CHAPTER IV The Order of the Golden Dawn

The cellar door opened with its customary creak. Mrs. Raymond entered. Alice expected her to be followed by the man who called himself Professor Moriarty. She had first seen the professor on the night she had been woken by a sound and a light in her bedroom, the night a piece of cloth saturated with some pungent liquid had been held against her nose until she had passed out.

She had woken here, in this cellar, still in her nightgown, already chained to the wall. She had a mattress on the floor to lie on, a scratchy wool blanket to cover herself with, and a chamber pot in one corner that she could just get to, chained as she was. Light came from a single lantern hanging on the wall that was periodically refilled with kerosene by the woman who brought her food. The streaks of soot on the walls, and on her bare feet, indicated that this had once been a coal cellar. She was not sure how long she had been in this place, without a window to tell her when it was day and night.

Periodically the woman brought her porridge and tea for what she assumed was breakfast, then bread and a thin stew, with scraps of meat in it, for a dinner of sorts, again with tea. It was weak tea, without milk or sugar, but Alice drank it eagerly enough. Once, the woman had brought a slice of apple tart, and Alice had almost cried—it tasted like Mrs. Poole’s apple tart, although with walnuts in it, and Mrs. Poole would never have used walnuts. How it made her long for the house at Park Terrace! She might only be the kitchen maid, but it was still her home.

Several times, she had tried talking to the woman, who was dressed like a respectable domestic: a housekeeper, or perhaps a superior housemaid. But the woman had simply shaken her head. Once, she had said, “No Anglich,” with an apologetic smile. It was obvious that she was a foreigner of some sort. Once she had set down Alice’s food, she usually scurried away as quickly as she could. She had a frightened look in her eyes.

Alice’s only other visitors had been Mrs. Raymond and Professor Moriarty. Twice they had come. Twice, the professor had said the same thing: “If you will help us in our endeavor, Lydia, all this will be over—you will join us upstairs, as a member of our company. Show me that you are your mother’s daughter.” Was Mrs. Raymond truly her mother, as she claimed? She had demonstrated her own mesmeric powers, dissipating Alice’s illusions as though they were smoke. But would a mother treat her daughter like this?

Lydia Raymond. That was, evidently, her name—the one she had been christened with. That was who they wanted her to be. Well, she was not Lydia Raymond, she would never be Lydia Raymond, no matter how they tortured her—although so far there had been no actual torture, only hours and hours of tedium and the weight of the shackle and chain. In the books Alice liked to read, printed on cheap paper and sold for only a penny at newspaper stalls, beautiful young girls were frequently captured and imprisoned. Mrs. Poole often told her to stop reading such nonsense. “They are nothing at all like real life,” Mrs. Poole said, and Alice had to admit that Mrs. Poole was right. Being kidnapped was neither as exciting nor as terrifying as those books made out, but considerably more boring and painful. She was so tired of sitting all day or pacing in the short circuit the chain allowed her! Also, she felt dirty all over. And she smelled.

To amuse herself, she created small illusions—sometimes she sat in a forest grove, with a stream running through it. She could hear the wind in the trees above her, and the notes of birdsong dropping down like rain. It reminded her of the walks in Regent’s Park. Sometimes she sat in a palace out of a fairy tale, with windows overlooking a garden, and delicate painted furniture scattered about, and a chandelier overhead, blazing with a hundred candles. That was inspired by a theatrical production of Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper that Mrs. Poole had taken her to at a theater in the West End. “I don’t hold with theater in a general way,” Mrs. Poole had said. “But there’s no harm in Shakespeare or fairy stories, even for a girl like you, Alice.” Once, she had tried to re-create the kitchen at 11 Park Terrace, with its black iron stove, the long table on which Mrs. Poole rolled out pastry, the capacious sink… but the sight of it had made her so sad that she had allowed the mesmerical waves to dissipate. It was better, after all, not to think too much of home.

What must Mrs. Poole think of her disappearance? She had disappeared once before—would Mrs. Poole assume she had run away? And what about Miss Mary, so far away in Europe? Would she be angry that Alice had left without giving notice?

