Spoiler Warning: This story takes place after the end of the Count Cain/Godchild series, and thus may contain spoilers for same. (Then again, I've also been told by my beta-readers that this story works as well or better as a standalone, so one needn't be familiar with Count Cain to read it.)

The Continental Journal of an English Gentleman

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London to Calais, 1897

The date, as near as I can learn, is 2 July, 1897. Nine days have passed since my rebirth, during which time C. and I have been hiding in the chapel of St Simon. We are but two more nameless refugees sheltering among the rest since the disaster. We pretend to know no more than the official explanation, which is that the city was devastated by a series of gas explosions. This fabrication has done little to calm the masses, and – according to rumor, which is all that reaches us here – London is yet plagued by chaos and riots.

C. has persuaded the priest, by what means I do not know, to let us have a little room to ourselves. As there is little else to do, I have largely occupied my time here with becoming accustomed to my new body. In size and appearance it is very much the same as the old one – how strange it is to write such a thing! – but without the familiar aches and sensitivities that one scarcely notices until they are absent, but without which one's movements do not feel entirely natural. The scars are of course gone as well, and C. tells me that I look much younger now. Although I have not yet seen my own face in a glass, I can guess that the lines and marks of expression, which make a countenance familiar to one's intimates, must now be absent from my face. C. has not commented on this, but in recent days it seems he pays heed more to my words than to any look or expression.

C. has been careful not to leave me alone for too long, which has prevented me from dwelling on the questions that hang like a shroud over my new life. I have not yet summoned the courage to ask what bargain or what sacrifice he made to restore me. I fear the answer, for I know too well what strains of science and evil magic were bred in that tower. I can only pray to God that when he called back my spirit, he captured only me, and not the whole dark soul of which I am but a fragment. I do not know if I am strong enough to again overcome the evil nature of my true self.

It is this fear that spurs me to keep a journal, which I have begun here. I shall set my thoughts in writing, so that, should I lose myself again – in which case I pray that I die before I can bring harm to those I love – there shall be a record, so that no one may doubt my true feelings.

C. returning, so I close.

4 July

A brief moment of privacy, as C. is sleeping. He seems overly fatigued these days, and I worry for his condition. He has tried to conceal his wounds from me, but – I hope he will pardon my saying – C. is a terrible liar. It is difficult to deceive a doctor, and doubly so when said Dr has had years to become familiar with his patient's habits and mannerisms. When he wakes I will demand that he let me dress the wounds myself. It is nearly two weeks; they should have healed by now.

I have also noticed that his emerald ring is missing. I do not think that he would permit it to be stolen; perhaps he has bartered it for our food and privacy. I hope that this is not the case, as it is a family heirloom, and possibly dangerous in the wrong hands. It is selfish of me, but I do not wish to have to make excuses to the family guardians.

C. has said nothing to me of home, nor of returning. I wonder if he does not feel well enough to travel. I hope that my presence is not an obstacle to his return. I know that my betrayal will not be easily explained to the others, but I wish to return with him, even if I must give up my situation.

5 July

C. will not tell me how he received the strange wounds on his forearms, which leads me to fear that it was in some way related to the ritual he performed to restore me. Someday I will have the truth from him, but at the moment he is reluctant to speak of anything concerning what happened at the tower.

While I bandaged his wounds last night, C. spoke to me for the first time of his plans for the future. He does not wish to return home, or at least not yet. He says he wishes to leave London, and recent events, far behind, and travel abroad. He was quite firm that he wanted no contact whatsoever with the family estate, which leaves me wondering how he expects to fund his travels. I have never thought to prepare a line of credit under a false name, but now I see how such an arrangement could be useful.

The task of financing will no doubt fall to me, as it always has, but I do not resent it. Already he possesses my life and my soul, and a little manual labour is but small interest to pay. However, I fear I cannot support the lifestyle and spending habits to which my lord heretofore has been accustomed. We'll have a few weeks of bread and cheese, and – short of a miraculous legacy falling into my hands – we may well be walking to Dover.

I am concerned that C. has not spoken of his family, save to emphasize that he did not want to return there. I have gathered that he sent his sister away to stay with relatives, but he has not sent a message informing her that he is alive. I wonder if he did not expect to survive... did he cut himself off from his loved ones before going into battle? Is no-one waiting for him?

