MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL (typewritten)

 4 November. Gloom, rain, and misery. No constitutional stroll this morning. I decided to take the service stairs to the kitchen, which was an excuse to slip up to the third floor and give a listen to Arthur’s door.

I’ve discovered Arthur to be a sleep talker. Mostly he mumbles, almost a chanter. I would swear he "sleep talks" in Latin with a cadence. The tone was low and guttural. A smaller voice than his daily use. I had the sense it was religious. Very mysterious. I will have to remember to rib him about it when next I see him. He has burrowed in for hibernation; that much seems evident.

As I reached the first-floor landing, I heard Mrs. Brady and Gertie quibbling in harsh tones, so I stopped and I listened. Some may call this sort of activity eavesdropping and despicable, which it is, but the content of their conversation was such that I felt an interruption would be awkward, and so I waited for a moment to arrive when the discussion was less heated, and I could be less intrusive.

"There’s too much quiet," this came from Gertie. "This house is a tomb and now with his Lordshat up in that perch. Every little bit he thinks he needs he’s ringing that bell. He nearly wore me out yesterday. Up and down the stairs, I went. This house ain’t some grand estate with a brigade of servants for his every beck and call."

A pot slammed against the countertop. I assume it was Mrs. Brady doing the slamming and that she had the good sense not to cause a dent. "There’s nothing wrong doing what is asked and earning a day’s wage for doing it. His Lordship is an important man; you’ll do well to aid in his comfort." Her scolding tone made me cringe, so I can’t imagine what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that tongue in person.

"I’ve aided in the comfort of a few of His Lordships and earned more than a day’s wage while doing it."

"I will not hear such things in this house. How did I get a daughter such as you?"

The silence was thick, and I thought it might be my chance to end my predicament; however, that thought was short-lived when Gertie produced the following verbal assault. Its tone was low and menacing, and when I was her age, I would never have spoken to an elder in such a fashion. "You’re not even a shadow of my mother, you old prig, so don’t you ever—"

I heard a stair squeak behind me. Quincey uses the servant’s stairs to dash about quickly. I checked the stairs for a shadow and listened for another shift and creak. I found and heard neither. I sensed that the stairs were empty, and I was just silly. I am easily spooked these days because of the "incidents" that seem to be occurring around me. When I returned my attention to Mrs. Brady and Gertie, it was evident that the conversation had taken a turn and that I had missed something important. Gertie’s tone with Mrs. Brady was a tad bit more civil. Perhaps forgiving.

"I was just tellin’ you what happened, and you go and get all self-righteous on me. You don’t have to worry about me," said Gertie.

"Oh, I do worry because you are no stranger to temptation. Keep your distance with that one, that’s all I’m saying. You have a reputation."

"I’ve put that all behind me. Why don’t you do the same?"

"I’ve let my guard down with you before, and it’s me searching in the dark alleys. Me worrying in the middle of the night."

"If I say not to worry, then don’t worry."

"But I must."

"Choose not to."

"It’s not so easy, you know. At times, I wish I could. It would make my life more convenient."

Whereas this was all fascinating, I thought it time to interrupt least I hear something I did not wish to hear.

It is worth a note to confirm that Mrs. Brady and Gertie are related, though, I’m not sure how. Perhaps an adoption? An unfortunate sister’s bastard child? Gertie looks neither like Mrs. Brady nor like Rufs. I see no familial resemblance. I am a bit taken aback that Mrs. Brady devised such a deception for our introduction to one another. Perhaps she believed that I wouldn’t hire Gertie if I had known she was a family member.

I think families work well together as household staff. At the end of their day, they have something other than a cold room awaiting them. They have comfort other than what the house proper provides. That’s my thinking on the matter.

All this eavesdropping has helped explain that odd feeling that they knew each other when I saw the two of them together for the first time.

Throwing it all to the side, I made my entrance. I set a look of purpose on my face and walked straight through the kitchen into the dining room with nary a nod at either woman.

They froze in place, their eyes cast to the floor and so hushed in mid-sentence that their mouths snapped shut.

When I was sure my back was in their view, I gleaned a cheek-aching smile. I will share this amusement with Mrs. Brady at some future time when it seems suitable.

*      *      *

I asked Rufs to remove the Ramblers from the glasshouse, and this simple request produced a surly response.

