In the night and the rain, nothing could touch the wampyr. He was as at home in these savage elements as a statue: as obdurate, as immutable, as immune—to chill, to neglect, to solitude. But not to loneliness. Oh, if only. The boarding school—set amid its extensive garden—that hosted the operations of the Bund Englischer Mädel was well-enough known for God-fearing Englishman to avoid it. If Abby Irene had at first been reluctant to assist the wampyr, logic (he flattered himself)—or perhaps her knowledge that lacking her assistance would not stop the wampyr from attempting the rescue anyway—had swayed her. So he went with his wrists spiraled in copper wire, and copper coins in his shoes, spells of silence and stealth hung all about him. Due to the weather and the distance of travel, the wampyr availed himself of the Tube, and emerged near Tottenham Street in a gentler rain than had driven him underground. He’d caught the last train; as he stood on the street corner, umbrella cocked into the wind, he imagined it rumbling on towards its den for the night, like an asthmatic dragon.
