Having no corporeal form made life far simpler. There was no urge to fill the belly with food, no need to evacuate the bowels, or even to sleep. There was beauty in human existence, but Byron found it difficult to be poetic about the need to defecate.
Truth be told, he was glad that he no longer was constrained by form, yet there was one human feature he missed so terribly that he could feel the bitterness rise like bile in his throat whenever he thought of it: sexual congress.
Oh, how he missed the silky softness of a woman's inner thigh, slick with sweat and fluid, a taut nipple caught between his teeth, the feel of rock-hard buttocks against his abdomen as he strained and thrust, the heady perfume of carnal human musk thick in his nostrils. It had been a very long time since Byron had last touched real human flesh, but he desired it still with an eternal hunger.
Only by composing his poetry was he able to quell his lustful thoughts. Byron channeled his insatiable desire into his posthumous work, so that now his poems were almost always obscene. He had read a few of his wanton verses to Tamara, and even her staunch liberalism had been challenged by their lewdness. He had watched with interest the way the blood rushed into her cheeks as he read. It had made him wonder if the blood flow to other areas of her anatomy had also been increased.
Just the thought of the Swift siblings had the power to make Byron giddy. Tamara especially. His lustful thoughts toward William ranged more toward fantasy than reality. William was too priggish to ever be enticed into an affair, but Tamara, to the contrary, was an adventurous sort. He knew that had he been flesh and blood, it wouldn't have been long before he enticed her to come to his bed for her pleasure.
Tamara was a Protector of Albion. She and William were the mystical guardians of the soul of England, connected to the ancient heart of the land and infused with its magic. There were hundreds of such Protectors in the world, each burdened with the power and duty to defend their homeland from the forces of darkness.
They were touched by the supernatural. That meant, of course, that with focus Byron himself might be able to touch Tamara. But even if she would have allowed such a thing, it would have come to naught, for he would not have been able to maintain that focus for very long.
No, the pleasures of the flesh were only a memory to him now.
Lost in his musings, Byron was returned to the present by a loud belch that erupted from the corner of the room. He looked up to find the demon Oblis staring at him through Henry Swift's eyes, a long string of drool hanging disgustingly from his open mouth. The smile that spread across his features was sickening.
"What lovely, nasty thoughts you have, my lord Byron," Oblis spat, the words foul in the air as if they had substance, the texture of filth. His grin widened as Byron's upper lip curled in disgust. The presence of the demon tainted any pleasure his fantasies might have conjured.
He despised the task of looking after William and Tamara's possessed father. It was a job he took only under duress, mostly from fear of being lashed by Queen Bodicea's barbed tongue. The queen could be very persuasive when she wanted, and she had ever been immune to his influence.
Today, however, he had required less convincing-less bullying-than usual. Once he had seen Farris's bloodied face and the mess in the sitting room, and heard the tale of Helena Martin's death and her brother's hideous metamorphosis, he had simply thanked the man for passing on Tamara's message and come upstairs to begin his watch.
Now he and Oblis glared at each other across the room. The very substance of his spectral form shuddered in the presence of such iniquity. The malevolence that lurked inside Henry Swift's frail frame radiated throughout the room.
Yet despite the evil that festered in him, Oblis could accomplish little here at Ludlow House except offend and annoy those who looked after him. The Swift siblings had spent days devising just the right combination of spells to weave through the house, and particularly this room, to keep the demon prisoner.
"Did you hear me, ghost?" Oblis said, as if the word were an insult.
Byron sniffed. He shot Oblis a sour look.
"You should wipe your mouth, oh castoff of the devil, and then shut it," he muttered. There were those he loved, those he feared, and those who were beneath his notice. There were very few beings in the Lord's creation whom he hated, but he knew what Oblis had done to Bodicea's daughters, and here he sat with the physical evidence of the heart-wrenching grief the demon had caused the Swifts. Yes, he hated Oblis with every fiber of his soul.
Oblis smiled hideously.
