If your ancient-Greece-obsessed papa had had the temerity to select as your given names Rheia Ourania Sophronia Euphrosyne, so that you would be burdened throughout life as Lady Rheia Ourania Sophronia Euphrosyne Blakeney-Barrington, I am sure you would have done what my dear girl did, which was, naturally, to prefer to be called Rose. Or, in a pinch, Lady Rose, though she preferred the ease and succinctness of the single syllable from anyone, of any class or station.
If your aforementioned papa also happened to be a brilliant scientist and inventor, then you might well become one yourself, in spite of your gender.
If, in addition to being a brilliant inventor, you are also mechanically minded and have a vast interest in, well, everything, you may well be asked by the world-renowned yet oddly mysterious Damocles Institute for Research and Exploration to become a member.
And if, perchance, you are affianced to an up and coming young illusionist, magician and escape artist, you might well drag him into membership in DIRE with you.
Regardless of how less intelligent, less inventive and less talented he may be.
That, in a nutshell, describes my life with my darling Rose.
We met when she came to one of my performances. I recall watching this charming girl examine me with what I thought a most critical eye while I ran through my repertoire. Indeed, she made me quite nervous, so much so that I nearly set my poor rabbit Bosco on fire instead of pulling him from a top hat. I had to apologize profusely afterwards and give him an extra carrot.
When Rose came backstage after the show, I prepared myself for—well, I'm not sure what I was prepared for. Certainly not for what happened.
"Sir," she said. Rose has the most delightful voice, low and yet distinct. "Your manual dexterity is impressive; some of your legerdemain is quite good. Have you ever considered looking towards a larger arena for your talents?"
"Hmm," I said, not knowing precisely what she might mean.
"What I mean is," she replied, in that startling, reading-your-mind way she has, "I have some ideas for mechanical devices which would, I think, be most useful for one in your profession…"
Well, that was all it took. I went from Blackthorne the Magician, performing on street corners, pubs and church halls, to The Amazing Blackthorne, Illusionist, Escape Artist and Conjuror, command performances for the queen, and appearing regularly at the Egyptian Hall.
And all because Rose saw something in me, I like to think. In my more honest moments, I know I was but the means to an end for her, a way to use her brilliant inventive mind. For she develops and creates all my illusions and tricks, while I merely perform them. Still, I find the bargain more than satisfactory.
Thaddeus and I took a steam cab back to 111 Piccadilly. The Egyptian Hall began its life as a museum almost fifty years ago. Since then it has become something more. A theatre, primarily, but also the London home of not only Rose and I, but of the Damocles Institute. DIRE has taken over the entire block, with interconnecting passageways connecting all. Laboratories, mechanical shops, repositories of all that is arcane and mysterious.
There's even a pub on each corner.
And a delightful series of flats for its members, two of which Rose and I inhabit when we are in town.
I do not wish to lead you astray; Rose and I are affianced, I fear, only within my own mind. I adore her, and I am sure she feels the same to me, but somehow the discussion about spending our lives together has never arisen. I live in hope, however.
When Thaddeus and I emerged from the sewers, we loaded our paraphernalia—lanterns, swords, stoppered flask, and a mysterious bag which he refused to discuss—into one of the DIRE steam cabs which had been waiting. The cabbie sniffed and grumbled under his breath at our stink, but stoked up his steam horse with a bucketful of coal and we were underway, bouncing over the cobblestones. I seized the flask of brandy I'd hidden under the cushions and insisted Thaddeus take a large drink, after which I did the same.
"Thaddeus, these recently dead—really, we must think of a more convenient name—were they quicker moving than the ones we've seen before?"
Thaddeus nodded. "Quite perky, sir, they was indeed. And there hasn't been no report of one in the streets in ever so long. Not to mention, I don't think I've ever seen so many in one place, have you?"
I thought a moment as I sipped brandy. "You're right. One or two, here and there, near the docks or in a graveyard. Then none reported for over a week. Do you think they're congregating in the sewers, and that's why Burton sent us down there?"
Thaddeus looked thoughtful, which seemed to pain him more than the bruising on his face. "I get the feeling, sir, that Mr. Richard knows more about these walking dead folk than he's letting on, don't you?"
"I do indeed."
Captain Richard Francis Burton—a charter member of DIRE, as you might expect—explorer and linguist, had been away in Africa, searching for the source of the Nile. That, at least, was the story given out to the public. Though I had no real knowledge, I suspected he might have had other purposes for the trip. At any rate, he and his companion, John Hanning Speke, had returned about six months previously.
A thought occurred. It happens, from time to time, little as one might think who knows me well.