“As in death?”

“Yes.”

Levi addressed Monckton Milnes. “The tools, monsieur, they are by the lectern. Fetch them, s’il vous pla”t.” He turned to Burton. “It is very terrible, what we must do, Sir Richard. Pardieu! To have to ask it of a man! But, you comprehend, non? You understand how she must be released?”

The explorer nodded wordlessly.

Monckton Milnes passed the stake to Levi, who positioned it over Isabel’s heart. With his other hand, the occultist took the mallet and held it out to Burton. “It is best by the hand of someone she loves.”

Like a mirage seen in the Arabian Desert, everything around Burton was visible but a long way off, indefinite and impossible to grasp. He observed but was utterly detached; was conscious but empty of thought. He knew Swinburne was prising the axe from his fingers; heard Levi say that burning would not be necessary; watched him sprinkle holy water onto Isabel’s remains then close the coffin and seal it; stood frozen while the others took the floor mirrors and stacked them against a wall.

Flowers were placed on the casket. All signs that anything untoward had occurred were removed. Henry Arundell was revived and reassured that his daughter was now with God. He knelt and prayed and prayed and prayed. The men waited for him to finish. By the time he did, he appeared to have achieved some degree of inner peace and said, “I will stand vigil over my daughter for the rest of the night. It is my duty.”

Monckton Milnes and Swinburne took hold of Burton and guided him out of the chapel. They trailed after Levi, back into the main house where, at the foot of the spiral staircase, they found Clunk, the footman, lying spreadeagled on the ground. His canister-shaped head had been twisted off and was ten feet away, under a small decorative table.

“What the blazes?” Swinburne uttered.

“There are spots of blood on the floor,” Monckton Milnes observed.

Burton pulled himself from their grasp. His senses clicked back into focus. He said, “I hear someone in the sitting room.”

Leading the others, he strode across the vestibule and entered the chamber where he found, on chairs and sofas around the fireplace and wrapped in dressing gowns, Blanche, Smythe Piggott, Lallah Bird, Samuel and Isabella Beeton, and Bram Stoker. Sam Beeton was holding a bloodied handkerchief to his nose. His right eye was blackened and swollen shut. Smythe Piggott, obviously in considerable pain, was cradling his left wrist.

“It was the gardener, Cap’n!” Bram Stoker blurted the moment he saw Burton.

“Tom Honesty? What was? What has happened?”

“He attacked us,” Sam Beeton said, his voice muffled by the cloth. “The man might be small but he’s dashed strong!”

“What? Wait! Start from the beginning.”

“He woke the boy up.” Beeton nodded toward Bram.

“Aye, sir! Shook me awake, so he did, and he looked like the devil himself. He said, ‘Congratulate your master. Tell him it was an admirable attempt and we shall meet again.’ Then he left the room, an’ I was so afeared, I ran an’ knocked on the bedroom doors until I woke Mr. Beeton.”

Beeton resumed the account. “The lad was hardly making sense, but I gathered there was an intruder of some sort, so roused Doctor Bird and Smythe Piggott. We caught Honesty descending the stairs with Sister Raghavendra over his shoulder. We tackled him but he fought like a madman. Knocked us about like a damned prizefighter. I called for one of the footmen to stop him—”

“We saw what happened to it,” Burton interjected. “Are you telling me he’s made off with Sadhvi?”

“Yes. We couldn’t stop him.”

“Cap’n,” Bram put in. “His eyes, they were black as tar.”

Burton swung round to Eliphas Levi, who cursed, “Quel désastre! The nosferatu, it must transfer to this man in the instant before John Judge die. It dormant in the groundsman until night come. We fail! Merde! Merde! We fail!”

The explorer snapped at Beeton, “When?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago. Bird, the cousins, and some of the staff are out looking for him, but it’s still pouring with rain, so—” His words trailed off. He pulled the handkerchief away from his face but immediately reapplied it as blood dribbled from his nose.

Burton ran from the room. He crossed to the front door, yanked it open, and stepped out. The rain pounded against him. He could hardly see a thing.

“Doctor Bird!” he bellowed. “Doctor Bird!”

A voice sounded to his left. “Here!”

Burton set off toward it but had taken only a few steps before the doctor emerged into view and shouted, “He made off in Steinhaueser’s steam sphere. I thought to follow in one of the other vehicles but they’ll never keep pace with it. Besides, in this bloody weather, he’d evade us in an instant. Hell! We’ve lost Sister Raghavendra, Sir Richard. But why in heaven’s name has he taken her? What’s come over the man?”

Burton swiped a fist through the air and yelled his frustration.

Great-Uncle Gerard, the owner of New Wardour Castle, returned in time for a weekend of funerals, grief, and rain. Burton was introduced to him but hardly realised it. His thoughts had folded in on themselves. Events were enacted around him but failed to register.

Swinburne was the first to penetrate this state of fugue. “I don’t think she’ll be welcomed by the family,” he said, “but I have it in mind to send for one of the girls from Verbena Lodge.”

Burton blinked and mumbled, “What are you talking about?”

“A dolly-mop. The vigorous application of a switch to your rear end, Richard. If you must be whipped into action, I’m just the man to arrange it.”

The explorer sighed and massaged his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“You can’t afford another day of mourning,” Swinburne went on relentlessly. “It may be considered a little premature, but it’s time to leave. This Catholic desolation is not for you. It’s stultifying. Closed curtains and bloody flowers stinking up the house. Black crepe everywhere. You need to get back to London. Whatever madness you’re caught up in, it has no regard for etiquette, and every minute you spend here is another minute of peril for Sister Raghavendra. Have you given up on her?”

Burton’s eyes finally slid into focus. “Of course not, but how—where—?”

Swinburne threw out his hands, stamped his foot, and screeched, “Almack’s! Almack’s! Have you forgotten? That American fellow is speaking there tomorrow night! We must go!”

“Tomorrow? Today is the seventh?” Blank despair suddenly gave way to grim determination, and Burton examined the knuckles of his right fist, as if assessing their potency for destruction. “Will you find Bram, Algy? Tell him to pack our bags. I must say my goodbyes.”

Midway through the morning, the guests departed. The Arundells had presented Burton with a new pocket watch. A lock of Isabel’s hair—cut while she was dressed for the vigil—had been inset inside its lid. He accepted it with gratitude and such an acute tightening of the chest that tears blurred his eyes.

Burton, Swinburne, Levi, Bram, and Monckton Milnes travelled together by steam landau to Salisbury, where Monckton Milnes parted from them, bound for Fryston.

After bidding him farewell, the rest booked passage on the atmospheric railway.

Sitting in the carriage, Burton peered out at the massive bellows, which were slowly inflating. In a few moments, they’d constrict, sending the train rocketing forward to the next pumping station.

As had occurred frequently these past few days, he suddenly sensed that something had eluded him. This time, after a moment’s thought, it slotted into place.

“The bloody poem,” he murmured.