"Shall I hurt you again, Oblis? Are you simply a glutton for punishment, or do you enjoy the pain? I wonder, for that has never been one of my proclivities. If so, however, I shall oblige," Byron said, his voice thick with warning.
Oblis only broadened his smile, until it was like a gash across poor Henry's withered face.
"Do your worst, ghost," hissed Oblis. He strained against his bonds, his body shaking with anticipation.
But Byron was no fool. The demon wished to draw him into a fight, hoping to shatter the magical bonds that restrained him. Byron recalled all too well how Nigel Townsend had been lured into battle with the demon, only to find himself unconscious on the floor, his captive having escaped.
"If you insist, Vapor. There is a bit of verse I have been composing for several weeks now. Shall I recite it for you, with all its dramatic inflection?"
"No!" Oblis shrieked. "No poems!"
Byron laughed softly, the spark of mischief in his heart. "Oh, this is no mere poem. This is an ode to love in rhyming couplets-"
Oblis covered his ears and shrieked as if his cries would protect him from the poetic onslaught. Byron hadn't even begun to recite his latest rhyme and already the demon was in agony. It made Byron giddy.
But just as he began to clear his throat, even though the need for that was a thing of the past, he was interrupted by a ripple in the ether.
Byron looked up to find the ghost of Lord Admiral Nelson floating beside him, as grim-faced in death as he had been in life. He was altogether too serious for Byron's tastes. But that made it easy to agitate him, which was a pleasure all its own.
"You've terrible timing, Horatio," Byron moaned. Oblis perked up, looking out through Henry's wretched eyes with curiosity now that he had been saved from Byron's poetic flogging.
"But I come bearing interesting news, my friend." Horatio spoke with a clipped, nasal cadence; years of commanding naval fleets resonated in his authoritative tone. "A tale that I know you will find very curious indeed. The earl of Claridge-"
Byron snorted, "That lecherous old windbag? The self-same syphilitic glock who pokes his prick into whatever poor chambermaid he can trap alone in a room?"
Horatio began to nod, but Byron cut him off.
"I detest him."
Horatio nodded again. "Yes, yes, I'm aware of his reputation. That is why this news bears such import."
Oblis sat up and watched the two ghosts, his ears taking in their every word.
"Has he died? Passed into the ghostly realm to torment our female peers? Bodicea shall make short work of him," Byron commented wryly.
"Nothing so fortuitous as that, I'm afraid. But far more colorful. It seems the earl has gone mad. Off to Bethlehem Hospital for him, for taking liberties with the bishop of Manchester's niece at a dinner party." Though he was a phantom, a pale, translucent shade, Lord Nelson's cheeks reddened at the word liberties.
"So they've taken this man to a sanatorium, have they?"
The two ghosts turned to look at Henry Swift, who stared at them with a man's face and a demon's eyes. He sat on the cold wooden floor with his back against the far wall.
"Do they know the curse that ails him?" Oblis asked, his voice perfectly conversational, as though they were all reasonable men. Then he grinned, and his voice dropped to an insidious whisper. "Could they still see the whites of his eyes, or had the change already begun?"
"The change?" Byron was on guard. Though it was rarely clear, Oblis never spoke without reason. He thrived on toying with their minds, and this new gambit might be some attempt to play them for fools.
"Ask the lovely Tamara if she saw the whites of his eyes," Oblis rasped cryptically. "Before he changed."
Horatio looked askance at Byron. The one thing Nelson abhorred was being left in the dark. Years spent with the Royal Navy had only encouraged his controlling nature.
"Has something happened in my absence? Tell me . . ."
Byron nodded, understanding now that Oblis had knowingly confirmed a connection between the lecherous behavior of the earl of Claridge and the encounter with Frederick Martin.
"It seems, Horatio, that a new shadow has fallen upon the land. Albion's defenders must unite once more."
T HE BUILDING WAS small and squat, with no means of illumination except the candle stubs that its occupants brought with them to light their way in its depths. There were no windows, so that even at midday the interior was black as pitch.
