Dracula in London

The Dark Downstairs

Roxanne Longstreet Conrad

Here, now, Nora, dry your eyes. I know it’s a sad day, but we should all get about our duties now. She’s in a better place.

What, you want to hear about Dracula? At a time like this? Go on with you, you must’ve heard the story a dozen times by now, what with Mr. and Mrs. Harker and all the rest of ‘em in and out of the house—oh, I know, they don’t gossip to servants, but still, who notices us? Stand just outside the parlor, ear to the door—I know the tricks, missy, don’t think I don’t.

Hush, now, keep your eyes on your work. There’s Mrs. Bannock, she’ll have the hide off of us if we don’t finish these by teatime. What was we talking about? Dracula, indeed. Well, Nora, I never did see half what they say happened at Hillingham, and believe me, I was in the thick of it. No dogs, nor wolves, nor any of that foolishness. Dracula? Yes, I figure as I saw ‘im, but believe you me, he weren’t he worst of it. Not by a long chalk.

They’ll never tell that part of it, ‘cause it doesn’t concern the Quality.

Who does it concern? Us, of course. The downstairs. The servants.

‘Ere, you need that knife? Give it over. Now, where was I? No, I’m not telling about Dracula, I’m telling you about Elizabeth Gwydion.

First thing you have to know about Hillingham is that it’s been in the Westenra family for centuries, a good old country house in Whitby, near the sea—the family come down from London every season for the summer. By July Mrs. Westenra and Miss Lucy had arrived, along with Miss Lucy’s friend Mina Murray—yes, Mrs. Harker, but she was Mina Murray then—and they brought Rose with them as ladies’ maid. In the house there was Mr. Gage, the butler, and Mrs. Ravenstock, the housekeeper, and Mrs. Brockham, the cook, and of course me upstairs, and Penny, and Jeannette the parlor maid and Alice the downstairs maid and Kate the tweeny, and Mary in the scullery, and Joseph the boot-boy, and George the footman—

What do you mean, a large staff? Small enough, for the size of Hillingham, I can tell you. Up at five, bed at midnight; some things never change, eh? For all Dr. Van Helsing’s such a kind man, still things have to be done, don’t they?

Where was I? Oh, yes, the staff. Well, that was the staff at the start of July, but it didn’t stay that way, ‘cause of Rose, who got herself in trouble with a young man. Well, you can well imagine, Mr. Gage sent her packing without a reference. Poor Rose, she were crying something awful. Elizabeth Gwydion showed up the very afternoon, to Mrs. Ravenstock’s relief—Welsh, they said, neat as a pin, a bit foreign-looking, skin like the finest, palest cream. Pretty? Oh, if you like. Too pretty, to my mind.

I was polishing the hamster rail when she came sweeping up, head high, the way great ladies do; she was looking at those stairs as if she’d bought ‘em whole. I knew she was going to be trouble—did you know, she wouldn’t even let us call her Liz? No, it had to be Elizabeth, like the Queen herself. And Mrs. Ravenstock thought she hung the moon.

She had skills, I suppose. She was good with stains; when Miss Mina cut her finger and got blood on her best blue gown it was Elizabeth who took it away to clean it, wouldn’t give it over to the laundry maid Gracie at all. ‘Twas Gracie who carried the first tale about her, I suppose. She whispered to me as how she saw Elizabeth sucking the blood out of that dress, like a half-starved woman licking at spilled soup.

Poor Gracie. Dead two days later in her bed when I went to wake her, her skin blue and cold, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. No sign what killed her. Mrs. Ravenstock said it was her heart, but the poor little bint was only fifteen. Poison, I say. But as nobody sent for the constable, it’ll never be proved.

With Gracie gone the work got harder. Soon enough we found we was washing the sheets as well as ironing them, and doing most of Elizabeth’s work as well. Mrs. Ravenstock told us to stop our complaining. She took Elizabeth’s part every time, no matter the cause; the way she looked at that girl fair gave me a turn. And Elizabeth looked at her like Mrs. Ravenstock was a cream pastry at afternoon tea.

Dracula? I told you, I’m getting to him. Now be quiet and listen, stop wiggling like a wet puppy. All right, now, where was I? Oh, yes, Gracie was dead, poor soul, and upstairs, Miss Lucy was having her own troubles. Sleepwalking, the way she used to as a child. Nothing to fret over, I said at the time, but of course I was quite wrong about that.

