There was no sign that the casement had been meddled with during the night. Emma pressed her index finger contemplatively to her lips as she considered the clasp, the fine, brown strand still twisted securely around it.

That was of no moment, for she would continue as she had been doing and perchance, as terrifying as the notion was, catch herself a phantom!

If indeed she was being beleaguered by a demoniac incubi, it seemed to have lost interest in her for the nonce. But whether or not it was a figment of her outrageous fancies, she did not for a minute think that Winterly himself had flown through her chamber window the night before. No indeed. It was either the strange evocations of a restless mind, or a spirit in the guise of a man she was, admittedly, attracted to.

Emma had not owned up to her infatuation, even to herself, until this very moment, but the truth of the matter was that she did find Markus Winterly exceedingly handsome. Would that his fine looks were all that he retained, then she would not have given him more time in her thoughts than he'd already possessed, but he was enthralling in every way a man might possibly hope to be.

The first time she'd seen his face, in the boot shop, he'd been grimly impenetrable, his eyes as black and deep as coalpits as they'd watched her steadily. It was not his symmetrical features, or stately frame that had intrigued her then, but the quiet power he exuded. An unfathomable, and terrifying, combination of preternatural omnipotence. That she was thrilled and awed by him did not sit well with her.

She prided herself on being pragmatic, but she had, of late, suddenly become obsessed with unnatural creatures, bizarre superstitions, and, most trying of all, a certain, enigmatic viscount. Even his conversation, what little they'd happened to share, was stimulating in the extreme!

She fell across her bed with a sigh, running her hands slowly along her nightshift, touching each place that her dream Winterly had explored. But no, it was useless to want. She dropped her trembling hand to her side, her body aching for ... something.

Whatever Winterly's interest in her, if such interests existed at all, they were not of a romantic nature. The disparities between them were vast: he was noble and exceedingly wealthy, whereas she was neither. Winterly was incredibly pleasing to look at, a brooding, midnight Apollo, and she was only plain — perhaps mildly pretty when she was dressed in her very best gown.

Her lack of beauty had never bothered her before, but, for the very first time in her life, she would have given anything to be as alluring as Mrs. Leblanc; as stunning as Victoria; or as winsome as her dear sister. And then she felt vexed at herself for being silly. She was who she was, comely or not, and had never regretted anything so trivial as looks. Why should she start now?

To covet beauty was surely as ungodly as believing in vampyres!

Her father was right: she had been formed for philosophizing and scholarly pursuits. Could you really be happy being nothing but the bauble that hung from a rich man's arm? The answer was an emphatic one — no, indeed. She could not.

At least Winterly would not be having tea with them today. Wherever he was, he was, according to Victoria, not residing at his Mayfair address at present. It was for the best. Whatever Victoria's motives were for having them to tea, Emma knew there to be one. The woman was friendly enough, even effusively so at times, but there had always been an undercurrent of something ominous hidden between the lineaments of her perfect face.

When she smiled it was that of a spider's. When she watched those around her it was with a calculation that incited one's flesh to pucker insidiously. Yet it was all so subtle that even Emma was not altogether sure she was being fanciful again.

Milli liked the woman well enough, and it was with a grudging resignation that she admitted to herself that Victoria was rather affectionate and kind to her sister. It was for that reason that Emma did nothing to dissuade her sister from Victoria's company.

Having barely slept for fear of werewolves, vampyres, demons, and witches — Oh! Why did I read those shocking books — Emma had arisen early to check the window. She now rubbed at her wearied eyes and took up her pen to write in her diary until such a time as she would need to dress for breakfast.

It was into the pages of that receptacle that she emptied her soul of all her fears and greatest wishes. They were the anthologies of her heart scrawled in ink and tears. Once she was done, she bound her diary and tied a pretty knot before hiding it in an old, scuffed bandbox with all the rest of her gimcracks and whatnots.

The rest of the time between dressing for breakfast and their being handed into the coach for their engagement at the Winterly's town-home passed with relative speed, much to Milli's relief. She had been quite in the fidgets all morning in anticipation of their departure. One would have thought they were headed off to take tea with the Prince Regent himself!

Emma had been so preoccupied with her own thoughts that when they turned into Half Moon street from Piccadilly, she blinked, nonplussed to be so soon arrived at their destination. The Winterly mansion, a colossal, four story, rectangular building, was almost an exact replica of its conjoined neighbors, but with only subtle differences in design and color.

It was a stately and symmetrically proportioned, terraced home of stone and stucco, with a sloping slate roof and chimney stacks fringed by a parapet. There was a quaint square of garden at the front and a red Palladian front door, with a semi circular fanlight above it, that stood neatly beside the two large sash-windows of the first floor.