It was inside this inauspicious building, not far from the stink of the Thames, that many foreign treasures lay hidden, wrapped tightly in linen and then ensconced in sturdy wooden crates between layers of brittle straw.
The crates did not stay in the building long, though, as the dampness that came from being so near the water could destroy their contents.
Two men kept watch over the place, though they both tried to stay well away from the interior, preferring to observe the building from the safety of a nearby public house. They paid one of the young street Arabs a few coins to keep an eye out, and report to them at the public house if there was trouble.
In the past six months, they had seen neither hide nor hair of the boy except when he came for his coin at the end of the day.
There were few other patrons in the Merry Lady this early in the morning. The two watchmen sat at their usual table, a tankard of ale each in front of them. They were both in their twenties, but the younger-who was more brawn than brain in the outfit-looked much older than his companion. He had stringy red hair and close-set eyes that shone dully with the blankness of apathy. His partner, a small, wiry man with dark hair and almond-shaped eyes, had a sly expression that was prominent in his eyes, and enhanced by his tiny cauliflower-shaped ears and pointy rat's nose.
They sat like this all day, staring at each other as they sipped their ale, until one or the other passed out face-first on the tabletop. After dark, the less inebriated of the two would carry his companion back to the flophouse where they spent their nights. When the next morning arrived, they started the whole process again.
Today was like any other. They sat silently sipping their drinks. The younger of the two watched the barmaid as she wiped down the wooden counter with a damp cloth. He liked the way her breasts jiggled in her bodice as she scrubbed. She was a thick-waisted girl with a pockmarked face and greasy blond hair that she kept pinned loosely at the nape of her neck. She paid no mind to the watchman's leering gaze. There was no shortage of lecherous drunks at the Merry Lady.
The barmaid jumped with fright at the sound of the front door being roughly thrown open by a scrawny, filthy boy with long hair and a dirty face. He must have been running, for his breath was ragged in his throat. Nevertheless, he galloped over to the two watchmen and began to speak in quick bursts.
"I were watchin' . . . as you liked . . . and then there were . . . this sound-"
The older watchman collared the urchin and yanked him bodily toward the table. The boy was wild-eyed and unfocused, and he struggled to control his breathing, until the man cuffed him roughly with the back of his hand.
The man's voice was low and hoarse as he spoke.
"Show me."
The street was almost deserted as the two watchmen opened the door to their place of employment and stepped inside. The older man fumbled around in the darkness before pulling two candle stubs from a niche in the wall. The meager light from the candles illuminated only the first few feet in front of them. The rest of the large front room was lost in darkness.
"Damn the boy!" the older watchman said through gritted teeth.
The child had refused to go into the darkened shanty. He had led the two men back to the building, but taken off toward the docks as soon as the older watchman loosened his grip. Now they had no idea what the boy had heard or seen. They were on their own in this unsettling blackness.
They moved forward, weaving their way through the unpacked crates. The candlelight barely illuminated their way, but the men could see in its flickering that a number of the crates had been ransacked.
On the floor lay the shattered remains of some antique marble busts. A pair of paintings, their canvases shredded, rested on top of the marble debris. When they reached the next doorway, the older man paused, holding up his hand for silence.
In the inky blackness of the next room, something was breathing.
There was a low chattering sound from deep in the darkness, and then a sound like knives being raked across stone. It filled the air. The two watchmen still couldn't see past the ring of candlelight, and their faces were twin mirrors of graven fear.
A shriek tore from within that darkened room.
The men turned as one and ran for the door, but the crates that littered the floor barred their way. The younger watchman tripped and sprawled across two large boxes, his limbs in a tangle, scrambling to right himself, flailing. Exposed and vulnerable.
The other watchman turned as his partner began to scream. Frozen in fear, he watched the scene that played out in the weak glow of his candle. The thing that leaped from the darkness was massive, its head nearly scraping the ceiling. Its eyes were green-yellow coals burning in the shadows, and they fixed on him with quiet intensity, even as their owner reached for his associate, hauling the younger man up by the leg.
