I was caught. The walking dead men were upon me. I struck out wildly with arms and legs, but something I could not ascertain imprisoned me, weighing me down like a ton of feathers. I wrenched one arm loose and slammed it hard into a leering, drooling face…
"Ouch, Jonathan!"
Rose. The sound of her voice brought me out of my dream as efficiently as a jug of cold water into the face.
I sat up.
No walking dead. I was in my flat. In my bedroom. In bed. Of course. And entangled in the bedclothes.
Also, I noted, I seem to have gone to bed sans night attire. I blushed and pulled the sheet up to my chin.
"Rose, dear god, what are you doing in an unmarried gentleman's bedroom?"
Rose smiled down at me. I knew that look. I was so excited I nearly dropped the bed sheet but remembered just in time.
"You've discovered something! I say, my girl, that was quick work. Now, if you'll, er, pardon me while I get into some clothes, I would love to hear all about it."
"You are pardoned, and for slapping me as well. Now get up, do; I've ordered our breakfast." She settled down into an armchair as if she had all the time in the world, picked up a device of her own design which lay on the table where I generally ate my breakfast, and turned it over in her hands as if she'd never seen it before.
"Rose, I need privacy," I protested, not daring to move.
"You're as prim as a convent girl, Jonathan," she said, but she got up and went to my sitting room.
Though she did not close the door behind her.
Well, then. I cast off the bedclothes and got up. I must admit, however, I lost no time in seizing trousers and shirt, and covering all with my silk dressing gown. I ran a rueful hand over my chin, but decided shaving would have to way, it taking a poor second to sharing breakfast with Rose.
By the time I made it into the sitting room, one of the waiters from the Institute's restaurant was unloading a tray on my big table in front of the window. The smell of eggs and bacon perfumed the air.
Rose poured the tea, and for a considerable time, we spoke no word as we emptied the dishes before us.
"Ah," Rose said at last as she sat back in her chair. "I'd forgotten how hungry I was."
"And I was ravenous," I agreed as I bit into the last rasher of bacon. "Odd, since after yesterday, I thought I'd never have an appetite again." The bacon seemed to turn to ashes in my mouth and I set the last bit down in my plate.
Rose seized it and popped it in her mouth. "We must keep up our strength, dear boy. Things to do, things to do. And you have a performance…" she glanced at the clock on the mantel, "in less than twelve hours."
"Rose," I said, shaking my finger at her severely, "you're not planning on going anywhere or doing anything without me tonight while I'm stuck on stage. Promise me you will not; swear now."
Rose cocked her head sideways and regarded me in that manner which makes me feel like something on a slide she's about to stick under a microscope.
"I would not dream of leaving you out of any of my plans, Jonathan, and it wounds me to hear you suggest such a thing."
Now I was even more worried.
"Rose, my dear girl, I know that look. I recognized it the moment I woke from that horrible nightmare and saw you gloating down at me."
"Nonsense. I never gloat. Now drink your tea and let me tell you what we've discovered…"
Almost precisely twelve hours later, I peeked through the rather dusty red velvet curtains which separated me from the audience at the Egyptian Hall.
"Full house, again, Mr. Jonathan," said Thaddeus in satisfaction as he came off the stage to waves of applause.
Thaddeus, with his useful mechanical additions, is our strong man. He does an act which has been enormously popular since its inception, wherein he lifts a series of ridiculously heavy objects, culminating in his final feat, in which with a man on each shoulder and one under each arm—all volunteers from the audience—he blithely strolls about the stage, smiling at ladies in the boxes and on the front row.
I waited while the baritone sang a few songs before the curtain and my own paraphernalia was positioned just so on the stage. Then I was announced—to rounds of tumultuous applause.
I strode onto the stage, making sure my black silk cape flowed around me, and doffed my topper. "Ladies and gentlemen, how kind of you to call."
General laughter.
I proceeded through my usual repertoire, but I confess, my heart was not in it, and my mind was distracted with concern. I kept glancing at the doors in the back of the house, expecting any moment to see ravening hordes of the undead pour through them and begin snacking on the audience.
And I was worried about Rose. She had promised me she would do nothing without me, but she has been known to break such a promise before. I could hardly rush through my performance; these good folks had paid to see me, after all.
Indeed, I found their applause, upon which I generally dote, rather irksome. I kept wishing they'd stop so I could finish and get out of my costume.
And my fake moustache itched abominably. A sure sign, as I'd come to know, of worry.
Finally, after an endless eternity filled with praise and glory, after timing my assistants irritably in my head as they placed this here and that there, then stood back and displayed their lovely limbs in their skimpy attire to the gentlemen, we were ready for the final part of my act.
"Ladies and gentlemen! I give you…the Metamorphosis!"
This was a rather delicious trick designed by Rose, in which I am chained, wrapped in ropes, stuffed in a trunk, which goes through the exact same process and then is slid behind screens. An instant later, I step out from the screens. After the ropes and such are undone, one of my lovely assistants is found inside the trunk.
Applause. And I'm off to meet Rose and Thaddeus.
Down in the cellars.
Again.
Really, I can very nearly hear you say it; I am quite the glutton for punishment.