Did the mist seem thicker tonight than usual?
Charles glanced around. The streetlights flickered and pulsed unnaturally, their hue changing between gold, green, red and blue. The flagstones beneath his feet felt rough and uneven, tilting and shifting as he strode forward.
Beside him walked Florence. To someone less familiar with her, she might have appeared perfectly at ease, but Charles knew her better than that. Her posture was stiff and unnaturally rigid. Her movements were almost mechanical, broken only by the occasional quiver of her shoulders or shake of her hand. Her eyes stared ahead, although every now and again they would flicker left and right before she lifted her chin, blinked and set her gaze firmly forward again.
He looked at the white handkerchief pressed tightly to her nose. Soaked in lavender-infused vinegar, or whatever it was she used, the foolish girl believed that it would somehow protect her from the horrors of this place.
It might have helped against the diseases that ran rife in the battlefield hospitals or rose from rivers, sewers and the street filth of London by Day, but it was of no use here. Charles absently ran his thumb across the slight indent in the fox’s head topping his walking cane. The seam marked where the two halves were joined, one half made from fine, smooth silver, the other half cast of cold, rough iron.
Charles’ face was calm and relaxed, his pace was steady and deliberate. Dark shadows scurried away from him as he approached. This wasn’t the place to show fear. Fear only made them grow stronger, more powerful.
“Florence, when we get to The Lotus Blossom, I want you to stay close to me,” he said, his voice taking on an unusually serious tone. “Please keep quiet and let me speak. The… girls, they can be dangerous.”
Florence’s eyes flickered, creasing at the corners. “Please, Mr Dickens! Afford me some degree of respect. I have worked with the poor and destitute. I have spent time with similar unfortunates while trying to cure the social evils of this city.”
“My dear girl, I do not doubt your experience for one moment. But the Blossoms are not your average streetwalkers. I am led to believe they are creatures from the Orient. Seductresses who possess a beauty far beyond a man’s wildest imaginings.” Charles watched Florence’s face for any change in expression. There was none, so he continued, “They entice their victims and feed on their souls.”
“I don’t understand, Mr Dickens.” Florence spoke, her tone now soft. “Gentlemen visit these Blossoms voluntarily. Why?”
“My dear child, let’s just say that the act of feeding on one’s soul involves certain pleasurable services, and the Blossoms are said to administer them expertly,” Charles replied, gesturing down the street. “Come now, it’s not wise to dally out here.”
His eyes cast over the large garden which made up the centre of the square. In London by Day, it was a well-manicured, private sanctuary for the wealthy residents. Here, a warped, tangled thicket of bent trees and thorn bushes grew.
The trees twisted like gnarled fingers against the dark sky, their shadows writhing in the shimmering moonlight. But in one corner, the shadows were unnaturally still. There darkness hung heavily, like an unmoving pool. The hair on the back of Charles’ neck twitched, prickling his skin like icy needles. Someone was there, their unseen eyes fixed on him, watching.
Someone or something.
His hand tightened its grip on the half-silver, half-iron fox head. The steady tapping of his walking cane picked up its tempo ever so slightly.
Miss Nightingale kept perfect step with Mr Dickens as they turned to face Number 66 Cadogan Square. Her hand pressed the handkerchief firmly against her face, protecting her lungs from the noxious gases of the miasma and secretly concealing her lower lip, which was clamped firmly between her front teeth. Inside, her stomach fluttered, but outwardly she stood tall.
The building towered over her oppressively. Its facade was thick with black soot, and a dark, viscous liquid that glistened in the dim light and oozed from between the bricks. A chemical reaction, she told herself firmly. A buildup of coal tar mixing with the lime of the mortar.
The wrought-iron railings hissed and thrashed as they approached. The once-decorative spearhead finials snapped and spat. Their bone-white fangs struck a sharp contrast against the blackness beyond.
The steps to the door seemed to lengthen as they climbed. What had originally been three steps became four, then five and then six. She stumbled as the first slanted one way and the next tilted the other. Surely just an effect of the miasma settling in her lungs.
When the pair reached the top of the stairs, they found their way blocked by a hulking creature. Miss Nightingale wasn’t sure she could call it a man. It stood at least seven feet tall, hunched over in the most ungainly way possible. Its arms, thicker than most men’s waists, hung low, its enormous hands brushing the ground. Green eyes glowered out from under heavy brows and a face covered for the most part in thick black hair.
On its head squatted a top hat made from the finest burgundy silk. It was the sort of hat that would have looked splendid on any high-born gentleman, but appeared almost comical when perched atop that all too massive head. A matching burgundy waistcoat, embroidered with gold edging and bearing the emblem of a lotus flower upon the breast, somehow managed to fit neatly over a crisp, white pressed shirt.
What sort of affliction ailed the poor fellow, Miss Nightingale could not tell. She had never met him personally, but her thoughts went, of course, to the tragic case of Joseph Merrick. Could this man be suffering from a similar affliction?
A low, guttural grumble rose from his throat and snapped Miss Nightingale from her deliberations, bringing her up with a sudden jolt.
She watched Mr Dickens, seemingly unperturbed by the beastly figure, step up and whisper something in his oversized ear.
The creature’s jaw slackened into what could only loosely be described as a smile, revealing rows of yellowing teeth. As he stooped lower, a foul stench assaulted Miss Nightingale. It was thick and cloying, even overpowering the sharp camphor from her handkerchief and turning her stomach. A truly sickening smell, heavy and musty, like a wet woollen blanket left out too long and beginning to rot.
“And who is she, sir?” it said in a voice more resembling an animal’s growl than human speech.
“She, my good fellow, is with me,” Mr Dickens chided in a jovial voice. “I thought I would bring her along to make tonight’s activities just a little more… interesting.”
The hulking creature — she hated herself for thinking it a creature rather than the poor, stricken human that it obviously was — turned its emerald eyes on her. Goosebumps rose on her skin, her feet shifting under a gaze that seemed to peer deep inside her, scanning her up and down.
Suddenly, its cavernous mouth opened wide, and it barked a deep laugh.
“You’re a sly dog, sir, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Its shovel-like hand slapped Mr Dickens on the back with a resounding thud. “One Blossom is usually more than enough for most fellas, but as long as you’ve got the brass, I’m sure they won’t mind a little extra company. Get her out of those black duds and I’d wager she’s a right tasty piece of flesh, ain’t she, sir?”
Miss Nightingale’s body went tense. Every muscle trembled as she met the creature’s predatory glare, her teeth biting down harder on her lip.
“That she is, my good fellow.” Mr Dickens’ eyes met Miss Nightingale’s very briefly before his hand dipped into his pocket and plucked out a gold sovereign. “Of course, I will trust that a fine man such as yourself understands proper discretion?”
Mr Dickens flicked the coin into the air. Tumbling end over end, it glinted in the ever-changing colours of the streetlights. The creature snatched the coin with a speed that made Miss Nightingale blink. The heavy coin appeared little bigger than a threepenny piece in its giant, calloused hands.
“I’ve got no idea what you mean, sir. I ain’t seen no gentleman and his pretty little mistress ‘ere tonight.”
Pretty little mistress? Miss Nightingale’s hands clenched, her nails biting through her gloves and into her palms.
Drawing herself to her full height, she fixed the doorman with the sort of stare that had silenced army surgeons in Scutari.
“Lead the way, Mr Dickens,” she said coldly. “Your pretty little mistress grows bored.”