CHAPTER SEVEN

Friedrich felt bad about the rats. They were such pleasant little fellows, always scurrying about in their cages, chattering to one another, grooming and playing. It made him regret killing them.

Not that he actually did the killing—that was the fault of the cancer and the poison—but he regretted his hand in it. He winced each time a rat squeaked when he injected it with a new formula. Every day as he checked on the cages, he silently prayed that there would be no more sickness, that the latest subjects would show improvement. As often as not, he was met with corpses. And even those that did show improvement inevitably developed tumors and died.

At first he had relied entirely on the local rat population, which was abundant in that part of the city. But as his early tests each ended in failure, Friedrich had hit upon the idea of breeding successive generations of test subjects himself, both to ensure a large enough supply and to prevent the rats from dying of any local poisons or diseases—which, he assured himself, was the entire reason for the failure of his formulae. Now months later, he had come to realize that perhaps it was not the local diet that was at fault.

Sighing quietly, Friedrich removed the morning’s two dead specimens from their cages and carried them to his desk on a metal tray. He had been reading late the night before, and it took him a few moments to clear enough room from the mass of papers for his work. He set the tray down and rubbed his hands a few times to bring the feeling back into his fingers. It was cold in the garret apartment that served as his workroom, but at least it left him undisturbed by his guests on the floors below. And though the disrepair of the house was an inconvenience, at least the dismal state of the neighborhood meant that no neighbors would care much about the lights he kept burning late at night or about the occasional assortment of smells, fires, and explosions that were bound to happen in the pursuit of scientific discovery.

Rubbing his hands a little bit more to make sure they had the necessary dexterity, Friedrich selected a scalpel from the pencil case he used to house his supplies. He had found it the best way to protect them when not in use. A burst of morning sun shone in through the nearby window and momentarily blinded him. When it had receded behind the clouds, he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and fought back a rush of fatigue. He had fallen asleep at his desk again shortly before sunrise, leaving him with only a couple hours of rest to fortify himself.

Friedrich glanced back at the cot that served as his bed, which was crammed into one corner. It was too short for him, of course, so he had extended it with a few piles of books below the footboard. It did the job, but he doubted that it was really the best substitute for proper accommodations.

Don’t be so fussy! Friedrich chided himself. The Work! The Work! Better a few years of exhaustion and starvation than to give up the search for the greatest secret in the world!

And having assured himself with his morning affirmation, Friedrich shook his head, blinked a few times, and looked back at the dead rats on his desk.

“I am sorry my little friends,” he whispered. “I wish you had not died, but know that your sacrifice will one day conquer death itself.”

The corpses stared back at him, unmoving, unspeaking, and silently judging him.

Why did we have to die? their eyes demanded. Why did you fail us? You promised to find the secret ten years ago, Friedrich! Why haven’t you done it yet? Why do you always fail?

As he began cutting, Friedrich knew that he had no answer, only the fleeting hope that it might one day be so. One day there would be a rat who would look back at him, alive, and thank him for being made immortal.

* * * *

Friedrich woke as the door opened. He did not remember falling asleep. Momentarily confused, he grabbed a nearby scalpel and lunged to his feet before he had properly regained his senses. In that instance, he felt certain of danger and of nothing else. There was an instinctual determination to survive this as yet unseen threat, a voice whispering to strike first before death could crush him in its hungry jaws.…

“Good morning, Friedrich.”

It was Zoya, who stood in the doorway, her hair and hands mostly clean of paint. She eyed the scalpel in Friedrich’s hand and smiled at him, though her eyes were hesitant.

“Bad dreams?”

Friedrich looked down at the blade in his hand and quickly tossed it onto the desk.

“I…I do not recall,” he answered. “I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep again.”

“You and your sleepless nights,” Zoya said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. “They’ll be the death of you.”

Friedrich laughed. “Nonsense. If that rats haven’t killed me yet, I have nothing to fear from a little fatigue.”

“Mmm,” Zoya answered. “Your rats.” She walked to the nearest cages and examined the rats as they scurried about behind the bars. “What ever do you do with them, Friedrich?”

“I have conversations,” Friedrich said, the hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Before or after you cut them open?”

“A bit of both,” Friedrich admitted.

Zoya laughed. “Do not feel badly about it. I scold my paintbrushes when no one is watching.”

“Pleased to know I’m not the only madman in the house.”

“What would a madhouse be without the mad?” Zoya answered, smirking at her own joke. “But at least we are a respectable madhouse.”

“Because of the drunks?” Friedrich asked. “Or because of the socialists?”

“The drunks, of course. Any respectable man might be a drunk. Indeed, most of them are. But a socialist…he might be sober.”

“God forbid,” Friedrich said, laughing. “Sobriety will be the death of us.”

“Now you sound like Wilhelm,” Zoya said.

“He’s not a complete fool,” Friedrich replied. “Stanislav likes him.”

“Stanislav likes everyone,” Zoya countered, her smile growing as she approached Friedrich slowly, one careful step at a time. “He even likes Karel.”

“I like Karel.”

