floors are now lined with shafts of sunlight, which slice their way like knives through the gaps between the shutters. Plants slump, dried up anddead in their pots. The kitchen lies filthy, ruined by mice and rats that feasted on the food we left behind and scuttle still among the flour sacks and putrid remains of the pantry.
Nothing here has changed—and yet everything has. It is a gloomy house. I imagine it always was, except for the short time Lily graced its chambers. As I wander through its hallways, I half expect to hear her gentle voice calling from the stairs, searching me out as she used to, craving the comfort of my embrace. But I shall not dwell on such memories.
My suffering in the catacombs—surviving on the humblest of prey—has sharpened my hunger. It twists my belly and tortures my soul. But I am near my goal now: I can sense Mary Seward’s proximity as a wolf scents its prey.
I shall call on her soon.
C HAPTER 11
Journal of Mary Seward
4TH N OVEMBER 1918
I have just returned from my dinner with Lord Bathory—though he insists I now call him just Bathory, as his other friends do.
I had never had reason to visit the Royal Hotel before but, of course, had passed it many times, having grown up in Purfleet. I’d always been impressed by the hotel’s imposing Victorian facade, its steeply pitched gables and sweeping lawns.
It wasn’t easy, venturing out into the night again, despite the protection of the covered carriage. My heart pounded as we travelled through the darkened lanes. I peered fretfully out of the carriage window, searching the shadows; somehow, not looking was even more frightening. But knowing Bathory awaited me, I found the strength to bear the anxietythat seared my veins. I hoped I’d find him as convivial as when last we met.
I hurried from the brougham into the welcoming light of the Royal Hotel’s lobby and found myself awed by its opulence. My nose was immediately filled with the heady scent coming from a spectacular display of hothouse lilies positioned to the side of the sweeping central staircase. I made my way, a little self-consciously, toward the reception desk, my tread sinking into the deep-piled carpet. I felt my rather plain dress must look dowdy amid such elegance.
But the immaculately dressed man behind the desk smiled warmly as I approached, and as soon as I told him my name, he quickly ushered me into the dining room and led me toward an empty table.
“I will call Lord Bathory’s room and tell him you have arrived,” he informed me, taking my coat as I slipped it from my shoulders. He draped it over his arm and pulled out a chair so that I might seat myself. The snow-white tablecloth seemed to whisper as it brushed against the pale green silk of my dress. My nose was filled with another heavenly scent—of roses this time, decorating the centre of the table.
As the man withdrew, I gazed around the room. It was lit by new electric lamps hanging from the ceilings and fixed to the walls, the vivid light glittering on the crystal glasses and silverware that graced the tables. I felt I had entered the very lap of luxury.
“Would you care for a drink, miss, while you are waiting?”
Starting at the unexpected voice, I turned to see that a waiter had appeared beside me, like a genie from a lamp. “Just a glass of water, please,” I replied, relieved that my answer had come out with some degree of self-assurance. “And would you ask for Lord Bathory’s carriage to be ready for me at ten?”
“Certainly, miss.”
I caught sight of Bathory hurrying into the room just then, looking a little flustered. He was still straightening his tie as he headed toward the table, his grey eyes full of apology.
“Open some champagne, Simkins,” he said to the waiter, his voice breathless.
The waiter glanced at me. “Will you still require water, miss?” he asked pleasantly.
I saw Bathory’s face cloud with uncertainty on hearing this.
“Oh no, champagne would
Nothing here has changed—and yet everything has. It is a gloomy house. I imagine it always was, except for the short time Lily graced its chambers. As I wander through its hallways, I half expect to hear her gentle voice calling from the stairs, searching me out as she used to, craving the comfort of my embrace. But I shall not dwell on such memories.
My suffering in the catacombs—surviving on the humblest of prey—has sharpened my hunger. It twists my belly and tortures my soul. But I am near my goal now: I can sense Mary Seward’s proximity as a wolf scents its prey.
I shall call on her soon.
C HAPTER 11
Journal of Mary Seward
4TH N OVEMBER 1918
I have just returned from my dinner with Lord Bathory—though he insists I now call him just Bathory, as his other friends do.
I had never had reason to visit the Royal Hotel before but, of course, had passed it many times, having grown up in Purfleet. I’d always been impressed by the hotel’s imposing Victorian facade, its steeply pitched gables and sweeping lawns.
It wasn’t easy, venturing out into the night again, despite the protection of the covered carriage. My heart pounded as we travelled through the darkened lanes. I peered fretfully out of the carriage window, searching the shadows; somehow, not looking was even more frightening. But knowing Bathory awaited me, I found the strength to bear the anxietythat seared my veins. I hoped I’d find him as convivial as when last we met.
I hurried from the brougham into the welcoming light of the Royal Hotel’s lobby and found myself awed by its opulence. My nose was immediately filled with the heady scent coming from a spectacular display of hothouse lilies positioned to the side of the sweeping central staircase. I made my way, a little self-consciously, toward the reception desk, my tread sinking into the deep-piled carpet. I felt my rather plain dress must look dowdy amid such elegance.
But the immaculately dressed man behind the desk smiled warmly as I approached, and as soon as I told him my name, he quickly ushered me into the dining room and led me toward an empty table.
“I will call Lord Bathory’s room and tell him you have arrived,” he informed me, taking my coat as I slipped it from my shoulders. He draped it over his arm and pulled out a chair so that I might seat myself. The snow-white tablecloth seemed to whisper as it brushed against the pale green silk of my dress. My nose was filled with another heavenly scent—of roses this time, decorating the centre of the table.
As the man withdrew, I gazed around the room. It was lit by new electric lamps hanging from the ceilings and fixed to the walls, the vivid light glittering on the crystal glasses and silverware that graced the tables. I felt I had entered the very lap of luxury.
“Would you care for a drink, miss, while you are waiting?”
Starting at the unexpected voice, I turned to see that a waiter had appeared beside me, like a genie from a lamp. “Just a glass of water, please,” I replied, relieved that my answer had come out with some degree of self-assurance. “And would you ask for Lord Bathory’s carriage to be ready for me at ten?”
“Certainly, miss.”
I caught sight of Bathory hurrying into the room just then, looking a little flustered. He was still straightening his tie as he headed toward the table, his grey eyes full of apology.
“Open some champagne, Simkins,” he said to the waiter, his voice breathless.
The waiter glanced at me. “Will you still require water, miss?” he asked pleasantly.
I saw Bathory’s face cloud with uncertainty on hearing this.
“Oh no, champagne would
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