"No longer happy with the roses, mum?"

"It’s more that they’re taking over, than anything else." Which is true, the vines have become woody and altogether unattractive. I find them displeasing. Rufs has kindled a fondness for them parallel to his fondness for Mrs. Brady. "I would like them removed," I reiterated.

"They’d be well to be pruned. Would you like me to prune ’em?"

"I would like them removed."

"Lots-a flowers bloomin’ there. Missus and Gertie could do up some lovely bouquets throughout. Always nice for winter flowers."

"Please just do as you have been asked." I was brusque. I don’t think I was in the wrong to snap. His hurtful expression immediately pulled me in to check. I countered my "snapping" with what I hoped was a reasonable explanation and a calm demeanor. "I don’t go in the glasshouse anymore, Rufs, because the scent of the Ramblers is so overwhelming. I don’t smell the beauty of roses; I smell the rot. I want to give orchids a try. I hear they can be very challenging and quite satisfying for the enthusiast."

He gazed over the top of his eyeglasses, this I remember more than the tone of his voice, "Orchids rot, too, mum. Everything rots."

*      *      *

LORD GODALMING’S AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTEBOOK (in calligraphy)

November 4. 24 days until the Workings.

A morning of subterfuge at Larkbear Hill; Madame Harker eavesdropping on her servants and myself, eavesdropping on Madame Harker. Initially, I nearly stumbled into MH on the service stairs; I was able to make small into the shadows and conceal myself. There’s nothing like starting one’s day with a little household drama, especially if it isn’t in your household. I learned a few things. One; MH likes to eavesdrop, and she’s reasonably well practiced at it. She can’t conceal as I can, but I’d swear the woman blends in and out the shadows. Two; Mrs. Brady and the Between Maid are not mother and daughter. Fascinating information, indeed. And very useful—

Gertie Henderson is a delightful and wicked-minded creature and shall make a beautiful, and I’m confident, a willing Virgo Intacta for the Devonshire Workings. I will need to inform Ashford to be ready. Once the temptress is enticed, we will need to act quickly.

Haste creeps upon us.

*      *      *

Quoit—A day’s excursion to and through Dartmoor to reach the Quoit. Although Ashford was driving, he was in a semi-meditative state, letting the forces guide us through picturesque and gloomily brooding villages. I, too, was in a meditative state.  Vacillating between being submerged in the deepest depths or on the brink of soaring through the astral plane. Floating, traveling back and forth, up and down—and thus, the physical journey to our sacred destination appeared to take little time although my pocket watch said differently.

We connected with our Initiate—a member of the Trades Protection Association in a MacGregor tartan—who provided horses and further directions to the Quoit.

On horseback, which wasn’t too unpleasant in spite of the shabby appearances of our horses, we traversed the barren, otherworldly landscape into the high moor—desolate, expansive, and weathered with clusters of granite cresting through the thick layers of vibrant emerald peat moss and honey-tinged cotton grass. Treeless and utterly empty.

A moderate, leisurely ascent.

Glancing back over our journey’s path the clouds that splotched the otherwise glycerin clear sky cast indigo shadows over the gentle valleys and knolls.

At first sight, the Quoit is breathtaking, and then on closer approach, it becomes chilling. Silhouetted against the sky, the three colossal upright stones the color of old bones elevated the massive capstone, which must weigh more than the three supports combined—high enough for a man on horseback to seek sanctuary against the harsher elements.

The location is utterly isolated and entirely suited to our needs.

As I stood beneath the massive capstone, as I stood over the ancient chamber tomb, as I faced north and as I closed my physical eyes commanding my third eye to open and allowing my mind to receive—My auditory senses defined a flutter of wings. Then a deafening colossal flapping of wings. I felt the wind opening my coat as it did in Dover during the White Cliffs Workings.

My third eye filled with visions of the enormous Imperial Crow—composed of the frothing blackness of hundreds of minions—descending from a purple-black sky with beaks and razor-sharp talons shredding flesh.

I grasped with absolute and supreme clarity that I was capable, not only of commencing but also of carrying through the intensive Working unto its end.

Ashford and I consecrated the location by seeding the soil in ritual, and now the preparations are to commence.

