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Between the Wars
presents
Autumn, 1934
Fairmont Royal York, Toronto
RSVP steering committee c/o Miss Honey

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“I'll tell you one thing. If anyone outs me as the author of the Abandoned series, or so much as mentions my fandom identity, I'll kill them.” She nervously smoothed and resmoothed the gray satin of her skirt as she spoke.

“As you wish, Miss Melford.”

The first speaker glared. “You do know you're not really a valet, right? Or has this new fandom finally caused you to break with reality?”

“If I might be permitted to explain,” her companion said calmly, “what you're about to experience isn't so much a fandom as an experiment in intentional achronicity—an effort, if you will, to lift elements from various historical eras and knit them together into an alternative reality.” She deftly pulled to the curb as she spoke, and waited. After a brief pause she cleared her throat and added, “If you'd care to step inside, I'll park the car and bring the bags around--”

“Oh no you don't,” interrupted Miss Melford. “I don't know a soul here. I only have the barest idea what I'm doing, and I'm only doing it to humour you. I refuse to leave your side this entire weekend.”

An uncharacteristic look of guilt crossed the other woman's face.

“Oh, hell,” said Miss Melford. “What aren't you telling me?”

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The Colonel entered the bar with the wrinkled appearance of a man who'd gotten undressed for bed, found he couldn't sleep, and jammed his clothes on again to go find some company and a drink. Henry Clarke, seated in the corner with seven identically tuxedo'd friends and their various hangers-on, watched him with the cool disdain of the much better dressed.

“This should prove entertaining,” he said, nudging one of his fellow revellers and nodding toward the bar. Nick squinted, then nodded appreciatively.

“Your old nemesis, the Colonel. I hear you've been trying to unhinge him by signing up for every one of his classes.”

“Trying to further unhinge him,” Henry corrected. “The fellow's already more than halfway unscrewed, believe me. Oho, what have we here?” A not-unattractive older brunette, clad in startlingly non-period street clothes, was making a beeline for the Colonel.

“You know,” said Henry, and threw back a nearly full glass, “I suddenly find myself in need of a fresh drink. Care to join me at the bar?” Grinning widely, Nick followed him. The Colonel, fully absorbed in his argument, didn't even glance back as they took up barstools next to him.

“You misunderstand the situation entirely, Helen,” he was saying, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I am not in pursuit of that young woman, I swear it. Far from it! Do you know the lengths I had to go to, to convince the steering committee it would be fun to play at masters and servants, just so she'd be forced to stop pursuing me? Ask any one of the organizers, they'll tell you how hard I pushed for it! I'll give you their names and numbers, or look here, I'll take you along to meet them all tomorrow.”

“Do you really think,” she asked him, “I have any interest in meeting more adults who spend their free time and half their money playing dress-up? No, shut up, don't interrupt me. I could just about put up with your Sherlock Holmes friends, in the beginning, before you started imagining yourself as some kind of superstar. And the worst part is, these people believe you. You're like the hero of the zeroes. They take you seriously, as if your whole self-publishing author-education routine is something real, instead of just a selfish, intellectually indulgent midlife crisis.”

She drew a deep breath. “I could forgive you for screwing around. Sex is fun, people make mistakes, whatever. I understand that, I really do. But the part where you're throwing our lives away so you can pretend to be important in front of a bunch of kids and untalented geeks? No thanks.”

Henry and Nick exchanged mortified glances. Thing was, by now the Colonel, shoulders slumped, had turned to face the bar again, so he was no longer back on to them. There was no getting away without being seen, now.

“Is that it, then? You came here to tell me you want a divorce?”

“Frankly, at this point you'd me more use to me dead,” she said bitterly, and walked away.

The Colonel drained his drink with the bitter look of a man whose entire evening has gone to hell, set his glass on the bar, and then saw Henry. “You,” he said.

“Yes, yes, me,” Henry agreed. “Damned thing, these coincidences, don't you find? Except not a coincidence really, I suppose. We do share a fandom and a love of writing, what?”

“You're following me,” the Colonel said. But his shoulders were still slumped, and there didn't appear to be much fight in him.

Henry felt something close to remorseful. “Buy you a drink?” he offered, and it was a mark of how badly the Colonel's night was going that he accepted.

“You know, that last story of yours had real potential,” he said, staring moodily into his G&T. “Weak points, plenty of 'em, but the overall plot was clever, and the characterization not bad at all.”

“Really?” said Henry, blinking in astonishment. “Kind of you to say so, old chap. I suppose these classes of yours have been doing me some good after all.”

“Mmm,” said the Colonel noncommitally. “I'm thinking of handing it over to one of my up-and-comers, see if she can work it up into something publishable.”

“I...wait, what?”

The Colonel's unpleasant chuckle sounded much nearer his regular self. “Oh, yes. It's in the forms you sign when you take my classes, you know. You give up the rights to anything you create for the class assignments.” He glanced at his watch. “It's nearly eleven,” he said in a pleased voice, “and I've just remembered, I've a girl coming to see me.” He slapped Henry jovially on the shoulder and headed off, whistling.

“Of all the obnoxious asses,” Nick said in wonder.

Henry's jaw was set. “Indeed,” he said coldly.

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Some two hours later, Alasdair walked down the seventh-floor hallway to his room, so buoyant he had to restrain himself from skipping. The seance-lecture, scheduled for an hour, had gone well over time. The whispers of “I don't really believe in this stuff, but...” and “some kind of real talent” had followed him out of the room.

