Jane looked at Miriam. Her mouth was set in a grim line, and she scowled at Jane with undisguised dislike. She’s been hoping all along that the wedding would never happen, Jane realized. She wants me to run out of time. Well, we’ll just see about that.
“I think it’s a splendid idea,” she said. “Don’t you, Miriam?”
Miriam narrowed her eyes. “Just peachy,” she said through gritted teeth.
Walter put one arm around Jane’s shoulders and the other around his mother’s. “I knew you would be thrilled,” he said. “Hey, I just thought of something. Once Jane and I are married you’ll both be Mrs. Fletcher.”
Miriam let out a little yelp, which she covered by pretending to cough. “You know I don’t go by that name any—”
“You should take care of that cough, Mom,” Walter said, grinning and ignoring her. “You don’t want it to turn into something worse.”
“I don’t think it’s possible for it to get worse,” said Miriam, reaching for her coffee.
“Well, maybe you should go home and rest,” Walter told her. “We want you in fighting shape for the big day. Right, Jane?”
“By all means,” Jane said, flashing her teeth at Miriam. “I know I will be.”
New York City, New York
“EXPLAIN TO ME AGAIN HOW YOU’VE LIVED THIS LONG WITHOUT A passport,” Byron said to Jane as they walked down a narrow street on New York’s Lower East Side. Surprised by a snowstorm that had begun just after midnight, the city was in a state of disarray. The normally bustling thoroughfares were largely empty as cars huddled beneath blankets of white, and the few people out walking did so with hats pulled down over their ears and hands jammed into the pockets of their coats.
Jane and Byron, having arrived on the first train of the morning from Brakeston, took little notice of the cold. They wore coats and scarves not for warmth but to blend in, although Byron wasn’t doing a particularly good job of that. The black wool ulster he was wearing gave him the appearance of someone from another era. This impression was intensified by the cane he used to compensate for his limp. Made of cherry wood, it was topped with the head of a rabbit cast in bronze. The ensemble, coupled with Byron’s pale skin and dark hair, created an aura of otherworldliness. The fact that he was extraordinarily handsome only made him more noticeable.
“I’ve never needed one,” Jane said, answering Byron’s question. “I don’t go anywhere.”
“Still,” said Byron, running his hand across the top of a car as they passed by it and scooping up a handful of snow, “I would think you would want one just in case.”
He packed the snow into a tight ball. Then, with a casualness that belied the speed at which the snowball traveled, he hurled it across the street, where it struck the back of a man who was standing and watching his dog, a French bulldog wearing a red-and-white striped sweater, relieve itself on a lamppost. The man whirled around, exclaiming loudly, but saw only the retreating figures of a well-dressed couple walking arm in arm through the snow.
“That was for making that poor dog wear a sweater,” Byron explained to Jane. “Oh, and here we are.”
They had stopped in front of a narrow brownstone remarkably like all the other brownstones on the block, although the ground floor of this particular building was taken up by a small watch repair shop. The front window was crowded with timepieces, and the faded gold lettering on the glass read TIME OUT OF MIND. Underneath that in smaller black lettering was S. GRUNDY, HOROLOGIST. Bits of paint had long ago fallen off or been chipped away, giving the letters a moth-eaten appearance, and the dust that was gathered in the corners of the window provided additional reason to suppose that the establishment had long ago ceased to do business. Only the faint glow of a light hidden in the recesses of the shop suggested otherwise.
Byron turned the handle of the shop’s door and pushed. Protesting, the door opened, and Byron stood aside, motioning for Jane to enter ahead of him. As Jane looked around the small, cluttered room Byron walked to the back and called out, “Solomon! Solomon, are you here?”
“Solomon?” Jane said, glancing at the window. “Solomon Grundy?”
“Indeed,” said Byron. “Do you know him? I thought you said—”
“No,” Jane interrupted. “I mean, I don’t know this Solomon Grundy. But there’s the rhyme. ‘Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday, christened on Tuesday, married on Wednesday, took ill on Thursday, grew worse on Friday—’ ”
“ ‘Died on Saturday, buried on Sunday,’ ” said a voice, followed by a violent cough. “ ‘This is the end of Solomon Grundy.’ ”
Standing before Jane was a very tall, very thin man who if not a century old was very close to it. He had long gray hair that fell in greasy strands to the shoulders of his worn black velvet frock coat, pale gray eyes that peered out at her from behind shockingly thick gold-rimmed spectacles, and a forehead creased like the spine of a well-read book. Most peculiar of all was his nose, which extended from his face almost like a beak and ended in a blunt point that was covered by a gold cap.
“Very good, young lady,” he said. “And what is today?”
“Thursday,” Jane answered, trying not to stare at his unusual appearance.
“Thursday,” the man repeated. “That explains the cough, then. It’s a good thing you didn’t come a day later, as I would almost certainly be unable to see you. And of course by Saturday I will be dead and of no use whatsoever. So before that happens, perhaps you should tell me why you have come.”