5 July, late

After long discussion, we have a plan. We will leave London for Maidstone, where we will work to earn enough for new clothes and passage across the Channel. Then we shall work our way down to Dover, cross to Calais, and thence to Paris. C. is enamoured of the idea of the bohemian lifestyle, wandering whenever and wherever there is opportunity. Perhaps I am thinking too practically, but I find myself worrying more about what we shall eat and where we shall sleep as we wander. C. does not see this as an issue, and my attempts to impress its importance upon him have been met with casual disinterest.

I hope he proves easier to convince once he is out of London. We depart tomorrow, early.

11 July

Arrived Maidstone late in evening. C. not well; wounds infected. Light failing, and too exhausted to write.

14 July

Two days of rest have at last allowed me a moment of leisure in which to append this journal, which of late has been sorely neglected.

The wounds on C.'s arms have proved disturbingly resistant to treatment. Between Swanley and Maidstone the wounds again became inflamed and he fell very ill, at last requiring me to carry him for several miles. The last of our coin went for a cot in a crowded hostel, where C. slept, unmoving, until the hosteler evicted us the next day. (The London refugees are pouring out of the city in all directions, and I am told that there is not a decent bed to be had for miles.) The hostel was hardly clean or restful, and but for the rain, I would have saved the p. and looked for a grassy patch off the road for the night.

I am without decent medical supplies – how I wish now for my familiar bag of medicines and instruments! – but I have made do with what I have found or begged along the way. Fortunately, C. has an unnaturally strong constitution. His fever broke this morning, and he will no doubt want to continue on to Dover as soon as he is strong enough to walk. In the meantime, he is obeying my orders to rest.

We are sheltering in a picturesque gazebo at the back of a well-kept lawn belonging to one of the region's finer country estates. Only one of our hosts is aware of our presence, and he is a boy of no more than six or seven years. In the manner of one who finds a puppy but fears his parents will forbid him to keep it, the boy has hidden us in the garden and made a game of sneaking out to visit. I have not yet decided if the child is quite charming or a galloping terror... but in any case we are in his debt for two days' worth of food and most of a deck of cards.

Bertie, our young benefactor, is quite unique, in a way that defies simple description. I will reproduce one of our conversations here, to the best of my memory:

'I say' – the boy begins most of his sentences this way – 'I say, is it dead?' He is referring to C., who has not been fully conscious for the better part of three days. I explain that my master is very ill, but he is only sleeping, not dead.

'Frenchie Newton had a toad that died the other day,' the boy says, crouching down for a better look at C. 'Was his best jumper, that toad was. It dropped dead mid-jump, just flipped over on its back, like this...' He sticks his arms out and twists halfway over. 'Its name was Wally, on account of he caught it on a visit to Cornwall. Frenchie had another toad named Corny, but that one came from Devonshire.' The boy points at C. thoughtfully and adds, 'I say, I think I'll call him Wally, too. He looks like he flipped over mid-jump.'

Bertie looks at me, and I have a strong suspicion that he is trying to align my appearance with another of Frenchie's pet jumping toads. Before he can dub me after some deceased amphibious namesake, I quickly ask the boy if it would be possible for him to bring me some medicine and clean bandages.

'Oh, no.' He looks chagrined – briefly. 'I'm not allowed anywhere near those things, not since we played mummy and accidentally embalmed Thaddy Hopper. I have a deck of cards, though,' he says inexplicably, and produces it from a pocket, along with a broken poker chip. I am afraid to ask where a boy his age came by them. 'Its missing the three of diamonds, so when you deal you have to hand over a pretend card to someone, and everyone has to pretend like they don't know that the pretend card is the three of...'

I take the cards, just to stop his talking, and ask if he might be able to find us some food.

'I could bring you something to eat. I came out through the kitchen, and supper is steak-and-kidney pie. Just came out of the oven. I could nick it for you.'

I am ashamed to admit how close I am to accepting the boy's offer. I have not tasted hot food since – well, never, in this body. But as I am already making a thief of the lad, I do not want to put the boy at any more risk of punishment than necessary, nor to deprive his family of their supper. In the end, I persuade him to bring us some bread and vegetables.

'So, no pie?' he asks.