It had gone perfectly, each moment falling into place as if some divine clockwork built just for him had synched them up. To his deep satisfaction—a satisfaction springing more from aesthetics than practicality, though he knew the mood enhancement carried future benefits too—many in the group had shown up in full mourning. Granted, some of them were more Victorian than strictly 1934, but that in itself was believable. Besides, it would be beyond reasonable to expect even hardcore wannabe time travellers to own more than one set of period mourning dress. Alasdair himself had settled for his customary discreet black armband, suited to any setting but particularly eye-catching, he thought, with his uniform.

Then, too, he'd had the good fortune to notice the sad-eyed thirty-something in the room. She hadn't joined him at the round, polished table in the centre of the room; he'd invited the twelve best-dressed and most enthusiastic to sit there. But he'd taken careful note of her, and when he'd done his spiel on trance mediumship and then offered a demonstration, he'd informed the room that one of their number had suffered a recent bereavement. With eyes rolled until only the whites showed and his head thrown theatrically back, he felt rather than saw the quiver of excitement that ran through the group seated at the table, and headed them off in a sepulchral voice. “No, not one seated in the circle,” he'd said, and let his head snap forward and his eyes focus abruptly on the quiet girl in the corner. “You, my dear.” There were thrilled gasps from those who knew her well enough to know he'd hit the mark, and whispered explanations to those who didn't. He'd been careful not to grin.

During his remarks on automatic handwriting, he'd thrown a bone to the ladies at the table. Lecturing them easily without notes, he allowed himself to pick up the pencil and sketch, never once glancing at the paper and seemingly entirely unaware of the picture emerging from his quick, light movements. It took some doing to go on seeming unaware, what with them nudging each other and whispering, but he maintained the facade long enough to produce a decent little portrait of a woman with a baby, with an older man standing in the shadows behind them, looking at them fondly.

Once Alasdair had allowed himself to “discover” his automatic drawing, it was the work of only a couple of minutes and a few skillful questions to prompt one of the ladies to claim it. The baby, she enthused, looked just like her youngest child, and yes, her father was deceased. Everyone crowded around the table to agree that yes, the woman in the drawing was her perfect likeness, even though his carefully vague pencil strokes could equally have been any one of them.

He'd calmed them just long enough for his closing remarks on the rise and societal impact of spiritualism, knowing it would establish him in their minds as a serious researcher and not just a freak. Then he thanked them for their attention, apologized for running overtime, and left before anyone could waylay him, lingering for the merest second to gratify himself with a taste of the hysteria that sprang up behind him. Best to let them do the bulk of the work of belief on their own.

Safely back on the seventh floor, he was smiling in satisfaction. In a way, this was the best part: setting up the buzz, establishing some notoriety, stepping into a new limelight. Later refinements might bring minor fame and lucrative connections, but nothing quite matched the heady rush of a successful start.

Then he rounded a corner, and came face to face with the Colonel.

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There is no polite way to acknowledge that a comparative stranger has been loudly and violent ill, so Silverman kept a civilized silence on the subject when Nellie emerged from the bathroom. “I was just on my way to my first lecture,” she said instead. “The Friday ones are lovely; only the most dedicated bother going.”

“Oh, what are you going to?” Nellie asked, pale but enthusiastic.

Silverman beamed. “Taking Inventory. It's a demonstration of the roles of the Butler and Head Housekeeper in maintaining the physical order and contents of the household.”

“I suppose that could be interesting.” Nellie looked dubious.

“Oh, it will be. Susan's been doing this research for years; she's created an entire imaginary household as an example. She's got computer models of it, staff and family profiles, even a dollhouse replica of it. It's quite remarkable, really.”

“It sounds remarkably odd,” Nellie said. Silverman smiled.

“It is a bit, I agree. But other people's imaginary lives intrigue me. I particularly enjoy fictitious manors. So, what's on your schedule?” Privately she hoped that “a long nap and a bland meal” would be the answer. Nellie looked ghastly, and it was a familiar sort of ghastly, unless she missed her guess.

“The Edwardian Family,” Nellie answered, and Silverman felt the first tingle of apprehension. No one's voice should thrill like that at the prospect of so prosaic a subject, surely. “Want to walk up with me?”

“Absolutely.” If nothing else, Silverman thought grimly, I can catch her if she faints.

They joined the small congenial crowd heading up to the third floor. By now most of those who'd had to spend Friday working at their real-life occupations had arrived, and the stairway teemed with shopgirls and governesses, maids and chauffeurs, most not going to lectures but just getting caught up socially. As they entered the third floor hallway the upperclass characters joined the throngs. Nellie clutched her companion's arm, eyes aglow.

“Can you wait here for me? I see someone I have to talk to.”

Silverman followed her gaze to the portly military figure just turning a corner ahead of them. She felt her lips thin in disapproval. The self-styled Colonel was fortyish, she guessed, and Nellie no more than eighteen, and that was far from being the worst of it.

“Do you really think,” she began, but Nellie was already dashing after him. Silverman followed, telling herself that this was really none of her business, but nearly bursting with the desire to give the man a sound dressing-down. Of all the insufferable jackasses she'd met, he was far and gone the most annoying.

At the junction of two corridors she found herself face to face with that Alasdair person from the lobby, the one with the perfect uniform and the silly business card. The gleaming young man gave her a sheepish look, and Silverman realized he too must be following the Colonel. Spying on him, but to what end? At any rate she was hardly in a position to criticize him for it.

Further down this almost desert hall, the Colonel and Nellie were having a hushed conversation. Nellie reached out to clutch his coatsleeve, and he stepped backward, shrugging her off roughly. Silverman glanced back, and Alasdair met her eye, rolling his and looking disgusted but unsurprised. He knows the Colonel as well, she thought, and knows exactly what he's like. Her estimation of the younger man rose fractionally.