That was another way in which her penny tomes were not particularly accurate. There would be no handsome young hero coming to rescue her! She must figure out how to rescue herself.

She had decided that when she next saw Professor Moriarty, she would agree to help him with whatever he was planning. It would be a lie, of course—she had no intention of helping him. But at least it would get her out of this cellar, and then she could get a better sense of what this was all about and why they had kidnapped her. Surely that was what Mary would do?

But this time it was not the professor who entered the room. Instead, accompanying Mrs. Raymond was a woman—tall and very beautiful, with a pale face and masses of black hair piled on top of her head in the most fashionable style. She was wearing a black walking suit and still had a hat pinned to her coiffure, as though she had just arrived and not yet taken it off. The feathers curled down and almost touched her cheek. In one hand she was still holding a pair of gloves.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” she said. “What were the two of you thinking? I would expect this sort of thing from Moriarty, but you should know better, Helen. Your own daughter!”

She strode across the cellar to Alice, who could not help scurrying back against the wall—not so much from fear as from surprise.

“My dear Lydia, I do apologize. If I had been here, you would never have been treated so shamefully. Come, show me your ankle. Shackled! How ridiculous and unnecessary. Here, let me unlock it.”

With a key she was holding in her slender, manicured hand, she unlocked the shackle from Alice’s ankle.

Oh, how good it felt to have that weight off! Her ankle itched terribly. There were red marks all around it where the skin was rubbed raw.

“No, don’t scratch,” said the woman. “I’ll put some cold cream on it. Come, my dear. Can you stand up? You must be so stiff!”

Mrs. Raymond frowned. “I assure you, Margaret, the intent was not to harm her. We were simply trying to convince—”

“And you thought this was the way to do it?” The woman, who must be named Margaret, shook her head incredulously.

Mrs. Raymond looked disapproving. “Lydia, this is Miss Margaret Trelawny. Evidently, she believes I have mistreated you. Well then, do whatever she directs. I am not used to having my actions questioned, but if she believes this is the wrong way to proceed, we shall try her way. Go on, Margaret—I will follow you. We shall see if you get better results than I have!”

Miss Trelawny smiled. “You are all vinegar, my dear Helen. I believe in the judicious application of honey.”

Alice looked at the two of them—Mrs. Raymond in her gray dress, with her gray hair up in a net, looking as grim as always, and the woman she had called Margaret Trelawny, who looked as though she had stepped out of a fashion magazine. Who was she, and why was she involved with Mrs. Raymond and the professor? But there was no time for such questions now, for Miss Trelawny had taken her hand and said, “Come on. I’m going to doctor that ankle, then take you upstairs.”

Since she had woken up in the coal cellar, Alice had wondered where she was. Still in London, she supposed—why would Mrs. Raymond and the professor want to transport her elsewhere? But of course she had not known for certain.

As soon as Miss Trelawny pulled her out of the room in which she had been confined, she thought, I’ve been here before. She recognized the long hallway with its half-moon windows at both ends. On one side would be a large kitchen, on the other a butler’s pantry. In the kitchen would be two dumbwaiters that ascended to the rooms above. She knew because she and Catherine had used them to listen in on a conversation between Dr. Seward, his associate Dr. Raymond, and Mr. Prendick about reestablishing the English branch of the Alchemical Society. Could this be the same house? Or did it just resemble that one? After all, houses in certain parts of London were much alike.

Miss Trelawny pulled her down the hall and into a kitchen. The woman who had brought Alice’s food looked up from her cooking, startled. A man in a suit, who was sitting at the table eating some bread and cheese, stood up and said something—what language was he speaking? Alice could make neither heads nor tails of it, but it was obvious, from his clothes and bearing, that he was the butler, just as it was clear, now, that the woman was both housekeeper and cook. “Setzen Sie sich, Mandelbaum, setzen Sie sich,” said Miss Trelawny. The man nodded, then sat and continued his meal, looking at them curiously from under thick eyebrows.

