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VII

Charlotte walks barefoot through the London streets, arms wrapped around herself as she crosses Southwark Bridge in nothing but a nightgown, the sky lightening with every step.

She reaches the warehouse just after dawn, shivering from sickness now as well as fear, and leans against the door, only to find it locked.

She knocks, but no one answers. No sound of steps within.

Charlotte lets her forehead fall against the wood as her fingers wrap around the handle. The lock crunches beneath her grip, the door gives way—

And still she cannot enter.

Her limbs snag on the threshold, the invitation she was given, all those years ago, either expired or revoked.

Charlotte sways, and sinks to her knees on the stone curb, head pounding and bones sore.

She is trying to gather the strength and will to stand again when she hears the clip of shoes, and Jack finally appears, hair slicked back and shirtsleeves rolled, suspenders hanging from his waist. Jack, who helps Charlotte to her feet, murmurs Oh dear, and Darling, and Come in .

Like them, the Way Down is still there.

The walls have been painted a different shade, the tables rearranged, and it’s empty at this hour, but Charlotte feels that same sleepy and pervading warmth, that welcome air, as Jack leads her to a booth.

Antonia appears at the top of the stairs, plucking pins from her hair, and what Charlotte remembers most is not the gentle way they handle her, but the total absence of surprise.

Sixteen years, and yet it’s clear, they’ve been expecting her.

Antonia brings her a shawl, more for comfort than for cold, or perhaps simply for modesty, and Jack sets down a glass, but as Charlotte reaches for it she’s met by a ghoulish reflection in the polished surface of the table—her curls wild, cheeks streaked with bloody tears.

How lucky that she met no one on the road.

Jack and Antonia sit across from her, waiting for the tale, and so she tells it.

Charlotte is amazed by the calmness in her voice. The way it doesn’t break.

“I was out getting flowers . . .”

The flowers. She can’t remember where she left them.

Was it at the front door, when she first saw the blood?

Or was it in the bedroom? She knows it hardly matters now, but as she hears herself recount the story—of coming home, of finding Sabine, of the bath, and the bed, and the blade that stopped—the rest of her is searching frantically for the bouquet.

She forces her mind back to the booth. Jack and Antonia are sharing a look as if engaged in silent conversation, and Charlotte cannot help but wonder bitterly, do they let each other in?

Are their minds houses the other gets to walk through, exploring every room, while she is forced to stand outside the door and guess?

If Sabine had let her in, would it have made a difference?

Would she have been strong enough to stay?

Or would she simply have fled sooner?

“I’m sorry for coming here,” she says aloud. “I didn’t know where else to go. But if I’ve put you in danger—”

“Don’t you worry about that,” says Antonia, waving her hand. “This is our house. No one’s getting through that door without permission.”

Charlotte’s gaze flicks down the short hall, and as she does, one of the shadows seems to peel away, incline its head, and grow a sleepy smile.

Silly Charlotte, why don’t you come back to bed?

She shivers, blinks. Her tired mind is playing tricks on her.

“Drink that,” says Jack, nudging the glass forward. “It will help.”

Charlotte nods, and takes it, tastes something sweet behind the iron as she swallows. Warmth spreads through her, a softness in its wake.

“Jack, darling, you go on up. I’ll be there soon.”

He nods, withdraws, and Antonia slips onto the cushioned bench beside her, coaxes Charlotte to lie down, let her head rest in the other woman’s lap.

“Go on,” drawls Antonia, stroking her curls, “try to get some rest.”

Charlotte wants to refuse, convinced she’ll never sleep again, but as those graceful fingers pet her hair, and the daylight presses down from up above, a horrible fatigue steals over her.

“Why are you being so kind?” she asks, even as she begins to sink.

Antonia’s voice follows her down. “We grow together in this garden.”

And then, somehow, she sleeps.

Mercifully, she doesn’t dream.

She wakes at nightfall—no windows in the club, and yet she knows, time ringing like a bell against her bones—sits up to find a set of fresh clothes folded and waiting on the table. A cotton dress. A cashmere sweater. A pair of shoes.

She ducks into the bathroom and dresses, scrubs her cheeks, pins up her hair, adjusts her face until the reflection looking back is less the haunted girl in last night’s table, and more the one she’s known these last one hundred years.

By the time Charlotte steps out into the club again, a handful of servers have arrived, the Way Down going about its business, of course, because the world has not stopped for anyone but her.

Antonia reappears, descending the stairs in a pearl dress, hair coiffed in perfect waves, lips painted ruby red.

Jack strolls down behind her, hands in his pockets, and Charlotte knows she has to go, is still gathering the strength to rise and leave, to face the city—the black-eyed version of her lover surely out there, searching for her in the dark—when Antonia produces a train ticket for the northern line.

It is such a kindness, and yet, there is a grim truth about that ticket, one Jack and Antonia are not saying.

It is not safe to stay in London.

How ironic, after all the times she begged Sabine to leave.