“Jane is in need of a passport, Solomon,” Byron explained.
“Indeed?” said Solomon. He eyed Jane with curiosity. “And who are you? Before, I mean. Not now.”
“Oh,” Jane said uncomfortably. Saying that she was Jane Austen always made her feel as if she were lying. Or boasting.
“Solomon, allow me to introduce you to Miss Jane Austen,” Byron said.
Solomon stepped back. “My, my,” he said. He bowed toward her. “It’s my distinct pleasure.”
Jane felt herself blush as much as someone with no beating heart could. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she said.
Solomon smiled, revealing a row of gleaming gold teeth. “I have long been a fan,” he told Jane. His eyes sparkled. “Just a moment,” he told her. “I want to show you something.”
He retreated to the rear of the shop, where Jane heard him rummaging around. There was a great deal of rustling, a very loud thud, and several rounds of enthusiastic sneezing. Then Solomon reappeared, clutching in one hand a trio of leather-bound volumes. He waved them at Jane, cackling gleefully. “I admit I haven’t read them in quite some time,” he said. “But here they are.”
He handed the books to Jane, who looked at the covers and gasped. “The first edition of Sense and Sensibility!” she exclaimed.
Solomon nodded. “I had them bound, of course. Otherwise they’re exactly as I bought them from a London bookstall on the day of their publication.”
Jane ran her fingertips over the leather, tracing the title of her book. She lifted the cover of the first volume and gazed upon the familiar title page. “Even I don’t have the first editions,” she said. “I did once upon a time, of course, but I’m afraid I lost them in a move. I believe I mistakenly threw them out along with a stack of old New Yorker issues.”
“Pity,” Solomon said, quickly taking the books back from her and slipping them into one of his coat pockets. Jane stared wistfully at the pocket, wondering if perhaps the watchmaker might be persuaded to part with the novels.
Byron cleared his throat. “Now that introductions have been made, perhaps we can get down to business,” he said.
“Ah, yes,” said Solomon. “A passport. For Miss Jane Austen.”
“Fairfax, actually,” Jane said. “It should say Jane Fairfax. That’s the name by which I’m now known.”
Solomon turned and walked toward the back of the shop. This time Jane followed him, arriving at a large workbench covered with tools and upon which were scattered vari
ous gears, faces, crystals, and minute and hour hands that had become detached and now lay disembodied among the corpses of broken watches. A lone stool sat before the table, and a single bare bulb was screwed into the end of an electrical cord that dangled from the ceiling.
Solomon seated himself on the stool, pulled open a drawer in the workbench, and removed several passport books. “Would you like to be English, Canadian, or American?” he asked.
“American, I suppose,” Jane answered. She felt a bit as if she were turning her back on her homeland by assuming an American identity, but she knew it was the most practical choice.
“American it is,” Solomon said, placing a blue passport on the table and returning the others to the drawer. “Now then, did you bring the photographs?”
Jane fished in her coat pocket and withdrew the small cardboard folder containing the photos she’d had taken the evening before at the copy shop near her bookstore. “I’m afraid they’re dreadful,” she told Solomon as she handed them to him.
“Nonsense,” Solomon assured her as he opened the folder. “I’m sure they’re perfectly love—” He hesitated, then looked at Jane. “Well, at least your eyes are nice and open,” he said.
Jane watched as Solomon took one of the photos and began trimming it to the correct size. “If you don’t mind my asking, do you do a lot of this sort of thing?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” Solomon answered. “Passports. Driver’s licenses. Anything you need, I can forge it.”
Jane, intrigued, said, “And are all of your clients as we are?”
“Vampires, you mean?” said Solomon. He had removed his glasses and inserted a jeweler’s loupe in his left eye. His head was bent over the passport as he did something Jane couldn’t quite see. “Most are, but not all.”
“And are you …” Jane began. She decided the question was indelicate, however, and stopped.
“Am I a vampire?” said Solomon, lifting his head and grinning at her. “No. I’m something … different.”
He returned to his work. Jane, sensing that he didn’t want to be disturbed, went in search of Byron. She found him crouched on the floor, rummaging through a box of old pocket watches.
“How did you say you know Solomon?” she asked Byron.
Byron blew the dust from a watch, looked at the back, then returned it to the box. “I didn’t,” he replied. “And I really don’t remember. But he’s proved to be quite useful over the years.” He stood up and looked at Jane. “Do you know he once forged me a death certificate from the state of Missouri that was so realistic I almost believed the gentleman in question really had died of cardiac arrest?”
“Why would you need … Never mind,” Jane said. “I don’t want to know. I’m sure he’s very good at what he does. But what exactly is he?”
“Ahh,” Byron purred. “He wouldn’t tell you, would he?”
Jane shrugged, feigning disinterest. “I didn’t ask,” she said. “It only now occurred to me to.”
“Did it?” said Byron, smirking. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. He’s a zombie.”