When they were admitted into the vestibule, both girls were awed by the elegance of their surroundings. The butler, meanwhile, took their jackets and handed the articles to a waiting footman before guiding them into the drawing room.

"My dears!" Victoria advanced on them and gave them each a friendly kiss on the cheek when they entered the room, lingering a little longer over Milli's than Emma's. "Welcome."

As Emma seated herself on the cream chintz sofa, Victoria and Milli at once engaging in one of their usual, lively tête-à-têtes, she admired the classicism of the space — the grecian styles so favored by the wealthy and, thereby, emulated by the middle class as well.

It was rather understated, in muted tones of grey and white, from the doric lines of the marble chimneypiece to the high, beautifully stuccoed ceilings, cornices, and baseboards. The rosewood and mahogany furniture were all charming, the ornaments, like the silver candelabras, were of a fine quality, and the windows were draped in yards of light green satin.

All of this she took in as she feigned interest in the conversation that was proceeding along without much input from her, offering a noncommittal nod every now and then so as not to appear completely wonderstruck by the tasteful furnishings. The only oddity she did notice about the setting was that the room wanted a little more light, yet the drapes had been purposefully pulled halfway across the windows. 

At length the footmen appeared again, one carrying a salver of cheese and fruit and the other a tray which bore the silver coffee pot and chinaware. How lavish it all was.

When Milli enquired about Lord Winterly, Victoria replied that he had gone to North Yorkshire. "Our family estate is situated not far from Whitby," said she.

"Whitby?" Emma had always longed to visit the ruins at Whitby Abbey.

"Yes, Winterly Castle. Do you know it?" Victoria took a tiny sip of her coffee and set it down again.

"Not at all, but I have always longed to visit Yorkshire."

"Have you never been?" Victoria seemed surprised that she hadn't and when Emma affirmed herself to be quite unfamiliar with place, the lady's smile became pensive. "And should you like to visit Winterly Castle?"

"More than anything!" Milli's words were absurdly muffled by the grapes she had pushed between her lips. She was far too excited to swallow first and so gave the idea her hearty approval by way of clapping her hands and practically jumping up from her seat. But Emma suspected it, her prompt and animated ejaculation, was more to do with the fact that her sister feared she might decline, for it had indeed been an invitation of sorts.

"Well, then you must come stay with us this month," she cried, becoming more excited by the minute. "We depart London on the fourteenth. My brother returns only briefly to see to some business before we both retire to the country for a few weeks."

A fortnight! "I am not sure that we can join you." Emma did not particularly want to see Whitby on the Winterlys' terms.

"Nonsense! I won't hear of your not coming." Victoria waved her hand dismissively. "My brother and I will be at Winterly Castle for our annual Midsummers Ball, and I shall be incredibly put out if you do not promise at once that you shall be our guests for a few weeks at the very least."

"Oh!" Milli turned to beam at Emma. "My sister was born on the summer solecist. How serendipitous!"

"Quite so." Victoria looked thoughtfully at Emma. "In part, you share a commonality with my brother. But Markus, you see, celebrates his at midwinter. A curious antipode, do not you think?"

The Winter Solstice — the longest and darkest night of the year. Yes, that suited him quite well indeed.

"Aye, very curious," Milli agreed in her sister's stead; then, flashing an impatient look at Emma, went on, "I take it as a sign that we simply cannot refuse such a kind offer."

"Not so hasty, sister." Emma pursed her lips sharply at her sister, who happily ignored the quelling look, before finally giving their host her answer. "I thank you for the invitation, Victoria, that is exceedingly kind of you, but I cannot decline or accept until I have first spoken with my aunt and uncle."

"Allow me." Victoria winked conspiratorially at Milli. "I shall write such a charming letter that your uncle would not dare deny my request."

"I do not imagine my uncle will refuse you, Victoria," said Milli. "I confess I shall be deuced glad to be gone from London till these infernal murders stop!" She then deposited another grape into her waiting mouth.

"I wonder that there is not more talk of these crimes." Emma chewed at her bottom lip with a distrait frown. "The newspapers barely make any mention of them." And the fact that each body had been drained of blood was even more disturbing — not at all unexceptional in fact. Too Vampiric in nature.

"We have just come out of a war, my dear. The people want to celebrate, not be bothered by talk of murder." Victoria offered Emma a plate of confectionaries.

"I suppose you're right." Heaven forbid we should discuss the means by which to apprehend a vicious murderer, she thought mordantly. Far better that they should gossip about Beau Brummell's wardrobe or The Duke of Wellington's vast harem.

"It is a nasty business after all, and in any event, I understand that most of the ... victims were unfortunates."

Emma's mouth hardened into a line of displeasure. "Do you mean to say that their deaths are of little import?"

Their hostess gave an imperceptible shrug. "I hope you will, neither of you, think me indifferent, but it is not surprising that there should be such atrocious acts of violence amongst society's most blighted multitudes."

