He turned his eye to the corner, to the shard he’d placed there. Now it shone burnt orange, and a trail of the same color rose off it, climbing into the air and out the window. Stephen looked for a long moment, drew a deep breath—there was a hint of the sharp smell of the gas, though no such thing could hurt him in this form—and sprang upward.

There were no deer in this city to chase, nor gullies to soar through, but at least tonight there would be hunting of a sort.

Stephen launched himself through the window and into the spring night. The fog hid him well. For once, he was thankful for the modern world and its coal-shrouded cities. Perhaps someone would see a mysterious shape in the sky. Most would put it down to drink or weariness or the fog itself warping the silhouette of some bird. Besides, they were only human. Stephen’s other form might have worried.

When he was the dragon, those concerns were very much at the back of his mind.

He spread his wings and caught an updraft, following the trail of the shard. It led across London, occasionally crossing paths with the tracks of air sprites and other creatures, but Stephen found it easy enough to follow. He watched the lights of the city below him as they flickered and shifted, and knew pity for the people who lit them, penned in their little houses and watching the night as if it was an enemy.

He had been one of them until a few minutes ago. He knew this, but the mind of the dragon was both eternal and immediate. Now he was soaring, free and strong, with the world beneath him and the sky open above him. If he’d spent the last year as a prisoner—well, what was a year? He laughed and heard the rumble of it around him.

On the streets below, people would glance upward and mutter about coming thunderstorms.

The trail he followed led across the Serpentine, and Stephen banked sharply to stay with it, descending as far as he dared. The orange color spread out ahead of him into a nebulous cloud around a clump of tall, white buildings adorned with complicated ironwork. Stephen didn’t recognize them, and he was still too high up to read signs, but his human self knew that they were the abodes of wealthy men.

Without being seen, he could go no closer, but he knew that the trail stopped here in one of these buildings. There was more, too: a presence that he’d encountered before, though he couldn’t see it as clearly as he could the shard’s trail. In this shape, though, he could tell that it wasn’t entirely human.

Then, below Stephen, a figure emerged from one of the houses. The light around it shone very brightly to him, almost too brightly to see many physical details, and in a few moments, the figure got into a carriage and drove away, becoming quickly lost in the crowds. Stephen had a momentary glimpse, though, enough to see a thin male body and long red hair.

Stephen hadn’t met the man before, but he had seen him, and he knew where to find out more.

That was as much as he could achieve in dragon form. He beat his wings again and headed upward, then reluctantly back toward his home, aware that such nights of hunting would be infrequent for quite a while longer. It was a very human thought to have in this shape; repression was obviously taking its toll.

To distract himself, Stephen flew upward, above the fog, until the stars spread themselves up above him and the wind was cool around him. From high enough, even nights over London were lovely.

He wished that Mina could have seen the view.

He could almost hear her voice, marveling, and feel her slight weight on his back, her arms around his neck. She’d be brave enough for flight, Stephen knew; she’d take to it eagerly. She’d have a hundred things to say about the stars or the city from above.

It wasn’t wise to dream of her. If anything, being in dragon shape should have made the differences between them all the more apparent. Mina had stated her wishes very clearly that afternoon. She’d been very sensible about it, and perhaps her plan would even work. She was a modern woman, she had a mortal family, and she hadn’t asked to be any part of Stephen’s world.

All the same, he looked up at the stars and saw her face.

Twenty-three

“Not hardly,” said Polly, laying teaspoon in saucer with a percussive click. “I’ve been to the country. Our whole Sunday school class went when I was twelve. A treat, they said. Not much of one, I say. It rained the whole time, and there was mud everywhere.”

“Not like here, then,” said Mrs. Hennings.

Polly laughed. “Oh, I suppose you’ve a point. Mud just seems muddier outside the city, though, without the paved streets and that. And I suppose the flowers are pretty, but you do get pigs. And cows,” she added, with a shudder that might have mostly been exaggeration.

“You wouldn’t have beef for dinner if you didn’t,” said Mrs. Baldwin.

“But she’s right,” Mrs. Hennings said. “They’re unsettling beasts, alive and up close. And as for pigs, they’re much better in sausage form.”

Mina grinned over the top of her letter. “I might agree if I’d ever met them,” she said, “but I hadn’t had the chance. We always went to the seaside. I think Florrie will like a few days in the country, though, and Bert too.”

