Artful: A Novel (11 page)

“Why should he feel inclined to do so?”

“Because,” said Mr. Fang, “he will be overjoyed to see that his old teacher and mentor is, in fact, alive, having escaped the hangman’s noose. By the time he questions, it will be too late.”

“Of whom do you—?” And then, somehow, he intuited of whom Mr. Fang was speaking. “Not . . . the Artful?”

“His very same self,” said Mr. Fang. “That will be a worthy reunion, do you not think so?”

“Yes,” said Spring-Heeled Jack—previously Fagin, née
Reuben
—a small smile on his lips. “A very worthy one indeed. Very well then, brother: I shall now accept your embrace, if you still feel inclined to provide it.”

“Absolutely, brother,” replied Mr. Fang, and the two vampyres threw their arms around each other, patting one another on the back and both trying to figure out just how and when they could drive stakes into those respective backs.

TEN

I
N
W
HICH ARE
P
RESENTED
D
RINA
’
S
C
ONFESSION
,
THE
A
RTFUL
’
S
T
ERRIBLE
M
ISTAKE
,
AND THE
T
RAGIC
O
UTCOME
T
HAT
R
ESULTS

T
he Mother Abbess of Carfax Abbey studied the young woman seated in front of her, the young woman who had asked specifically for and received a private meeting with the abbess—just the two of them, bereft of both other nuns and the lads with whom she had arrived at the abbey; the abbess was clearly trying to determine whether the girl was out of her mind or engaged in some sort of bizarre jest, perhaps at the instigation of the lads who had accompanied her.

The abbess knew little of what the lad, Bram, was capable of, for he was new to her, but she remembered the redoubtable
Mr. Dawkins
from years back and knew that he was perfectly capable of putting the girl up to this absurdity for some reason known only to him. Some sort of elaborate confidence plan in which the good sisters were mere pawns.

The abbess sat back in her chair, her fingers steepled. “I still remember,” she said, “when young Mr. Dawkins first arrived on our doorstep.”

Drina looked slightly confused, because the Mother’s words had absolutely nothing to do with what she had just told her. But she respected the wisdom of the older woman, and responded accordingly: “Do you?”

“I do indeed. He had been engaged in a spot of burglary. He had sustained a wound upon his upper arm when whoever’s home he had been involved in stealing from arrived
prematurely
and used him for target practice as he escaped. The wound had become severely inflamed, and he was terrified he would lose the arm entirely, if not his life. The idea of going to a doctor was anathema to him, and he knew that we practiced healing arts here, so he arrived at the abbey in desperation, spouting some nonsense story about having been the victim of a hunting accident.”

“He robbed houses?” said Drina, unable to keep the distaste from her voice.

“You knew him to be a thief already, did you not?”

Drina shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Of handkerchiefs and such. A pickpocket. That somehow seems . . . I don’t know . . . less severe than breaking into someone’s home . . . .”

“Theft is theft, my dear. Unacceptable behavior knows no degrees,” said the abbess primly. “We endeavored to impart that lesson upon young Mr. Dawkins during the time that we nursed him back to health, and hoped that when we sent him back out into the world, it would be as a penitent. That was some years ago, though, and now he shows up here with a young boy spouting stories about monsters, and you . . . .” She shook her head.

“You do not believe me?” Drina was surprised. The notion that the abbess would not accept her word had never occurred to her. “That I am who I say I am?”

“That you are the Princess Alexandrina Victoria?” She arched a graying eyebrow. “Which is the more likely? That you are the princess on a holiday with a thief and a demented boy? Or that you are either delusional or likewise a thief with some greater scheme in mind?”

Slowly Drina rose to her feet, and she reached into the folds of her coat. Something about her seemed to change; it was as if she were growing taller, her shoulders squaring, and her eyes hardening like unto steel. There were several round, thick pillar candles situated upon the desk, their flickering wicks providing the
minimal
illumination in the room. Drina leaned forward and blew out one of the candles. “What are you doing?” demanded the abbess.

From within her interior pockets, Drina produced a round wooden stamp. Fortunately, it was not so overly large that she had been unable to keep it concealed within the folds of her dress. The handle was ornate, meticulously carved and inlaid with gold, and with a firm downward thrust of her arm she brought the stamp down into the top of the extinguished candle. The candle jolted slightly from the force of it, and when Drina spoke once more, there was none of the sound of the timid girl about her. “I brought this with me just in case I found myself in this position, wherein I had to prove my verity. Look at it,” she said firmly in a commanding voice that seemed to fill the room. “Look at it and tell me what you see.”

The Mother Abbess was tempted to scold her for her presumptuous tone, but something prompted her to hold her tongue, possibly the tone Drina used, similar—if not grander—than the one she used with the hansom cab driver. So instead she did as instructed, and her eyes widened when she saw the imprint lodged in the candle.

“Do you know what that is?” asked Drina. When the abbess simply nodded, Drina persisted, “Tell me. Say it aloud.”

“The royal seal of England,” she whispered.

“To produce a fake would be treason. I venture to say not even the most dedicated counterfeiter would dare attempt it.”

“I daresay.”

“Which, then, is the more likely?” said Drina, invoking the abbess’s own logic. “That a demented young girl has managed somehow to acquire the royal seal? Or that I am who I say I am?”

The abbess looked too stunned to reply. Wasting no time, for there was none to waste, Drina demanded that a paper, envelope, writing implements, and sealing wax be brought to her. This the abbess did, never taking her eyes from the princess the entire time. Drina wrote quickly, then inserted the paper in the
envelope
and, using the wax and her seal, imprinted her crest upon it. She extended the envelope to the abbess. “Have this sent by messenger immediately to the archbishop,” she ordered. “If there is any man holy enough to weed out vampyric influence in the upper reaches of government, it is he.”

