into the air, landing out of Doyle's sight.
Doyle lay still a moment, trying to gather his wits. He was unable to loosen his grip on the handles—his knuckles locked and frozen around them—but he could move everything else,
having touched down in a drift without suffering any disabling injury.
'Jack?' he said tentatively. He first thought the sound that came back to him was sobbing. Was it Eileen? 'Are you all right?'
He realized Eileen was laughing. She emerged from a nearby snowbank, covered head to toe in white, overcome with infectious laughter. Then he heard Sparks laughing, captivated by the same relieving impulse, before he appeared from behind the mausoleum that had precipitated their crash. The sight and sound of each other's laughter seemed to redouble their own. Jack bent over, hanging on to the edge of the monument. Eileen fell back into the snow and guffawed. The recent terror had been so completely overwhelming that for the moment there seemed no more sensible a response. Doyle felt the giggles come over him as well, and he gave into them.
'I thought we were dead,' said Doyle.
'I thought we were dead four separate times,' managed Eileen.
Doyle's entire body began to shake. They staggered toward a meeting point, put their arms across each other's shoulders, and let the healing laughter run its course. It was all they could do to breathe. As the laughter was cresting, Doyle revealed the handles stuck in his hands, which set off another round of hilarity.
'JONATHAN SPARKS!'
The words rolled down the slopes from the ruins high above. The voice was harshly sibilant, but at the same time lush and orotund; it could cut glass and never leave a splinter. No anger in its tone, only insinuating derision that bespoke no disappointment at their escape but rather suggested satisfaction, that this was its desired outcome.
'Is it him?' asked Doyle.
Sparks nodded, looking toward the hilltop.
'LISTEN!'
Silence thicker than a church bell.
Then a bloodcurdling scream twisted and built to a hideous crescendo before fading away into exhausted, piteous bleating.
'Oh God. The brothers,' said Eileen.
Another scream, more tortured than before. Was it the same voice?
'Bastard!' Doyle raged, surging forward. 'BASTARD!'
Sparks put a restraining hand on Doyle's shoulder. His jaw was tight, but his voice stayed measured and calm. 'That's what he wants from us.'
The scream cut off abruptly. The ensuing quiet was even more unsettling.
'We must go,' said Sparks. 'They may still come after us.'
'You can't leave them—' protested Eileen.
'They're soldiers,' said Sparks, gathering up his snow-shoes.
'He's killing them—'
'We don't know that it's them. Even if it is, what would you have us do? Throw our own lives away? Sentimental lunacy.'
'Still, Jack, they're so loyal to you—' said Doyle, trying to soften the argument.
'They know the risks.' Sparks wanted no more discussion. He walked away.
'You've got your brother's blood in you, Jack Sparks,' said Eileen to Sparks's back.
Sparks stopped, tensed, but didn't turn, then continued on.
Eileen wiped the tears from her eyes.
'He's right, you know,' said Doyle gently.
'So am I,' she said, watching Sparks go.
They slipped into the snowshoes and trudged out of the graveyard after him. The trip back to the inn was passed in silence.
A note had been pinned to Stoker's door. Sparks tore it down and briefly scanned it.
'Stoker's hired a carriage and started back to London,' he said to the others. 'He says he has his family to consider.'
'Can't blame him for that,' said Doyle.
'He's bequeathed us the use of his room.' Sparks pocketed the note and opened the door. Eileen entered. Doyle looked at his watch: half past two in the morning.
'Excuse us a moment, Miss Temple,' said Sparks, detain-
ing Doyle in the hallway and closing the door. 'Stay with her. If I'm not back by dawn, try and make your way to London.'
'Where are you—'
'They've probably done their worst for tonight, but keep your pistol loaded and at hand,' said Sparks, walking away down the corridor.
'Jack, what are you going to do?'
Sparks gave a wave without looking back as he moved quickly downstairs. Doyle looked at the door and cracked it open. Eileen lay on top of the bedclothes, her back to him. He was about to close the door....
'Don't go,' she said without moving.
'You should rest.'
'Not much chance of that.'
'Rest is what you need—'
'Stop being a doctor, for heaven's sake.' She turned to face him. 'I don't particularly wish to spend my last night on earth alone, do you?'
'What makes you think this is—'
'Come in here and close the door, would you? How plain do I have to make myself?'
Doyle acquiesced but remained across the room, standing rigidly near the door. She gave him a wry look, shook her head slightly, sat up on the bed, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the vanity. Her hair was tangled in disarray, fair complexion burned by the wind.
'Frightful,' she said.
'Not so bad as all that,' offered Doyle, instantly regretting it.
Another sardonic look from her consolidated his remorse. She moved to a chair by the mirror and dispassionately surveyed herself.
'I suppose a hairbrush is too providential to hope for,' she said.
'As a matter of fact, it's one of the few possessions I have remaining to me,' said Doyle. From his bag, which he'd left at the foot of the armoire, he produced his brush-and-comb set.
'You really should smile, Doctor,' she said, her eyes brightening. ' 'Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.' '
'I don't mean to be unkind ... Ophelia,' he added, recognizing the passage.
Eileen took off the mannish jacket, unpinned her hair, and let the soft black mass of it cascade down the back of her blouse. She shook it out and ran the brush down its lustrous length in long, sensuous strokes: an effect, to Doyle's eyes, of breathtaking intimacy, a balm to his battered spirits. It was the first time since they'd heard the screams on the hill that the brothers had been out of his thoughts for even a moment. 'Did you ever see me onstage, Doctor?' she asked. 'I never had the pleasure,' said Doyle. 'My name is Arthur.'
She gave the slightest nod, acknowledging the new increment of familiarity. 'There were good reasons why our guardians of decency wouldn't allow women to perform in public for so many hundreds of years.' 'What reasons would those be?' 'Some would tell you it's dangerous to see a woman on
the stage.'
'Dangerous in what way?'
She shrugged slightly. 'Perhaps it's too easy to believe the actress is exactly who she appears to be playing on any particular night.'
'But that is the desired effect, after all. To persuade us of
the character's veracity.'