I made an enemy out of Elizabeth Gwydion about then. It was over a little thing, really, sounds ever so stupid. It was over me being Catholic. Mind you, now, the others tolerated it right enough. “Oh, Mary Margaret, she’s heathen,” they’d say cheerfully, though not where the Mistress could hear. Mr. Gage knew I kept to my faith, and he said nothing about it. I even wore a crucifix, under the neck of my dress, of course. That was what caused the trouble. I was bent over scrubbing the floor and my crucifix must have slipped off, it fell on the floor and I didn’t notice it.

Well, Miss High-and-Mighty Elizabeth stepped on it as she walked by, and screamed like she’d put her foot on a nail. Hissed some foreign words at me and all but slapped me, she did; kicked over my bucket, water and soap everywhere, and flounced off with her cap-ribbons bouncing. Well, naturally, I complained of it to Mrs. Ravenstock, but she told me I must have overset the bucket myself and to mop up the mess and not to carry tales. The look in her eyes was like she’d had herself an opium pipe. Well, I wasn’t content to be leaving it at that—after all, I’m not a clumsy cow, and there was no call for Elizabeth to do such a thing. The row brought Mr. Gage, who called Elizabeth down.

She lied, of course, but Mr. Gage didn’t believe it. He gave her a dressing-down such as few of us had ever heard, and when she looked at me there was a smile on her lips, but murder in her eyes, and I knew that wasn’t the end of it.

The next morning there was broken glass scattered on the floor next to my bed. I might’ve cut my feet bad except that I got up on the wrong side to pick up my Bible, which had fallen off the nightstand. When I struck the candle I saw the glass glittering like ice, and my skin crawled, I can tell you. I hadn’t heard a thing, not breaking glass, not someone creeping around in the dark. I could well imagine Elizabeth Gwydion’s pale hands scattering that glass, her bloodless face bending over me as I dreamed.

What do you mean, what did I do? Got a dustpan and cleaned it up, of course. And smiled at her nice when she passed in the hall as I was sweeping wet tea leaves on the carpet to lay the dust. Smiled for all I was worth, I did. Confusion to the enemy!

The next day there was something in my tea. I barely touched it, but still it made me sick, sick enough that even Mrs. Ravenstock let me take an hour to lie down in the evening after supper. That was when I dreamed.

I dreamed there was an adder in the house. A black shining adder as glided from room to room, winding around the feet of the servants. An adder that wound itself around Mrs. Ravenstock’s ankle and oozed up under her skirts. I fair screamed the house down in my dream, but nobody heeded. She went on with her mending, and all of a sudden her eyes flew open and she jerked hard, as if somebody had pushed her, and then she was lying on the floor and the adder was crawling away toward the stairs.

Mind you, my gran had dreams. She dreamed of a cave-in at the mine, and it happened just the way she said. I don’t hold none with imagination, it’s destructive to a woman’s character, but I didn’t imagine this. I dreamed it, and that’s a different thing entirely.

Mrs. Ravenstock? Next day she was hale and well, except for that opium distance in her eyes. And doting on Elizabeth. But the day after that Mrs. Ravenstock caught her heel in her dress hem and fell down the service stairs, and broke her neck.

So. After Mrs. Ravenstock’s death—which was accident, sure enough—you can well imagine things changed. For one thing, we were already short a laundry maid and now a housekeeper, and next thing you know the bootboy Joseph had given notice, and so had the scullery maid Mary. Now, you can’t hardly run Hillingham on so few servants; Mr. Gage was fair desperate, I tell you. Meanwhile, things were bad upstairs, too. Miss Mina left to meet her fiancé Jonathan, and the whispers came round that Mrs. Westenra was in poor health. Miss Lucy’s sleepwalking had gotten so bad it scared us half out of our wits. Yes, even me, though I don’t hold with nonsense.

One morning as I came around the corner with my broom and tea leaves—mind you it was well before six in the morning— I saw a ghost floating white in the hall. I froze, my breath locked in my chest, and after a second or two I realized the floating white ghost was Miss Lucy.

She was dead asleep on her feet, her gown fluttering in a cold draft that poured out of her room, her fair hair lifting and twisting around her pale face. As I watched her, her head fell back, and her lips parted, and she spread her arms wide. She let out this long, low sigh that frightened me ever so much more than a scream—something immoral in that sigh, I can tell you. Desperate. She pressed herself against empty air, her whole body arching.