“Sit here,” she said to Alice, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs. “I’ll ask Mrs. Mandelbaum to get our medical supplies.” Then she said something to the housekeeper in what sounded like the same language, except that Mrs. Mandelbaum did not seem to understand her. The man turned to her and explained whatever it was—in the same language or another? His name must be Mandelbaum, so they were husband and wife? This was becoming very confusing. Miss Trelawny leaned down, took hold of Alice’s ankle, and raised it to show the woman the bruise that the shackle had left. She mimed putting something on it.

The woman nodded, then went to one of the cabinets and pulled down a large tin box. From it, Miss Trelawny took a bottle of alcohol, a roll of linen, and a jar of cold cream. Mrs. Raymond looked on with a frown.

The alcohol stung Alice’s ankle terribly, but the cold cream felt soothing going on. Once her ankle was properly bandaged, Miss Trelawny said, “All right, that’s better. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” Alice followed Miss Trelawny up the stairs to the ground floor, limping a little. Mrs. Raymond walked behind them, still grim and disapproving.

Yes, this was the English branch of the Alchemical Society. Alice recognized it now for certain. But how different it looked from the last time she had been here. Then, dim light had come through cracks in the boarded windows. Everything had been covered with a layer of dust. Clearly, the building had not been used in a long time. Now, sunlight filtered through the lace under-curtains, and the damask over-curtains were bright from washing. Everything had been dusted—wooden tables gleamed, and the gilding on the picture frames shone with a soft luster. They were ugly pictures, Alice decided as she followed Miss Trelawny along the front hall. Most were of men wearing wigs, presumably members of the Alchemical Society from the last century. Surely the English branch had been around that long?

The house still seemed empty, and silence reigned over all, although when they passed the entrance to the large common room, Alice could smell a cigar and hear the murmur of male voices.

As they passed, one of those male voices called out, “Miss Trelawny, is that you?”

Miss Trelawny stopped so abruptly that Alice almost bumped into her. “What does he want?” she said to Mrs. Raymond, so low that Alice could barely hear.

“It’s always best to humor them,” said Mrs. Raymond in the same low tones.

Miss Trelawny sighed with what seemed to be exasperation. “Come on,” she said to Alice. “This won’t take long, and then we’ll go to your room and make sure you have a proper bath.”

She took Alice’s hand and pulled her into the common room. Mrs. Raymond followed behind them. Three men rose from armchairs drawn up to the fireplace, although there was no fire. One of them moved toward her.

“My dear Dr. Seward,” she said, holding out her hand and shaking his when it was extended. Her voice sounded like treacle, rich and sweet. Alice looked at her, startled. She was smiling, and seemed pleased to meet him. So this was Dr. Seward, the director of the Purfleet Asylum, who had helped Professor Van Helsing perform experiments on his daughter Lucinda! And who had confined Archibald to the same coal cellar where Alice had been held captive. She looked at him with a frown. He seemed ordinary enough—of average height, with middling brown hair that was starting to recede, and a not particularly noticeable face. Strange, that evil should look so bland.

“How lovely to see you again.” Miss Trelawny turned to the other two men. “Lord Godalming, a pleasure as always. And this must be your friend Mr. Morris. One cannot mistake the American adventurer.” Lord Godalming bowed. He was a handsome man, with golden hair just starting to turn gray at the temples and a mustache that reminded Alice of a nailbrush. His companion was clearly Mr. Morris. So this was what Americans looked like! He had dark brown hair curling down to his shoulders, and a long mustache that made Alice think of the walrus from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. His jacket and trousers were made of leather, with a leather fringe. Hanging from his waist was a long sheath—Alice could see the hilt of a knife sticking out from the top. It must be a large knife! He looked so theatrical that she felt an impulse to laugh. It did not seem a very practical outfit for walking around London. His face was brown from the sun, and his blue eyes crinkled up at the corners. It was he who had been smoking a cigar, which was now in an ashtray.

“Hello, little lady,” he said to Alice. She stared at him without answering.