“Jack will walk you to the station,” says Antonia. “He would drive you, but there’s hardly any petrol . . .”

Charlotte shakes her head. “No, you’ve done too much already. And if Sabine . . .”

They came apart like Christmas paper.

Antonia drapes an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Don’t you worry about our Jack,” she says, kissing his cheek. “He can hold his own well enough, isn’t that so?”

Jack smiles, tips an imaginary hat. “It’ll be my pleasure to see you get there safe.”

Antonia meets Charlotte’s eye, seems about to speak, but then the door swings open. Charlotte stiffens, certain it will be Sabine, but it’s only the first patrons of the night arriving, and with that, Antonia turns her charm on them as Jack escorts her out and up into the waiting dark.

They walk together, side by side, Jack with his hands in his pockets, and Charlotte holding his elbow tight. Her nerves are tense, her senses scrambling for purchase, her imagination transforming every shape they pass into a woman, and every woman into Sabine.

Sabine, dressed in the violet gown she wore the night they met, one gloved hand raised to hail a cab.

Sabine, leaning against a shuttered shop door, covered head to toe in blood.

Charlotte squeezes her eyes shut until the darkness blooms with stars.

“You know,” says Jack. “We think ourselves immortal, but we’re not.”

Charlotte blinks, forcing her attention back to him.

“Live long enough, and things begin to rot.” He draws a hand from his pocket, taps a fingertip against his chest. “Compassion, affection, humility, care.” One strike with every word. “They drop away like petals, till all that’s left is stem and thorn. Hunger, and the urge to hunt.”

Charlotte frowns, even as her mind begins to race.

Could that be it? What’s happening . . .

her Sabine was never gentle, never kind —or if she was, those things were gone by the time they met—but there had always been a ferocious kind of light, a biting humor, passion, and wit. When did they first begin to disappear?

Was it the house in Hampshire?

Or the German castle?

“In a way, I suppose it’s all rather poetic,” muses Jack, “the grudging mortality of all those things that made us human.”

Anger rises like bile in Charlotte’s throat. “Forgive me,” she growls, “if I don’t find the poetry a worthy price.”

He nods, says nothing for a block, then two, and then the words come spilling out.

“Antonia has told you, I believe, that she was not my maker. His name was William. A common name for an uncommon gentleman. When I was still young, he made me promise.” He pauses, sparing her a glance.

“As you now know, promises among our kind are binding.”

Charlotte swallows, nods.

“Well,” continues Jack, “William made me promise that when he ceased to be himself, I would kill him. And since he could not be trusted to tell me when that moment was, I would have to choose it for myself. I would have to measure, have to weigh, have to decide how much a person— my person—can lose before they are lost.”

She stares, stunned, waiting for him to go on.

When he doesn’t, she cannot help but ask. “What happened?”

To that, Jack offers only a wan smile, but she can see the pain in his eyes, fast as a camera flash before he buries it, and clears his throat.

“The fact is, whether death takes you all at once, or steals pieces over time, in the end there is no such thing as immortality. Some of us just die slower than the rest.”

Jack offers a kind smile as he says it, as if the words are meant to make her feel better. But as they near St. Pancras, Charlotte feels a new dread creeping in.

If that is true, and all of them are bound to wither, rot, what will it look like when her own humanity begins to ebb? What will it feel like? How will she tell? What if it steals over her so slowly she doesn’t notice? What if it sweeps in so fast she never sees it coming?

If Jack hears these questions, they go unanswered.

They walk, arm in arm, into St. Pancras, that vaulting tunnel of glass and steel, damaged, bombed, yet somehow standing.

He leads her to the platform, her train already there. Strangers mill about, reading papers or sipping from flasks, some in groups and some alone, and Charlotte searching every one for that long face, that copper hair.

Certain, even now, that Sabine will hunt her down.

If she’s not already there.

Jack hands her the ticket and wishes her good luck, laying a cool-lipped kiss on each cheek. “Courage,” he says, “you’ve a long way to go,” and she doesn’t know if he’s talking about her journey or her soul.

Jack starts to go, then stops, turns back. “Oh, almost forgot.” He pats a pocket, drawing out a card. “On behalf of dear Antonia,” he says. “If you ever find your way to America, she wanted you to have a friend.”

Charlotte takes the card. On the front, the image of a black rose with white thorns. On the back, the word Boston. And just beneath, added in slanted cursive that must be hers, a name: Ezra.

With that, they part, though Jack vows to stay on the platform until the train has pulled away. Charlotte boards. For the first time in so long, alone.

It is a lie, she tells herself as the train rumbles to life, that you only get one story.

And yet, as she stands in the train car, facing the windows and the platform sliding away, empty save for Jack, she swears that she can feel Sabine, like a weight at the end of a rope.

The cord between them drawing tight enough to snap as the train leaves the station, picking up speed.

She waits to feel the moment of relief, when the cord breaks, and she is free.

It doesn’t come.

But neither does Sabine.

Charlotte sinks at last into her seat.

And sobs.