But there was no time to ask questions—the Colonel had already turned and was striding briskly toward them, calling back over his shoulder to Nellie, “Yes, it's inconvenient, no doubt, but I think we should do our best to play along and not mingle across class lines.”

Inconvenient? Silverman wondered. But the whole separation by class had been his damned idea in the first place! She looked at Nellie's crestfallen face and saw the answer. Bit of an elaborate scheme to avoid a girl, but a clever one, if you could overlook the cruelty inherent in playing at being the social superior of your ex-...whatever Nellie had been to him.

“Having a good con, m'dear?” the Colonel asked mildly as he passed, showing no awareness of her desire to wring his neck other than the speed with which he whisked past them. Except there was no “them,” Silverman realized in the same instant. Young Mr. Darke had vanished, silent and unnoticed. Interesting indeed.

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Apologizing profusely, Alasdair let himself be dragged away by the slightly-bossy lady with the perfect Marcel wave, and Mina finished her final cup of tea alone, watching Violet, who also sat alone. “She looks like a defiant mouse,” Alasdair had said as he left, and Mina hadn't argued.

Checking her schedule, she saw that she was due at a lecture on women's charity work in the 1930s, and sighed heavily. An onlooker might have assumed, given her glum look, that she'd had disastrous previous experience with lectures, or charity work, or women's organizations, or possibly all three. Nevertheless she gathered up her things, and made her way to the second floor room, which was, when she got there, already half full of women. And one tweed-clad, pipe-sporting man, who swooped down on her the second she stepped through the door.

“Finally, someone I know!” he said, and at her blank look amended this to, “Know of, I mean. You know, I think we're the only real BNFs in attendance this weekend.”

Mina stiffened. “I'm afraid you must be mistaking me for someone else.” The man laughed.

“Nonsense, I'd know you anywhere. We never overlapped, but I have friends who've been in your fandoms. I'm something of a fandom historian, you know, or perhaps you could call me a chronicler. I know everything about everyone who matters, you can take my word on it. Get around to publishing my memoirs one of these days—I run an indie press, you know. Anderson's the name, Blake Anderson, but you can call me the Colonel. Most people do.”

Mina was looking thoroughly alarmed. As he grabbed her hand and shook it, she said quietly, “I was hoping to spend this weekend incognito. I mean to say, I've left fandom really, and--”

He interrupted, winking. “Say no more, Miss Mina, your secret is safe with me.” She looked relieved, but only momentarily. “What say you stop by my room tonight for a friendly cup of tea and seal the deal? We BNFs have to stick together, you know.”

Wincing as if she'd rather do anything but, Mina agreed.

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Honey breezed through the Imperial Room, trying to scan every table while not staring anyone in the face, or rather, chest, since it was a costume and a nametag she was trying to identify and not a face per se. Young, seriously cute, and in a black military uniform wasn't much of a description, but it was all that the staff manning the registration table had given her, so she figured searching for the uniform was her best bet Of course, she could just find the room number of this—she rechecked the card: Alasdair Darke—but that seemed awfully intrusive. She'd rather catch him in a public space, if she could. Besides, it was tea time. Surely no one would attend an event like Autumn, 1934 and lurk in their room through tea time, right?

The guests were a sea of black, but all domestic uniforms, not a military figure in the bunch. She sighed, and headed for the Library Bar. That made more sense, anyway, now that she thought about it. Thanks to this stupid class system experiment, the Library Bar was reserved for upper class players, and chances were this uniformed guy considered himself one of them.

She clenched her teeth. When she'd signed up for her stint on the steering committee, Honey had imagined it would be a walkover. She'd served before; how much worse could it be to chair it? There were only four events for the committee to plan, and they were largely a matter of rote—spring, summer, fall and winter, the year determined by a free vote, divided among posh venues like this one and a handful of more affordable ones. Aside from that, there was the newsletter, cunningly disguised as a small town newspaper, which recorded all the smaller private parties. There were none of what Honey thought of as the unpleasant side-effects of fandom: no BNFs; no real arguments over canon, fanon, or shipping; no pressure to be active in any sense other than attending.

What God had she offended, she wondered for the umpteenth time, that it should all fall apart on her watch? First there'd been a petition asking for a salesroom. She'd been powerless to dissuade the pro-salesroom faction or to soothe the committee's hysteria, but at least she'd managed to postpone further discussion until December. This year's winter was scheduled to take place at a Day's Inn, and so could hardly be said to be lowering its standards by allowing debate about sales tables.

Then Annalee Rose had had to resign from the committee, and that dreadful man from the Sherlockians had bullied his way on in her place, preening and lecturing and dragging the taint of BNFdom with him. Honey was damned if she could understand why so many of the committee members claimed to find him charming. She thought he was dreary and self-absorbed, and if she had to hear about his schemes for “indie” publishing one more time she was going to stab him. Honestly, you'd think no one had ever put out a book before he came along to tell them how.

And now poor Annalee Rose had cried off altogether, claiming she simply couldn't manage all of the three seance-and-lectures she'd agreed to conduct. Fair enough, Honey supposed—certainly she'd sounded sick with nerves, so it was probably unreasonable to ask her to perform—but from where on earth were they supposed to produce a replacement psychic well-enough versed in 'The Occult in Victorian and Edwardian Society' to lead three highly participatory sessions on it?