The fellow thrashed in the air, caught in the grip of a thing that could only be the spawn of Hell.
"Help me, Dinsmore!" the younger watchman wailed.
But Dinsmore still could not move. He stared in horror as the thing grasped the fallen man's other leg and, in one swift motion, ripped him in two. The screaming turned into a bloody, burbling sound.
That broke the paralysis. Dinsmore spun, his own voice now rising in a scream of terror that came up from some deep, primal place within him. Breathless, he ran . . . and collided almost instantly with a second hulking monstrosity.
His heart seized up as his face struck cold, prickly, stubbled skin. The thing picked him up by the shoulders, causing him to drop his candle. It fell into a pile of dry straw that had spilled from one of the crates, and the straw began to catch fire. The creature stepped away from the flames, which had quickly begun to spread, even as it drew him up to its own height, his feet dangling beneath him.
Dinsmore's eyes were wide, and the scream continued to tear from his throat, though it was more like a throaty moan now. His nostrils caught the rotted-meat smell of the creature's breath, and he began to gag, interrupting the screaming.
The monster's jaws opened wide, as though unhinged, rows of needle fangs glistening inside. Then it shoved Dinsmore's face into its maw and snapped its jaws down, shearing his head off, teeth grinding through bone and muscle.
It swallowed his head whole, then threw the remains of the watchman's body into the flames, which had already begun to consume the rest of the building and the two halves of his partner's corpse.
As the flames took over more and more of the building, the monsters vanished into the smoke, leaving their victims to burn.
THERE WERE MANY ghosts at Swift's of London. An institution of its age would acquire them simply through the passage of time. They tended to accumulate. But ghosts tended to be aimless, wandering things, haunting the world with their misery and loneliness until such time as they at last surrendered their passion and traveled beyond the shroud of life and into the realm of the spirit. Or simply drifted away to nothingness.
From time to time, employees would enter a vault or a darkened corridor and catch a glimpse of such a shade, and there would be whispers and perhaps a bit of hysteria. But these sightings were rare. Ordinary men and women rarely noticed the wandering souls, and the typical ghost wasn't even aware of human presence.
However, when a phantom of such extraordinary will and purpose as Queen Bodicea entered a room filled with living, breathing men and women . . . well, William Swift had no intention of discovering what sort of panic might ensue. Thus Bodicea remained unseen until the Swift siblings had entered William's office, and the door was closed and locked. Only then did she materialize, her spectral form dimmed by the daylight that was washing through the windows. Dust motes passed through her, eddying on unfelt drafts. She attended to the dialogue at hand, but her arms were crossed impatiently.
The spectral queen was ever enthusiastic when it came to warfare, to action, but rather less so when conversation was required.
"And then his eyes, Will," Tamara said, shuddering. She paced across his office, her footfalls echoing off the walls. "It was just horrid. Frederick transformed. There was something wrong with him. I think . . ."
William sat behind his desk, listening intently. All his frustrations had dissolved the moment he saw the ache in her eyes. First the death of one of her dearest friends, and now this fresh horror. When his sister faltered, he urged her on.
"I think . . . he killed Helena, Will."
William nodded. He had been thinking along the same lines, until his thoughts had been muddled by the distraction of Sophia's attentions in the carriage on the way to Threadneedle Street. It was odd how romantic notions could hold one completely in their sway.
"I don't know for certain, of course," she continued. "But I would like to take Bodicea and Farris, and pay the Martin household a visit."
William sucked in his breath.
"Lord Nelson, Horatio, sir, show yourself!" he called, keeping his voice low so that his assistant, Harold, would not overhear from the next room. And certainly one or more of his employees would be strolling by outside the door from time to time, attempting to eavesdrop.
A sharp noise rent the air, and Lord Admiral Nelson appeared before them.
"You called, William Swift?" Nelson said in his clipped, officious fashion. He drifted toward the desk, his one good eye focused on the male sibling.
