“Well, they’re what we have,” said Mary, frustrated. She agreed with Catherine, but did not want to say so. It would not help to carp and criticize. “We will simply have to do the best we can. Do you want to save the Queen or not?”
Catherine did not look particularly satisfied with that answer. “Of course, but I would rather not be electrocuted by a two-thousand-year-old mummy in the process! All right, how do we carry all this stuff? Will it fit in the rucksacks? Also, we need different clothes. I don’t know about you, but I’m not fighting Tera in an afternoon frock.”
Half an hour later, the five of them stood on the rocky shore below Marazion, dressed in clothes borrowed from Diana’s friends the ostlers, with rucksacks on their backs. Luckily, some of the boys were rather big, although Justine’s ankles showed beneath too-short trousers. Mary stared at the causeway. In the light of the full moon, it shone like a silver ribbon across the black water. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s do what we have to do.”
As she stepped on the wet, moonlit stones, she offered up a small prayer: Dear Lord, let me not drown tonight. If I have to die, let it be tomorrow, on dry land. Amen.
CHAPTER XV
Abduction at St. Michael’s Mount
By the time the sky began to lighten, Mary was stiff and cold and very, very cross. They had crossed the causeway without mishap the night before, although Justine had twisted her ankle as they had climbed from the village to the bottom of the path that led up the hill. Even here, the way was treacherous, filled with stones that could trip you and send you tumbling. Mary wondered once again how the Queen would make it all the way up to the castle, even if she was carried. Well, hopefully she would never set foot on St. Michael’s Mount!
Justine had insisted that she would be fine, and Beatrice had felt her ankle in the darkness to make sure it was not broken. The logical place for them to wait out the night had been a stone dairy at the bottom of the path. Luckily, all the cows were out on the hillside—they would not come in until morning for milking. There was enough room in it for the five of them to sleep on a pile of fresh hay, although only four were in the dairy at present. Diana was asleep, leaning against Justine. Catherine was curled up in one corner, exactly like a cat. Only Beatrice was not there. She was out in the garden, sitting somewhere among the plants. She did not want to poison the air inside the building.
Mary had slept only fitfully, leaning against her rucksack, which contained her pistol, a bottle of pepper spray, the silver mirror, and a bunch of rags. She simply could not make herself sleep anymore. She was too cold and, she had to admit, too worried about what that day would bring. Would they be able to save the Queen? Would they be alive at the end of it, or small white piles of ash? She did not want to think of that possibility. Neither did she want to stay here, staring into the darkness with nothing to do! Quietly, so as not to wake the others, she got up and went out into the cold morning. The sun would be rising soon, although the sky was so cloudy you could only tell because it was a lighter shade of gray. Rosy-fingered dawn indeed! This dawn was wearing gray gloves. It was just light enough for Mary to find her way around without stumbling over anything. She did not want to twist her ankle as well.
She found Beatrice sitting in a flower bed beneath one of the rocky cliffs, where she could be seen from the castle only by someone looking down directly from the south terrace. When she saw Mary, the Poisonous Girl smiled. She looked more content than she had for a long time.
“Good morning,” she said as Mary walked up to her.
“Is it?” said Mary. “I mean, I suppose it is. I suppose all mornings are good, in a sense. The world wakes up again, and no matter what else is happening, the birds are singing, the trees are growing.… This castle has been here for hundreds of years, this island for thousands. Or do I mean hundreds of thousands? Anyway, I suppose in that long history, our actions mean very little.”
“You are philosophical this morning,” said Beatrice. “What has caused this mood?”
“I don’t know,” said Mary. “Perhaps the thought that we might die today? We’ve always had help before—from Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, from Irene Norton and Mina Murray and Count Dracula. We’ve never been on our own, just the five of us. And we’ve never been up against anyone as strong as Queen Tera.”
“That is true,” said Beatrice.
“Do you believe our souls go to Heaven after we die?”
“I am a good Catholic,” said Beatrice. “But somehow, I have always though that my soul would return to the Earth and come up as some sort of plant—a flower, a tree. Perhaps I do not have a soul as others do. I would like to sink down into the dark soil and come up again each spring. That would be Heaven enough for me.”
Mary looked at her doubtfully. “If you say so. Personally, I would rather not die, at least not yet. But if I had to die, I would like to go someplace where I could see all the people I care about.”
“Are you thinking of Mr. Holmes?” asked Beatrice.
“What? No—I mean, I don’t know. I was thinking of you and Cat and Justine, and, yes, Diana. Mrs. Poole, of course. Alice, Mina, Irene… so many people. And of course Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.”
“Mary, it is sometimes permissible to lie to others, but it is never wise to lie to oneself.” Beatrice plucked a leaf of some sort and began to chew on it. That was probably her idea of breakfast!
“What do you mean? I’m not lying to myself! Anyway, what about you and Clarence?”
Beatrice looked up at her, startled. “But I’m not lying to myself about the fact that I am poisonous. Do I feel love for him? Yes, I cannot deny it. Perhaps if I loved him less, I would try to give him what he wants—my companionship. What you would call a relationship. Then he would become poisonous, as I am. Would I want to place on him a burden I have borne all my life? Could I do that to a man I love? And imagine, Mary, if we had children. They would be poisonous as well. I could not birth more creatures such as myself. I am not my father—I will not create a race of monsters.”
“You’ve really thought this through,” said Mary, feeling a pang in her chest—pity for both Beatrice and herself. The Poisonous Girl looked so sad! Mary wanted to put her arms around Beatrice and comfort her. But that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? No ordinary human being would ever be able to comfort Beatrice in that way. Justine could breathe her poison, Count Dracula could heal from her burns… but the man she loved was denied to her. Was that Mary’s situation as well? Of course, what she felt for Mr. Holmes was different—compounded of regard for his intellect, respect for the work he did.… No. Beatrice was right, she needed to stop lying to herself. Regard and respect were the wrong words altogether.
“I’ve had to think it through, since he will not. Clarence believes we shall be together someday, and I cannot convince him otherwise. Sometimes, I do not even wish to try. Look, dew on the acanthus leaves.” Beatrice rubbed the dew on her hands and then rubbed her hands against her face. “It is good for the complexion.”
“I’ll stick with cold cream and Pear’s soap, thank you very much,” said Mary. “We should probably get back to the others.”