Well, it was indecent! And frightful! I tore my eyes away from her and saw that Elizabeth Gwydion was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Pale as something drawn with pen and ink, and her lips were stretched wide in what I couldn’t have ever named a smile.

Well, the only thing I could think was dear sweet Mary save us all. So I did what any good Catholic girl would have done. I crossed myself.

Miss Lucy’s eyes flew open, wide and blank as a winter’s sky, and she collapsed to the carpet in a froth of wind-whipped gown. Downstairs, Elizabeth Gwydion shrieked; when I looked to her she was staring at me, and the hate of it fair burned me where I stood. Her eyes smoked, I tell you, and I thought she might strike me dead in my shoes.

Right then Mrs. Westenra came out of her bedroom, her hair still in night-braids, and cried out at the sight of her daughter spilled on the carpet. Poor dear lady, I remembered what Mr. Gage had said about her health; she looked fair to drop. But she got down on her knees and took Miss Lucy’s pale hands in hers, and said, “Mary Margaret, fetch some brandy. Immediately.”

Well, of course the brandy was locked up—you don’t leave brandy lying where any servant could sneak a glass, do you? So I went for Mr. Gage, straight through the kitchen where Mrs. Brockham, red-faced, was bent over the pots and Jeannette, parlor maid or not, was whisking eggs with just enough force to be surly about it, straight to the closed door of the butler’s pantry, where I knocked.

He didn’t answer. Well, of course I knocked again, and said his name. Mrs. Brockham left off her stirring to stare at me. I knocked again, fair pounding this time.

“Here now,” Mrs. Brockham frowned at me. “What’s the trouble, Mary Margaret?”

“I need brandy for Miss Lucy!”

We went through a bit more knocking and rattling before she opened the door and went right in. And screamed, her hands flying to her mouth. I squeezed around her and saw Mr. Gage lying half across his desk, his eyes bulging and gray. Dead for hours, likely. I suppose I might’ve screamed, too. It brought Jeannette running, who dropped to the floor in a dead faint, and George, the footman, who as a man was too mindful of his dignity to faint, though he swayed a bit and looked very pale.

“Better tell the mistress,” Mrs. Brockham said, voice gone all weak. “Get on with you, girl!”

I went, my shoes knocking on hard wood. Mr. Gage, dead? Butlers didn’t die, at least not in service, not in that undignified way like they were no better than the rest of us. Up the stairs I went, my heart hammering in my chest.

Crouching there next to miss Lucy and the mistress was Elizabeth Gwydion, with a glass of brandy in her hand that she held to Miss Lucy’s lips.

I wasn’t thinking, mind you. Not a bit of it. I reached out and I slapped it out of her hand, sent it crashing against he polished wood of the wall.

Mrs. Westenra shot to her feet and snapped “Mary Margaret! Whatever has got into you? Stop this instant!”

I gulped down some air and tried to steady my voice, but I didn’t take my eyes off of Elizabeth Gwydion. Behind me I heard the whisper of voices—Penny and Kate and Alice at the foot of the stairs, watching.

“I sent you for brandy,” Mrs. Westenra continued coldly. “When you didn’t return Elizabeth was good enough to fetch some. Now explain yourself.”

“Mr. Gage,” I managed to say. “Mr. Gage has passed, ma’am.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Westenra said faintly. “Oh my. That is most— distressing. How—”

“Don’t know, ma’am.”

“I see.” Mrs. Westenra took a deep breath. “I’ve already sent for Dr. Seward about Lucy. When he arrives, I’ll have him examine the body. I’ll address the staff presently.”

“Yes ma’am.” I dropped a very small curtsy and turned to do what she’d ordered, but she stopped me one more time.

“Mary Margaret,” she said. “Tell Cook to make it a cold breakfast.”

Mind you, she wasn’t a cruel woman, Mrs. Westenra; she was a good employer, never harsh, never unfair. But if you ever wanted to know the difference between upstairs and down, there it was in the one short command. Mr. Gage was dead, and all it meant was a cold breakfast instead of a hot one.

Do? What could I do? We ate our cold meal, waited for Dr. Seward to come and tell us it was Mr. Gage’s heart, most unfortunate, but natural enough. Took him all of a minute to glance at the body and say so, and then he was off to Miss Lucy.