“This is my daughter, Lydia,” said Mrs. Raymond.

Alice looked at her, startled. She had never been introduced as anyone’s daughter before! But she was even more startled by Mrs. Raymond’s appearance. Gone was the gray hair—now it was entirely black, piled in an elegant chignon, and her plain gray dress had become a watered silk afternoon gown. It was still gray, but with lace at the low bodice and around the cuffs. She could have been Miss Trelawny’s sister!

Alice looked down at herself, ashamed of her nightgown, but she too had miraculously changed clothes. She was wearing a blue silk dress with an apron of white lawn, and on her feet were button boots. Goodness, she had never worn such an outfit in her life! The dress was far too fine for a kitchen maid, and what would she have done with such an apron? Why, it would have torn almost immediately, if she had worn it for her daily work. But none of this was real—she could still feel the wooden floor beneath her bare feet.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Raymond,” said Lord Godalming, bowing to her. She could not tell whether it was a mocking bow—he seemed sincere? After all, gentlemen did bow to young ladies like Lydia Raymond. “I assume you’re all here for the meeting this afternoon?”

“Of course,” said Miss Trelawny. “Who else are we expecting?”

“Just Harker and Raymond,” said Seward. “I don’t suppose you’ll have some time later for a walk? Although we are not in a prepossessing area of the city, there is a park.…”

Alice could not help looking at him with a startled expression. The Raymond he had mentioned must be Dr. Raymond! So he was involved with Mrs. Raymond and Moriarty. She truly was in the lion’s den. Luckily, at this particular moment no one seemed to be paying attention to her.

“I’m afraid not,” said Miss Trelawny. “Mrs. Raymond and I have a great deal to do—you understand, I’m sure.” She smiled at him again, but Alice thought there was something dismissive in her smile. Could Dr. Seward see it? She thought not. Miss Trelawny held out her other hand to Mr. Morris, who took it in his large brown one. “It’s such a pleasure to meet a man who has traveled to all corners of the earth. You must tell me more about your travels at dinner. I’ll make certain we’re seated together, shall I?”

Mr. Morris bowed over her hand, looking inordinately pleased, while Dr. Seward glared at him.

“Come, Lydia,” said Mrs. Raymond, taking Alice’s other hand and pulling her back toward the hall. She did not look like Mrs. Raymond anymore. Should Alice still think of her as Mrs. Raymond? But she could not think of her as Mother.

She felt herself tugged between the two women. Inadvertently, she pulled Miss Trelawny along behind her.

“Must you provoke them?” Mrs. Raymond asked when they were standing in the hall again. Miss Trelawny seemed to be laughing to herself.

“Divide and conquer, my dear Helen,” she responded with a smile. It was the same treacly smile she had given Dr. Seward, but now it seemed just a bit sinister. What in the world was going on in this house? Was this once again the Alchemical Society at work? It must be—after all, this was the headquarters of the society in England, and Dr. Raymond, who was expected later, had been the head of the English chapter. But what did Professor Moriarty have to do with the Alchemical Society? And who were those other men—Lord Godalming, Mr. Morris, and that other one, the Mr. Harker they had mentioned? Were they alchemists as well?

Alice was frightened, of course. But then, she had been frightened most of her life—of the bigger girls at the orphanage, who would steal food from the smaller ones because they were so hungry themselves; of Mrs. Poole finding out that she was just an orphan, rather than a respectable girl with a family in the country; of starving on the streets of London after Mary had let the servants go; of dying in the warehouse from Beatrice’s poison. Fear was familiar, almost comfortable, like an old coat. And in addition to being afraid, she felt terribly curious. What was going on here? Why had she been kidnapped?

She climbed the stairs behind Miss Trelawny. The upper hall was filled with sunlight—it must be around noon. They walked down a corridor with closed doors on both sides—bedrooms, Alice remembered from the last time she had been here. Suddenly, from one of the rooms, she heard a faint groan. Which room had it been?