'No, just the vegetables,' I answer.

'You'll want some potatoes, then? And carrots. And roast beef?'

I start to point out that roast beef isn't a vegetable, but Bertie just looks confused.

'But beef is made from cows, right? And cows eat things like potatoes and carrots and grass...'

Fortunately, his logical fallacy is interrupted by a shrill voice from the house: 'Bertram!' The name cuts across the lawn like a train's whistle; I can't imagine the human who makes such a sound. She must be more than formidable.

The boy crumples at hearing his name. 'Aunt Agatha is calling me,' he explains. 'I say, do you have any aunts?'

I reply that I do not.

'Don't get any,' he advises me sagely. 'They're all sorts of trouble.'

Despite B.'s eccentricities, there is something likable about the boy. He is kind-hearted, if a little odd, and perhaps without realizing it he paid me a great compliment this evening after he returned with the food (which, it is worth noting, did not include roast beef, but did include a block of very fine cheese, which I accepted with not a little guilt). I had roused C. and was helping him drink some water. B. watched for a few minutes, and then said:

'I say, you're a whatsit... a valet, aren't you? Or are you more of a butler?'

I was both in C.'s service, of course, but there is a distinction in most houses, so I replied that I was what is called a 'gentleman's gentleman.'

The boy nodded very seriously. 'I don't much care for Jenkins – that's Aunt Agatha's butler – but I think I'd like to have a gentleman's gentleman. I wouldn't mind having someone to look after me the way you look after Wally. Aunt Agatha always says I need a lot of looking after.'

Aunt Agatha certainly speaks true – the boy seems to be quite a handful, and I can't begin to imagine what he will be like when he reaches C.'s age, or even older. I don't envy the gentleman who winds up in young Bertram's service... but I wish him luck, all the same.

16 July

Traveling once again. As C. is still feeling weak, we have hired passage on a refugee wagon that is lumbering slowly toward Dover. I traded half of our bread and Bertie's deck of cards for our fare. Neglected to mention re: three of diamonds – it must have slipped my mind due to the unwarranted rudeness of the driver.

18 July

Arrived Dover early afternoon. Abandoned the wagon to walk into town, which proved a wise choice, as the flood of refugees from London has made all of England resentful of strangers – particularly those arriving in large groups or on hired carts. Despite the rough stretch between Ashford and Dover, C. proclaimed that he was feeling much better, so we proceeded straight to the docks to inquire about passage to Calais.

As with all things in time of great crisis, the price of passage has trebled in the past few weeks. I fear it will take much longer than I had planned to accumulate the fare, as it will be quite costly for the two of us to cross.

I cannot yet afford a room for my master, but fortunately the weather is holding clear, so we have found a place outside of town to sleep. It is but a few miles from our shelter to the center of town, and I hope to find profitable work there. I spoke with some fishermen, who were all too eager to grumble that since Mr Robertson's announcement that the Government would proceed with the long-deferred construction of the national harbor, Dover has witnessed an enormous increase in trade and travel. In two years, the town has swelled more quickly than new housing can be built. This is favorable for me, for even if I cannot earn bread with my medical training, surely there will be someone in a burgeoning trade town willing to hire an able-bodied labourer.

It is a last resort, and one I am loath to pursue, but there are also the mines to consider. Coal and iron are the bone and flesh of our country's industry, and a rich supply of both veins the under-sea tunnel between Dover and Folkestone.

Then again, with trade flourishing here and on the Continent, I am certain that it is only a matter of time before the tunnel is extended to allow the trains to run from here to France. The Pas de Calais are stormy and treacherous, and I for one would be just as content to cross the Channel in a carriage underground, rather than risking the rough waters.

21 July

Composing this as I return from Dover, and if my penmanship is the worse for it, I do not care. Am in high spirits, as I have at last secured employment with one of the trading companies along the waterfront. It is largely manual labour, for which I will be paid enough to provide C. and myself with at least a decent meal per day, plus a few p. to save against our passage.

I carry with me a celebratory dinner: Half a loaf of bread and a crock of thick stew from a fine old inn called 'The Fisherman's Rest.' I must write less and walk faster, for I am sure C. is as famished as I.