She'd been moaning about the problem to her staff, something she'd never normally do, which only showed how much this was upsetting her, when one of them had, completely unexpectedly, come to the rescue. One of the new attendees had given her his card, the girl had said, and had handed it over cheerfully, remarking that he sounded just the thing.

Honey had grabbed at the card like a lifeline. Alasdair Darke was her last, best hope; now if only she could find him, and if only he turned out to be capable of pulling an authoritative lecture out of thin air...

Please, please, please be able to think on your feet, Honey prayed as she spotted him—it had to be him, slender and handsome, his dark hair hanging over his eyes as he bent his head to whisper to the blonde woman sitting with him. Awfully familiar, that blonde, but Honey was too agitated to place her.

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Alasdair had carefully guided the conversation back to safer ground.

“She looks too young to be here unaccompanied, let alone to have an elaborate backstory,” Mina said pityingly.

Alasdair looked annoyed. “You're being charmed by her looks into overlooking her idiocy,” he said, “but that doesn't make it less wrong to try to sell fanfic for profit. Although,” he said, relenting in the face of Mina's continued sympathetic expression, “she did receive very bad advice on the matter, from someone who should have known better.”

“There you are, then,” Mina said. “Everyone's an idiot when they first start out. It shouldn't be held against you forever.”

Alasdair smiled agreeably. “So what fandom did you start out in?”

Mina stiffened. “I didn't mean fandom, necessarily.” He raised one eyebrow, but decided to let it drop.

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Unpacking done, Silverman headed back down to the first floor, where all the “working class”--at least for this weekend—were housed. Hoping to meet some of her fellow travellers, she left her room door open while she unpacked her own clothes, and sure enough, someone dressed as a parlourmaid popped in. “Jane,” said the maid, by way of greeting. “I'm next door. What are you playing—butler? Suffragette housekeeper?”

“Lady's valet,” Silverman explained.

“Care for a cuppa? I've already got the kettle on to boil. So far we've got two butlers, a gaggle of housemaids and shop girls, and one tremendously well-built chauffeur. Everyone's just getting settled in, but my room is already the designated tearoom.” Jane sounded entirely satisfied with this state of affairs. Silverman, pleased there was a place where people informally congregated and even more pleased that it wasn't her room, followed her cheerfully. The perfect opportunity, she thought, to join in whatever entertainment the other guests could provide without relinquishing her solitary space.

And all too soon, entertainment was forthcoming, although as it arrived in the form of a sobbing young woman it wouldn't have done to look too amused. The distraught creature was in a maid's uniform, and Silverman struggled to hide her satisfaction when the girl lifted her snowy white apron to bury her face in its folds. Well and properly done, that, with no hint of theatricality; one could easily have believed one really was looking at a jilted housemaid. It was impossible not to admire, even if it was a bit callous to treat someone else's misery as a distraction. Still, she thought philosophically, sipping her tea, what was life after all but a series of performances. Life with Mina had taught her that much.

Besides which, it was impossible to offer anything substantial by way of sympathy or advice until the girl had actually spoken to clarify things, and she remained unhelpfully mute throughout Jane's perfunctory introductions. A bit much, the continued sobbing, really.

Jane must have been thinking something similar, since she chose that moment to address the newcomer sharply. “For God's sake, Nellie, what is it now? Has he finally dumped you?”

Nellie looked up, shocked out of her sobs. “Of course not! Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because you're such an idiot about him, I assumed you'd take his departure as bad news,” Jane snapped. “And it's not as if you think or talk about anything else anymore, so what else would you be crying about?”

Nellie sniffled loudly a couple of times, gave her face one last fierce scrub, and then smoothed the damp apron back into place over her knees. She lifted her chin and looked as dignified as is possible with a red, puffy face. Silverman silently applauded the effort.

“I'm upset,” Nellie said haughtily, “because I don't like the people I'm rooming with. I'm staying with Maggie White and Betsy and some friend of theirs called Frankie, and all three of them keep rolling their eyes when I talk, and giving each other looks when they think I can't see, and I don't see how I can stand an entire weekend of it. And there we are, four of us crammed into one room. Oh, Jane, I wish I was rooming with you again, like at Midsummer. That was so much better.”

Jane didn't say a word, and Silverman felt a distinct and unwanted pang of sympathy.

After a tiny pause Nellie tried again. “Are you rooming alone this time? You've got the exact same room we're in, with two double beds. I suppose the organizers just reserved a block of them.”

“I am,” Jane said, “and it's wonderful. No offence, but I'm really glad to have a room to myself this time around. I need the downtime.” Which was patently untrue, since she'd already set herself up in the role of “person who serves tea to all comers,” but Silverman could see her point. She appreciated downtime herself.

So it must have been sheer pity for Nellie's youth and unhappiness that moved her to speak. “I've got a room to myself, too. Do you want to crash with me, Nellie?”

“I'd love to,” Nellie said, throwing her a painfully grateful look. “Silverman, was it? Do you have a first name?”

“Yes,” said Silverman, quellingly.

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Several hours later, the Stranger emerged cautiously from his room. Tom hadn't returned yet, though his suitcase had been waiting, along with a note assuring Alasdair he'd be back “soon.” That could, Alasdair knew well, mean anything. It hadn't mattered—the peace and quiet had made for some very productive web browsing—but he'd have been glad of Tom's company now, as he checked out the weekend's guests. It was always easier to be impressive when accompanied by the already impressed. That was what entourages were for.

Still. He was famished, and the prospect of afternoon tea in the Library Bar, laid on especially for the Betweeners, was too good to pass up. He could picture them now: firmly middle-class and middle-aged, with time and money on their hands, already charmed by the books-and-leather atmosphere. Ripe, in other words, to be dazzled.