“Walk on, Lydia,” said Mrs. Raymond in her cold tones. For a moment, Alice had stopped, and Mrs. Raymond had almost tripped over her.

Obediently, Alice—who would never, she mentally swore, think of herself as Lydia—walked on, following Miss Trelawny to the end of the corridor. There, Miss Trelawny opened the last door.

“Your room is right next to mine. If you need anything, just knock on the wall and if I’m there, I’ll come right over.” Miss Trelawny smiled at her, encouragingly. Then, she stepped into the room and pulled Alice along with her.

The room was not large, but light and airy, with white lace curtains. The last time Alice had seen these rooms, they had been bare, but now fresh linens had been put on the bed and there was a vase of flowers on top of a bookshelf filled with books, next to a comfortable chair for reading. A wardrobe, chest of drawers, and washstand completed the furniture of the room.

Mrs. Raymond entered behind her, walked to the wardrobe, and opened the doors. Inside were dresses, hanging in a row. She pulled out one that looked exactly like the blue dress she had conjured for Alice out of energic waves.

“I think this will do for today,” she said. “I want you to look respectable for our meeting.”

Alice glanced down at herself. She was once again wearing the dirty nightgown. But Mrs. Raymond still had on her gray silk dress, and her hair was still a luxuriant black. Which was the real Mrs. Raymond? Alice could see the energic waves roiling about her head—Martin had taught her how to see them. She could see them about Miss Trelawny as well, but only faintly—most people, meaning people who were not mesmerists, had waves just like that. But Mrs. Raymond—well, it had been clear from the first moment Alice had seen her in the cellar that she was a mesmerist, much stronger than Martin. There would be no fooling her with illusions.

“There is a bathroom at the end of the hall,” said Miss Trelawny. “I’ll have Gitla bring up hot water and towels. She’ll take you there so you can bathe. And then I want you to get dressed in that pretty dress Helen—your mother—has chosen for you. You can do that, can’t you, my dear?”

“Yes, miss,” said Alice. It was the first thing she had actually said in—how many days? Her voice sounded like a rusted hinge.

“Please call me Margaret. I think you and I are going to be good friends. Now, your mother and I have some things to take care of. We’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

“Do you understand, Lydia?” said Mrs. Raymond. “You are to bathe and get dressed. We will come for you when your presence is required.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Alice. Miss Trelawny—Margaret—had put it so much more nicely! She had at least pretended that she was not ordering Alice, but asking her to get ready for some sort of meeting. What sort of meeting? And why would Alice need to be there?

Mrs. Raymond just nodded. A moment later, Alice heard a key turn in the lock behind them. Once again she was alone and locked up, but at least it was in better circumstances! What now? Really what she wanted to do was lie down on the bed, pull the covers around her, and cry. But how would that help? The last time she had been kidnapped, Mary had come for her—well, for Justine and Beatrice really, but she had been rescued as well. This time, no one was coming. Mary and the other members of the Athena Club were far away, in Europe, which might as well be the antipodes. Mr. Holmes was off somewhere on a case—unless he had returned already? But even if he had, there were probably more important things to occupy his time than chasing down a kitchen maid! She could certainly not expect the great detective to come after her. Alice had always been comforted by her own insignificance. If she was just a kitchen maid, she would be safe. No one would bother her or ask much of her. Well, now she was Lydia Raymond, or so they told her, and she did not feel safe at all. Surely Mrs. Poole would do something? But what could Mrs. Poole do? If she went to Scotland Yard and reported that her kitchen maid had been kidnapped, she would likely be told that kitchen maids ran away from their employers every day, and she should simply find a new one. After all, who kidnapped kitchen maids? Who would want them? There were thousands of girls just like Alice in London, who could scrub floors and sinks and dishes, who could stir soups and watch to make sure cakes did not burn. There was nothing unique about her—except her mesmerical abilities, which seemed to be what had gotten her into all this trouble!

She would lie down on the bed after all, just for a moment, to have a good cry.

