“Then for your sake, Highness…”
The game in the card room was bridge and Prince Edward had a passion for it. After two hours of watching the prince move bits of painted card about, the Count understood the attraction no better than he had in the beginning.
Just after midnight, the prince gave his place to Sir Thomas.
“It was gutt to meet you, Count Dracula. I hope to see you again.”
“You will, Highness.”
Caught and held in the red gaze, the prince wet full lips and swallowed heavily.
One last time, the Count bowed and stepped back, breaking his hold.
Breathing heavily, Edward hurried from the room. A woman’s laughter met him in the hall.
The Count turned to the table. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, now that His Highness has taken his leave, I will follow. I am certain that I will see you
In the foyer, only for the pleasure of watching terror blanch the boy’s cheek, he brushed the footman’s hand with his as he took back his gloves.
He very nearly made it out the door.
“Say, Count! Hold up and I’ll walk with you.” March fell into step beside him as he crossed the threshold back into the night. “It’s close in those rooms, ain’t it? September’s a lot warmer here than it is back home. Where are you heading?”
“To the Thames.”
“Going across to the fleshpots in Southwark?” the American asked archly.
“Fleshpots?” It took him a moment to understand. “No. I will not be crossing the river.”
“Just taking a walk on the shore then? Count me in.”
They walked in blessed silence for a few moments, along Pall Mall and down Cockspur Street.
“His Highness likes you, Count. I could tell. You have a real presence in a room, you know.”
“The weight of history, Mr. March.”
“Say what?”
He saw a rat watching him from the shadow, rat and shadow both in the midst of wealth and plenty, and he smiled. “It is not necessary you understand.”
Silence reigned again until they reached the riverbank.
“You seemed to be having a good time tonight, Count.” March leaned on the metal railings at the top of the embankment. “Didn’t I tell you they were your kind of people?”
“Yes.”
“So.” A bit of loose stone went over the edge and into the water. “Did you want to go somewhere for a bite?”
“That won’t be necessary.” He removed his glasses and slid them carefully into an inside pocket. “Here is fine.”
The body slid down the embankment and was swallowed almost silently by the dark water. Replete, the Count drew the back of one hand over his mouth then stared in annoyance at the dark smear across the back of his glove. These were his favorite gloves; they’d have to be washed.
He turned toward home, then he paused.
Why hurry?
The night was not exactly young, but morning would be hours still.
As he walked along the riverbank toward the distant sound of voices, he smiled. The late Charlie March had not been entirely correct. The prince and his company were not exactly his kind of people…
… yet.
Box Number Fifty
Fred Saberhagen
Carrie had been living on the London streets for a night and a day, plenty of time to learn that being taken in charge by the police was not the worst thing that could happen. But it would be bad enough. What she had heard of the conditions in which homeless children were confined made her ready to risk a lot in trying to stay free.
A huge dray drawn by two whipped and lathered horses rushed past, almost knocking her down, as she began to cross another street. Tightening her grip on the hand of nine-year-old Christopher as he stumbled in exhaustion, she struggled on through the London fog, wet air greasy with burning coal and wood. Around the children were a million strangers, all in a hurry amid an endless roar of traffic.
“Where we going to sleep tonight?” Her little brother sounded desperate, and no doubt he was. Last night they had had almost no sleep at all, huddled against the abutment of a railway bridge; hut fortunately it had not been raining then as it was now. There had been only one episode of real adventure during the night, when Chris, on going a little way apart to answer a call of nature, had been set on and robbed of his shoes by several playful fellows not much bigger than he.
Their wanderings had brought them into Soho, where they attracted some unwelcome attention. Carrie thought that a pair of rough-looking youths had now begun to follow them.
She had to seek help somewhere, and none of the faces in her immediate vicinity looked promising. On impulse she turned from the pavement up a flight of stone steps to the front door of a house. It was a narrow building of gray stone, not particularly old or new, one of a row, wedged tightly against its neighbors on either side. Had Carrie been given time to think about it, she might have said that she chose this house because it bore a certain air of quiet and decency, in contrast to its neighbors, which at this early stage of evening were given to lights and raucous noise.
Across the street, a helmeted bobby was taking no interest in a girl and boy with nowhere to go. But he might at any moment. These were not true slums, not, by far, the worst part of London. Still, here and there, in out-of-the-way corners, a derelict or two lay drunk or dying.
Carrie went briskly up the steps to the front door, while her brother, following some impulse of his own, slipped down into the areaway where he was for the moment concealed from the street. Glancing quickly down at Christopher from the high steps, Carrie thought he was doing something to one of the cellar windows.
Giving a long pull on the bell, she heard a distant ringing somewhere inside. And at the same moment, she saw to her dismay that what she had thought was a modest light somewhere in the interior of the house was really only a reflection in one of the front windows. There were curtains inside, but other than that the place had an uninhabited look and feel about it.
“Not a-goin’ ter let yer in?” One of the youths following her had now stopped on the pavement at the foot of the steps, where he stood grinning up at her, while his fellow stood beside him, equally delighted.
“I know a house where you’d be welcome, dear,” called the second one. He was older, meaner-looking. “I know some good girls who live there.”
Turning her back on them both, she tried to project an air of confidence and respectability, as she persisted in pulling at the bell.
“My name’s Vincent,” came the deeper voice from behind her. “If maybe you need a friend, dearie, a little help—”
Carrie caught her breath at the sound of an answering fumble in the darkness on the other side of the barrier—and was mightily relieved a moment later when her brother opened the door from inside. In a moment she was in, and had closed and latched the door behind her.
She could picture the pair who had been heckling her from the pavement, balked for the moment, turning away.