Except as he lingered on the threshold, the women he could see were mostly in groups of two or three, and looked perfectly absorbed in their own conversations.

Wait. There was the blonde from this morning. Mina something. Melford? She was sitting alone. Perfect. He squared his shoulders, and strode across the room, confident he must be drawing a few eyes—too confident, in fact, to check, which would have spoiled the effect anyway.

“May I join you?” He waited for her smile before sitting down. “Your valet isn't with you?”

The smile faded instantly, but the pout was cute. “People playing servants aren't allowed in here for the duration of this event,” she recited, sounding thoroughly annoyed. “They aren't allowed to mingle with us at all. Apparently some idiot on the planning committee talked them into introducing a class structure for the weekend.”

“Pity,” he said mildly. “Still, I suppose it is in keeping with the whole 1934 thing.” She looked so glum that he felt compelled to cheer her up. “Hey, there's Pearl Whitaker,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. He nodded toward the ethereal copper-haired girl who'd just entered the room. Mina looked at her and frowned further, possibly, he guessed, comparing her own generous curves with the waif-like figure trailing wisps of sea-green silk. Pearl, he thought irritably, didn't so much dress herself as drape herself; today she'd chosen a flapper dress and what looked to be an entire boutique's worth of scarves.

“Mad as a hatter, you know,” he continued. Mina looked mildly entertained by the news. “She was always a bit odd, and then she went broke last year, and now she's certifiable. I'm surprised she can afford to be here.”

“Oh, the poor thing.” Unlike nine-tenths of the people he'd told this story to, Miss Melford sounded sincerely concerned and not at all gleeful. Alasdair noted her compassion for random fans with satisfaction, and notwithstanding the practical side of things, found himself liking her. Not many people, he knew from long experience, feel instant sympathy for a stranger's financial hardships; most wait for that crucial few to act first. “What happened? Did she lose her job?”

“Quit it, actually. She'd written a novel, taken some bad advice, and spent a small fortune self-publishing it.”

Mina winced. “And it didn't sell?”

He shook his head. “Worse than that. It couldn't sell. The thing was a novel length fanfic, and she got slapped with a Cease and Desist.”

“How perfectly dreadful. Well. Perhaps this weekend will take her mind off things.”

“It probably would if we weren't playing Gentry and Servants,” he said. “I can't see how a weekend immersed in classism is going to help her much. To be honest, it doesn't sound like much of a lark to me, either. Whose idea was this, do you know?”

Mina shook her head. “Some former Sherlockian who bullied his way onto the steering committee, that's all I know.”

The Stranger stiffened, but forced himself to speak calmly. “Did you catch a name?” It was probably fine. He hadn't been all that widely known among the Sherlockians. Only a handful of die-hard Doylists had even met him, much less paid for his services.

She shrugged. “Just a nickname. They call him the Colonel.”

Son of a bitch, Alasdair thought. What were the odds of that?

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Henry Clarke had arrived with a couple of his usual crowd, collected a few more as he registered and wandered through the lobby, and now, happily ensconced on the seventh floor, they threatened to become a small riot. Albeit a genteel, impeccably dressed riot, Honey thought, watching them drift in and out of one another's rooms. She stood with her arms folded, trying to radiate disapproval, while they cheerfully and effortlessly radiated a cloud of alcohol back at her.

“You should have them thrown out,” Bessie said.

Honey sighed. “For what? They're not underage, they're not damaging anything. They're not even all that loud, really.”

“For being utter wastrels,” Bessie's friend, the plain one with the lank hair, suggested. Honey suppressed an urge to shake her, or possibly wash her, and forced a smile.

“But that's perfectly in-period,” she pointed out. “There were plenty of dissolute younger sons in the 30s. Henry's just being accurate.” Really Henry was just being Henry, she knew, but she felt compelled to mount a defence.

“Beautifully put, m'dear,” slurred Henry, draping an arm across her shoulders. Honey shrugged it off in annoyance, and turned to find him breathing down her neck. “I always knew you liked me.”

She gritted her teeth. “I'm just trying to get through the weekend without having anyone thrown out.”

“Pity, that.” He paused to take an exaggerated swig of something bubbly but completely odourless. “I was hoping you'd find some excuse to have that priceless ass Anderson thrown out on his ear.”

Privately Honey would have loved to have obliged, but she shot Henry a quelling glare. “You know he's on the steering committee, right?”

“How you can stomach sitting on committee with someone calling himself “The Colonel” I'll never know,” Henry said. “I mean, how d'you keep yourself from smirking? Or belting him right in his pretentious face? Has he tried to sign you up for one of his writing courses yet? Don't go, they're a waste of time and money.”

“How do you know?” Honey asked, arguing in spite of herself. “Have you ever been to one?”

Henry grinned. “Me? I go to all of 'em. He hates the sight of me—don't know why, I'm quite good looking—but the old miser can't bear to turn me away and give up the fee. Expect he needs the cash to support his wife and children. Word is she was pretty pissed when he tossed up his day job to be a full time writing coach and self-published thingamajig.”

“Really, Henry, must you?” Honey tried to look disapproving—of gossip, of drinking, of something—instead of gleeful. It wasn't very nice to gloat if the man had really quit his real life job in pursuit of BNFdom.

But she couldn't quite help herself.
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He padded toward the front desk silently once he'd noticed the two women standing there. It was a knack he had,
that soundless stride, and it served him well when, as now, he wanted to approach a conversation without interrupting it. This looked to be one of those ferocious, restrained arguments that polite people have when they're in public. He'd always found those particularly informative.

