She stood up and padded in her stockinged feet to the bathroom. There was, of course, no mirror. She divested herself of her soiled clothes, and wiped herself off with a balled petticoat. She washed herself all over. In her former life, she had rarely been as completely naked. Her old self seemed a dream. She was new-born. When satisfied that she was clean as any cat, she left the bathroom. She needed clothes. The garments of her warmth were useless now, sodden with useless blood.
Someone moved in one of the rooms off the corridor and she was instantly alert. She ran her tongue over sharp teeth. A door opened, and a thin face poked out. Shocked by her nudity, Art’s manservant gulped and withdrew, locking his door behind him. She laughed. Flexing her hands, she wondered if she could wrench open the door and get to the man. She could smell his warm blood. ‘Fi fifo fum,’ she whispered, her voice loud in her head.
Opening one of the doors, she found Art’s dressing room. A suit of his morning clothes was laid out ready for him. Formerly, being tall had been an embarrassment. Her mother had trained her to sit down as often as possible and, without stooping, to arrange herself so she would not tower over a man. Now her height suited her well.
She pulled on Art’s shirt and buttoned it up. She mastered the intricacy of the collar and the cuffs. Her fingers were abler now and solved all the problems presented to them. She threw aside Art’s underclothes and pulled on his trousers, fiddling with the unfamiliar braces until the contraptions set on her shoulders. The garment settled on her hips, and she pulled it up tight, crotch snug, then shortened the braces to suit her. She found a cravat and tied it around the too-large collar. A waistcoat and a coat completed the ensemble. Barefoot, she returned to the room where she had turned. Her shoes were under the divan, and still fitted her. She imagined she cut quite a dash, and wondered what her fiancé would think.
Running her hands through her hair, she considered whether she should do anything to make herself look less of a fright. But she did not really care any more how she looked. The dead Penelope would have been shocked senseless. But the dead Penelope had been so different.
She felt a twinge of thirst. The taste of Art’s blood lingered in her mouth. She had found it bitter and salty last night. But now it was sweet and delicious. And necessary. What to do? What to do?
She did not know if she was managing this terribly well. But if Kate Reed, who could barely pour tea from a pot without consulting Mrs Beeton, could become a successful vampire, then Penelope the Conqueror would not be daunted by the complications.
In the hall, she found an opera cloak, lined with red silk. It did not feel heavy. She tried to set one of Art’s top hats on her head, but it slipped down around her ears and visored her eyes. The only headgear on Art’s rack that could be made to suit her was a soft check cap with ear-flaps. It hardly fit with the rest of the get-up she had appropriated but it would have to do. She was at least able to bundle up her hair under the cap and get it out of the way. Some vampire girls cut their hair short, like a man’s. She might consider that...
... outside, the sun was rising. She thought she should get home and stay indoors. Maybe she should rest during the hours of daylight. Kate told her the sun could harm new-borns. She supposed she would have to put herself in the invidious and humiliating position of seeking Kate out and soliciting her advice on any number of unforseeable points.
She left the house and found the early morning fog thick. Yesterday, she would not have been able to see the other side of Cadogan Square. Now she could distinguish things a little better, although her vision was better with shadows than fog. If she looked up at the foggy clouds that blocked the sun, her eyes stung. She pulled her cap down, so the peak would shade her face.
‘Missy, missy,’ a voice said. A woman was coming at her out of the fog, dragging two small children.
The thirst was upon her again – the red thirst, they called it – and her mouth was parched, her teeth pricking. It was not to be compared with the needs she had known as a warm woman. It was an overpowering desire, a natural instinct on a level with the need to breathe.
‘Missy...’
An old woman, her hand out, was before her. She wore a tatty poke bonnet and a ragged shawl. ‘Do you thirst, missy?’ The woman grinned. Most of her teeth were missing and her breath stank. Penelope could smell twenty layers of differing dirts. If Fagin had a widow, this was she.
‘For sixpence, you could drink your fill. From one of my pretties.’
The woman picked up a bundle. It was a girl child, one of a pair. The face and hair were dirty but the girl was pale, mummy-wrapped in a long scarf. The woman disentangled the scarf from a thin, many-times-scabbed neck. ‘Just sixpence, missy.’
The woman clawed at the little girl’s neck, scraping scabs. Tiny drops of blood welled. The child made no sound. The blood-smell caught in Penelope’s nostrils. It was a hot, spiced, penetrating scent. She thirsted.
The girl was handed to her. For a moment, she hesitated at the intimacy. When warm, she had not cared to be touched, had especially not cared to be touched by children. She had vowed after Pamela’s death never to submit to a man’s lusts, never to bear children. That eventually came to seem childish, but she had not relished the thought of her wedding night. That side of things had very little to do with her engagement. What she had done with Art had been more than a feeding, more than an agent of the turn. There had been a carnal element, repellent and exciting. Now, it was acceptable, even desirable.
‘Sixpence,’ the woman reminded, her voice dwindling as Penelope concentrated on the child’s neck.
With Art, the drinking of blood had been an unpleasant necessity. She had felt a strange thrill, not quite indistinguishable from pain, when he bit her. Taking his blood had been a repugnant chore; this desire was different. The turn had awakened something in Penelope. As she touched her tongue to the open wound, her old self truly died. As the blood trickled into her mouth, the new-born she had become awoke.
She had chosen to become a vampire because she thought it proper. She had been angry with Charles, for his dalliance with that elder creature, for his failure to appear and make sufficient apology. He treated the warm woman badly, but perhaps his attitude would be different if she turned. All of that was absurdly by the bye.
She gulped, feeling the blood seeping throughout her. It did not just slip down her throat, but pumped into her gums, spreading through her face. She felt it swelling in her cheeks, throbbing in the veins under her ears, filling out her eyes.
‘There now, missy. You’ll polish her off. Have a care.’
The woman tried to pull the child away and Penelope threw her off. She was not satisfied yet. The child’s whimpering was in her ears, an encouragement in the feeble whine. The girl wanted to be drained dry, as much as Penelope needed to take her blood....
... finally, it was over. The child’s heart still beat. Penelope set her down on the pavement. The other girl – her sister? – gathered round, and wrapped her up.
‘A shilling,’ the woman said. ‘You took a shilling’s worth.’
Penelope hissed at the pandering bitch, spitting through her fangs. It would be easy to open her from stomach to neck. She had the talons for the task.
‘A shilling.’
The woman was resolute. Penelope recognised a kinship. They were both living with a need that superseded all other considerations.
In her front pocket, she found a watch and chain. She detached them from the waistcoat and tossed them to the panderer. The woman made a fist and snatched the prize from the air. Her mouth formed into a disbelieving grin.