Page 89 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Once this book was published, London would never be the same again.

Bram waited for me to break the heavy silence. Did I tell him that though my mind spun in all sorts of horrendous directions as he read, conjuring creatures and happenings that had no place in a modern drawing room, there were sections, scenes, that beckoned me into other places? They stirred something deep within me, fires I’d believed quenched long ago. I’d been filled with disturbing heat and ribbons of pleasure; feelings of such longing as I imagined sharp teeth against my neck, being entangled in bedclothes, sharing such passion. The three women crawling over Jonathan Harker, the count telling them, ‘This man belongs to me!’ was so shocking in what it suggested, yet shamefully thrilling too.

To think my Bram wrote something so … so sensuous. So visceral.

If Poor O was condemned for writing Dorian Gray, how might judgement fall upon Bram? Would The Un-Dead be regarded as a dangerous, morally repugnant book too?

And yet, for all the darkness, the erotic and taboo, the ghoulish and evil, he offered Christian hope and light.

But hadn’t Oscar also done that? Then again, Dorian had willingly made a pact with the devil. Count Dracula was the devil, and the characters Bram invented, Dr Van Helsing, Jonathan Harker, Dr Seward, Quincy Morris, Lord Godalming, Lucy and Mina, were either suborned and controlled like Mr Renfield and the crew of the Demeter or did God’s work by setting out to destroy him.

I would say all this to Bram, tell him I was amazed and awed, afraid, too, and not just of the count. But not tonight, not until I’d calmed my mind. I took a deep breath.

‘You’ve changed some of the characters’ names,’ I said finally, reaching for my wine which, apart from a few fraught sips earlier, had sat untouched for hours.

My hands shook, so I swiftly put the glass back down.

Bram rose and refreshed my drink, topping up his own. ‘I did.’ His voice was husky from reading for so long.

First steadying my hand, I raised my glass to him. ‘I … I think the new names work wonderfully well. I think all the characters do. They’re very believable, even within such a disturbing and unlikely tale.’

‘You found it disturbing?’

‘Very.’ I gulped my wine.

‘And unlikely?’

‘Well.’ I gave a shaky laugh. ‘Of course. Vampires … creatures who drink blood, don’t exist, do they? Nor shapeshifters.’ I thought about the actors at the Lyceum, the Adelphi, the Haymarket, the Savoy and the Royal. Weren’t they all shapeshifters? Donning costumes and becoming someone else? Why, at times women became men – and vice versa.

Didn’t that make us all shapeshifters? Adopting a guise to suit the occasion? Hiding our real selves from the world, wearing masks and elaborate costumes, assuming socially acceptable behaviours to pass as one thing in a world that didn’t allow us to be anything else. I thought of Oscar, his defiance and the cost, and studied Bram beneath my lashes.

I cleared my throat. ‘I meant unlikely in the sense you portray them in the novel. The notion that someone can control another, take over their life, drain them of their will – that I do not find improbable.’ He averted his gaze. ‘It’s the means that makes it uncanny. The blood drinking, it’s a metaphor for stealing someone’s soul, isn’t it?’

‘Possibly,’ said Bram, holding his claret aloft so it caught the light.

‘But the actions the characters take, the good ones,’ I continued, ‘are so noble. The way the men band together to save Mina; even the awful choice they must make about Lucy … you’ve made their actions honourable, godly even.’

‘What about Dracula? What did you think of him?’

My glass suddenly appeared to be filled with blood. I put it down hastily. ‘I … I thought him …’ What did I say? He was Henry Irving to me, with dashes of the explorer Arminius Vambéry, Sir Richard Francis Burton, Lord Tennyson and even his beloved Walt Whitman, an inkling of Svengali, but also my own damn spectre. Bram was a bowerbird, always borrowing from our life – the living and the dead. ‘Deserving of his end.’

I forced myself to drink the wine. Blood is life.

‘Thank you, Florrie.’ He gave a weary smile that swiftly left his eyes. ‘I know I’ve still work to do. Reading aloud has enabled me to see its flaws, where I need to make some changes. Once they’re done, I’ll take it to Constable; he’s keen to publish it. Hopefully, The Un-Dead will appear later this year.’ He stretched out his legs. ‘Do you realise it will be my fifth book – sixth if you count the serialisation of The Snake’s Pass?’

I made a suitable sound. So much output, and yet you’re still known almost exclusively as Henry Irving’s menial, I thought, maybe unfairly.

‘If I might make one suggestion?’ I was hesitant to criticise. I knew how hard Bram had toiled, sacrificed so much, working over holidays in Cruden Bay, when we were in Whitby, and every spare moment here in St Leonard’s Terrace.

‘Tell me. You’ve always offered sage advice with my other books, why should this one be any different?’

Sage advice that wasn’t always followed.

I sat forward. ‘I think you should change the title.’

‘Change it?’ Bram looked astonished. ‘But it has been The Un-Dead since I first conceived it. It’s what the entire story hinges on.’

‘I know, my dear, and that’s why I was reluctant to say anything. It’s just that “The Un-Dead” is so …’ I crinkled my nose.