“If I'd known we'd have to stay in separate rooms, and attend separate events, I'd never have come here,” the blonde was saying. She looked near tears. The Stranger eyed her curves appreciatively, not put off in the least by the threatened squalls. Someone had tailored that grey dress to fit her perfectly. He sensed he was in the presence of a great deal of money and taste. “How am I supposed to enjoy myself, hanging around with a bunch of complete strangers in a fandom I know nothing about?”

The second woman, sleek and dark-haired, spoke more calmly but sounded no less annoyed. “It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Betweeners have never bothered trying to reproduce class distinctions before, not seriously. They should never have let that damnable man interfere—him and his Upstairs, Downstairs fantasies...” Her voice trailed off as she noticed Alasdair, and she arched one cold, quizzical eyebrow. He bowed, well and fairly caught. Time to be charming.

“Alasdair Darke,” he said, addressing himself mostly to the young blonde, and not just because he preferred blondes. A quick look at her companion had told him that she was slightly older, and not the kind of “slightly older” which, desperate for some magic among the mundanity of life, is all too willing to believe in handsome, dashing young hero types. No, she looked the other kind of “slightly older,” shrewd and more cynical than she'd been at, say, 20, but still fully cognisant of the frauds and foibles common to the young. He knew in his gut she'd assessed him as rapidly as he'd assessed her, and probably summed him up damned accurately.

“Mina Melford,” the blonde said, eyes wide with admiration. “I love your uniform. This is Silverman, my valet.”

He bowed to the sardonic Silverman, not sure it was the done thing to bow to servants but
figuring it best to err on the side of gallantry. She looked amused. “It is a lovely uniform,” she agreed. “Great War?”

“Border Regiment, circa 1934.” He handed her a copy of his card as he spoke, which she smoothly pocketed without so much as a glance.

Miss Melford looked no more than politely interested, but her companion's eyes brightened. “A D. E. Stevenson devotee, then?” The Stranger tried to look knowing, but Silverman's momentary expression of approval vanished instantly, and he guessed she'd read his confusion. Damn. He was definitely going to have to do some boning up as soon as he was safely in the room he'd be sharing with Tom. Usually he liked a little more lead time before plunging into a new subculture, but the Between the Wars thing had presented too perfect an opportunity to pass up. He wasn't seriously worried; he absorbed things quickly enough when pressed.

The valet shut her eyes briefly in a way that suggested they were rolling beneath the lids. Probably not a valet, he reminded himself, not really. That simple black suit looked to have cost more than his own get-up. Silverman, if that was even her real name, looked well-heeled enough to employ her own servants. How odd that she'd want to play one for the weekend.

“I thought by the 1930s it was already difficult to find good help,” he said.

“Nearly impossible, I'd have thought,” said Miss Melford. “But Silverman has been with me for years.”

Was that meant to be in-character? he wondered. Before he could fish for further clues, Silverman had murmured something inaudible, Miss Melford had excused them both, and they'd moved briskly off in the direction of the elevators.

Alasdair checked in without incident, and headed upstairs himself, faintly disappointed in himself. The sooner he could get upstairs, figure out what the full canon was, and get up to speed, the better. He'd already sussed out the most obvious sources—Sayers, Christie, Wodehouse—and worked out all the advantages Sherlockiana could give him, particularly Conan Doyle's religious beliefs. But who the hell was D. E. Stevenson?

* * * * * * *
next

* * * * * * *

The Fairmont's first floor “deluxe rooms,” as the hotel called them, were generously proportioned, but four people to two double beds was still a bit of a squeeze. Right now four guests costumed as Edwardian housemaids were murmuring apologies and shuffling out of each other's way while still trying to stake out space for their luggage, clothes, books, and laptops.

Eventually the youngest one, having checked her cellphone three times and her laptop once, spoke up. “Have any of you seen the Colonel? I mean, is he even here yet?”

The other three exchanged glances. Finally one—the tallest, and possibly therefore the one feeling most confined—answered. “Nellie, he's not going to be hanging around here, is he? No offence, but it really isn't fair. We don't have room to entertain guests.” In spite of her careful choice of words, her tone was brisk and impatient.

Nellie blushed. “No, of course not.” She looked down at her hands, fiddling with her ring as she spoke. “It's just I haven't seen him yet, because of this stupid rule about us not mingling with the upper-class players, and I need to talk to him.”

She looked up. The others were just standing, watching her. “He's such a stickler for the rules,” she said earnestly. “He told me last week that he'd never spoil the weekend's class structure by sneaking around to see me. But I thought maybe if I knew where he was I could bump into him, just for a minute. It's really, really important.” Her voice trailed off, and when nobody spoke she jumped off the bed and rushed to the bathroom.

“Please tell me,” one of the other girls whispered, “she's not in there crying over that jackass.”

“Did you see she's wearing that ring on her left hand now? As if it were a wedding ring?” The second speaker couldn't keep the glee in her voice from overshadowing the concerned face she'd started out with.

“Never mind that.” The taller girl eyed the bathroom door thoughtfully. “Did you hear what she said? I don't think she even realizes where the class structure idea came from.” The others, judging by their blank looks, didn't know either.

* * * * * * *
next

* * * * * * *

The woman who exited the car had murder in her eyes. The Stranger would have bet money on it--provided it was somebody else's money, of course.

She stood on the sidewalk, glaring up at the Fairmont Royal York like it was personally responsible for bringing her to the brink of homicide. The Stranger stood a few feet away, watching her.