“It’ll do them good, anyhow,” said Polly.

“Even with the mud?” Mina teased her.

“Even with. The doctors say fresh air’s healthy, and I’m not one to go against their advice. I’m just glad I’m grown now and strong enough that there’s no need.”

“Better hope you stay that way, then,” said Emily.

At midday on a Sunday, the rest of the house was quiet and clean. Stephen was out.

He’d often been out since the afternoon when they’d found out about the thieves. He and Mina still had breakfast together and still talked over the newspaper. He still kept her aware of what little progress he was making, but he made sure to stay at more than arm’s length. Serious and businesslike, they talked about scrying and occult clubs; abstract and scholarly, they spoke of museums and politics, and neither of them touched on anything personal.

She didn’t tease him. He didn’t call her “Cerberus.” In the daytime, he went out, and he stayed out until he had to come home and transform. Then, often enough, he went out again.

For Mina’s part, there was the kitchen: tea and cake, as often as not, and the company of the servants. The pain that became alarmingly sharp when Mina was by herself was at least duller in company, and she was coming to enjoy the servants for their own sake, as well.

From a sensible perspective, everything was going very well. Mina wished she could have felt happier about it. That would probably take time.

“Speaking of doctors,” she said into the silence, with a quick glance back at her letter to refresh what she already knew, “Mum says they’re putting in one of those charity clinics a few streets down from us. She also says—heavily underlined, I might add—that one of the doctors there is a lady.”

“I’ve heard of those,” said Mrs. Hennings, cutting herself a slice of cake. “No wonder she’s practicing at a charity, though. Can you imagine anyone with a choice going to a woman?”

“Especially a gentleman,” said Emily, and bit back a giggle under Mrs. Baldwin’s stern expression.

“My father’s of the same opinion,” said Mina. She glanced back at the letter, read between the lines, and smiled. “My mother isn’t going to contradict him openly, but I suspect she’s mostly glad to have a doctor nearby, whatever her sex. Florrie thinks it’s a wonderful idea, though. I’d imagine she’s already started dissecting her old dolls.”

That got a laugh.

“I think it’s a splendid notion,” said Polly, and tossed her champagne curls. “I’ve had quite enough of having to”—she glanced around to make sure Mr. Baldwin was nowhere on the premises and lowered her voice—“to undress in front of some strange bloke. And his assistant, like as not. I know they’re not supposed to care, but they’re men, aren’t they? Sometimes I think I might as well go on the halls and get paid for it, instead of handing over half a week’s wages.”

“Polly!” said Mrs. Baldwin, switching the target of her glare, and the housemaid blushed.

“I’ll have you know my sister works at the Gaiety—taking tickets, not anything else,” said Mrs. Hennings, “and it’s very respectable now.”

Polly sniffed. “You know what I mean. What do you think of it, Mina?”

“Music halls or lady doctors?” Mina shrugged. “The halls are a jolly good time, though I wouldn’t go on them myself. I’d get stage fright something fierce, for one, and I don’t think I can sing more than passably well.”

“And the lady doctors?” Mrs. Baldwin asked. “What’s your thinking about them?”

“I don’t know,” Mina said. “In principle it’s sound enough. I can’t think of a reason a woman can’t be a doctor, and a good one. But it’s new, and I’d be wary of anything new, especially where medicine’s concerned.” She looked down at her teacup and saw her reflection: sleek hair, crisp collar, very much the New Woman. “Now is when we say something about pots and kettles,” she added.

“Well, I wasna’ about to mention it myself,” said Mrs. Baldwin. “We’ve enough nurses and midwives and that at home, of course, and half of them take charge when the doctor’s too far—we’ve a great deal of ground to cover, of course—or too new. I recall hearing as how one young sawbones fainted the first time a birth got messy, and the midwife poured the whole kettle of water over his head. It hadn’t but started to warm yet, thank God.”

Women among the dragons took on different roles, Mina remembered. Stephen had talked about one of his sisters fighting in a battle, and she’d found a few older and less-well-labeled books, journals from the look of them, that suggested as much, as well as other things about dragons. In a land where they had ruled for centuries and where they’d done a great deal to keep out the rest of the world, perhaps their attitudes had spread even to those who were entirely mortal.