29 July

I am writing in the taproom of The Fisherman's Rest, where I have begun to take my suppers as a matter of habit. In another half hour this room will be packed with the usual jovial clientèle, but for the moment I have a table to myself, and peace enough to write.

I am gradually growing accustomed to the hard labour of loading and unloading the cargo boats. It is an unpleasant thought that this body has seen so little use – I tire more easily than I should, and must tolerate the raw ache of muscles unused to such strain – but although I am not yet as strong as the other workers, my employer is pleased with my effort. He has said as much, and has also hinted that he may have some work for me in the business office, as his secretary has recently left to care for a sickly relative in Brighton. If all goes well, I shall ask him for a letter of recommendation before we cross to Calais.

I quite believe that the proprietress of The Fisherman's Rest wishes to adopt me! Just now, while I was writing, young Mistress Sally – on her mother's orders, no doubt – has brought me a slice of fresh lamb pie. 'It's a new recipe,' she insists, 'and seeing as how you are a man of such fine tastes, Mama wishes you to try it before it's served.' The recipe is no doubt the same that the inn has served for generations, but I must play along and comment upon it as if it is a novelty.

This marks the fourth meal that I have received at no charge here, no matter how I try to press my coin upon them. When there are no customers to serve, the proprietress, Mistress Mabel, enjoys chatting with me, and always provides plenty of food and drink for our conversations. She has told me that the inn has been operated by her family for six generations, and has hosted some of the greatest figures of England's history. I believe she is determined to learn my story, as well, for she asks a great many questions, all aimed to illuminate the shadowed corners of my life. When, at last, I told her that I was trying to earn money to take my younger brother to a warmer climate for his health, she insisted that I bring him to the inn to stay.

'I can find some easy work for the boy to do, to earn his keep,' she assures me, 'and I daresay a warm bed and good meals will do him as much good as anything. I run a clean house, the best in town, so you needn't worry for his health.'

I believe I will accept her offer, as she is undoubtedly right about C.'s wellbeing. I have not yet informed my lord that he is now my younger brother. I wonder what he will think of it?

The room is beginning to fill; it is time I return.

30 July

As of suppertime this evening, C. is installed in a small room at the Rest. He was happy to move there, not only for the sake of comfort, but for the chance to earn his own board and keep. He told me that he feels guilty forcing me to do all the work to support him, now that he is no longer a gentleman of means. I feared I would laugh at his words – though I dared not! Has he not relied on me to support him, always, ever since he was a child? Of course I would not have had it any other way – I pledged my very life to serve him, and I stand by that oath – but I do not think he realizes how little I actually involved him in the running of the Hargreaves estate.

Or so I thought at first, but on further consideration, I realize that there did come a time when I was no longer by his side. After my betrayal (for I must call it what it was, though it shames me!) my lord was forced abruptly to take the running of his life into his own hands, and protect not only himself, but also Lady Merrywether and the rest of his family. Against all odds, he triumphed against an overwhelming adversary, helped to prevent the destruction of London, and even saved me, though I do not know how.

Then again... shortly after I left his side, my lord also burned his entire estate to the ground. Perhaps I should not judge his financial competency by that period in his life.

In any case, I am glad to see that he is beginning to show interest in becoming self-sufficient. I fear what would become of him were anything to happen to me.

30 July, late

In an attempt to hide our trail from any would-be pursuers, C. has declared that we should give false names at every stop on our journey. His first choice, given spontaneously to Mrs Mabel, was 'Clyde Corbett' – Corbett, because it is his own middle name, and Clyde, because, as he asserted rather caustically, I had given her the story that he was my younger brother. 'Surely this will be easy for you to remember, if you're asked about me,' he said.

He can not know how deeply his jest has shaken me.

At times, the duality within me fills me with unspeakable fear. My memories are blurred – shadows of reality, overlaid with the surreal fiction created by Delilah's agents, until I cannot distinguish the images from each of my lives. I find myself questioning who I am: Is my other self truly dead? Or is he in control even now, laughing silently as he permits me to dream of a life without him?

I know now that it was Riffuel who aimed the gun... but I, Riff, still have the memory of pulling the trigger. Even my own death could not purge my hands of my brother's blood.

19 August

I have become so caught up in our lives here that I have not had given thought to this journal for weeks! It must seem a gaping chasm in the narrative of my journey, but now that I read it through, nothing truly outstanding has occurred since my last report.

