Beneath London (53 page)

Their table was very near a window alcove, and from outside now they heard the high-pitched voice of a young boy shout, “Horror on Wimpole Street!” and they watched him sell his last newspaper to an old gentleman who stood beside the tollhouse across the road, sheltered from the sharp wind.

“I feel as if I sold my soul against the promise of seeing a preserved auk.”

“Have you considered that your failing to
protect
Clara put Clara in the way of protecting herself? Of becoming the heroine of her own tale? Mother Laswell came to us for help, and she found a way to help herself and Clara and Sarah Wright into the bargain. Finn Conrad was called upon to do his part, and he did it well. Clara is quite happy about that, by the way. All’s well that ends well, I say.”

St. Ives smiled at her. “You’ve always been formidably persuasive,” he said.

“Then eat your toasted cheese before I snatch it out of your hand and eat it myself.”

Alice was as beautiful as he had ever seen her, and he marveled at her ability to step away from the horrors of the preceding days as if through a door, which she had apparently closed behind her. But of course it wasn’t as easy as that; she was simply a stoical creature, not looking back, as the saying went. His mind moved to the night ahead of them, but he reminded himself that it was equally wrong to look forward and miss what was before one’s eyes in the present moment.

“
Wimpole Street
,” Alice said flatly. “I’ll avoid that address for the rest of my days. Have you any desire to read about what they found there?”

“None whatsoever,” St. Ives said. It came into his mind that he would very much like to know the fate of Ignacio Narbondo, however – whether Willis Pule would find a way to release him from the grip of the mushrooms or would keep him as a zoo specimen. Ideally the latter.

They sipped their brandy and watched through the window. It was the tail end of the dark afternoon and the leafless trees shook in the wind. Now it began to snow, the flakes blowing against the window glass and melting. The old man across the road hurried away in the gathering gloom and was soon out of sight. The newsboy blew into his cupped hands and then shoved them into his pockets, walking away downhill in the opposite direction. The toasted cheese tasted particularly well, the night outside giving it a certain relish. Very soon the ground beyond the window was white in the glow of the lamps, and snow had begun to build up on the mullions of the windows.

The soup arrived now:
bisque de homard
, the shelled lobster claws floating in the red-gold broth. They clicked their spoons together – an old habit – and set in with a will, not having eaten anything since the morning’s breakfast at the Half Toad, where they had said goodbye to Tubby and Gilbert and went off to visit Hasbro, who, thank goodness, would walk only temporarily with a cane.

The evening wound on as they ate and chatted, logs going to the fire at regular intervals, the soft snow falling in the lamplight, and the food appearing and disappearing, right through the treacle pudding with lemon sauce.

“I might never eat again,” Alice said, “at least until breakfast.” She looked lazy and happy, and the sight of her made St. Ives smile.

Together they rose from the table and walked arm-in-arm to the stairs where they ascended to their room – “the very same room.” Here too a fire burned in the grate, and they lay in bed cheerfully for a time, listening to the logs pop and fizz. Alice pointed out that Eddy and Cleo would be home from Grandmother Tippett’s house in Scarborough in three days’ time. St. Ives realized that he looked forward to it – the family together in Aylesford, sitting around a fire in their own hearth, Alice reading something aloud before bedtime, and St. Ives carrying Cleo to bed, she having fallen asleep in the middle of the reading.

But there was tonight to think of. The wick of the lamp was low, scarcely enough light to read by, if reading had been on their minds. Whirling snow still fell beyond the window in the rising breeze, light shone from under the door, and someone’s jolly laughter sounded from below. St. Ives cupped his hand over the shade of the lamp and blew out the flame.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
’d like to thank several people who helped out when I was writing this novel: Tim Powers, Paul Buchanan, John Berlyne, and, for patient editing, proofreading, and invaluable suggestions, my wife Viki.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J
ames Paul Blaylock was born in Long Beach, California in 1950, and attended California State University, where he received an MA. He was befriended and mentored by Philip K. Dick, along with his contemporaries K.W. Jeter and Tim Powers, and is regarded – along with Powers and Jeter – as one of the founding fathers of the steampunk movement. Winner of two World Fantasy Awards and the Philip K. Dick Award, he is currently director of the Creative Writing Conservatory at the Orange County High School of the Arts, where Tim Powers is Writer in Residence. Blaylock lives in Orange CA with his wife; they have two sons.