The minute he was out of sight, Alice began to cry, and Penny too, both good for nothing the rest of the day because they were sure the house was doomed. Floors didn’t get scrubbed, or the carpets swept, or the brasses polished. With Mr. Gage and Mrs. Ravenstock gone, Mrs. Brockham didn’t have the heart to force us to it.

Jeannette run off that night, not even asking for a reference. That left me, Penny, Alice, Kate, Mrs. Brockham, and George.

And Elizabeth Gwydion, of course. Herself.

Poison? Oh, of course it was, Nora, whatever Dr. Seward might have said. Herself had tried to kill me already, and she’d done for Gracie and Mr. Gage and probably for Mrs. Ravenstock as well. If I’d had any sense I would have packed my carpetbag and followed Jeannette. But I never did have sense, everyone’s said so.

I stayed, instead. And that night, I dreamed of Whitby Abbey.

In my dream I followed Elizabeth Gwydion there to those tumbled white stones, and in moonlight she was all marble and shadow. Mind you, the place is harmless enough in daylight—I’d climbed the place from one end to the other, as a girl. But this dream-abbey was drenched with black, and every shadow hid horror.

Dracula? Oh, aye, I’ll give you Dracula, you silly bint, because that’s who came to her there in the dark shattered ribs of the church. He poured himself out of the shadows, tall, he was, tall and cream-pale, with heavy foreign features—red, red lips the only touch of color to him.

The evil of him made my skin crawl, even as far away as I was. He looked like a man, but he wasn’t, he was more, he was worse, and he stank of rotting blood.

Elizabeth dropped right to her knees in front of him, drowning herself in a thick puddle of fog.

“Well?” His soft, deep voice carried to me on a dream wind. “Is it done?”

“She is prepared for you, master,” Elizabeth said, and she looked up at him with a slave’s devotion, fair turned my stomach. That accent to her voice, the one she claimed was Welsh, it sounded thicker now, and I was dead certain it came from farther away than Cardiff.

“Excellent. I will go to her soon. The others?”

“Servants of no consequence.” Elizabeth’s face twisted in sudden distaste. “There’s a meddling maid who deserves your personal attention.”

“I do not stoop to battling servants,” he said. “If you think she does not recognize her place, then show it to her, Elizabeth my beauty. Teach her the pleasure of obedience.”

She groveled to him. She crawled to him, crawled. It made me sick to see anyone, even Elizabeth, stripped of dignity like that. He put a booted foot against her ribs and rolled her on her back.

The pleasure of obedience, indeed. I’d see him in hell first, and her too. At that moment he—the thing—turned and met my eyes. Not surprised at seeing me—he’d known I was there the whole time.

It was like staring into the sun, all that blinding hunger. He drank me down like a bracing tot of hot gin.

“Well.” He smiled slowly, those red lips parting like the edges of a new wound. “A dreamer.”

He rushed at me, darkness and the stench of rotten blood, and I screamed myself awake.

Dr. Van Helsing had been in and out of the house by that time, though I’d had aught to do with him. He’d come back to do some terrible strange thing to Miss Lucy, taking blood from Mr. Holmwood and putting it in her veins. A Godless thing to do, I still say; no good can come of a thing like that. Still, Dr. Van Helsing had a kind way about him, and I saw him cross himself once, when they were praying over Miss Lucy. So I knew it was likely we had a bit in common—and, anyway, he was foreign.

I made myself bold and talked to him uninvited.

Yes, of course I know it could have gotten me shown the door! Blessed Mary, well I know it! But I had to do something, so I spoke to him about the dreams, and Elizabeth Gwydion, and all the deaths below stairs. Which he hadn’t heard, of course—the deaths of servants weren’t worth mention, I suppose. And he was gravely worried about it. Did you know he smelled like caraway seeds even then? And a sharp mint he liked to chew. He was ever so nice to me, and he told me to watch Elizabeth Gwydion close, and tell him what she did. He’d be gone that night and the next day, going back to his home, but he’d receive my report on his return.

Mind you, the household was in chaos. No butler, no housekeeper—poor Mrs. Brockham wasn’t up to the task. And the maids were in hysterics, terrified of losing their positions but even more terrified of leaving them. George, the footman, insisted nothing whatsoever was wrong, but then he was a dim sort, and as the only man in the house, I suppose he had to say it. So there was no one left to tell me that I couldn’t stay with Miss Lucy. I sat up outside her room that night, and when Elizabeth Gwydion came to the door I told her right sharp to be on her way. Later that day, going down the stairs I’d traveled at least a thousand times, something wrenched hard at my foot and I fell. It was a fearful long fall, but I turned on my side, wrenched my shoulder, bruised something terrible—and I didn’t break my neck, like poor Mrs. Ravenstock. Must have been a terrible disappointment for Miss High-and-Mighty Elizabeth.

After that, it was a quiet night. I suppose I fell asleep in the chair outside of Miss Lucy’s room. I woke up in pitch darkness, and something cold was touching my throat.

Well, you might imagine, I drew breath to scream, but a hand clapped over my mouth, and I pushed, pushed hard, threw myself off of the chair and down to the carpet. This time I did scream, and loud enough to wake the dead. Wasn’t more than a minute I suppose before light bloomed gold in Mrs. Westenra’s doorway, and there she was staring at me, her face gone dead pale, her eyes big as saucers.

Lying half across me was Miss Lucy, her skin ice-cold, her color like ashes. She had two wounds in her neck, fresh drops of blood staining the white linen of her nightgown. Poor thing, she was like a breathing corpse. I got to my feet, and Mrs. Westenra bent down to help, but her color was almost as bad as Miss Lucy’s. I couldn’t drag the girl, it wasn’t proper, but George was nowhere to be seen, nor any of the other servants.

Except Elizabeth Gwydion, coming, up the steps with a candle. She was smiling.

“I’ll help you,” she said, and took Miss Lucy’s feet. I hated the idea, but what choice did I have, then? We carried her into the bedroom and laid her in the disordered bed; I tucked her carefully in, added blankets from the wardrobe, and closed the open window.

All the garlic flowers Dr. Van Helsing had left around the room had been swept into a corner. The necklace he’d asked Miss Lucy to wear was broken on the floor.

I looked up and Elizabeth Gwydion was staring into me, digging her eyes in like claws. Smiling.

“Too late,” she said.

“We’ll see about that,” I snapped, and saw that Penny had finally worked up enough courage to come down, and lurked like some hunted animal behind the doorframe, only her round pale face showing. “Penny! Get George and tell him to drive like Jehu for Dr. Seward. Go now!”

She went, her bare feet padding on the carpet. Elizabeth Gwydion never quit smiling.

“Mary Margaret—” Mrs. Westenra, who’d been standing quietly by my side, put a hand over mine as I straightened blankets atop Miss Lucy. “That will be all. I’ll sit with my daughter.”

Elizabeth Gwydion lost her smile. She didn’t like that, didn’t like it at all. She’d thought Mrs. Westenra defeated, I saw.

But she bobbed a curtsy and said, “Tea, ma’am?”

“Fine,” Mrs. Westenra snapped. Elizabeth went.

“Ma’am—” It was terrible forward of me to say anything, but I had to. “Ma’am, best not to drink anything she brings you. Until Dr. Seward arrives.”

She blinked and nodded. After a moment she looked at me again, and there was new strength in her eyes.

“You’ll defend my daughter?” she asked. “Against anyone?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She took her hand out of the pocket of her nightrobe. She was holding a shining silver paper knife, and she passed it to me and folded my fingers around the warm handle.

“Take it,” she said. “Use it if you have to.”

I left her and went downstairs to warn Cook that the battle was on.

But Cook was gone. Whether she’d run or been dragged away, we never knew; no trace of her was ever found. Penny had found George and sent him on his way, but as the day dawned, then dragged on, Dr. Seward didn’t come. There was no telephone at Hillingham, though the Westenras had one in the London house; I missed it most sorely, because help was miles away. Still, Dr. Seward would come. Surely.

Towards five I sent Kate out to walk into Whitby and find help—the constable, if nothing else. She’d only been gone a few minutes when she came back, screaming like the house was afire, to tell me that George was lying dead, the carriage smashed, on the rocks at the turn of the road. After that I couldn’t get any of them to go.

So night fell, and we were all alone. Four maids, two ladies, and Elizabeth Gwydion. But Dr. Van Helsing would be back early in the morning. All we had to do was see daylight again. So I told the others, and so it was.

But it was a terrible long night. Dead quiet outside, not even a breath of wind. Just the crash of the sea in the distance, and the sense that the whole house was holding its breath.

Mrs. Westenra dismissed Elizabeth. Oh, you should have seen the woman’s face—cold, haughty, amazed. But Mrs. Westenra was too soft to make the woman leave the house in the dark; she settled for sending her to her room and telling Penny to watch the door.

It was close on midnight when I took Penny a cup of hot cocoa and found the chair outside of Elizabeth Gwydion’s room sitting empty, though the seat of it was still warm. And the door open just a crack.

I pushed it to find poor dear Penny lying on the cold wood floor, struggling. She flung out a hand to me. Elizabeth Gwydion had hold of her feet, and stooped over her, like an evil black shadow—

Yes. Him. Dracula. He tore loose of Penny’s throat and looked at me, parted bloody lips in a smile, and his teeth were sharp and white, and Elizabeth Gwydion let go of Penny and shot to her feet, grabbed hold of my arms. I cried out and tried to fight but she was horrible strong, and the stale smell of her, the rotting stench of him, made me faint and sick.

I suppose what saved me was the crucifix, which I’d mended and still had hung around my neck. It swung free and caught the light, sending Dracula reeling back. Remember that I told you I never saw him make himself dog or wolf or bat? I saw him turn to a stinking black mist like flies that whipped away through the open window. At the time I thought he was afraid of me. Now I think it was just that he was impatient to be about his other business.

Elizabeth still had hold of me. She was fearful strong, but I had a lifetime of scrubbing and lifting and hard work behind me, and I threw her off—

—Out the open window. I rushed to it, hoping to see her crushed on the stone below, but she was clinging to the brick, clinging with needle-sharp nails. Her pale face grinned up at me, and I screamed; she laughed and scuttled away down the wall like a black-shelled beetle.

I ducked back in and slammed the window sash and bent to help Penny to her feet. That was when I heard the crash of glass, and the screams.

You know how it ended, I suppose. Poor Mrs. Westenra’s heart gave out. Miss Lucy’s own letter says a dog came through her window, though I never saw it; we found her lying pale and gray on the bed with her mother dead beside her. Penny, Kate, Alice, and I did the best we cold—covered the broken window, wrapped Mrs. Westenra in blankets, and took Miss Lucy downstairs away from the horror.

“Mother,” she kept crying, and wanted to go back. But there wasn’t no use in it, and besides she was too weak. I took everyone into the withdrawing room and found the liquor cabinet standing open. The brandy was empty—George, no doubt, which would explain the wrecked carriage—but the sherry was still full. I poured everyone a stiff measure, and we sat close to Miss Lucy while she wept. A sip or two of sherry was all she would take, though the rest of us drank up willingly enough; Penny even gulped down what Miss Lucy wouldn’t.

“What’ll we do, Mary Margaret?” Penny asked, her eyes huge and terrified. She had a wound on her neck like Miss Lucy’s, but she didn’t seem the worse for it. Just tired.

“We’ll stay here,” I said. “Let morning come, and Dr. Van Helsing arrive, before we do anything more. Here, Miss Lucy. Are you warm enough?”

She was shivering, poor thing, though we’d wrapped her up. I felt warm enough. Over-warm, perhaps. Time passed, as time does even in the worst of circumstances; Miss Lucy wept, and we tried to comfort her.

It must have been near an hour later when I looked up and found Alice curled asleep in a red Moroccan chair. Kate had nodded off, too. As I watched, Penny dropped her glass and sank down on the fainting couch, her long dark hair spilling over the carpet.

My legs felt weak. When I tried to rise from where I sat, I found I couldn’t. My arms had gone numb, and I could feel it stealing through me now like a cold wind.

Laudanum, to put us fast asleep.

“Miss Lucy?” I whispered. She didn’t seem to hear me. The door of the withdrawing room opened without even a creak, and there in the dark stood Elizabeth Gwydion.

“Come,” she said to Miss Lucy. And Miss Lucy, who hadn’t but touched the sherry, wandered away, leaving the blankets on the floor. I couldn’t follow, couldn’t master my own legs enough to try.

Elizabeth came straight to me and looked me right in the eyes, grinning like a skull, and said, “My master’s seeing to your Miss Lucy. But it’s my privilege to see to you, you meddling cur.”