He'd cabbed here himself, but he'd gotten out a block away, giving himself ample opportunity to check out his surroundings. Habit. He liked to see other people before being seen; liked, too, a last minute check of his appearance before presenting himself for scrutiny. Right now he looked, he thought, perfect. He'd be spending the weekend in 1934, or a reasonable approximation thereof, and it was a perfect chance to indulge his love of costume. He'd gone to considerable trouble to look the part. Still, it was always a worry...

This woman, on the other hand, was all wrong, dressed in mom jeans and a sweater set, with a knapsack slung over one shoulder. Making a quick evaluation of her clothes, he concluded that she could afford the hotel and even the hobby, but she wasn't with the Betweeners. She wasn't scruffy, just painfully mundane and very much of this time—in style, for a suburban value of style, right down to the year and season.

On impulse he stepped forward, bowed, and offered her his card. You never knew what hidden depths lurked in a housewife, after all, and he prided himself on his ability to construct a tempting business card. There'd been times when he'd skipped meals due to lack of funds, and many, many times when he'd had to cadge a place to sleep, but he never skimped on the essentials.

She raised one eyebrow, coldly, but he fancied something in her gaze softened when she took in the lithe, handsome young man, all crisp military lines save for the slightly overlong hair. He smiled, more to himself than at her.

* * * * * * *

Alasdair Darke, Psychic Artist
Afterworld and Fictive Dimensional Communications
Psychopompetic Art
Automatic Writing
alas.the.stranger@gmail.com
http://strangerverse.dreamwidth.org

He noted she didn't throw away the card, even though she turned away without speaking. He followed her into the hotel, keeping a polite distance. As he'd expected, she headed for the hotel's main registration desk, not for the tables staffed by the Junior Anachronic League. He paused, watching. There were already a handful of people in period clothes signing in and accepting nametags and attache cases. No one looked familiar. He strolled over and presented his receipt, confirmation of his right to be here.

“Of course. Alasdair Darke,” said the cute brunette, once she'd found him in her files. He admired the crisp efficiency with which she processed him, pulling out a brass nametag with a winged clock above his new name. It had rolled easily off her tongue, unaccompanied by raised eyebrow or sceptical look. He relaxed just a fraction further. That was all right, then.

She handed over an attache case—inscribed with his initials, which was a neat touch; no wonder one had to register for this weekend so far in advance—and pointed him to the hotel's front desk. “You'll have to sign in with the hotel as well,” she said apologetically. “Their policy, I'm afraid.”

“Not a problem,” he assured her, though the thought of producing his identification and credit cards made his heart thud uneasily. “Buck up,” he told himself. “This is no different than any other name change.” But he'd invested a lot of effort in pulling this persona together, not to mention the various costs. It'd be a shame to have anything go wrong now.

He took the extra second to wink at the brunette and hand her his card. Things always went more smoothly when he paid attention to staying in character, after all. He crossed the lobby, quietly impressed, and idly curious as to how much Tom must be shelling out for their room. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks that his young friend was not only flush enough and foolish enough to attend, but generous enough to have insisted on covering Alasdair's entry and accommodation. He owed him, Tom had claimed. The Stranger hadn't argued much. A little misplaced gratitude from a fan, he'd found, went a long way.

* * * * * * *
next

Between the Wars
presents
Autumn, 1934
Fairmont Royal York, Toronto
RSVP steering committee c/o Miss Honey

Over the next several weeks she went out of her way to charm me, and I confess myself charmed, by her efforts and by her obvious loneliness. She'd persuaded me to give her my permanent mailing address—a P.O. box I make a point of retaining no matter what my circumstances—and sent me a series of tiny, perfect trinkets. I was staying in a friend's spare room at the time, living out of a Saddleback suitcase in tobacco brown and a backpack, and I appreciated the smallness of the gifts almost more than how carefully she'd chosen them. Clove cigarettes, and an antique cigarette case, engraved with my name. Moleskine pocket notebooks, and a silver fountain pen (also engraved--”to Alasdair, from Violet”). Her version of a mix CD: a red iPod shuffle, filled with songs that she said reminded her of me. A tiny vial of essential oil that claimed to protect the wearer from unwanted ghosts. I failed to appreciate the irony of that last item for quite a while.

I felt myself getting suckered into going along with her request. “Which of my metaverse characters would you most like to be pictured with?” I asked her, during one of our three a.m. chat sessions. She was nearly as insomniac as I am, and easily as addicted to IM.

“You,” the reply came back instantly. “I mean, your 1930s in-world self.”

My metaverse self was my weak point, in a sense. I loved the character I'd created. It was a piece of sheer self-insert vanity, I knew, but how could I resist? I blamed the time I'd spent among the Between the Wars crowd. Having a version of myself that could wander through my linked stories, and pop up in my metaverse art, let me go on living in the past without the expense of acquiring more costumes—and once I'd made the metaverse public, I'd be able to test-drive a few marketing schemes and angles I'd been percolating. People's responses to a fictional persona are surprisingly indicative of how much you can get away with in the real world, I've found.

So I agreed. One painting of myself and Violet, in period and in-world. We hammered out the details on paper, exchanging wax-sealed letters written with our favourite inks—black for me, and violet for her. The letters were completely unnecessary. By then I'd visited her house several times, drinking endless cups of herbal tea in her frothy, lace-laden bedroom. It was an oasis of taste in her parents' otherwise unremarkable house, and would have been perfect but for the bottles of medication littering her bedside table. By then, too, I'd realized that her colouring owed nothing to make-up—well, except for the mascara—and that her perpetual breathlessness was a symptom, not a personality quirk. It all made me determined to complete her commission, and quickly.

