She Knows Your Name

The beacon’s stucco façade gleamed in the morning light, four imposing stories of bay windows with intricate iron balconies between them. Wide verandas surrounded the ground floor, each shaded by red-and-yellow striped awnings that snapped in the wind.

His breakfast plans and more ruined, Dorian trudged up the beach, holding his hat on with one hand and carrying his ruined coat over his arm. As the first slender posts of the promenade lamps came into view, he ducked behind a clump of bushes. Although few visitors were strolling the walkway this early, even one was one too many. The tomato juice, now dried in dark blotches down his shirt, made him look like he’d survived a stabbing by a particularly unskilled assassin.

Or botched one himself.

He winced at the bloody smears on his trousers. Recognizable handprints.

Bloody Mermaid, indeed!

Oh, please, couldn’t he be spared this one indignity! Surely, the Beacon must have a back entry. A glamour could’ve hidden those stains in a pinch. But he’d been afraid to risk it. No matter how quietly he might have cast it, his muttering and movements—because no spell could ever be a simple whistle and flick of the wrist—would have aroused suspicion. None he knew of, at least. The last thing he wanted was to call attention to himself.

From his vantage point, Dorian could see a portion of the promenade’s underside. But even if he slipped beneath, it would do him no good: the blasted thing ran parallel to the shore! Why did the Beacon have to build the stupid thing, anyway?

How utterly humiliating. He sighed, nerves fraying with each step. Right now, the best he could hope for was that anyone out to take the morning air would be too preoccupied with the view to notice him. The way they all oo-ed and aah-ed, you’d think they’d never seen water before. It was just the tide, for pity’s sake! The waves rolled in, the waves rolled out, something-something, speckled trout.

Trout—one fish the Beacon didn’t have in surplus. Dorian squared his shoulders. Right. Best get on with it, then. Stop this dilly-dallying. After taking a deep breath, he quit his hiding place and stepped back onto the path.

A middle-aged woman in a green walking dress rounded the bend, took one look at him, and recoiled with a gasp.

"Sir! Are you injured?"

"Oh, no. Perfectly fine, madam. A small mishap with breakfast," Dorian said with a strained laugh as he hurried past.

"But the blood," she began.

"Tomato juice. Good day, Ma’am." He tipped his hat and strode away.

His next few encounters with fellow guests followed much the same pattern, each one ratcheting up his frustration and embarrassment. Tomato juice. No, no need to fetch a surgeon. Just getting clumsy in my old age.

Har-dee-har-har.

A luggage cart, filled to bursting with steamer trunks and carpetbags, lumbered out on the hotel veranda. The bellhop, a strapping youth who looked like he’d be more at home on a farm, took one look at Dorian’s shirt, then fainted, taking the cart down with him.

But not on top of him. Thank the gods for small mercies!

As Dorian tried to skirt the scene, another bellhop, smaller but equally muscular, crashed into him enroute to his fallen colleague.

"Uh…” He staggered back, paling at the sight of Dorian’s suit.

Egad! When did young men become so damned sensitive? Dorian cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you get on with it.” he waved at the bellhop and scattered luggage.

“Sir, do you require—"

"I require nothing but privacy, thank you."

The boy pressed himself against the wall as Dorian passed.

Avoiding the elevator, he took the stairs to his third-floor suite. As he reached the landing, a gentleman whose crooked eyeglasses and wild white hair always made him look like a distressed owl poked his head out of his doorway. "I say, Professor!"

"Prawns, Mr. Flutie," Dorian replied, slowing his pace. "Well, one particularly uncooperative one.”

“That blasted buffet! It’ll get you every time,” the retired meatpacker said, shaking his head. "Seafood at every meal, it’s not natural. I’d trade the lot for a good bubble and squeak any day. Well, I’ll let you get on. You’ll want to ring for a launderess, I’m sure.”

“Quite. Well, good day, Mr. Flutie.”

As Dorian started away, Flutie stepped into the hall. “Oh, by the way. I heard you’ve also received a summons to tonight’s big to-do.”

Of course, he’d heard. Bitzy spread news faster than a broadsheet. Dorian turned and said, “Yes, although I don’t know what to make of this whole séance business. I’ve never attended one before. Have you?”

Mr. Flutie snorted. “Chatting up the dead? Complete codswallop, if you ask me.” He dropped his voice to a whisper: “I’m only going on Emmaline’s behalf. Anything to keep the peace after our boating expedition. Told her not to wear such a heavy coat. She was madder than a wet hen by the time they fished her out.”

“Indeed.” Dorian nodded. If he only knew! Still, a solid working-class chap like Flutie—no matter how far he’d ascended the ranks—didn’t strike him as someone Lady Merkle would rub elbows with. Not willingly, at any rate. His invitation had come as such a shock; he hadn’t thought to ask Bitzy.