C. has selectively abandoned certain facets of his elegant and proper upbringing. He is expert at cleaning dishes in Mrs Mabel's kitchen, has learned most of the common games of chance – as well as how to cheat at them – and, although I strongly disapprove of the habit, can now speak as coarsely as any sailor, and in a variety of dialects. He could likely blend into any seaside or market town in England.

I, meanwhile, have metamorphosed into a clerk, of the rather mundane sort. I earn a good wage, however, and we are very close to reaching our goal: That is, enough coin to outfit ourselves with sturdy traveling clothes and afford passage to Calais, with enough left over to feed us on the way to Paris. I would prefer to embark as soon as possible, for if we wait much longer, autumn may spread its storms over the waters of the Channel and make our crossing unpleasant, or even dangerous.

It seems ironic that, although we resided at Cornwall for so long, in that castle overlooking the sea, C. and I never once went yachting. Our first venture out onto the water will be to leave our island home behind us.

I will ask about the fares again tomorrow, and if I have earned enough, we will depart within the week.

27 August

Arrived Calais late this eve. Had a scare coming into harbor, but survived. C. sleeping heavily, as should I.

28 August

I must elaborate on last night's entry. I know little of nautical terms, so I cannot describe precisely what happened to our ship, but I do know that at the end of the crossing we came perilously close to a shoal of vicious-looking rocks, to the general panic of the passengers aboard.

When I described our adventure to a few of the locals, they told me that our experience is not unique: In '88, a vessel called the Invicta ran aground, and just two years ago the Empress was stranded in the very same place that threatened our landing. There have been other incidents involving smaller vessels, as well.

I also learned that the Calais harbor has been recently "improved" to the bill of over 45 million francs – and yet it is still not as safe or as sheltered as Boulogne. Still, Calais remains the popular port, given its position at the narrower crossing. After today's adventure, I am hoping once again that the underwater train tunnel is completed before we must make the return journey to England.

30 August

I have discovered one significant shortcoming in my travel plans: C.'s French is atrocious. I fear that my own grasp of the language is only slightly better: I, unfortunately, was not born to that privileged class of English gentlemen who were brought up by French tutors while their parents toured the Continent. C. was, and has no excuse for his deplorable speech. He attributes his poor accents to his father's irregular views on education, but I find it more likely that the languages of the Continent were simply of less interest to the young Earl Hargreaves than my medical textbooks and the clandestine manuals on poisons he discovered in the cellar.

Here, near the coast, we can communicate well enough in English, but if we wish to travel toward Paris we shall have to expand our vocabulary by several orders of magnitude.

1 September

I will admit that I thought, during those months that Chavonne was ghosting my steps, slipping me secret notes and stalking me as a cat does a mouse, that it was just her drastic way of participating in K. S.'s plot to discredit me. But now I find that this is not so! No, the longer I remain in France, the more I believe that it is the way of ALL French women to stalk and entrap their unsuspecting prey – vis à vis, the uninitiated Englishman. The women here are incorrigible flirts, and communicate using some system of hidden signals and secret signs, so that once engaged in conversation, it is impossible for one to extricate one's self without being descended upon by a half-dozen hirudinean demoiselles with dishonorable intentions and designs on one's pocket-book.

At every turn I find one or more of them attempting to abscond with C. He does not seem in the least flustered by the attention, but perhaps that is to be expected: In the arena of London society, he was more often the quarry than the hunter. I can not imagine how he has tolerated it all this time; I am driven nearly mad by the possessive bickering among these painted dolls.

Wholly apart from the troubles with women – which, mercifully, only afflict us when we attempt to secure a night's lodging at some humble maîson along the road – our progress has been slow. We started on foot from Calais the morning before last, and have covered only a handful of miles in two days, due to poor weather and various circumstances. We must tighten our belts and push on faster if we wish our money to last all the way to Paris.

-- Author's Notes --

Apologies to the following, for absconding with their characters, creations, and/or content:

- P.G. Wodehouse
- Baroness Emmuska Orczy
- Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, April 1895
...and of course, Yuki Kaori, the mangaka responsible for Count Cain and Godchild. (Lady, if you'd taken proper care of your characters in the first place, this never would have happened.)