"Horatio, have you heard Tamara's tale? The account of Helena Martin's death, and the strange metamorphosis undergone by her brother?"
The ghost nodded. "I have just received the horrendous details from Byron. A kind, good-hearted girl, Helena Martin, if ever there was one," Nelson whispered, floating toward Tamara as if his presence could ease her mind. He reached out with his one ghostly hand, letting it float directly above Tamara's shoulder.
"Horatio," William began, "we're going to require your services. Yours, as well as Bodicea's and Byron's, I think. Tamara and I will have to consider the best course of action, but to begin, please seek out all your spectral counterparts, those with whom you have contact in the city. Anything unusual must be brought to our attention, particularly if there are other instances of transformation."
"Already I may have news," Lord Nelson said, lifting his chin as though reporting to a superior officer. "The fiend, Oblis, was gracious enough to share certain information with Byron. Even though the demon must have some dastardly motivation for-"
"Oblis again," Tamara said. "He intimated to me only yesterday that he possessed some secret knowledge of a burgeoning evil, a new curse that was arising."
William turned in his chair. "And to me, only this morning."
"Do you think there's any truth in it, William? He said something about hearing voices in the darkness. Implying that he could listen to the conversations of other demons, even though he is imprisoned in Ludlow House."
William let out a long, tremulous breath. "I wouldn't like to credit it, since the implications are rather ominous, but it seems obvious that he must know something. Yet we must not forget the nature of the beast, the iniquity-"
"No," Bodicea said firmly, her voice cold. Her gaze burned into him. "We must not ever forget what Oblis is capable of."
There was a moment of silence among them as all the horrors perpetrated by the demon resurfaced in their memories. William nodded. He rarely allowed himself to consider it for long-to admit how much he loved his father, how much he longed for the quiet, muttering man to return to their lives, to their home.
"What has Father said, Horatio?" asked Tamara. "What did the demon say?"
"At a dinner party given by the bishop of Manchester, the earl of Claridge attacked a young woman, and has since been shut up in a sanatorium. That much I have confirmed. Oblis suggested that he was changed, as well. Like Frederick Martin."
Tamara pushed a loose strand of hair from behind one ear. Her eyes were lit with intensity, and she gazed about at the two ghosts, then focused once again on her brother.
"Perhaps there is a curse after all. We must begin our investigation immediately, Will. If these two men have been afflicted, I fear there may be others already, and no way to tell how many more to come."
William sighed, sinking down in his chair. "This isn't going to be pretty. We may have to ask awkward questions."
"For God's sake, William, this isn't the time to be worrying about how our efforts are going to be perceived by our society friends. We're the Protectors of Albion! Our duty is clear."
"Yes, of course," he agreed. "Whatever new horror has come to our shores, we must rise to meet it."
Tamara arched an eyebrow, and he was pleased to see a small smile on her face. "That's more like it," she said.
William smiled in return.
"As I was saying," Tamara went on, "I shall have Farris drive me to the Martins' residence, to see if I might find the truth concerning Helena's death, and any clue as to how Frederick has come to such a terrible end. Bodicea, if you'll accompany me, I would be greatly comforted."
"Of course, Tamara," the queen replied, nodding. The sun had stretched farther into the room, and by now she was merely a suggestion in the air, the outline of a woman.
"Excellent," William said. "Horatio, it's just as I said. Let's see what tales you can dredge from the ghostly world. I'm afraid I must stay and attend to at least the most pressing business here at the bank, but we shall meet at Ludlow House late this afternoon, and see what we have been able to learn. And then, Tamara, you will have to prepare for your assignation this evening with John Haversham."
"What?" Bodicea exclaimed.
Lord Nelson sputtered in disbelief. "You cannot be serious, William Swift!"
Even Tamara stared at him, her face crumbling. "Oh, Will, what must you think of me, to even entertain the notion that I could enjoy myself tonight, with Helena's . . . with Helena gone. And this new trouble. I could never-"
"But you must," William said.