"On the contrary, I think it an exceedingly callous implication, madam," Emma opined with warmth. She could see that even Milli was somewhat taken aback by their hostess' unkind remark. "Poverty and villainy are not one and the same!"

"Perhaps not," said she, gleaming white teeth set irritably, "but poverty is contemptible — it breeds desperation; and desperation makes beasts of us all..." A warning edge sharpened her tone.

Nevertheless, Emma would not be intimidated. "Precisely. And what a man does in an hour of desperation ought not render to him such harsh judgement. I cannot deny that criminality and violence is beastly, but you must allow that the underclass enjoy little freedom, have limited rights, and have no power whatever. Their lot is a miserable one. Surely you cannot criticize the poverty-stricken when they do what they can to feed themselves and their children. Not all are criminals or scoundrels."

"Lud! but you're a liberally minded little thing. How your heart bleeds freely for them." Victoria grinned unrepentantly.

"I daresay if everyone were fairly flush in the pockets," said she, casting her eyes over the expensive furnishings, "no one would have need to steal or commit mischief." She had always thought Victoria a bit high in the instep, but not so cold as this. Emma was beginning to think better of her sister spending so much time in the lady's company.

"That is, I grant you, a compelling notion," Victoria said, her smile becoming faintly brittle, "but a utopian one."

"I cannot deny I greatly esteem Sir Thomas Moore's Utopia." And she thought it an auspicious omen that she should be residing on the very street in London that that great philosopher and humanist had been born on.

"I never much cared for the man — too much of an idealist."

"That savors of misanthropy, Victoria."

"I prefer the term naturalist, my dear. There is after all a hierarchy in nature: kill or be killed. I make no secret of my admiration for the fact that not every animal is born equal."

"We are thinking creatures; not beasts, madam. It is what sets us apart, is it not?"

"Some of us, yes..." A strange glint lit Victoria's cold black eyes.

The atmosphere in the drawing room had become uncomfortably frigid of a sudden. Milli, darting her eyes anxiously between the two disputants, drew Victoria's attention from Emma with a trifling question. "Have you purchased a ticket yet for the Grand Masquerade?"

"At the Argyll Rooms?"

"Yes." Milli seemed to breath easier now that the tension had evaporated from Victoria's countenance which was once again as smooth as porcelain. "It had better a be a famous good ball if they are to charge a guinea each for admittance!"

"Heavens no, but I shall be attending the masquerade at the King's Theatre on Monday."

Conversation had once again waxed to safer topics, and Emma almost chuckled at the thought of Milli's face should she suddenly broach another delicate subject like slave trade! Pshaw! Somehow she did not believe Miss Winterly to be an abolitionist at heart. The woman had thus far evinced not an ounce of humanitarianism.

Later that afternoon Emma went in search of her uncle as soon as she alighted from the carriage that had brought them home. The ride had been mostly quiet, for Milli was excessively peeved at her sister for humiliating her and she was now afeared that "poor Victoria" must regret having ever invited them to Castle Winterly.

"Shall we not take a few days to consider the idea," Emma had suggested, somewhere along the bustling traffic of Pall Mall, her sister jostled by the ruts in the road as she glared out of the window.

"Dearest Emma! Why must you always think a thing to death?"

"And why will you never think at all!" It had been a harsh thing to say and Emma had instantly regretted it. She had apologized immediately and Milli had accepted, but the carriage ride was stilted after that.

When she did find her uncle, he was in his library and gave her leave to enter once she had knocked for admittance. Robert Haywood greeted her with a smile as she approached him. "Back from calling on the nobility, eh?" His grin was on the facetious side.

She kissed his cheek hello. "Uncle, if you should get a letter from Miss Winterly inviting Milli and I to Yorkshire, I must insist that you decline it under some or other of your witty pretexts."

"Wot the dickens for?"

"I ... do not quite get on with her and I suspect she's not at all a good influence on our Milli." The latter part had been a bit of an exaggeration, and she could not help feeling badly for it.

"Well," said he thoughtfully, "that is frightful bad luck, Emmaline."

Emma angled her head askance. "It is?"

"I'm afraid I've already given the lady my consent."

"You have?!" Emma groaned and slumped her shoulders.

"I answered her letter as soon as I received it, and the post has just left to deliver it." He patted her head affectionately. "There there. It looks as though you shall just have to go to to Whitby and enjoy the moors despite yourself."

Rot it! When the devil had Victoria sent that letter; and how had it reached Milk street before they had. 

⭐️🌟Have any of you ever been to Whitby? You do realize that was where Dracula first stepped foot on English soil! And if you haven't read Dracula then get to it. You cannot, in all honesty, call yourself a vampire lover till you've read that novel! ⭐️🌟