It lasted for more than a moment. She had not cried so hard since the night after Mrs. Jekyll’s funeral, when Mary had told the staff they would have to be let go. She had known, then, that it was either going on the streets or back to the orphanage for her. She had never felt so alone. And here she was again, as alone as she had been that night. But no, she was not completely alone. She had friends, even if they were far away. And she herself was not as lost and uncertain as she had been back then. After all, she had participated in the escape from the warehouse, even if her part had been a small one. And later, she had helped Catherine rescue Archibald, hadn’t she? She would be fourteen years old in February. That was Diana’s age, and look at all the things Diana did! Of course, she did not actually want to be Diana, because Diana annoyed everyone. And yet, how handy the ability to pick locks would be right now!

No, the person she really wanted to be like was Mary.

DIANA: Why in the world would anyone want to be like Mary? She’s so boring.

Mary was logical. Mary could break a problem down into its component parts and solve them one by one. What was the central problem, then? She needed to escape. There was either the window or the door. Alice stood up and walked to the window. It was a sheer drop to the ground. Nothing to climb down, not even some ivy growing up the wall, and she wasn’t a monkey like Diana. The door, when she tried it, was most definitely locked. The key was not in the keyhole—Mrs. Raymond must have taken it.

While standing there, she heard a groan again—it was coming, faint but distinct, from down the hall. Then there was another sound—boot heels! Was Mrs. Raymond or Margaret Trelawny coming back for her? A moment later, when a key turned in the lock, Alice was sitting back on the bed, with her feet tucked under her, crying into her hands—but this time the tears were false. If whoever came in thought she was distraught, it might be easier to escape somehow.

When the door opened, she looked through her fingers and saw a girl, not much older than she was—perhaps fifteen or sixteen?—in a maid’s uniform. Alice sniffed and dried her nonexistent tears. It was a waste of time pretending to cry for a maid, and anyway, maids, in her experience, were more perceptive than other people. The girl might be able to tell that she had not really been crying.

“Hello,” she said tentatively.

“Hello,” said the maid back, smiling in a friendly fashion. Her “Hello” was heavily accented. She had dark brown hair and wide cheekbones that reminded Alice of the old woman who had brought her food in the coal cellar. Could this be her daughter?

“My name is Alice.” She scooted over to the edge of the bed and put her bare feet on the floor. “I’m in service, just like you.”

The girl shook her head and said something that sounded like a stream of gibberish—but of course it must be another language. It sounded nothing at all like English. “I have no Anglich,” she repeated, more slowly.

“You don’t speak English?” said Alice.

The girl nodded, smiling again. So much for trying to communicate with her or elicit her sympathy!

The maid pointed to herself. “Gitla,” she said. “Gitla Mandelbaum.” Yes, then she must be the Mandelbaums’ daughter. The mother a housekeeper, the father a butler, and daughter a maid—that was often how it worked when entire families were in service.

Well, if they were reduced to pantomime—“Alice,” said Alice, pointing to herself.

Gitla nodded, then said something in that foreign language of hers, and gestured for Alice to come along. This must be her promised bath?

Sure enough, Gitla led her to a bathroom at the end of the hall. The bath was already filled with water. Beside it stood the bucket in which Gitla must have carried the water—several trips up and down, since the water was comfortably deep. On a stool beside the bathtub were a towel and robe. Gitla gestured toward the bath, then curtseyed and walked back out into the hall, shutting the door behind her.

Alice listened intently, but there was no sound of footsteps receding. She tiptoed to the door and peeked out through the keyhole. Yes, Gitla was still standing there, leaning against the wall. So she wasn’t just a maid—she was a guard as well! There was nothing to do now but take a bath, and goodness, she needed one! Mrs. Poole would have been shocked by how dirty and, yes, smelly she was.

She immersed herself in the bathwater, which was still deliciously hot, and scrubbed herself with a bar of Castile soap she found on the towel. Just for good measure, she washed her hair as well. There was no vinegar to rinse with, but she rinsed her hair as well as she could in cold water from the tap.

She put on the robe, leaving the soiled nightgown neatly folded on the chair, then called out, “I’m ready!”