She frowned, shaking her head. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"You have no choice, Tam. I'm sorry, truly. I know the pain you must be in. But your Mr. Haversham is part of that social circle. He might have been at the bishop's party, in which case he would have seen what happened to the earl. You must see what you can learn from him.
"But have a care, sister. If this curse has touched more than one, it may have touched others. Watch Haversham carefully."
Tamara nodded slowly, her gaze distant.
"I shall."
GIVEN THE TIME it would take for a message to be carried to Oxford, and for Helena's parents to arrange for their return, Tamara did not expect them to be at home when she called. She would claim that she had come to offer her condolences, and then ask if she might write a note for them to be given upon their return. While she was there, she would indulge upon the Martins' butler, Geoffrey, whom she had known most of her life, to allow her a few moments to mourn in Helena's room.
It was a good plan, save that it chilled her to manipulate her grief in that way-her own, and that of others.
The butler met her at the door. He was an older gentleman with a hunched back and pale skin, but his smile had always been warm whenever Tamara came to call. Today, however, his face was bleached white with grief and his lips, pale and bloodless, could not form a smile.
He admitted Tamara into the foyer, and she was surprised to learn that Helena's mother had arrived from Oxford. Though the butler could not see Bodicea, he seemed to sense a strangeness at Tamara's side and took a step back. He had been in service long enough to recover himself quickly, but he seemed wary after that.
While she waited for him to take her card in to the family, Tamara took the time to examine the sitting room. She had spent many afternoons in this home with Helena and the other girls of their circle.
Geoffrey returned to the sitting room and announced that Mrs. Martin would see her. Tamara followed him into the study, where Rose Martin stood in front of a window, her fingertips lightly spread across the glass. Tamara cleared her throat and Rose turned, her gaze empty.
"I was already on my way home when the news reached me. Otherwise I don't think there would have been anyone here to receive . . . the condolences. Frederick has . . . gone. Somewhere. I don't know. We all deal with our grief in different ways. Father won't be able to return until the weekend. I don't know what I shall do in the interim. This house . . ."
She bit her knuckle, her fist as white as her face.
Tamara didn't know what to say. Everything that came into her head was useless. She wanted to reach out and take Helena's mother in her arms, protect her from the terrible grief that surrounded the house.
Instead she took Rose's hand and squeezed it.
"Oh, Tamara . . ." The words were no sooner away from her lips than her jaw began to tremble, and tears flowed down her cheeks. She released Tamara's hand to dab a handkerchief to her eyes, then swallowed back a sob and shuddered, her small frame shivering from head to toe.
As a child, Tamara had always thought Helena's mother cut a very imposing figure, but now she realized that Rose was no taller or broader than she was herself. She is no giantess, Tamara thought. How the mind's eye plays tricks. Or is it memory that bedevils us so?
"I am terribly sorry for your loss," she managed, hearing the mournful rasp of her own voice, the quaver in it. "Helena was a dear, dear friend, and I know the place she held in my heart shall be empty now, forever."
Rose nodded, once again dabbing at her cheeks.
"I know that she treasured your friendship, Tamara. Thank you."
Something caught Tamara's eye. She turned her head and instantly her stomach churned. Like one of the undead, she staggered toward the lapis-and-jasper creature that sat on a small pedestal by the bookshelves.
"What . . . is this?" Tamara sputtered.
Rose followed her to where the amphibian statue sat. Tamara reached out a hand and touched the cool stone. Its eyes, the cast of its features, reminded her with unsettling power of the creature Frederick had become.
"This . . ." Rose composed herself. "This was a gift from an archaeologist friend, David Carstairs. It's a ceremonial statue from India."
Tamara frowned. "India?" she repeated.
"Forgive me, Tamara, but I think I must go and lie down now. I cannot . . . I cannot . . ."
"Of course, Mrs. Martin."
"Please, feel free to stay as long as you'd like. Helena had a number of sketches in her rooms that you might like to have. Take what you will. I know that she would have given you anything, my dear. She thought the world of you.