*      *      *

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL (typewritten)

6 November. Each morning I believe I’m sleeping less than the day before. I even force myself to keep my eyes closed, hoping that sleep will allow me a reprise before my body and mind says "No," and my day begins. No matter what, I’m always earlier than the day before. Even going to bed has become later and later. I am getting, at most, five hours of sleep each evening. I am also falling asleep in the mid-afternoon, usually just after tea. Were it not for the occasional spilled cup; I wouldn’t know this was happening to me. I sit. I sip my tea. I have a biscuit. I am utterly unaware of falling asleep. It’s as if I "turn off," as if one turns off the gas on the stove or flips a light switch. It’s only the clues of my damp lap and the teacup on the floor that allows me to know that I have "gone out." I haven’t an idea what Mrs. Brady thinks of these unscheduled slumbers. With an amount of certitude and because the woman never misses the opportunity to spy on anyone in this household, I am sure she has seen me and watched me slumber. The fact that she hasn’t expressed any concern makes me suspect that I might be some mid-afternoon entertainment for her. My best guess at the most extended episode is forty minutes. These events are strange in that they happen often, and I have no memory of being tired the way one is just before nodding off to sleep. I’m not yawning or struggling to hold my eyes open. I’m not nodding my head and banging my chin on my chest. There are no "near misses" where I start to nod off then jerk back awake as Jonathan does at the Operatic Society. It’s as if, for those interludes, I die.

*      *      *

A journey along City Wall, my thoughts kept my mind occupied until I found myself at Barbican Steps. I had missed my turn on Fore Street. So, over the catacombs through Lower Cemetery, turning in this direction and that. Too tiring to be an adventure. Also consumed with odd thoughts to care in what direction I was traipsing.

I noticed many long-faced old folks this morning. So glum and morose behind their gray, rainwater colored eyes. I didn’t feel like saying hello, which I know is rude, but I don’t appreciate others intruding on me, so I wasn’t about to be intrusive. Sometimes a kind hello is all that is needed to perk their day, but this morning I couldn’t muster the kindness.

Even the middle-aged appeared dismal, shrinking into dotage long before their times. I began to reflect on my age wondering if those politely nodding folks feel the wrinkles on the inside because I don’t. I don’t feel my age in the least. Also, I’m embarrassed that I appear younger than my peers do. There was a time when my peers were older, and I was young and out of my league. A time when they were approaching their thirties, and I was merely twenty-two. At the time, I felt pressure to act in a mature manner appropriate to their age, but I was nearly a decade younger and wanted to be as the young do. I didn’t want the responsibilities of being older, not at that time. It was something not relative to my state of mind. Now I’ve achieved that age, and yet, on the inside, I feel as young as I was then. I am sure I could ask Teddy how young she feels on the inside, and I would get an exact answer attributed to the age of her mind and heart—regardless of the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Jonathan would say he’s an accurate reflection on the inside of his outside—skin slightly sagging, no longer taut, eyes peeking out of dark circles and over little plump bags—probably a sadly valid observation. Quincey would gleefully tell me he’s hundreds and hundreds of years old, then show me his palms—the palms of an old soul as wrinkled as a dried fig—as undeniable proof.

"Mother, if you soaked your palms in water overnight, they still wouldn’t prune up."

Lucy’s palms were smooth, also. I think this is an accurate memory. I do remember Lucy and me having a palm reading once by a Romanian gypsy at a funfair who remarked on our lack of creases and lines. There might have been something said about a short lifeline for one of us, but we were both young, lighthearted, and full of those silly external problems that come with being so carefree.

It is a haunting feeling one has, as the others around you grow old. It’s that queer feeling you sometimes have after you know the motorcar has stopped, but the one beside you is starting to glide backward and, for a brief moment, your equilibrium is askew, and you don’t know if your motor car is the one moving.

It’s all mildly queasy.

*      *      *

I do not like the way Gertie Henderson flirts with my son. There is something sluttish about how she engages with Quincey. My son isn’t innocent in these matters. I see him playing along, getting more sure-footed with each encounter. He is growing into a young man, and I can already tell he’s going to break many hearts. The two seemed to be stuck in some perfunctory dance. From what I’ve observed, the predatory position changes frequently.

The world is full of devious women like Gertie Henderson.

Next Chapter: CHAPTER XI