Victoriana

JEREMY HAD WANTED TO HEAD STRAIGHT TO THE HOTEL, but I convinced him I wasn’t ready to turn in yet. Wrangling permission for a city run wasn’t something I could do on the fly.

So I claimed restlessness and dehydration, circumstances that would prevent me from getting the good night’s rest I needed. The cure? A warm milky drink and a long walk. Since we hoped to turn that walk into a city run, I asked if we could grab that drink at a popular late-night coffee bar close to downtown. Then we headed into the quiet residential Cabbagetown area for our walk.

I strolled down the narrow street, listening to Clay talk about some article on bear cults he’d read last week. Jeremy and I nodded at appropriate junctures and sipped our coffees. Mine was a latte, of course-for the milk. Whole milk. Seems odd, specifically requesting whole milk, but Jeremy insisted. He also insisted on plenty of ice cream and cheese and other whole-fat dairy products. He said it was for the milk content, but I suspected he was trying to fatten me up for motherhood.

Besides my stomach, the only thing that had plumped up were my br**sts. Yes, for the first time in my life, I actually had br**sts-the kind that could be seen even under a baggy shirt. Not that it mattered. My belly stuck out farther.

As the midnight hour passed, the heat lifted and a cool night breeze found its way through the armor of skyscrapers into the narrow residential streets. I liked Cabbagetown. I’m not much of a city dweller anymore, but this is the kind of place I’d choose, a quiet old neighborhood just a few minutes’ walk from the bustle of downtown.

The narrow street was lined with small, two-story, multihued houses, the tiny front yards jealously guarded by fences of every description, from stone to wrought-iron to white-picket. The era was Victorian, and every architectural detail I associated with the period was evident in a single sweep-gingerbread, gables, wraparound porches, balconies, cupolas, spires, stained glass.

Though we could hear the roar of Yonge Street a few blocks over, there was a hush here, as if the trees arching over the road were an insulating blanket, letting the residents sleep amid the chaos of the city core. We walked down the middle of the road, our footsteps echoing softly, our voices barely above a whisper.

To our right was a line of parked cars. The houses predated driveways and didn’t have enough room between to add them. Most of the cars were midpriced imports, with few minivans or SUVs. This was a neighborhood for seniors and couples, not families.

Jeremy drained the last of his coffee and looked around, but of course there was no place to toss the cup.

“Here,” I said, and opened my bag.

I’m not a fan of purses, and certainly not big ones, but tonight I was carrying a small knapsack-style bag for the From Hell letter. Jeremy had decided this was the safest way to transport it. We hadn’t wanted to leave it in the hotel or the Explorer, so I’d brought italong.

Jeremy took a tissue from his pocket and wiped out the inside of the cup before crushing it and tucking it into my knapsack. The letter was still in its plastic bag, but I guess he wasn’t taking any chances with stray coffee droplets. I started to zip up the knapsack, then stopped and took out the letter.

“Are we going to…? I mean, can I take a look? Before we drop it off?”

Jeremy hesitated.

“I’ll be careful,” I said. “I’ve got these.” I tugged the latex gloves from my pocket.

He still hesitated, but I could tell he was as curious as I was, so after a moment he nodded.

We moved to the side of the road, under a streetlamp. I set down my latte on the curb, then put on the gloves, opened the bag, reached in and took out the letter. I expected it to be brittle, but it was oddly supple, almost clothlike, as if it had softened with time.

I unrolled it. The paper was brownish, the color uneven. I doubted a drop or two of Jeremy’s coffee would have made much difference. It was already spotted with ink and other substances. I remembered reading that the letter had come packed in a cardboard box that included part of a kidney preserved in wine. I really hoped the reddish splotches were wine.

The writing was a near-indecipherable scrawl, with a quarter of the words mangled. If I hadn’t known what it was supposed to say, I wouldn’t have made out half of it.

“Looks deliberately misspelled,” I said.

“That’s the general consensus with the other Ripper letters as well,” Jeremy said. “The spelling is erratic, with some words spelled correctly once, then misspelled-”

Clay slapped my upper arm. I spun so fast I almost tripped.

“Mosquito,” he said.

I glared at him.

“They have West Nile here, don’t they?” he said.

“Just like at home,” I said through my teeth.

“But at home you’ve been wearing that special stuff Jeremy got for you. You didn’t bring it, did you?”

“Clayton’s right,” Jeremy said softly. “I know the risk is minimal, but if you’ve forgotten the repellent, you really should be wearing long sleeves after dark. If you contract the virus, it can be passed on-”

“To my baby, I know. But considering what else I’m already passing on to my baby, West Nile virus seems the least of my concerns.” I shook my head, then leaned toward Clay. “Smack me again, and I smack you back. Maybe you can smack harder, but I dare to smack harder.”

A small smile. “You sure about that?”

“You wanna test me?”

“Uh-uh,” Jeremy said. “No smacking challenges. At least, not while you’re holding that letter. Here, better put it away. Looks like it’s already creased.”