I did her proud. I suppose she'd have been thrilled with a picture of us so much as standing side by side against a dark background, but I worked up a proper character study portrait of the two of us seated at a tiny corner table in a cafe, intent on our conversation while around us the place teemed with pretty girls and men in uniform and artistes-in-the-making. It was a small canvas, 8” by 10”--thank goodness, since I carry it with me everywhere now. The painting throbbed with life, yet drew the eye inexorably toward us, the quiet centre of the scene, with me looking dashing and protective and Violet—despite all my intentions that this piece should cheer her up—looking even paler and more ethereal than in life. She looked, in short, like someone granted a brief, impossible reprieve from her deathbed. Or, even more, like a ghost.

The picture proved prophetic, though of course it required no gift of prophecy to know that a girl as sick as Violet would fail fast. I was at her side, naturally, when she closed those velvet-lashed gentian eyes for the last time, her small cold hand losing even its weak clasp on my own as her breathing stilled. I raised her hand to my lips and kissed her palm before stepping outside to tell her family that she was gone.

I hated having to tell them, hated their attempts to talk to me about her. They'd never appreciated her the way I had. It wasn't their fault that they were incapable of fathoming her highest yearnings, her secret desires. I doubt she'd confided half as much to them as she had to me, sensing in me a kindred soul, and I was left in the awkward position of knowing her better—and, for a while, missing her more—than her nearest and dearest. I don't mean to make it sound like I blamed them or disliked them, because I didn't. Violet was a rare, artistic spirit born into a family of decent, workaday plodders. They had no hope of really understanding her, and it would have been completely unrealistic to expect them to. But it pained me to attend the funeral. If they'd let me plan it, I could have done so much better by her. Perhaps that would have been enough for her.

As things stand, all I can do to assuage her is hang the portrait wherever I'm staying. Her parents returned it to me, following Violet's instructions, and I tolerate her anger and her sense of being cheated, her endless laments and complaints and wistful sighs. I've no idea whether her family acted from respect for her last wishes, or if they simply wanted the thing out of their house. Either way, I empathize. It's a damned good picture, but I've been haunted since she died, and believe me, nothing is more wearying than the sporadic visits of an eternally sixteen year old fangirl.

I found myself, on returning from the Between the Wars conference, in a sombre frame of mind, as one does when there's been a death amongst one's acquaintances. And, as illogical as it probably sounds, I blame that sombre mood for what followed. Had I not been dwelling on death, perhaps the painting wouldn't have been imbued with the power I subconsciously gifted it. Hell, if I hadn't been tottering on the brink of maudlin excess, I might never have replied to the girl's messages at all—though I like to think I would have. I can never simply delete the emails of a damsel in distress, especially not one as young and lovely as Violet was then, and, more practically, I can never afford to turn down a serious commission. I had no sense of foreboding, not at the outset, not even when I was at work on the painting. All I felt was justifiable pride at what was surely one of my most striking and atmospheric works.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first message was indistinguishable from my usual fan mail. “I know you must be frightfully busy,” she wrote. “I've heard about your wonderful sessions, and I've seen some of your amazing art online. I'm sure the artwork must be very expensive, so perhaps I'm being unrealistic in hoping to commission one. Could you send me a price list for the different types of art? Maybe I could afford a sketch, or at least a consultation. Forgive me for being pushy, but I need you to get back to me soon. I don't have long to live. Sorry for the melodrama, but it's just how it is. In the meantime, it would be an honour just to hear back from you. As you can tell, I'm a huge fan.”

She wasn't the first person online to have told me she hadn't long to live, so I can be forgiven for never once considering the possibility that it was true. I don't keep anything so vulgar as a price list, but I could provide links to some of my commissioned work and delicately let her know the approximate amounts I'd got for them.

After two more emails from her, each as sincere in its admiration as the first, I agreed to meet her for a coffee at The Molten Angel. Of course I Googled her extensively beforehand, and checked out her friendslists and circles—sparsely populated, luckily for me—but there was no link to be found between her and anyone from my past, particularly not with any notable sceptics or haters. Perhaps it was the very paucity of her online connections that first moved me to pity. I'm no longer sure. But anyway, I agreed to meet her, and it was a gesture of pure kindness on my part—no fee was to be charged.

She was a beautiful girl, with straight, thick hair in an ashy blonde that was almost grey, and incredible blue eyes that I initially dismissed as contacts. She affected a frilly, toned down Gothic Lolita style, and had the blueish-purple fingernails, lips, and eyelids to match. She was also terribly, painfully young. Sixteen, she admitted when pressed. I wouldn't have been surprised to find fourteen was nearer the truth, but as it turned out her mother later confirmed her birth date for me.

We talked, at first about me and my work, and then about books and movies and RPGs, and three hours flew by before I'd come to my senses and returned to the subject of her hoped-for commission. I honestly wasn't sure if she could afford me—her age was a strike against her, but the exquisite clothes suggested indulgent parents—but she lowered her head shyly, looking up at me through a curtain of thick, heavily mascara'd lashes, and admitted she was hooked on my historical metaverse. I found myself listening in spite of myself.

The crossover-laden metaverse was my latest project, and I was highly enamoured of it. I'd been playing it close to my chest; it was fairly impressive that someone outside the ranks of my close friends had searched out the few fragments of it that had found their way online. I couldn't help but be charmed that she wanted to buy artwork based on the 'verse, and wanted, moreover, to insert herself into it. She wanted me to create a portrait of her, surrounded by my characters. It would give her, she said breathlessly, a sort of immortality.