“Then you’re more the fool,” Zoya said. “He’s a self-righteous bourgeoisie pretending to be an artist, and I’m surprised you even give him the time of day.”

“You give him the time of day,” Friedrich replied.

“He’s pretty. That doesn’t mean I like him.”

“He is pretty,” Friedrich agreed. “Stanislav thinks he has a poet’s soul, and he pays rent once in a while, so he’s welcome here.”

“Even if his poems are dreadful?” Zoya asked.

Friedrich nodded. “Even if his poems are dreadful. But they aren’t dreadful, are they?”

Zoya sighed. “Not entirely, no.”

Friedrich poured himself a cup of water from a glass decanter. Then, remembering his manners, he quickly cleaned a second cup with his handkerchief and filled it as well. He offered the first one to Zoya.

“Thirsty?”

“Parched,” Zoya said, taking the cup. “After all, I need my voice for when our guest arrives.” She looked at the clock on Friedrich’s desk. “And that won’t be long now, I wager.”

“Guest?” Friedrich asked.

“Good Lord!” Zoya exclaimed. “Your aunt, Friedrich. Don’t you remember?”

Despite the chastisement, Friedrich smiled at the news. “Really? Aunt Ekaterine is coming here today?” he asked. Then it hit him. Of Course! Zoya was painting Ekaterine’s portrait. “The painting.”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you supposed to go to her house for that?”

Zoya frowned. “Apparently artists aren’t welcome in respectable houses, so she’s coming here for the portrait.” She shrugged. “Still, it saves me a journey.”

“I suppose that’s a small mercy.”

“I’m not accustomed to small mercies, Friedrich. I wouldn’t know one if I encountered it.”

Friedrich considered this and nodded. “Of course.”

Zoya paused a moment and then grinned. “Smile, Friedrich,” she said. “Your pretty aunt is coming. It’s a reason for us both to smile.”

“That’s the truth,” Friedrich agreed. “An odd observation, but a true one.”

“You’ve never taken fault with my odd observations,” Zoya said.

“No, nor will I.” There was a pause as Friedrich wondered just how much time he had to make himself presentable. “When is Auntie arriving?”

* * * *

Ekaterine arrived promptly at the stroke of ten. She made a point of being punctual. There was no point in making appearances among the people of the outer world if one did not meet a proper schedule. She had the Shashavani reputation to uphold, even if no one else understood the significance.

She knocked on the door of Friedrich’s dilapidated town house and waited politely to be seen in. It took two sets of knocks before the door was answered, but Ekaterine was in no hurry. The Doctor and Lord Iosef might have business in Prague, but she had none. It was no trouble to wait a few extra minutes for the amusement of having her portrait painted. Indeed, the entire trip was little more than a holiday!

Eventually the door was answered by a bleary-eyed man with dark hair and a beard. He rubbed his face a few times before he managed to ask:

“Hello? Who are you?”

“I am Ekaterine Shashavani,” Ekaterine replied, smiling warmly and offering her hand.

“Oh,” the man said, sounding a little confused. “I am…drunk.”

“Splendid!” Ekaterine shook the man’s hand and, as she did, pushed her way inside the house. “I’m here to have my portrait painted. Isn’t that fun?”

“Da?” the man replied. It was more of a question than an answer.

“Goodness, Auntie!” came a cry from the top of the stairs.

Ekaterine turned and saw Friedrich standing on the upstairs landing, looking rather unkempt but still a little handsome. A little. He did need to shave again, poor boy. The artist, Zoya, was at his side, and Ekaterine raised a hand to greet her.

“Hello Miss Chromoluminarist,” Ekaterine said.

“Muse!” Zoya exclaimed, and she rushed down the decaying stairs to greet Ekaterine. She stopped a few steps away and examined Ekaterine closely. “Yes…yes, this will do. You are bright with the sun, Muse. It pleases me.”

Surprised at the comment, Ekaterine glanced behind herself, looking for the source of the comment. “The door is still open.”

“All the same,” Zoya said.

Taking Ekaterine’s hand, Zoya pulled her toward the parlor. Ekaterine looked toward Friedrich, who was now hurrying down the stairs toward them.

“Hello Alis…er…Friedrich!” she called. “Wonderful to see you! Your mother sends her greetings…oh!”

Ekaterine found herself pulled into the parlor with such force that she nearly lost her footing. She followed Zoya to a chair by the fireplace, near the easel and the table of painting supplies. The fire was burning low, barely as bright as the morning sun that trickled in from behind the shuttered windows. There were people lying half asleep on the sofa, the chairs, and the mattresses spread across the room. Ekaterine recognized some of them from her prior visit with Varanus; but there were a few assorted others whom she had not met before. It seemed that Friedrich’s home was a sort of flophouse for those of the artistic and revolutionary persuasions.

