By morning, Emma was no less affected by the strange dream that had been visited upon her the night before, the vestigial shadows of which remained long after the sun had resumed its faithful purchase in the sky.

As she dressed herself Emma could not help but think that her room was leavened with some dark and exhilarating quality that she could not exactly express — a piquant combination of mystery, peril, and beauty that so completely epitomized the night itself. A goodly portion of her was not entirely convinced that she had been dreaming, and yet it was most improbable that she wasn't. An altogether curious and frustrating sensation.

Although the sun had been visible at the very commencement of dawn, it was now thoroughly concealed by a dismal layer of rain clouds, their dun hues saturating the morning and dampening the general atmosphere in the Haywood household. Furthermore, it only compounded the inquietude that had already beset the eldest Miss Lucas.

She was not one, by nature, to dismiss any feelings of presentiment and, though she felt foolish doing so, Emma snatched up a long, dark strand of her hair, that had been lying on her pillow, and therewith tied it inconspicuously around the hasp and loop of the window. If the window should be tampered with, between now and the next morning, she would know of it.

Despite that the family were all seated at breakfast at exactly the hour that best suited the master, he with his morning ale and the ladies with their chocolate, conversation seemed in small supply. This had not been the case at all since the young ladies had taken up residence with their aunt and uncle Haywood. Yet even Milli was taciturn, like as not affected by the gloomy weather. Would that that reason was Emma's as well.

But the hush that ensued as they breakfasted was of no moment to Mr. Haywood who, Emma knew, believed silence to be a requisite to digestion; moreover, he rather preferred when the ladies, the youngest especially, accommodated that quiet and left him to read his paper in peace.

As her uncle turned the page of his newspaper, Reid appeared at Emma's side with an epistle atop his silver tray. "The post just come for you, ma'am," said he.

She thanked him and broke the seal directly, recognizing the Winterly insignia stamped firmly into the crimson wax. The handwriting was a neat, feminine script that declared itself to be the hand of Victoria herself.

Milli, who had been diligently reading the missive over Emma's shoulder, suddenly squealed her delight, seemingly in raptures at the thought of their being so singled out by such a fashionable lady as Miss Winterly certainly was. 

Her uncle, who had started from his paper when the high-pitched noise had discharged from her sister's lips, bent a narrowed eye at them both over the London Gazette. However, he was therewith ignored and so, with a displeased mutter, returned to his paper as aunt Sophie watched on, curious as to what the contents of the letter contained that so excited her niece.

That they were to dine with the very creme de la creme of the beau monde was assuredly something to be excited about ... if indeed such things gave pleasure — which, in Milli's case at least, they did.

"Unfortunately, I must decline," said Emma thoughtfully, setting the letter aside. Or at least postpone the visit.

"Are you out of your senses, sister!" cried Milli "One does not merely decline an invitation to Mayfair, least of all one from a Winterly."

"One can; and one shall."

Emma had been looking forward to a Littérature Étrangère exhibition in Cavendish Square, a choice collection of foreign books that she might never otherwise have the chance to study or appreciate, for tomorrow was the only day that the exhibition would be available to the public. It had, every other day of its being in town, been only accessible to collectors and the like. An appointment with Victoria could surely be postponed till Wednesday, and this she told her sister emphatically.

"Really, Emma, I cannot comprehend your fixation for moldy old books." Milli perused the exhibit advertisement, from last week's paper that Emma had kept, which delineated the particulars of the foreign collection, and thereat skewed her nose in disgust. "La! They shan't even be printed in English. Oh! do reconsider, my dear."

But Emma would not be moved and, at last, her sister resigned herself to their going to the Winterlys residence on Wednesday instead of tomorrow. She was usually amenable enough to be conciliating, but in this instance, howsoever it incommoded her poor sister, her own happiness would have to actuate her even in the face of her sister's disappointment.

Emma then scribbled a succinct reply to Victoria at once begging off and explaining the nature of her prior engagements, but that both she and her sister would be delighted to see Victoria on Wednesday instead. The note was then sent off with Reid and the girls thence retired to their various occupations in the drawing room.

❦

The little warehouse at 28 Great Castle street looked no different than most of the doors in this row of buildings, but once Emma stepped within, after instructing Reid to wait outside, she was instantly enthralled by the interior of the place.