Gitla opened the door and gestured for her to come out, saying something incomprehensible. It was strange not being able to talk to someone! This was how Mary must feel in Europe, where everyone spoke different languages. But Mary had Justine and the others to translate, whereas Alice must do her best without a translator. Somehow, communicating by pantomime, Gitla led her back to the room, then combed her hair and dressed Alice in the blue silk frock that Mrs. Raymond had picked out. There were stockings to go with it—goodness, silk stockings, with embroidered clocks! And a very fine pair of button boots that Gitla fastened with a boot hook.

By this time, her hair was almost dry. Gitla patted it once more with a towel, then braided it and tied it at the bottom with a blue silk ribbon. Alice had never worn such fine clothes in her life. Evidently, Lydia Raymond was not a kitchen maid! Alice felt like a perfect fraud.

“Ślicznie Panna w tym wygląda,” Gitla said, looking at Alice as though pleased with her handiwork.

And then Alice was left alone again. With an apologetic smile, Gitla locked the door behind her. What now? There was nothing she could do until Mrs. Raymond or Miss Trelawny came to get her, so she looked at the bookshelf—The Cuckoo Clock by Mrs. Molesworth, The Water-Babies by Mr. Kingsley, The Little Lame Prince by Miss Mulock.… She had read all those books at the orphanage, where they had been considered improving literature. Someone had planned this room for a child. But what child? It took a moment for the truth to dawn on her. She was the child. All that time she had been locked in the coal cellar, this room, with its clothes that were a little too large for her, its books that were a little too young, had been waiting for her. Planned by whom? Mrs. Raymond? She could not imagine Mrs. Raymond planning any such thing, and yet who else could have done it? Sometimes, at the orphanage, she had imagined that she was not an orphan after all, that one day her mother would come for her. Who would she be? A soldier’s widow reduced to penury who had been unable to keep her daughter? A fallen governess who had sought to hide her shame? In her dreams, her mother had always loved and wanted her, but had been forced to give her up due to unfortunate circumstances. As she had grown older, she had put such dreams aside. And now her mother had come for her—kidnapping her, imprisoning her, wanting her to work for a man such as Moriarty, who was, she could tell, what Mrs. Poole called a wrong ’un. She did not know what to think.

She was quite hungry by the time a key turned in the lock again. This time, it was Margaret Trelawny. She was no longer dressed in a black walking suit. Now she had on a very attractive black afternoon gown with a neckline that was, Alice thought, a little too low for mourning attire—after all, she must be in mourning, or why would she be wearing black? Around her neck was a magnificent gold necklace with a pendant that looked like a large ruby carved in the shape of a beetle. Surely that was not proper under the circumstances either? In mourning one wore a set of jet beads, or perhaps a locket with the braided hair of the beloved dead inside. But it certainly did look striking on her white neck, framed by the black collar.

“Why, Lydia, don’t you look lovely!” she said. “Come on down. The meeting is about to start, and there will be tea—I’m sure you’d like some. I asked Mrs. Mandelbaum to send up some of those little cakes she makes so well. At least, I think I did. The Mandelbaums don’t speak English at all—well, Gitla knows a few words, but they’re recent immigrants. And of course I don’t speak any Polish. But Abram Mandelbaum speaks a little German—he was a school teacher in his own country—and my father taught me German so I could help with his research. At any rate, there will be food of some sort. Now, here’s what I want you to do.…”

Alice nodded. As she followed Miss Trelawny down the hall, she mentally repeated to herself what Margaret had told her: Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to; when you are spoken to, answer clearly but briefly—no need to volunteer more information than you are asked for; listen carefully to the conversation and remember what you have learned; make sure to eat and drink, so you can keep up your strength. She was not at all sure whether she should like Miss Trelawny. Certainly, she was much kinder than Mrs. Raymond or Professor Moriarty—after all, she had gotten Alice out of the coal cellar. And yet she was in league with them. In league to do what? Alice had no idea. Well, for now she would follow Margaret Trelawny’s instructions to listen and learn.