"She'd have wanted you to . . ." Once again, Rose fought back tears. "I'm sorry. I cannot continue . . ."
And with that Helena's mother was gone.
Tamara watched her retreating back, then turned to Bodicea. "Does this figurine seem familiar to you?"
Bodicea nodded. "Too familiar." The ghostly queen reached out a shimmering, transparent hand and rested it on the little stone creature.
Tamara stared at the specter. "Bodicea? How is that possible?" She looked more closely. Her eyes did not deceive her. Bodicea's hand did not go through the statue, but rested like real flesh on its jasper-and-lapis head.
"The creature has magical properties, Tamara. Dangerously powerful magic. It is a representation of the goddess Bharati. The Hindu goddess of sacrifice."
Bodicea removed her hand from the creature's head and floated away from it. In the gloom of that room, she seemed almost solid, and that was a comfort to Tamara.
"I'm afraid something terrible has come to London. And that this will be only the beginning." Bodicea's words sent a chill down Tamara's spine.
"Let us go to Helena's room. Perhaps we shall find a clue there."
Tamara moved toward the door, but stopped at the threshold to take one final look at the figurine. At length she tore her gaze away, and Bodicea followed her upstairs.
Helena's rooms were decorated in pale ivories and lavenders. The bed was neatly made, as if it had never been slept in, but was merely an exhibit. The whole room felt devoid of any humanity.
With a glance into the hall to see that she was not observed, Tamara closed the door and walked over to the small dresser. It did not contain toiletries, but instead was awash in delicate pen-and-ink and charcoal sketches.
Helena's sketches.
Tamara picked up a small portrait of Farris that Helena must have drawn the day before at Ludlow House. It was an excellent likeness, capturing the dignity and sincerity of the kindhearted man who was more friend than servant to the Swifts. She laid that sketch down on the bed and picked up another, a self-portrait Helena had drawn in pen and ink. Tamara touched the rough paper with a shaky hand. Her eyes began to burn with the threat of tears, and she gnawed on her lower lip.
"Oh, Bodicea, why? Why Helena?"
The spectral queen's eyes were sad, but she did not reply.
Tamara put the sketch down and walked over to Helena's bed. She picked up a small brown doll that sat primly against the pillow, and cradled it in her arms. Helena had loved this doll, which she had named Mrs. Scrumples, to everyone's amusement. But she put the doll down, and hardened herself with purpose.
"There has to be something here. Something to tell us what really happened," Tamara said. She began to pace the room, her blue eyes raking in its contents.
"There has to be something-"
Then the something caught her eye. Under the dresser was a piece of sketch paper. Tamara knelt and picked it up. It was an unfinished sketch of the little lapis-and-jasper creature in the study with:
FOR TAMARA
inked above it. Tamara held the paper out, faceup so that the warrior queen could see the subject matter.
"Strange, isn't it?" Tamara asked. "If this figurine was responsible for Frederick's transformation . . . Helena was exposed to it for a time as well, yet it did not affect her. Could it be that the curse it carried had no effect on women?"
"She has left the sketch unfinished . . ."
Tamara nodded. "Yes, unfinished. And Helena was compulsively thorough about her work. She would never have left this sketch undone, not without cause."
Bodicea rapped her spear on the carpet. "Unless something prevented her from completing it."
Tamara turned the sketch over and was surprised to find a short sentence scribbled on its back. She squinted to make out the words:
BEHIND THE DRESSER
With a breathless glance at Bodicea, Tamara went to the dresser and slid it forward on the carpet. A small, leather-bound book had been wedged behind it, which now fell onto the floor with a dry thump. Tamara picked it up and opened the cover.
"Her journal," she whispered, holding the little volume reverently in her hands. "Shall I?" she asked Bodicea.
The warrior queen nodded. "It can do her no harm in death." Her ghostly features had thinned, and Tamara could see the canopied bed through her face.
Thus encouraged, Tamara flipped the pages until she reached the final entry. There were large tearstains obscuring some of the letters. Tamara put her hand to her mouth as she silently read: