“Of course,” said Bertha. “I would welcome the company. Can you leave in—oh, an hour or so? That will give me time to drink a cup of Mrs. Madár’s excellent coffee.”
Lucinda stared at both of them wide-eyed. “You mean we are leaving for England—today? In one hour?”
“Yes, today! Carmilla is always doing things like this—going off impulsively. Why shouldn’t I do it for once? That is, if you wish to come. You can stay here quite comfortably, you know. Magda can take care of you without me. Thank goodness she didn’t go with Carmilla.” She turned to Bertha Benz, who was taking off her leather cap. Under it, her brown hair was coiled up around her head in a tight braid. “Come on, there’s coffee in the morning room, and breakfast as well, if you want some. I’m just going to throw some clothes in a suitcase. How much room is there?”
Plenty, as Bertha demonstrated. Behind the closed carriage was a boot where they could tie suitcases or a small trunk.
As Lucinda followed Bertha back into the schloss, Laura took her by the arm. “My dear, forgive me for springing all this on you so suddenly. You don’t have to come, you know. You don’t have to deal with the fatigue and uncertainty of travel. I only offered it because I did not want you to feel as though you were being left behind. You would be quite right to tell me that I am being an idiot, and that I should stay home quietly working at my embroidery and waiting for Carmilla to come back. After all, she’s much better at such adventures than I am—which is perhaps why I would like to go on my own adventure for once! Say the word, and I will not mention it to you again but leave the schloss in Mrs. Madár’s excellent care, with particularly directions that Magda should take care of you.”
Did Lucinda want to stay here, where it was safe? She had gone through so many changes recently. She had lost her mother, and in a sense her father, and in an entirely different sense her very self. Who was she now? Who was this girl dressed in white who still played the piano, but also drank blood, and could climb up walls, and hear the heart of a hare beating in its chest? She had no idea. She did know one thing—she did not want to be left behind. “I would like to go,” she told Laura. As soon as she had said the words, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake.
Three hours later, for packing had taken longer than expected, as it always does, Lucinda was sitting in the back seat of Brunhilde, driving through the Styrian countryside in a cloud of dust and gasoline fumes, wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into.
LUCINDA: It was a silly, impulsive thing to do. I should probably have stayed in Styria with Magda and Mrs. Madár.…
CATHERINE: If you had, I’m not sure any of us would be here today, and I would not be writing this book.
LUCINDA: Thank you, Cat, but I did very little—it was Laura whose actions were most important, at the end.
DIANA: And mine! Don’t forget what I did.
CATHERINE: As though you would let us…
The next morning, Catherine and Beatrice boarded the Orient Express. Catherine had almost blanched at the price of the tickets—she and Beatrice needed to travel in separate cabins, because she could not spend the night breathing La Belle Toxique’s poisonous fumes. Why in the world would anyone pay so much, simply to get from one place to another? Luckily, they had all their earnings from Lorenzo’s Circus of Marvels and Delights, and before they left, Count Dracula had handed them a purse. “I think Mina would have wanted you to be fully supplied with funds,” he said. “Travel safely, and know that you are always welcome in my house.” Then he had bowed to them with the courtesy of a four-hundred-year-old Hungarian nobleman, his hair flopping attractively over his face. Catherine had once again wondered whether he did anything to it, or it just naturally fell that way.
Clarence had come to the Nyugati railway station to see them off, and waited on the platform until the last moment. Beatrice was standing out in the corridor, with the window pulled all the way down, talking to him when the whistle sounded, indicating that they were about to depart. Catherine heard him say, “If Ayesha and Mr. Vincey can make it work, we can make it work, I know we can.” She could not hear Beatrice’s reply, because just then the train started moving. They were on their way back to London, to rejoin Mary, Justine, and Diana—and hopefully Alice. Had the others found her yet? Of course, it had only been a few days. Even Mary and Justine, as resourceful as they were, could scarcely have solved the mystery of her disappearance that quickly! But if they had not found her by the time Catherine arrived, she would search all of London for her. And when she found out who had kidnapped Alice, she would tear out his throat.
As the Orient Express pulled out of the station, a Benz Phaeton III, the only one of its kind in the world, roared through the Austrian countryside, upsetting chickens on the road and farmwives who thought that perhaps the Beast of the Apocalypse had arrived to signal the end of the world. They crossed themselves as it passed and muttered prayers to the Blessed Virgin. Inside the motorcar, Lucinda, who was starting to feel sick from the constant motion, wondered once again what in the world she had gotten herself into, and what would be waiting for her in England—at the Athena Club.
CHAPTER IX
A Visit to the Diogenes Club
Mr. Holmes has not been here for several weeks,” said the porter of the Diogenes Club. He was a venerable-looking man, with a full head of white hair and side-whiskers. If you had seen him walking down the street, you might have assumed he was a duke.
“Thank you, my good man,” said Watson. He turned away, looking downcast. “I suppose Mycroft is off doing something terribly important and hush-hush,” he said to Mary and Justine. “What next? Shall we try Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard?”
“If you would like me to flag down a cab…,” said Justine. She was the best of them at getting the attention of cabbies, probably because of her height.
“If you would,” said Watson.
Mary frowned, not at him but to herself. Mr. Holmes—Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that is—had told her that instinct was unreliable, that it must always be checked and corrected by the application of rational thought. But she had an instinct that something was not right.
She reached into her purse, then turned back to the porter. “If you would just check,” she said, holding out her hand. When he placed his hand beneath it, she dropped a guinea into his palm. There, that was unobtrusive, wasn’t it? Just as though she had been bribing porters her whole life! “And if you discover that he is there after all, could you tell him that Mary Jekyll wishes to see him?”
A guinea was a lot of money, and she might be wasting it on the porter after all, but this was the sort of thing Irene Norton would have done. She wanted to be just a little more like Irene—smarter, bolder, more courageous.
“Very good, miss,” said the porter, with the perfectly impassive face of a discreet servant. “I will certainly check to see if I have somehow overlooked him, although he is not an easy gentleman to miss.”
In ten minutes, he returned. “I must apologize, Miss Jekyll. Mr. Holmes is indeed in the club—I cannot think how I missed him. He will meet you in the Strangers’ Room, where conversation is permitted. If you will follow me?” He looked at her so directly, with such steady blue eyes, that she could almost believe he had truly not known Mycroft Holmes was in the club.