I started to pray then, because I didn’t think I could move. The world was going gray, the edges fraying, and she bent close to me, her lips cold on my neck, sucking like a baby at the breast, and I knew in the next instant she’d bite, and suck blood like red milk. I’d never feared anything so much, never felt such despair.

Something in my robe’s pocket felt hot against me. Hot as the sun. Holy Mary.

Mrs. Westenra’s paper knife! I grabbed it and stabbed for her, not able to feel my hand, nor the shock when it hit. I only knew I’d made the target when I saw her eyes go wide and strange, saw her stumble back from me and sit down clumsily on the floor with her legs splayed.

The hilt of the silver paper knife glittered on her black dress. I’d pinned it to her heart. She looked amazed.

“You—you English dog—”

“Irish,” I snapped.

She was still trying to understand that when she died. Yes, I killed her—but here’s the thing, Nora: as she died, she turned to ashes. Ashes, no different than you’d sweep up out of the grate in the morning. Ashes that stirred in the breeze of the door swinging open again.

Her master stood there, looking at the mess I’d made of Elizabeth Gwydion, and his lips drew back from his teeth. His face was ruddy now, his lips smeared with blood, and I thought of Miss Lucy with a terrible sick pang. I didn’t have the knife anymore, I had nothing to protect me but my small crucifix and my fear.

“You’ve killed my servant,” he said in some surprise.

“I’d kill her again if she’d get up,” I said tartly. “Miss Lucy—”

“Is none of your concern.” He walked around me, staring at me with red-flecked eyes. Like a lion that wasn’t quite hungry enough to pounce. “I could kill you all tonight.”

I couldn’t think of any reason he wouldn’t. Penny, Kate, Alice… all helpless. Me only a breath away from it. The laudanum was a thick black pool in me, and I was drowning in it.

“Go ahead,” I said, as if I didn’t even care. “If you’d stoop so low.”

He smiled at me then, Dracula did. “For you, I might bend my principles, little one. Or make you my own.”

“Go to Hell!” I shot back, amazed at my own bravery. I’d never cursed in my life, not like that, certainly not to a man. And still he smiled.

“Soon,” he promised. “The dead travel fast.”

I felt my knees buckle then, and I fell, face down in the ashes of Elizabeth Gwydion. I rolled over, spitting out the bitterness of her, and saw him looking down at me from such a far, far distance. His cold fingers caressed my face.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think I will do you the favor of killing you. Explain this tomorrow, to your betters. Explain your drunkenness and your dead mistress. Perhaps I’ll come to kill you when you’re starving on the streets.”

His words struck fear in me, absolute fear, because he was right. I fought the dark as he walked away, but there was nothing I could do but fall. I dreamed, you know. This time no adders, no abbeys, no pale wasting ladies. This time I dreamed I was in a great cathedral, and I lit a candle to the smiling statue of Mary, and I prayed.

I prayed until the morning, when Dr. Seward arrived at the house and found Mrs. Westenra dead and Miss Lucy dying.

No, no, I’m all right. A fleck of coal dust in my eye, most likely. But it was a sad house, very sad. And no one to blame it on but four drunken servants, which Dr. Seward promptly did, though of course later he said he knew all along we’d been drugged.

It was Dr. Van Helsing who came to our rescue, finding positions for Kate and Alice. Dr. Van Helsing himself who gave me and Penny posts here in his house. Do you know what he said to me, Nora? He said, “There are monsters all around us, Mary Margaret. Some that people in my position will never see, but perhaps you will.”

So here I am. Doing the same ironing, the same scrubbing, the same sweeping. Some things never change, as I said. And some do.

Yes, that one’s good. Hand me the next. Now, you must put a good sharp point on them, Nora. Sharp enough to pierce skin like butter. It’s got to go right to the monster’s heart, you see? Dr. Van Helsing and the others are going after Dracula, but like I told you, this has nothing to do with Dracula. It’s below stairs business.

Poor Penny’s lying in her coffin in the parlor, waiting on the undertaker. And she were bitten by Dracula that night at Hillingham. If she wakes, we’ve got to do for her like the Doctor did for Miss Lucy. Test the knife. Sharp enough to cut bone?

Oh, wipe your tears, girl. And say your prayers. There’s plenty below stairs who might need the same mercy, before this is all said and done.

We care for our own.