“And you believe there to be such?”

“Bram does,” she said. “And if he declares it to be so, I have little reason to disbelieve him. He appears to be rather expert in these matters. You will do as I have requested?”

“Yes, of course, your . . . your Highness.” The abbess
sounded
hesitant, all of her confidence seeming to have departed her. “Is that the accepted way by which to address you?”

Drina allowed herself a small smile. Part of her regretted the necessity of having been honest with the abbess over the truth of her identity. But there had been simply nothing else for it. She needed to get word back to Buckingham Palace, and this seemed the only means by which to do so.

She noticed that the abbess was no longer looking her directly in the eyes. Instead, she was glancing down or to the side; anywhere, really, save directly at her. “Do not cease looking upon me, I beg you,” Drina said. “It is really unnecessary.”

“As you wish,” said the abbess, but it was clearly an effort for her. “May I ask you a question?”

“Is it why am I here rather than at the palace?”

“It would seem the natural matter to be curious about.”

Drina shrugged. “What answer would satisfy you?”

“The truth, I would suspect.”

“There is no one truth,” replied Drina. “There is the truth of a daughter who had one too many fights with her mother. There is the truth of a future ruler who knows nothing of the people over whom she is supposed to rule. There is the truth of just
being
bored and wanting more from life than lessons and endless meetings. Take your pick.”

“Perhaps I am old-fashioned,” said the abbess, “but I do not consider it my place to make choices over why royalty does what it does. Does Jack know?”

“Jack?” She was confused at first but then realized. “Oh. The Artful. No, he has no idea. Nor do I desire him to know.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because,” she said, smiling wanly, “it is my belief—whether accurate or not—that Dodger likes me. It is a new sensation for me—to be liked because of
who
I am rather than
what
I am. I am not inclined to toss it away so quickly.”

“As you wish.” She tapped the note that was upon her desk. “It is a trifle late to send someone out now, but first thing in the morning, this will be heading to the palace.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you remember the way back to your bedchamber? Considering your status, I regret we do not have something more grand with which to accommodate you.”

“I assure you that I’m quite satisfied with all that you have provided me. Any other reaction would be far less than gracious.”

“You are royalty. You do not have to be gracious.”

Drina shook her head. “If not us, then who?”

Bram had quickly fallen asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. The Artful could not say that he was surprised; God only knew the strains that the lad had been under in recent days. From what Bram had told him, this was the first time since he had been snatched from out of his father’s protection that he could actually rest. They were in an abbey, after all. There were crosses and crucifixes everywhere. If Dodger were to believe the legends of the vampyres, then certainly the abbey’s decorations should be providing them with all the protection they required.

Yet it was still difficult for Dodger to fully believe the truth of what Bram had told him. Vampyres? In modern London? The entire idea seemed preposterous. Yes, he had witnessed events with his own eyes that seemed to provide proof, but could there not have been other explanations?

Except none were readily coming to mind.

Indeed, if anything, it caused his thoughts to flash back to the death of his mother at the hands of that slaughterer. It had all happened so quickly, and the Artful Dodger had always assumed that the attacker had some manner of knife that he had used to gouge his mother’s throat.

Except . . . no blood.

There had been no blood from the wound, as if the assailant had somehow drained it all. At the time, the idea had seemed preposterous to Dodger. His mother’s passing had been so traumatic that he had not really given much thought at all to the absence of blood from her body. Indeed, why should he have given that any thought? Was not the tragedy of her murder sufficient to grieve over? He was neither constable nor detective. It was not up to him to dwell on such matters.

Yet he could not help but dwell upon them now.

He found himself frustrated over the lack of firsthand knowledge he possessed in the matter of his mother’s passing. There was, of course, an adult who had been present, but his neck had long ago been stretched. It had been quite some time—indeed, possibly never—since the Artful Dodger had thought
nostalgically
of the man named Fagin, but now he realized he could not help himself.

“Ahhh, Fagin,” he said in a low, wistful voice. “If only I could talk with you for five minutes. Just five minutes would be enough. Should’a talked to you about it while ye were still here, but there’s no use for it now, I suppose. But if I had a wish at my service, it would be to look into your ugly mug once more.”

With that, his gaze drifted over toward the window and his heart nearly stopped, for Fagin, the one and only, was staring in at him from the darkness.

He would have let out a yell of shock, and had he done so, matters would have turned out very differently. Because such a yell would have awakened Bram, and had the lad woken up, things would have proceeded in a wholly different manner. But instead, his reaction took him in a totally opposite direction; he lost his voice entirely. His throat completely closed up, and when the word “Fagin!” escaped his lips, there was no voice accompanying it. It was, at most, a whisper, and even then not much of one.

For his part, however, Fagin was perfectly vocal. “Let me in! Have me in there, old boy!” Fagin called out through the closed window that muffled his voice. “It’s not too much trouble to invite an old mate in, is it?”

The Artful had no idea just how much trouble such an invitation would in fact present. But he had no way of knowing and consequently said and did that which he really should not have.

He spoke out of habit in a whisper, because that was customarily how he conversed with Fagin. Many was the time when they were speaking of matters that it was preferable to hide from others, and so did he speak in that manner now. “Of course!” he said and immediately worked to slide the window open. It
remained
frozen shut at first, as if it somehow knew the disaster that
would befall
should Dodger manage to open it. But Dodger redoubled his efforts, grunting and straining until finally he managed to shove the window open.

“Excellent, my dear! Ever so excellent!” chortled Fagin. As he weighed next to nothing, it took him almost no time at all to slide his body through the opening.

The Artful Dodger stepped back to provide him room, and even as he did so, his mind was racing in confusion. “How are you not dead? They said you was dead!”

“And I was told that you were transported to Australia. Yet here we both are,” Fagin said easily.