It was a dusty old room, sizable enough for its current purpose, with manifold shelving that lined the dark, unpainted timber walls and there were also rows of yet more free-standing shelves dividing the space into a series of narrow wooden corridors that held hundreds of racks and, possibly, thousands of books. Here she had found her nirvana at last.

However, it was not only her love for tomes in general that had brought her here, but her hope that she would find something ... rarified. She was interested, and had been for some time, in supernaturalism; especially after last night's occurrence. And seeing that those types of books were not something a refined lady ought to read, or even find in a book store or library, she had hoped to discover something here, in this strange and foreign collection with it's crypt-like atmosphere and shadowed niches.

There were only a few lamps illuminating the space, lending a good dose of mystery to the general atmosphere, which only further intrigued Emma. There were not very many patrons milling about the area, and those that were — bibliographers and book collectors no doubt — seemed to have purpose, their heads angled downwards and their eyes scanning deliberately over the catalogues.

"Good morning, Madame," came a silky, female voice at her ear. A tall woman had suddenly appeared at Emma's side, seemingly out of thin air, and startled her so much so that she gasped at the unexpectedness of it. With an apologetic grin, the lady said, "I apologize for affrighting you, but let me introduce myself. My name is Anna Leblanc. I am Monsieur Leblanc's wife, you see."

She was the curator's wife then. Her accent, though she spoke perfect English, was strong enough to affirm her Eastern European heritage. Emma blinked bemusedly, taking in her sartorial sophistication, carmine lips, deep red curls, and willowy frame. She was so incredibly lovely, that Emma was stunned a moment and caught up in a strange sense of inevitability.

"What brings you here this day? Anything I might possibly assist you with?"

Realizing that she had been staring instead of finding her manners, Emma greeted the lady shyly. She knew full well that she stood out amongst the other patrons, her youth and gender the most prominent of those distinctions, but in spite of that she affected a more confident smile and introduced herself therewith, before stating her business. "I wonder if you might point me to where I would find the more ... esoteric collections?"

Madame Leblanc gave no clue as to whether or not she found the request a strange one, but her smile, slightly, yet favorably, altered now, implied her subsequent amusement. "Recherché?"

"Yes, exactly," said Emma, wondering again at that odd smile, for it had become altogether oracular as though da Vinci had painted it there himself. There was a strong feeling of prescience surrounding Mme. Leblanc and, what was more, Emma could not account for, or define, the uncanny sensation of affinity between them.

"Right this way." She gave a sphinx-like purse of her mouth and gestured that Emma should follow her. "I think we have just what you're looking for..."

The curator's wife lead Emma down a flight of rickety stairs she had not noticed before, unlit and straitened as it was, and then through a little hallway. But before she had chance to become alarmed by the fact that she was disappearing into a maze, the corridor gave way to another room. It was similar in feel and aspect to the much larger one they had only just come from, but the collection here was obviously much smaller; and much more private.

With a regal flick of her slender wrist, Mrs. Leblanc invited her to browse the thick volumes. The room was empty except for the two of them, however, once Emma had assured her that she required nothing more, she was soon left alone entirely. Only the dust and cobwebs to keep her company. How perfectly gothic! The thought made her smile and she instantly felt just like one of the heroines from her novels.

With her reticule dangling from her wrist, she traced her hand reverentially across the stacks of vellum and stiff leather bindings. She was glad that she had arrived early, for she absolutely intended to stay here till she was enforced to leave and the warehouse closed to her.

The first book she paged through looked no better than a grimoire, with aged, scuffed gold tooling on the spine, a panel-stamped binding, and untrimmed edges. "Encyclopedia of Occultism," she said in a hallowed whisper, reading the book title.

Her first thought was that no good Christian woman should avail herself of this strange collection, nor should she be intrigued enough to leaf through these ancient-looking manuscripts. But she could not bring herself to go. Not just yet. What harm could looking do? It was not as if she believed any of this nonsense.

Then why are you here in this room? The answer, as though coming from the more prudent voice of reason was therewith answered by another voice, and equally as firm, that had steadily been growing stronger since the day before. Because something tells me last night was not a dream. Notwithstanding the tenderness of her lips; and her open chamber window.

There Emma stayed, in that hidden, taboo little corner of the exhibition where no one came and the hours of the day seemed suddenly frozen in time. She paged through one treatise, written in German, that claimed to be the ultimate authority on demonology. This she read, avidly, soaking in such words as might have scandalized even the most jaded cynic. 'Incubi' and 'succubae', were two amongst them.

Had she been visited by the former last night? She touched her lips. It certainly had felt that way. Which begged the question: was her virtue still intact? How did one know when one's hymen had been breeched? Good Lord! She fanned herself as she peeked furtively around the room, lest she be observed and her very thoughts overheard! Stop it, Emma! You have not been ravished by a specter in the night!

She continued to pour over all sorts of fantastic pages, but discarded those that were in languages she had not yet mastered, most of which were in Czech, Arabic or Aramaic, and instead limited her reading to those texts that were predominantly in Latin, German, or French. Those she was proficient in.

"Malefica..." Witch. Although she'd only whispered the word, it seemed to reverberate off the walls and disturb the very motes, so quiet was the room. She scanned one volume called "Malleus Maleficarum" and finally pushed it away in disgust.

According to that author, that odious Heinrich Kramer, women were far likelier to be witches than men. Her history was such that she clearly recalled the witch crazes, the hysteria, and subsequent misogyny that followed the publication of this book. But she was not interested in witches.

At length she came across an interesting codex that made mention of one creature that she had not thought to read about here: Wampyre — blutsaugende Todten. The bloodsucking dead.

And once she had seen that word, still more, similar passages caught her notice, until she was only reading volumes that dealt with les revenans et vampires, revenants and vampyres.

"Sanguisuga," she said aloud. 

It was a word that usually referred to a leech in Latin, but until this moment had never meant more to her. The very idea of a creature drinking the blood of another to survive, slipping each night from the earth, and blighting the living till dawn was preposterous and ... vile. No, it was all too outrageous. Wasn't it?

Would that she could take this book about these cases of miracula mortuorum, or vampirism, with her and read more about the shepherd of Blov, in the Kingdom of Bohemia, who had died then arisen from his grave and menaced his neighbors. He was staked, but when that did not cease his mischief he was disinterred before being, ultimately, burned. The flames thereby finally ending his reign of terror.

Why had she never heard of these reports and investigations from Serbia, Moravia, Hungry, Transylvania, etc. The superstitions had been so rampant that the Holy Roman Empress herself, Maria Theresa, had, therefore, in the previous century, passed laws against the exhumation and desecration of corpses.

"My God," said she, rubbing at her eyes with a grim sigh.

How sheltered she had been her whole life. How small she felt now that she realized, as she had never thought to really consider before, the vastness of the world, the varied cultures therein, and the frightening extend of her own insignificance. But there was still so much still to know, but her thoughts were dispelled by the footsteps that were fast approaching — the death knell to her timeless solitude in this strange, closed-off section of the world that she had inhabited for these few hours.

Like a Vampire in its lair, she snorted.

Emma looked at her watch as Mrs. Leblanc stepped into view. Four o'clock! She had been there almost six hours!

"Did you find all that you sought, little scholar," said the lady, her eyes flaring briefly with a knowing twinkle.

The formality had seemed to relax between them somehow which both comforted and disturbed Emma. "I have come across so much information as to confuse more than enlighten me," she admitted, still reeling from all that she had read in these recondite volumes, "but I suppose I must be satisfied."

"Yes, you must. We are closing now, my dear."

She thanked the curator's wife profusely and, folding her notes away into her reticule, she left the exhibit to find poor Reid still waiting outside for her under his umbrella. She had forgotten all about the poor lad! It seemed that every time she had a book in front of her nose, all sense of time and obligation evaporated.

During the carriage ride home she considered her findings. Most of the intelligence she'd assimilated, with a healthful dose of incredulity, had been no more than superstition and myth, and not much in the way of fact. Still, there had been enough to whet her thirst for more, and she was now afeared that vampirology might soon become her new ideé fixe. Heaven forfend!

That night, before she snuffed her candle out, she brought the flame close to the window latch to assure herself that the single strand of hair was still bound and intact exactly as she'd left it that morning. With a satisfied nod she extinguished the candle and climbed into bed.

Now we wait and see...

⭐️🌟Do you think Emma's being foolish? Oh the lies we tell ourselves to make sense of our world. 😈 Sleep tight, my pretties!⭐️🌟