The Doctor lifted his hat in greeting. "Apologies, Miss Brewer. I would have called ahead to make an appointment, but this is a matter of some urgency."
He stepped back a little, giving her a view of the carriage in the side alley, where Quincy stood with the driver and two helpers. "Myself and Mr Richardson have received shipments from the Amelia Steamline, a trans-Atlantic service which I believe you also use. I have come to warn you that this particular shipment has been tampered with."
As the carriage driver tended to the horses, the two helpers were already unloading Maxine's crate and bringing it over as Pennyblood spoke. "It seems a mysterious benefactor has furnished us with additional gifts, in my case a highly volatile explosive compound. Out of concern for your safety and by my own curiosity as to the purpose of this providence, I would like to be present when you open your crate. It may be that we have a mutual problem on our hands."
* * * * * * *
"Oh darling, you are so dreary when you talk business."
Louchard waved a pale, slender hand at his companion.
"And please... don't tar me with that dirty little brush of yours. Why, I positively adore my fellow vampires." He leaned out from the box again, gazing across the undead multitude as they bristled to the final notes of the opera.
"Gorgeous creatures, all of them. So alive in their passions - so hungry. And what a world they saved, in our lovely little London town."
He sat back and turned an eye to the shadows in which his murderous companion sat.
"I have nothing but love from my brothers and sisters. But I wish, Georgie - O how I wish they would only see that true youth... true beauty... must forever be... fleeting/.
His lips parted in a fanged smile as the audience rose, clapping, the cheers going up like an answering song to the finale. It thundered around the vaulted opera as the players, Astrid among them, took to the stage and bowed in unison with exquisite costumes repainted in the raised lights.
And after the third encore a Vampire took to the stage, dressed in suit and tails, raising his gloved hands for silence. "Thank you, friends, family – thank you." He brought his hands together as if to pray in the ensuing quiet. "Since my dear brother, John Donaghue, first conceived of the St Paul's Opera House, it was his dream that such nights as this should embrace our imagination. There is no finer celebration. Be you Dynastic, soldier or Spouse, this story is for us all. For when we sing of love and things sublime, we are reminded of the very virtues that divide us from the Migrants..." He pointed southwards, lips curling around his fangs. "…and from the workers – the things that make us human."
Louchard and George wanted to laugh out loud, but were silenced by knowing they were the only ones.
"So I thank you, my honoured lords and all the families. And I thank the wonderful players of the Globe Company and the Royal Opera House. But most of all, my friends, I thank the writer of this esteemed opera." His white hand extended towards the steam organ that nestled in the pit between stage and audience. "Since the day we first signed the Dead Deal with our human brothers, he has shown us that…" He paused again, dramatically, running his tongue across his canines, "…that although we Vampires are the greatest artists of our time, there is still so much to be said for a mortal's touch."
There was a peel of concurring laughter from the audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer declared, "I give to you the man who brought you peace and who continues to bring you beauty. The Guardian of Norlon and the Voice of the City. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you… the Judge!"
From the shadows beneath the steam organ a figure rose to frenzied applause. He was picked out as the spotlights found him: a shimmering coat of feathers, a top hat and metal gauntlets over wizened hands, shaped like talons. He leant upon a black cane as he limped up the steps and onto the main stage, each foot placed with delicate precision. And as he turned to regard the audience, his eyes were bloodshot behind the holes of his bird mask. As applause continued the Judge cocked his head this way and that, examining the adoring crowd. They called him Black Death, the Raven of the Tower, the Bearer of the Black Rod; and these were the legends he cultivated with every breath he took through his plague mask.
Yet for all his power the Judge seemed uncomfortable on stage, hunching lower as the announcer offered him the floor. It was only when the audience began to chant that he turned square with the auditorium and struck his cane against the floor. Then his voice, nasal and wheezing, more like the ragged breaths of a dying man than any living speech, uttered
"No… no…"
His head twitched. He sounded on the verge of either tears or hysterical laughter.
"It is you, Masters. You… you. You bring beauty and keep it safe. I cannot thank you enough. My… my inspirations. You taught us how the world should be saved and I'll teach you why… oh yes, I'll teach you why. The things I see, why… you cannot…"
He lost his words, head turning this way and that to regard the boxes, each vampire family. There was something thirsting about it, as if he was drinking them in, wallowing in their looks. There was an awkward silence in the audience, as if they felt he was about to weep, and the announcer moved to reclaim the spotlight. But at that moment the Judge threw his arms wide, talons glinting in the theatre lights.
"Stay!" he exclaimed, savouring every word.
"Stay… forever, Angels… young and firm. Golden… always. Never fade… arouse us for all our days… even as we die… your taste upon our lips."
He faltered again, but this time it was neither nerves nor ecstasy that stalled him. For he had seen something amongst the darkness as he swirled.
Astrid bristled beneath the eyes of the plague mask. The Judge had seen her, standing at the back of the assembled players, and for a moment she thought the entire crowd would turn with him and follow his gaze. Her eyes flickered, left and right, but as her hand unconsciously moved to the hem of her costume, it was with the unmistakeable knowledge that he, the Lord of London, the Black Death, Judge of the Black Rod, was gazing directly at her. She had brought him to silence; and it was only the gradual onset of nervous applause that spared St Paul's from the moment. Beginning with a trickle then rising in crescendo, the cheers flooded the stage and the announcer hastily reclaimed the light.
The show was over and drinks would be served in the lobby.