dimity supposed that vampires didn’t feel the cold and the chimney was no doubt clogged. Still, it was the very opposite of welcoming.
When she placed her apothecary kit on the bed, there being no other empty surface, a puff of dust drifted upwards, illuminated by the dim light of the room’s one gas lamp.
“Charming,” she said, enthusiastically.
“Mmm. Surely better than what you’re used to. I’ll have Theris see to your trunks.” He left them alone, muscling the door closed behind him.
“This place is a mausoleum.” Sir Crispin poked at the bed, from which another puff of dust emerged.
“It is utterly ghastly, isn’t it? I half expect ghosts to appear ’round every corner.” Dimity said this knowing supernatural hearing meant they might be overheard, but there appeared to be such interest taken in appearing as moribund as possible, no doubt her feelings of horror would be taken as a compliment. They couldn’t possibly be serious about this place, could they?
“Too depressing for ghosts,” said Crispin, his lip curled.
“Oh, do buck up, husband darling, we’re clearly in the midst of a badly written yellow-back novel of a particularly sentimental variety.”
“That doesn’t inspire confidence, dearest wife. For that would make me the hero of this novel, and the hero always dies in yellow-backs.”
“You’re sure you’re the hero?”
He arched a brow at her. “Don’t get all confident yourself, darling. There are always two heroines and one of them always dies. We don’t know which one you are, yet.”
Dimity giggled. “You read the Gothics, do you, husband dear?” Sometimes it was rather fun to play a character. She did like being Sir Crispin’s flirtatious artist wife.
“Perhaps you will find your paintbrushes inspired by our current predicament, my sweet.”
“Perhaps I shall. Do you think they’ll feed us? Or will they have forgotten we eat like humans do?”
“Mr Theris apparently still lives here. They must keep some kind of kitchen running for him at the very least. Or perhaps they buy in from a local bakery. There must be some food. Somewhere.”
“I’m freezing.” Dimity shivered.
“I don’t think it’s safe to light a fire.”
“I agree.”
“I’ll simply have to keep you warm.” He said it to sound husbandly, no doubt, but he looked rather pleased about it.
Dimity was a little too pleased herself. Sir Crispin was normally so staid and reserved around her, it was nice to see him get into a role for a change. Might give her an opportunity to pry him out of that armour of his. What was he really like when he actually liked someone? And could she get him to like her?
“Shall we to bed, then?” She thought she sounded brave.