She waited as Zoya opened a few windows to let in the sunlight and stoked the fire with an iron poker. The sudden influx of light brought about cries and oaths from the local sleepers who were caught in the brightness. In particular, Ekaterine recognized the Hungarian girl, Erzsebet, lying in the arms of the violinist, Stanislav. As the morning light washed across them, Erzsebet blinked a few times. Presently, she pushed away Stanislav’s arms and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“By the fire, Muse!” Zoya exclaimed, leading Ekaterine to the chair by the fireplace. “Yes, yes, the light will be perfect for you!”

Ekaterine sat and carefully arranged her skirts. She enjoyed the extravagance of these European dresses, though she had to confess a certain sadness at how they had changed in the ten years since she had last worn them regularly. They lacked the complexity that had previously entertained her. And the sleeves were dreadful.

But no matter. She was someone’s muse. That was entertainment enough for her short sojourn in Prague.

“Like this?” she asked, sitting by the fire and striking a pose with her chin on her palm.

Zoya looked at her and sighed. “So very bourgeois. Still, it cannot be helped.”

“Better bourgeois than aristocratic?” Ekaterine ventured. Truly, she had little interest in the mores of the modern world and equally little knowledge of prevailing political views.

One of the half-slumbering revolutionaries scoffed. “Better an aristocrat than a bourgeoisie!” he grumbled. “Aristocracy will collapse on its own! The bourgeoisie must be torn down!”

“Go back to sleep, Wilhelm!” Zoya snapped, as she continued posing Ekaterine.

Ekaterine glanced toward the doorway and saw Friedrich enter, looking a little sheepish at the state of the place.

“Do forgive the mess, Auntie,” he said, joining her. “I fear things can become rather chaotic when the wine is flowing.”

“It sounds like I have been missing all the best parties,” Ekaterine replied, smiling at him. Friedrich was quite handsome and it was nice to smile in his company, but he was still Varanus’s son and that made it unthinkable to do anything else.

“You could always join us some evening,” Friedrich told her.

“And miss a delightful evening with Mister Stoker?” Ekaterine asked. She gasped at the thought. “Unthinkable. He has become my favorite comedian. Even Miss Radcliffe is jealous.”

“Well, anyone who could supplant Ann Radcliffe…” Friedrich ventured with a little uncertainty.

Ekaterine did not blame him for his half-heartedness. During their mutual stay in London ten years ago, Friedrich had ventured into the realm of the Gothic novel in an attempt to impress her. But since the whole ordeal had been overshadowed by murder and bloodshed, Ekaterine did not think it fair to consider the attempt any real success.

Suddenly, the sound of loud meowing interrupted them both. Ekaterine looked down and saw a sizable cat with puffy white fur at her feet. It was probably an Angora from Turkey, if Ekaterine judged it right. It looked at her with big blue eyes and made noises like it expected her to pet it, or feed it, or conquer the world in its name; in all likelihood, any of the three would have sufficed in a pinch.

“Why hello there,” Ekaterine said softly. She carefully reached out and stroked the cat’s fur. When it responded with pleased sounds, Ekaterine gently pulled the mass of fur into her lap. “And what is your name? I am going to call you Tinatin.”

“That’s Jadwiga,” Zoya said, in the midst of mixing her paints.

“Jadwiga?” Ekaterine asked. She didn’t necessarily dislike the name, but it was hardly a fitting name for a cat!

“Stanislav named her,” Friedrich explained. “She’s named for the Queen of Poland in the fourteenth century. A magnificent monarch.”

“That sounds like a marvelous pedigree,” Ekaterine agreed. She stroked the cat, who replied with an approving purr. “But her name is Tinatin, and I shall be adamant about that.”

By now, Erzsebet had joined them. She yawned softly and asked, “Who is renaming the cat?”

“Jadwiga,” Friedrich said.

“Tinatin,” Ekaterine corrected.

Friedrich sighed. “Jadwiga.”

“Tinatin.”

“Zoya,” Friedrich said, “please tell Aunt Ekaterine—”

“I take the side of my muse,” Zoya answered. “Tinatin it is.”

“But—” Friedrich protested.

Zoya glanced at Ekaterine and nodded. “I like the cat. It adds a…je ne sais quoi. Very feline.”

“Literally speaking, yes,” Ekaterine agreed, unable to hide a giggle.

Zoya paused and then directed with her paintbrush.

“Erzsebet, why don’t you sit by the muse while you both enjoy the fire. That’s right.… Her, the cat, you, the wall. There’s a theme here. I don’t know for certain what it is, but I’ll have it sorted out eventually.”

“Oh!” Erzsebet exclaimed, sounding surprised and a little frightened at being addressed directly. She slowly knelt next to Ekaterine. “Like this?”

Ekaterine took the girl’s hand and smiled at her. “Marvelous. Just like that.”

This seemed to reassure Erzsebet, and she gave Ekaterine a quick smile in return.

Zoya paused a moment and looked at them in the midst of her painting. “Perhaps a little to the right…” she ventured.

“It’s perfect,” Ekaterine answered. Having successfully settled both Erzsebet and the cat into a comfortable pose, she was in no mood to displace either of them.

Zoya looked at her and sighed, though the frustration was accompanied by the hint of a grin.

“Oh, Muse, you’ll be the death of me.”