He stared into space, stunned by the implication. That telegraph machines the world over had been affected by the aurora borealis was an established fact. That the one aboard the Orpheus had spewed out this message, which employed a language also used by the Enochians, suggested—incredibly—a causal relationship between Oliphant’s ritual and the atmospheric phenomenon.

“By God, Oliphant,” he murmured. “Did you truly summon something?”

“He who knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is a fool. Shun him. He who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is simple. Teach him. He who knows, and knows not that he knows, is asleep. Wake him. He who knows, and knows that he knows, is wise. Follow him.”

—ISABEL ARUNDELL, FROM THE PERSIAN PROVERB

The next ten days of recovery were interspersed with visits to the British Museum’s reading room, where Burton researched John Dee, the Elizabethan alchemist and occultist who’d sought to identify the purest forms and expressions of existence, primarily by communicating with divine beings. Dee claimed to have achieved this through scrying, which was undertaken by his associate, Edward Kelley. Together they’d learned—or created, Burton suspected—the language of the angels.

The hours of reading didn’t provide him with any further revelations, but it gave him a solid grounding in the theories that apparently motivated Henry Beresford, Thomas Lake Harris, Laurence Oliphant, Edward Vaughan Hyde Kenealy, and the League of Enochians.

By Monday the 17th of October his bruises had vanished, his ribs healed, and his arm offered only the occasional twinge. With a loaded Beaumont–Adams revolver concealed beneath his light jacket and swinging his swordstick as he walked, he left the house, tipped his hat to Mr. Grub the vendor, who was cooking corn on the cob on his brazier, and made his way to Baker Street. Eschewing the cabs—after so many days of inactivity he preferred to walk—he headed toward Portman Square. It was autumn but unseasonably warm and humid. The air was thick with dust, soot, and steam, and stank to high heaven. The flow of sewage through the new north-to-south tunnels was still being slowed by sluice gates, which would not be fully opened until the big intercepting tunnel was complete. Foul viscous liquid was seeping up through the streets and only flower sellers were happy about it, for it had become a necessary fashion to walk with a fragrant bouquet held to one’s nose.

By the time Burton reached the square, perspiration was running from beneath his topper and he had grit in his eyes, so he stopped, sat on a bench, removed his headgear, put it down, and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

He sat back and watched a herd of geese being guided along by a farmer and his two boy assistants, obviously on their way to market. A man on a velocipede attempted to steer his vehicle past them. His penny-farthing hit one of the birds, squashed it, wobbled, and toppled sideways, expelling steam with a hiss that matched those produced by the angry flock. The man sprang to his feet and shook his fist at the farmer. An argument ensued. Punches were exchanged. A constable arrived on the scene and separated the combatants. The velocipedist rode back in the direction he’d come, his machine clanking unhealthily. The geese were shooed on. Once the participants were out of sight, the constable picked up the killed bird, examined it, and carried it away with a satisfied grin on his face, undoubtedly anticipating a goose supper.

Burton considered the strangeness of the city. It was filled with mechanical marvels, yet England’s agricultural roots were still plain to see. The place was so madly eclectic it was almost impossible to characterise.

It is off-course. It has become something it was never meant to be. It is broken.

He looked around at the square. He’d never sat here before, but a vertiginous sense of familiarity suddenly flooded through him, causing his heart to flutter.

How can you consider this natural? Velocipedes? The atmospheric railway? Steam spheres? Rotorchairs? Submarine ships? All developed within the space of twenty years? It’s impossible!

He gasped and leaned forward, gripping his cane with both hands, feeling himself dividing.

The Afterlife? Mediums? Magic rituals? Madness! Madness!

“Go away!” he wheezed. “Leave me alone!”

You’re moving too slowly. Piece it together, you fool. Hurry!

He heaved himself to his feet, reeled, and staggered to one side, only avoiding a fall by slamming the point of his cane into the ground. He raised a hand to his head and used his fingers to trace the long scar that parted the roots of his short hair. Just how much had the concussion damaged him?

He struggled to regulate his respiration then picked up his hat, put it on, and quickly walked from the square to Oxford Street, turning left into the busy thoroughfare.

Impatiently, he elbowed through the crowds, hurrying along, his mind awhirl. Traffic and voices roared in his ears. So did his pulse. He angrily knocked a beggar aside—detecting at once that the man’s blindness was a sham—and turned into Charing Cross, following it south to Leicester Square, where he entered Long Acre, which, a few yards on, joined St. Martin’s Lane. A few more paces took him to its junction with Mildew Street, and there, on the corner and opposite a building site, he found the League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club. It was an unprepossessing three-storey building with a plain portico arching over the three steps that led up to the entrance. He tried the door. It was locked. He knocked and waited. He yanked the bellpull; knocked again. No one came. Muttering an oath, he was turning away when a flier, pasted to the wall beside the door, caught his eye.

THOMAS LAKE HARRIS

America’s Foremost Scryer and Summoner

Author of The Wisdom of Angels

A Lecture Entitled:

EVOCATION AND COMMUNICATION:

ON SUMMONING ADVISORS FROM THE SPIRIT WORLD.

Here: Wednesday 9th November, 9 p.m.

Open to Members and Sanctioned Guests Only.

Note to the General Public:

Mr. Harris will be giving a presentation entitled:

THE TRUTH OF SPIRITUALISM

At Almack’s Assembly Rooms,

King Street, St. James’s,

On Tuesday 8th November, 8 p.m.

Open to all.

Burton copied the details into his notebook, descended the steps, and walked a little farther along St. Martin’s Lane until he came to Brundleweed’s. Once again, the jeweller’s was closed and the grille covered the window. Looking past the metal bars, he noticed changes in the window display. The tools on the benches had been moved. Plainly, Brundleweed was around; the explorer had just been unlucky in catching him.

Tearing a page from his book, he took his pencil and scribbled: Require engagement ring at earliest possible. Please inform when convenient to call. Alternatively, deliver to me at—

He added his address, signed the note, pushed it through the letterbox, and walked back the way he’d come. Halfway along Oxford Street, he turned right into Vere Street. Number 7 was a narrow house squashed between a hardware shop and a Museum of Anatomy. It had a bright yellow door and a tall, narrow, blue-curtained window. He lifted the knocker and banged it down three times. After a short wait, the door opened. He knew instantly that he was facing Countess Sabina.