young ladies, her dance card (unlike mine) filled with the names of partners for the evening—and observed the area. There was, as Grayling had suggested, a long table filled with libations at one end of the terrace. People stood nearby, talking, laughing, and drinking their lemonade-strawberry punch. Others strolled around the terrace. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to draw my attention.
Then I noticed a movement near the dark line of arborvitae and thick dwarf pines separating the stone terrace from the rest of the grounds. A well-hidden someone was standing there. As I watched, a young woman approached. She walked up to the figure, handed over something white and flat, then progressed past and into the shadows.
My heart began to pound, and excitement made my mouth go dry as I made my decision. I had the fake invitation. I was going to use it.
I pulled it from my reticule and made my way quickly across the stones. When I approached, I saw the figure was cloaked and hooded in dark fabric so as to obscure gender and any other identifying factors. I felt certain the individual wouldn’t be able to discern my features due to its enveloping cloak and the drassy light.
He or she held out a white-gloved hand, and I saw that the image of a scarab beetle had been inked on the palm.
I handed over my invitation and was gestured toward a narrow pass between two tall arborvitae. Drawing in a deep breath, I stepped through.
Miss Stoker
Wherein Our Heroines Encounter an Overabundance of Perfumes
By the time I made my way through the crowded party to find the familiar-looking waiter, he’d disappeared.
Surely it wasn’t Pix. It was impossible for a streetwise Cockney pickpocket to be hired for the event of the season. I put the thought of him out of my mind and in doing so, let down my guard. This was a mistake, for I was promptly caught up in conversation with one of those anemic young men I preferred to avoid. But though I had to listen to him compare my lips to rose petals and my hair to spirals of ink, I also learned that the Cosgrove-Pitt home boasted a Star Terrace.
Miss Mina Holmes wasn’t the only person who could make a deduction.
Moments later, as I stepped onto the Star Terrace, I saw a young woman making her way quickly toward the dark end of the patio. Miss Holmes.
Here I was, only a moment in deduction behind Miss Observation herself, and she hadn’t even searched for me before continuing on her way. Satisfaction with my discovery faded into aggravation. A flimsy brain-beak like Mina Holmes had no bloody business walking into dark shadows alone. Blooming idiot.
I followed her across the terrace, grudgingly grateful that she’d had the foresight to mark up my invitation to match hers. Careful not to accidentally pull out my stake, I dug the crumpled card out of a hidden pocket in my skirt and handed it to the cloaked figure who reached out a silent, gloved hand. He gestured for me to move forward.
A rush of energy pumped through my veins as I walked between two tall bushes. Finally, things were getting interesting.
On the other side of the bushes and trees, I found a mechanized vehicle. It was in a secluded area of the grounds of Cosgrove Terrace. A tall wall ran along behind it and ended in an open gate. A lamp burned in the street beyond and in the distance, the spiky, oblong shapes of London proper loomed.
Several cloaked figures stood there, mixing with the shadows. Someone handed me a wad of black fabric, and I found the head and armholes of an enveloping cloak. As I finished pulling my hood up and over, a black- garbed figure stumbled into me as it contorted beneath its cloak. Snickering, I helped Miss Holmes find her way out from beneath the fabric. When her head appeared, I shifted my hood so she would recognize me.
To my disappointment, she didn’t seem surprised. “So you figured it out. Excellent.”
“Of course I did,” I replied, noticing that the other figures were climbing into the vehicle. A soft rumble accompanied by the familiar hiss of steam indicated that the trolley-like carriage had been started.
“Yes, of course,” she said dismissively as we edged along with the cluster of figures. “Once discovered, the message had to be exceedingly simple to interpret.”
I was proud of myself for not planting my foot on the hems of her full skirts. Instead, I fingered the stake deep in my pocket and bit my tongue.
We climbed into the automated vehicle amid other cloaked figures who spoke briefly and in hushed voices. I’d never encountered a group of females who could be this quiet for so long. There’d hardly been a titter or giggle since I arrived.
I disliked the new carriages, propelled by a steam engine and with no visible driver or engineer. They ran on some sort of magnetic tracking system. Ever since the Moseley-Haft Steam-Promotion Act had been passed by Lord Cosgrove-Pitt and his Parliament, everyone in London had been keen on them and anything else that could be mechanized and automated. The current favorites were the sleek trolleys that were narrow enough to pass along even the uppermost streetwalk levels, the vehicles just wide enough for two people to sit side by side.
The trolley’s doors closed. Miss Holmes tensed as I swallowed a thrill of excitement. The only thing I had cause to fear was a vampire . . . and as I didn’t sense any UnDead in the vicinity, I settled in for an adventure.
There were no more than a dozen of us. From the amount of eau de toilette clogging my nose, it smelled as if each one of those present had spilled an entire bottle of perfume over her bodice. In the close quarters, my eyes began to water, and I had to pinch my nose to keep from sneezing.
My partner murmured street names, landmarks, and observations as we drove along at ground level. I had to reluctantly appreciate her comments. Unlike Miss Holmes, I didn’t know the name of every single alleyway, bypass, or mews, let alone the different combinations of street levels and how the addresses worked. I’d always been awestruck by the height of the buildings and how close they swayed toward one another. And I wasn’t convinced that the helium-filled sky-anchors attached to the tops of the tall structures did anything to keep their tops from bumping into each other.
More than once, I’d been resigned to walking at ground level because I’d forgotten to bring coins with me. You needed them to insert in the street-lifts to take a ride to the less smelly, cleaner, brighter level of fly-bridge. But I was very familiar with the smell of saltwater, algae, and fish that lingered near the docks, and when those aromas drowned out the perfumes from my companions, I realized we’d reached the East End and shipping yards on the Thames.
“Wapping,” Miss Holmes muttered, and I looked out onto the street to see the gaslit sign for that underground railway station. The area was deserted, for trains didn’t run this late at night.
When the trolley turned, maneuvering into the narrow passage between the station and its adjoining building, the interior became darker. The car stopped, and I felt my companion’s attention sharpen.
A nervous giggle broke the silence, then a loud mechanical hiss startled the girl across from me. The door slid open to reveal a slender female figure holding a lantern. Her features were shadowed in part by a tall hat with a low-riding brim.
“Please disembark, ladies,” said the woman, and gestured with a gloved hand.
We exited the trolley car and followed our hostess’s mellow golden light down the alley at ground level. I managed to avoid stepping in anything that was soft and smelled disgusting, but Miss Holmes wasn’t as agile.
“Drat,” she muttered, pausing to scrape her shoe on a stone. “We’re going toward the river.”
Were they taking us to a boat? I groped in a pocket for my knife. I’d never had cause to use it, and I hoped tonight wouldn’t change that. But before we reached the river, our guide gestured to the entrance of an octagonal structure built into the side of Wapping Station. “This way, ladies,” she said as we walked through the door into a high-ceilinged, eight-sided chamber.
Although we still wore our cloaks, my companion and I held back. Until now, we’d been protected by our anonymity. But now there was the chance we might be recognized in the brighter light as uninvited guests.
I looked at as many of the hooded faces as I could see, and recognized several. All young women. All my
