extent that you can manage, remain awake. Thank you.'
With that, she withdrew through a door at the side of the stage, and the remainder of the crowd dispersed. A short, nattily dressed woman with a monocle and walking stick appeared at Doyle's side.
'Dr. Doyle?'
'Yes.'
'My name is Dion Fortune. HPB would like to speak with you. Would you come this way please?'
Doyle nodded and followed. The woman's name was familiar; she was a founding member of the London branch of the Theosophical Society and an author of some note in the esoteric world. Doyle noticed the Indian woman lingering at the book table as Fortune led him through the door.
Her handshake was firm and cool. She looked him right in the eye with concern and warm support.
'I am most pleased to meet you, Dr. Doyle.'
Having vouchsafed the initial introductions, Dion Fortune took a seat by the door. They were in a cramped dressing room next to a rumbling furnace. A spacious, well-traveled satchel stood open on a table—HPB's only luggage, her possessions and appointments were as utilitarian and utterly lacking in ostentation as her wardrobe.
Doyle returned the salutation, knowing he would feel remiss without telling her immediately of the events in London.
'Petrovitch is dead,' he said.
Her features hardened. She asked immediately for exhaustive, specific details. He recounted the tale exactingly, as well as his conclusions, finally producing the tin of poison tablets from his bag. Blavatsky examined them, sniffed them, nodded.
'Would you like to drink with me?' she asked. 'I recommend something stiff.'
She pulled a bottle from her bag. Fortune produced some glasses.
'Vodka,' she said, offering him the first glass.
'I thought spiritual teaching argued against the use of hard liquor,' Doyle said lightly.
'Most spiritual teaching is hogwash. We must still move through the world as the personality into which we were born. I am a Russian peasant woman, and vodka has a most agreeable effect upon me. Na zdorovia.'
She downed the drink and poured another. Doyle sipped. Fortune abstained. Blavatsky dropped into a chair, slung a leg over one of the arms, and lit a cigar.
'There is more you would like to tell me, yes?'
Doyle nodded. He was grateful for the vodka, as it seemed to elicit a smoother recitation of his story. She stopped him only once, to ask for a more detailed description of the wounds and external arrangement of the organs of the fallen prostitute.
'Would you be kind enough to sketch them for me as close to memory as possible?'
Fortune handed him pen and paper, and Doyle complied, handing Blavatsky the result. She studied the drawing, grunted once, then folded the paper and dropped it in her bag.
'Please continue,' she said.
He guided her through the trip to Cambridge, his near encounter with God-knows-what in the Antiquities Building, and then showed her the altered book from his rooms.
'What could have caused such a thing?' he asked.
'Ectoplasmic detonation. An entity breaking through from the other side. This is what Petrovitch summoned me to see. Very bad. Of course, at the time I assumed they were after Petrovitch—perhaps they were, secondarily. Be thankful you weren't home at the time. Go on, Doctor.'
Doyle's mind spun. 'Madame Blavatsky, what can you tell me about the Dark Brotherhood?'
The question prompted a veiled exchange of looks between HPB and Fortune that he was unable to interpret.
'Evil beings. Materialists. Enemies of holy spirit. You should read my work on the subject—'
'I have read your work on the subject, Madame.' Only too well, thought Doyle. 'I need to know if you believe these beings are real.'
She knocked on the table. 'Is table real? Is glass real?'
'It appears that they are, yes.'
'You have your answer then.'
'But are these beings people—I mean, are they in human form, or do they just swim indiscriminately around in the ether?'
'They are spirits who desire human form. They hunger, hovering around it, seeking entry.'
'For which, as you write, they require the cooperation of the living.'
'Cooperation and sacrifice, yes. They must be invited onto this plane through the enactment of rituals and so forth,' she said, somewhat disinterestedly. 'Describe for me if you would this Professor Armond Sacker.'
'Tall, rangy. Midthirties. Prominent nose, high, intelligent brow, light eyes. Long fingers. Athletic.'
This prompted another look between his hosts.
'Is something wrong?' Doyle asked.
'As it happens, I'm to have supper with Professor Sacker this very evening,' she replied.
'But you know him then,' Doyle replied excitedly.
'For many years.'
'You know him well.'
'Very well indeed. That will be his step arriving outside our door even now.'
There were in fact footsteps outside the door, two sets, and then a knock. Fortune opened the door, revealing the young book clerk.
'Professor Sacker to see you, Madame,' said the clerk.
'Show him in,' she replied.
Doyle rose. The clerk moved away from the door, and Pro-
fessor Sacker entered. HPB greeted him warmly with a kiss to either cheek.
'How good to see you again,' she said.
'And you, my dear, and you,' Sacker replied loudly.
Fortune welcomed Sacker familiarly as well and then presented him to Doyle, and Doyle shook the infirm hand of the stooped, diminutive, white-haired eighty-two-year-old man before him.
'Sorry, what was the name again?' asked Sacker.
'Doyle.'
'Boyle?' He was nearly shouting.
'Doyle, sir. Arthur Doyle.'
'Fine. Will you be joining us for supper then, Oyle?'
'I don't honestly—I don't know, sir!'
'Professor, please go ahead to the restaurant with Mrs. Fortune. I will be along to join you momentarily,' Blavatsky said, making herself understood by the old man without raising her voice. She signaled Fortune, who smoothly guided Sacker out of the room.
Blavatsky turned back to Doyle, reading the shock on his face.
'Listen carefully, Doctor,' she said. 'I am leaving early in the morning for Liverpool and from there in two days' time sailing to America. You must try to remember everything I tell you, which as you have ably demonstrated will not be difficult for you.'
'I'll try. If I could ask—'
She held up a hand to silence him. 'Please do not ask questions. They will only serve to irritate me. There is a great urgency in you, and I do not doubt what you have told me, but this is a most dangerous time for many initiates in many places, and my presence is promised elsewhere. I do not expect you to understand. Please accept that what I have to tell you will be of some use to you and move forward.'
'If I have no other choice.'
'Good. Optimism is good, Common sense is good.' She put out her cigar. 'As mystics are to the occult, there are individuals known as sorcerers to Magick. Magick is the Left-Handed Path to Knowledge; it is the shortest way to the Englightenment we all seek. It has a higher cost. It seems to me that what the man who presented himself to you as Pro-