As she put one foot on the stair, she heard it again—a groan, this time from behind her. It was long and drawn out. Someone was in pain. Should she ask Miss Trelawny about it? But Margaret Trelawny was already halfway down the stairs. Listen and learn, she reminded herself. Listening and learning had gotten her out of bad situations in the past, at the orphanage for example. Whoever was groaning so piteously, she would have to find out about it later.

At the bottom of the stairs, Miss Trelawny led her to the common room, with its plush chairs, dark paneling, and brocade curtains. Portraits of solemn old gentlemen looked down from the walls. Seated in the armchairs gathered around the fireplace, in which a fire had been lit, was a collection of gentlemen much younger than the ones in the portraits. Among them, in the armchair closest to the fireplace, was Mrs. Raymond. She was still in her soft gray dress, with lace falling over her shoulders and arms, and her black hair was swept up in the most modern style. She looked quite romantic, like a duchess in a society magazine.

When they entered, all the men rose—Alice felt quite intimidated by this spectacle of male courtesy. If she could have, she would have shrunk down into a small blue heap and crept out of the room like a mouse. Lord Godalming said, “Miss Trelawny, if you please,” and gestured toward his armchair.

“Thank you,” said Margaret Trelawny, smiling a particularly charming smile. She steered Alice to the armchair, then pulled her down until they were sitting side by side. There was just room enough in the armchair for the both of them. When they were seated, the men sat—all but one of them, who stood in front of the fireplace as though about to make a speech.

It was Professor Moriarty. He put one hand on the back of Mrs. Raymond’s armchair, beside the antimacassar. He frowned at Alice—or maybe he was just frowning in her general direction, because he did not seem to see her. She shrank back a bit. Yes, she was frightened of him—why shouldn’t she be? He had been there when she had woken up in the coal cellar, already shackled to the wall. He had asked her to demonstrate her mesmeric powers, and then told her that she would be let out as soon as she agreed to use those powers as he directed. Twice she had refused, before Margaret Trelawny had released her. Now that he had seen her, would he order her back in that dungeon?

But he scarcely seemed to notice her presence. “Where is Raymond?” he asked, of no one in particular. “I thought you told him we would be starting at four.” That statement was aimed specifically at Mrs. Raymond.

She raised her eyebrows and responded coldly, “I told him, but I am not his keeper. He has farther to come than any of us, except Mr. Harker.” She nodded at one of the men—presumably Mr. Harker? He looked young, and rather stupid. “However, having come all the way from Essex, Mr. Harker probably took an early morning train to make our meeting. Dr. Raymond no doubt took the latest one he could—he usually does.”

“I’m here,” came a voice from the doorway. In walked an older man, by far the oldest in the room, thin and stooped. He had a halo of white hair around a bald, wrinkled brow, and leaned on an ornate cane that was evidently as functional as it was ornamental, for he limped as he walked. “Hello, Helen. Lord Godalming. And Seward—we should have traveled from Purfleet together. Now then, what’s all this? Godalming has told me part of your purpose, Moriarty. I am in general agreement with your aims, or I would not have rented you this building—rather, the Alchemical Society would not have rented it to you. As there is no official branch of the Alchemical Society in England at present, I function as its de facto representative. But who are these other gentlemen—and ladies?” Here he bowed to the ladies and peered at Alice curiously. “I do not have the pleasure of their acquaintance.”

His voice took Alice back to the day she and Catherine had hidden in the kitchen below, listening to Raymond and Seward discuss Van Helsing’s plan to take over the Alchemical Society. Were these all members of the society, planning some new mischief? And had Van Helsing managed to gain power, or had Miss Mary and the others foiled his plans? She had no way of knowing. If this was some new plan of the society, how was her mother—or, rather, Mrs. Raymond, for she did not wish to call that woman her mother—involved?

“These are the members of our organization,” said Moriarty. “Welcome, gentleman… and ladies”—he bowed to Mrs. Raymond and Miss Trelawny—“to the new headquarters of the Order of the Golden Dawn.”