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.