The Clockwork Scarab

Miss Stoker Of Crushed Cauldrons, Critics, and Characters

The public entrance to the Lyceum Theatre was at ground level on Wellington-street, but I brought Miss Holmes through the back entrance used by the actors and other personnel. I often visited Bram and knew how to navigate the backstage to his office.

It was just past noon, and the wings, prop closets, costume wardrobes, and dressing rooms were deserted. The actors and stagehands wouldn’t arrive for several hours, having been up until well past two o’clock the night before. It was no wonder this was the quietest part of the day in the theater. Like vampire hunters and pickpockets, actors and actresses carried on their festivities until dawn.

My brother’s voice boomed from his office as we approached. He was talking to someone, and he sounded bothered. I was used to Bram’s moods, especially when he was working on his book. Miss Holmes looked at me in question, but I knocked on Bram’s door.

The talking stopped, and the door swung open. “Evaline.”

“I hope we aren’t interrupting,” I said, glancing around him into the office.

“No, no, come in,” he said, gesturing us into the chamber.

I could feel my companion’s attention sweep over him. The only resemblance between my brother and me is our thick, curling dark hair. I’m petite and elegant, and he’s rather stocky. He has a full beard and a mustache with an auburn tint in the growth nearest the lips.

I walked into the office and wasn’t surprised to find it empty.

“I thought I heard you talking to someone.” Props and papers were everywhere, along with costumes, a sword, and a crushed papier-mâché cauldron. The company was currently performing Macbeth.

“I was working on my book,” he said, gesturing to a large typing machine. A paper protruded from its roll and was filled with words. Crumpled papers littered his desk and the floor. “You likely heard me cursing at the blasted thing. Writing a book is blooming difficult, even when ye know the topic of vampires and vampire hunters.” His hair was a mess, as if he’d been pulling on it.

He noticed Miss Holmes for the first time, and I introduced her.

“Sherlock Holmes’s niece, are you? You’re being the intelligent one, then, aye? You don’t go taking yourself off and doing dangerous things like my sister here, do you? Trying to find vampires, hunting them with supernatural strength,” he muttered, glancing at the typing machine again. His brows drew together. “That’s after being my biggest problem with this book. No one would believe it, Evvie. The critics would be laughing for weeks—a story in which a woman kills the evil, cunning vampire. It’s not possible for a woman to outsmart and kill the powerful and intelligent Count Dracula.” He looked at Miss Holmes and added, “It’s the character of which I speak, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But you know it is possible,” I reminded him. Why did he always have to bring this up?

“If you ever actually kill a vampire, I might be believing it. But it’s no more than a legend anymore, Evvie. You’ve got the skills, but you’ve never actually staked an UnDead.”

I stiffened and gave him a lethal glare. My face was hot. Bram was a blooming idiot. Drat him for blathering my secrets. Blast him for announcing my failure. “That may be the case, but I can, and I will. Someday.”

At least he didn’t know the details of that night. How I’d frozen up and nearly become a victim myself.

“Right. I do believe it, Evvie,” he said, holding up his hand as if to ward off my supernatural strength. “But there aren’t any vampires about to be killed anymore. And no one would believe a young woman could do it, even if there were. A young woman? Never. But what would they believe?”

“Perhaps the precise opposite of a young woman?” Miss Holmes said.

Bram must have missed the sarcasm dripping from her voice. His eyes suddenly popped wide open, and he stared at her. Then he pivoted toward the desk, then back to her again. Papers fluttered to the floor in the cyclone.

“But aye!” he said in a triumphant voice. “The opposite of a young woman is an old man. A brilliant old man who uses his brains to outsmart the count instead of a young woman who uses her strength and speed.”

Miss Holmes and I exchanged exasperated glances. I saw vexation, obviously on my behalf, in her expression.

“I’m gratified to be of assistance,” she said coolly.

“What did you say your name was?” he said, looking over his shoulder as he yanked the paper from its mooring in the typing machine.

“Miss Mina Holmes,” she said.

“Mina,” he repeated. He froze once more. His eyes glazed over as his mind slipped off somewhere again. “Mina.” He stepped over to his chair and sat down this time, scrabbling through papers. “It’s just the sort of name I need. She’s a very proper, very intelligent young woman. Strong of character, not flamboyant. The epitome of the Victorian woman . . .” He was mumbling to himself as he flipped through sheaves of paper. “She even knows all the train schedules.”

“I know all the train schedules,” Miss Holmes informed him. “And the buses and underground as well.”

Then he looked at us, obviously remembering we were there. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be returning to my work now.” His eyes were alight with excitement and passion.

“Right, then,” I said. “We’d like to borrow some of the costumes and makeup, Bram. May we?”

“Whatever you like,” he said, flapping a hand in our general direction. “Wait,” he commanded as we started toward the door. “Is that your given name, Mina? Or is it short for something?”

My companion paused, her expression turning to one of distaste. “Alvermina.” She spoke as if it were a confession.

“Hell,” Bram said. “You’ll be pardoning me, but that’s the most terrible name I’ve ever heard. I can’t name a character that. But I do like Mina,” he muttered, turning back to his typing machine. “Hmm. Mina. Philomena? Wilhelmina?”

His words followed us as we left him to his work.