He turned, intending to ask if Flutie knew how many people were invited, but by then, he’d retreated into his room.

Two doors down, Dorian fumbled for his key. But when he heard a linen cart approaching, he jammed it into the lock and practically fell through the doorway.

He tossed the soiled jacket on a chair. His shirt and trousers soon joined it, along with his day shirt and drawers. Wearing only his garters, he put his hands on his hips and scowled at the pile. It looked like a crime scene, alright.

That’s when he noticed the spatters on his socks. Damn! Thorough one, that mermaid! Lifting those stains would take more conjuring than he’d thought—or dared to do.

He padded to the bathroom. Marble and porcelain gleamed under electric sconces. The Beacon spared no expense, even in the water closets. Dorian had just turned on the tap when the temperature dropped.

Frost spread over the mirror. When Dorian wiped it away, a man was standing by the chair. Slender and wiry, twitching like a worm on a hook, and completely translucent. Dorian could see the wallpaper's elaborate peacock pattern through his chest.

Another one? Bloody hell. Dorian wrapped a towel about his waist. "Can't a man have five minutes in peace?"

The ghost's mouth worked, but no sound came out at first. His body flickered, winking like gaslight. Dorian had seen this before, and it made the hairs on his back stand at attention. This spirit had been bound by something.

Or someone.

"You." The word came out stammered, thin as smoke. The man's hand jerked toward Dorian, fingers spasming. "She knows."

“Who?” Dorian's jaw tightened. "Knows what?"

"Your name."

Dorian’s hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped the towel. “Impossible!”

“Hans.” The man’s form rippled like water over stones, then he vanished. Only his voice remained, curling through the air like incense.

Hans Von Peterman.

He staggered to the bed, collapsing seconds before his knees gave out. His name. His real name! Only one person at the Beacon could have sent that ghost.

Madame Draga—whoever she was—had found him!

How on earth could she have twigged his ruse? No stranger to exigency, this was hardly his first brush with danger. Even under duress, he'd been so careful, crafting the perfect disguise, false credentials, and invented history.

Dorian sat up, running both hands over his face. The mutton chops felt alien under his palms.

Two weeks ago, Dorian Dallowmarsh, anatomy professor at an exclusive boarding school, didn’t exist. Even the best medium needed something: a personal object, a lock of hair, or a daguerreotype. To have found him with such ruthless efficiency, Draga would have to be psychic!

He stood, pacing to the window. The sea stretched out below, indifferent to his predicament.

A medium possessing even a shred of "any-voyancy" and a bounty hunter to boot? Well, that changed things.

Bounty. The word stopped him cold. Gods knew there were enough people who wanted his head on a pike. The Flanders incident alone had probably put a price on him from here to Constantinople. That business in Paris hadn't helped. Nor had that unfortunate incident in Naples. Or—well, the list was getting rather long, wasn’t it? Sooner or later, he’d known his luck would run out.

He caught his reflection in the wardrobe mirror: ridiculous hair, ridiculous whiskers! His ridiculous disguise hadn’t fooled anyone!

Then another thought struck him.

The morning papers would have notices—bounties, wanted postings, warnings about dangerous criminals at large.

He needed to get to the lobby.

Dorian pulled on another pair of white trousers, then yanked a fresh linen shirt and coat from the wardrobe. To this, he added a patterned waistcoat with a subtle blue checkered pattern. His other, striped, reminded him too much of a prison cell, and he wasn’t going to go there without a fight. A collar, cuffs, and cravat followed.

So tedious! He struggled with the buttons, muttering to himself about the time spent changing for meals, activities, tides—the circuit of the sun and moon! Never one for complicated societal conventions, he could think of much better ways to spend his time. How did wealthy people manage this every day without going insane?

He looked down at the pile of soiled clothes. Evidence. He couldn't leave it for the maids to find. They'd think he'd butchered someone in here.

Dorian shoved them deep into the wardrobe, pushing past his spare shoes and a hatbox. He’d deal with them later. Maybe burn them, since a cleansing spell was now completely out of the question. The Beacon’s management probably frowned on bonfires in guest suites, but desperate times and all that.

As he headed for the door, another realization hit him like a bucket of ice water.

He’d have to leave Breakwind, and by doing so, disappoint Bitzy. She didn’t deserve to be jilted by an old fool. Paralyzed by this latest sensation, Dorian froze, one hand still hovering above the doorknob.

He’d have to get word to her somehow, of course. Concoct some lie about an inescapable family emergency, then send word after he’d boarded the train. He’d heard Munich was nice this time of year. From there, he could cross into Austria and board a train for Budapest. Anywhere he could lay low until this Flanders bruhaha blew over.

Had he told Bitzy anything about his family? If he was going to lead a successful life on the run from now on, he’d need to compose a more believable alibi. Something easier to remember. He made a mental note to purchase a journal in the gift shop as he headed to the lobby.