on one of his grave-robbing expeditions.”
Professor Whutson reminisced fondly as if such missions were an everyday occurrence and the career of choice. Ian blinked, having the strangest feeling of descending into a kaleidoscope of Frankenstein follies—a most odd fall indeed.
“She used to wear her uncle and me out with her unending questions. ‘What makes butterflies die so soon after they metamorphose?’ ‘Why do the stars live so far away and where do they go when they go to sleep?’ ‘How many vampires does it take to close a coffin?’” He chuckled. “She was always a whirlwind, a true credit to the Frankenstein name.”
The last made Ian stand straighten So, he thought, it appeared Clair’s interest in the preternatural was of childhood origin.
“Yes, Miss Frankenstein is quite an amazing student in the more mystic-type studies,” Ian probed. His focus sharpened; yet outwardly he remained the perfect picture of a bored gentleman. If Professor Whutson was ignorant of Clair’s recent work, Ian didn’t want to alert him.
“Quite,” Professor Whutson replied.
“Do you confer with her on her studies?”
“Clair confers with no one. She sticks that pretty little nose of hers to the ground like a good bloodhound and goes after the scent. I can tell you that she’s caused a gray hair or two on her uncle Victor’s head.” The doctor chuckled affectionately.
Longing to breathe a sigh of relief, Ian merely smiled. Now he knew which enemies were at the gate, since Watson and Holmes were clueless about Clair’s current quest. “How does Miss Frankenstein come up with her hypotheses? Does anyone help her?”
“No. She does that too by herself. Amazing brain that girl has. Probably the most forward of backward-problem-solving I have had the privilege to witness. She learned to walk before she could crawl, learned her alphabet from Z to A, and solves a mystery beginning with the end and working in reverse to the beginning. Truly amazing.”
Which explains, Ian thought smugly to himself, the case of mistaken identity.
A new man entered the room, a tall mustachioed fellow, and Whutson gave a start. “There’s that incorrigible Arthur again. He’s always following Homes and me around, pestering us and asking the most personal details about our casework, then getting everything wrong. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
And with that the professor excused himself, leaving Ian to study the room and its odd assortment of guests. Ian noticed that Poe fellow standing alone by the fireplace, where dying embers wrought their ghosts upon the floor. He seemed lost, a man in a dream within a dream. Ian walked over to join him.
“Mr. Poe?”
Edgar glanced up at Ian, nodding, his face sphinxlike. “Baron Huntsley,” he said quietly, his attention returning to the raven.
Ian cocked his head, studying Poe. It appeared as if he were receiving some psychic revelation. It was as if Mr. Poe was peering into the darkness of his soul, pondering things no mortal man had before thought.
“Nevermore,” Mr. Poe whispered.
“Pardon?” Ian asked, perplexed by the comment and by the odd thin man standing before him.
“Nothing.”
“You seem alone with your thoughts.” Ian grimaced in disgust. He had smelled the cloying scent of opium before. If Edgar wasn’t an addict yet, he was well on his way. Which was a shame, Ian thought. Opiates and liquor might first stir a creative fire, but in the end the addiction extinguished the flames, leaving talent in the ashes.
“No. Not alone.” Poe motioned to the raven. “Do you know that I believe this bird is a prophet, a thing of evil? Bird or devil, I know not which.”
“I rather thought the bird was dead and, though not buried, most certainly stuffed,” Ian remarked.
“He speaks to me, quotes to me.”
“Shakespeare?” Ian inquired, deciding to humor him.
“Milton. Paradise Lost,” Poe answered solemnly.
“I see,” Ian said and he did.
Professor Whutson reminisced fondly as if such missions were an everyday occurrence and the career of choice. Ian blinked, having the strangest feeling of descending into a kaleidoscope of Frankenstein follies—a most odd fall indeed.
“She used to wear her uncle and me out with her unending questions. ‘What makes butterflies die so soon after they metamorphose?’ ‘Why do the stars live so far away and where do they go when they go to sleep?’ ‘How many vampires does it take to close a coffin?’” He chuckled. “She was always a whirlwind, a true credit to the Frankenstein name.”
The last made Ian stand straighten So, he thought, it appeared Clair’s interest in the preternatural was of childhood origin.
“Yes, Miss Frankenstein is quite an amazing student in the more mystic-type studies,” Ian probed. His focus sharpened; yet outwardly he remained the perfect picture of a bored gentleman. If Professor Whutson was ignorant of Clair’s recent work, Ian didn’t want to alert him.
“Quite,” Professor Whutson replied.
“Do you confer with her on her studies?”
“Clair confers with no one. She sticks that pretty little nose of hers to the ground like a good bloodhound and goes after the scent. I can tell you that she’s caused a gray hair or two on her uncle Victor’s head.” The doctor chuckled affectionately.
Longing to breathe a sigh of relief, Ian merely smiled. Now he knew which enemies were at the gate, since Watson and Holmes were clueless about Clair’s current quest. “How does Miss Frankenstein come up with her hypotheses? Does anyone help her?”
“No. She does that too by herself. Amazing brain that girl has. Probably the most forward of backward-problem-solving I have had the privilege to witness. She learned to walk before she could crawl, learned her alphabet from Z to A, and solves a mystery beginning with the end and working in reverse to the beginning. Truly amazing.”
Which explains, Ian thought smugly to himself, the case of mistaken identity.
A new man entered the room, a tall mustachioed fellow, and Whutson gave a start. “There’s that incorrigible Arthur again. He’s always following Homes and me around, pestering us and asking the most personal details about our casework, then getting everything wrong. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
And with that the professor excused himself, leaving Ian to study the room and its odd assortment of guests. Ian noticed that Poe fellow standing alone by the fireplace, where dying embers wrought their ghosts upon the floor. He seemed lost, a man in a dream within a dream. Ian walked over to join him.
“Mr. Poe?”
Edgar glanced up at Ian, nodding, his face sphinxlike. “Baron Huntsley,” he said quietly, his attention returning to the raven.
Ian cocked his head, studying Poe. It appeared as if he were receiving some psychic revelation. It was as if Mr. Poe was peering into the darkness of his soul, pondering things no mortal man had before thought.
“Nevermore,” Mr. Poe whispered.
“Pardon?” Ian asked, perplexed by the comment and by the odd thin man standing before him.
“Nothing.”
“You seem alone with your thoughts.” Ian grimaced in disgust. He had smelled the cloying scent of opium before. If Edgar wasn’t an addict yet, he was well on his way. Which was a shame, Ian thought. Opiates and liquor might first stir a creative fire, but in the end the addiction extinguished the flames, leaving talent in the ashes.
“No. Not alone.” Poe motioned to the raven. “Do you know that I believe this bird is a prophet, a thing of evil? Bird or devil, I know not which.”
“I rather thought the bird was dead and, though not buried, most certainly stuffed,” Ian remarked.
“He speaks to me, quotes to me.”
“Shakespeare?” Ian inquired, deciding to humor him.
“Milton. Paradise Lost,” Poe answered solemnly.
“I see,” Ian said and he did.
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