Justine groaned again. “Où suis-je?” she asked. “Mary—where are we? I’m am so—étourdie. My head, it does not feel well.”
“We were captured, remember?” said Mary. Was Justine all right? In the dim light, she looked even paler than usual—almost a little green. Mary probably looked that way herself.
“In Styria?” Justine raised her hands to her head, then seemed startled to see that they were tied together. She looked at her bound wrists, and at the shackle on her ankle, in wonder.
“No, that was—well, ages ago. We’re in London. We’ve been captured by Mrs. Raymond, and I suspect Professor Moriarty, although we haven’t seen him yet. You were chloroformed. I don’t know how long we’ve been here—I fell asleep. Are you all right?”
“No. My head—it is swimming, as though I were underwater.”
“I suspect that will wear off after a while. I’m just glad you’re awake at last!”
Justine sat silently, with her head in her hands. The minutes passed. Mary looked at her, worried. Would Justine be all right? Finally, she raised her head, looked at her hands, and pulled her wrists apart. Mary expected the ropes to start fraying and then break—after all, this was Justine! But they did not.
“I am still too weak,” said Justine apologetically. “Perhaps when I have recovered a little more…”
Diana rolled over and opened her eyes. “Is breakfast ready yet?” She sat up groggily. “Oh, bloody hell. We’re still in here, aren’t we?” She looked around. “I need to piss.”
MARY: Do you have to include such details in our book?
CATHERINE: Oh, it’s our book now, is it?
Just then, the door opened—slowly, tentatively. In came an older woman in the black dress and apron of a housekeeper. In one hand she was carrying a pitcher of water.
“Hello,” said Mary. “I’m Mary Jekyll.”
The woman simply nodded, then walked up to her with the pitcher. “Wasser,” she said. She held the pitcher out to Mary. Should she drink? It could be a trick of some sort. Perhaps the water was poisoned, or contained some sort of drug? She looked at it with suspicion.
“Ist gut,” said the woman, holding out the pitcher as though urging her to drink.
“You speak German,” said Justine. “Verzeihung, sprechen Sie Deutsch? Sind Sie aus Deutschland?”
“Nein, nein,” said the woman. “Bisschen. Gut Wasser.” Again, she seemed to be urging Mary to drink.
Justine replied with what seemed like a stream of German phrases, but the woman shook her head, as though trying to indicate that truly, she did not understand. She seemed apologetic.
Mary was so thirsty! She could not take hold of the pitcher with her wrists bound, but she steadied it with her hands and then drank. The water was deliciously cold. Not too much—she had to leave enough for Diana and Justine. After she had drunk, the woman carried the pitcher to Diana, then Justine. And then Diana again, because Justine drank only a little. “I need less than the two of you,” she said.
When the pitcher was empty, the woman carried it to the door, as though about to leave. But as she opened the door, she turned back to them. “Hilfe kommt,” she said solemnly. Then she walked out and closed the door behind her.
“Help is coming,” said Justine. “What do you think that means?”
“Probably that someone is coming to help us,” said Diana. “Turn around—I’m going to use that chamber pot.”
MARY: Oh, for goodness’ sake! Are you going to give a detailed account of all our bodily functions?
JUSTINE: While I agree that it is indelicate, I understand what Catherine is trying to do. In those penny dreadfuls Alice is continually reading, imprisonment is often described as some sort of adventure, but in truth it is tedious and painful. We sat for hours with nothing to do. The ropes rubbed the skin on our wrists raw. Our muscles ached. We were hungry—that is, you and Diana were hungry. I can go for a long time without food. And of course there were bodily needs, as well as a lack of privacy. Catherine is trying to be truthful and accurate about our experiences. I think that is an admirable goal, for a writer.
CATHERINE: Thank you! Unfortunately, truthfulness and accuracy don’t pay as well as Rick Chambers, exemplary English gentleman, facing giant spider gods in the Cavern of Doom! I’m proud of my Astarte books, but you can’t say they illuminate human nature.
MARY: Perhaps they illuminate spider god nature.
CATHERINE: That’s supposed to be a joke, right? It’s sort of remarkable that your jokes are never funny.
After what felt like hours, Justine said, “I think perhaps I am strong enough now.” She held her hands up in front of her. Then, she began to twist and turn them, one way and then the other. The ropes strained, then began to break. Mary could see blood on her wrists, and almost told her to stop and rest for a little longer—but Justine looked so determined, and surely she was the best judge of her own actions? Justine twisted and pulled, the ropes continued to strain—a strand broke, and then another. Suddenly, with a shredding sound, the final strands broke and Justine’s hands were free. Now, if she could break the chain that bound her to the wall, she could free Mary and Diana as well. Then they could smash their way out of this pit.…
Again Justine pulled, this time at the chain that bound her to the wall, close to the shackle around her ankle. Yes, she was regaining her strength, Mary could see that. And then with a snap, the chain broke. Justine was free! At that moment, the door opened. Standing in the doorway was Colonel Moran. With him were more of his lackeys—three of them this time, different from the ones who had captured them, all armed. “I don’t think so, missy,” he said when he saw what Justine had done. “You won’t get away from the professor. But you’ve saved me some trouble with the lock. Mr. Fletcher, would you mind tying this young lady’s hands together again? And quickly, if you don’t mind. The professor wants to see them upstairs, toute suite.”
JUSTINE: I am not a missy. We are not, any of us, missy. And that is not the correct pronunciation of toute suite.
As the three of them filed upstairs, Mary felt a sense of despair, as well as a burning anger at how they were being treated. The anger was useful—the despair was not. She must try to put it away for now, lock it in some sort of box so she would be calm and collected and resolute for whatever was about to happen. After all, she was her father’s daughter—Jekyll’s, that is—born of his most rational self, or so Hyde had told her in Styria. She must be that person now.
They followed Colonel Moran, and were followed by the men with revolvers pointed at them, up the stairs and into a large room. It appeared to be some sort of common room, like the one at the Diogenes Club—there were armchairs and small tables scattered about. By the light coming through the window, it was late in the day. How long had they been in that cellar?
Standing at the front of the room was a tall man, almost as tall as Holmes, with sharp features. That must be Professor Moriarty. Next to him stood—was that Mrs. Raymond? Her features were the same, but she looked so much younger, with black hair piled on her head, in a stylish gray walking suit. Beside her, holding her hand, was Alice. She did not look like Alice anymore. She was wearing the sort of fancy dress Alice had never worn, and would probably never have worn if she had a choice. It was blue, with all sorts of frills and furbelows. It seemed—impractical? Alice stared at her with wide, wary eyes.