“A zombie!” Jane said.
Byron made a shushing sound. “Quiet,” he said. “He doesn’t like to discuss it.”
Jane, chastened, lowered her voice to a whisper. “He doesn’t look like a zombie,” she said. “Well, not like any I’ve ever seen, although I’ll grant you those have only been in movies.”
“Solomon isn’t like that,” Byron explained. “Not exactly. Remember the rhyme?”
As Jane had only recently recited it to him, she assumed Byron’s question to be rhetorical, and said nothing. Byron continued, “He wasn’t joking when he said it was lucky we came on a Thursday. By tomorrow he’ll be quite ill, and by Saturday night he’ll be dead. Sunday he’ll—well, I don’t really know what becomes of him on Sunday—but on Monday he’ll be right as rain and it will start all over again.”
Jane made a face. “How awful,” she said. “How does a thing like that happen? I mean, surely he wasn’t always like this.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Byron agreed. “But I don’t know how he became what he is. As far as I know, he’s never told anyone, except perhaps his wife.”
“His wife?” said Jane.
“Yes, his wife,” Byron repeated. “ ‘Married on Wednesday,’ remember?”
“What’s she like?” Jane asked.
“That depends,” said Byron. “When she is good, she’s very, very good, but when she is bad she is horrid.”
Jane snorted. “And I suppose she has a little curl?”
“Yes,” said Byron. “Right in the middle of her forehead. I thought you said you didn’t know her.”
“I don’t,” Jane said. “I was quoting the rhyme.”
“What rhyme?” said Byron, giving her a puzzled look. “Anyway, she runs the boardinghouse upstairs.”
Jane glanced at the ceiling. “Up there?”
Byron nodded. “They cater mostly to our community,” he said. “Generally the newly turned. They stay here while they adjust. Also, Alice teaches them a thing or two about being undead.”
“Alice?” said Jane. “That’s Solomon’s wife?”
“Now that I think of it, I should have just sent you to Alice,” Byron said. “I could have saved myself a great deal of fuss and bother. Not that I haven’t enjoyed it,” he added quickly.
“There’s a school?” said Jane. “How do people find out about it?”
“Oh, they have cards,” Byron explained. “The more thoughtful vampires leave them in the pockets of anyone they turn. Otherwise it’s mostly blind luck or being fortunate enough to run into someone who knows about this place. Someone like myself, for example.”
“Except that you didn’t tell me about it,” Jane argued.
Byron shook his head. “Well, how could I have told you?” he said. “That was two hundred years ago. I didn’t know about it then.”
“We could have sent Chloe here,” said Jane, thinking about the young actress she had been forced to turn the previous summer.
“I did consider that,” Byron admitted. “But only briefly. I don’t think they take celebrity clients. Anyway, I think we did rather well with her on our own.”
“Yes,” Jane agreed. “I think we did. Which reminds me, the film will be out this summer.”
“Have you decided whether or not you’ll see it? I know you weren’t at all happy with how things went.”
“I think I’m over it. Besides, if I can stomach Greer Garson as Elizabeth Bennett, I can stomach anything.”
“All right, here you are.”
Solomon’s arrival brought Jane’s attention back to the moment. She accepted the passport Solomon held out to her and opened it. “It looks perfect,” she said after checking that all of the information was correct—or as correct as it could be for a bunch of out-and-out lies.
“With that document you will be able to make your way all over Europe with no difficulties,” Solomon assured her.
“Thank you,” Jane said.
“And if you get caught and thrown in an Italian prison, I will refund one-half of the purchase price.”
Jane looked at Byron, unsure of what to say.
“I’m joking,” Solomon told her. “I don’t give refunds. All sales are final, and if anyone asks, I’ve never seen you before. But don’t worry, everything will be fine. Go and have a lovely honeymoon.”
“I’d almost forgotten that that’s why I need this,” Jane said as she slipped the passport into her coat pocket.
“Solomon, as always, it’s a pleasure doing business with you,” Byron said, shaking the other man’s hand. “Now go have Alice make you some chicken soup. You look terrible.”
Solomon laughed heartily, but after a moment it turned into a wet-sounding cough. “Oh, dear,” he said. “It seems to be coming on early this week. It must be the weather.”
When they were outside again, Byron took a bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket and squirted
some into his palm. He extended the bottle to Jane, who shook her head. “We’re already dead,” she reminded him. “What’s the point?”
“Yes, we’re dead,” said Byron. “But so are zombies. Do you really want to risk it?”
She held out her hand. “You’re right. Explaining to Walter that I’m a vampire is one thing. Trying to explain why I want to eat his brain is quite another.”
Brakeston, New York
“STEPHANOTIS! CASABLANCA LILIES! HYDRANGEAS!”
Jane sat straight up in bed and pointed a finger at Walter, who had pulled the blankets up to his chin and was looking up at her with a puzzled expression.
“But absolutely no baby’s breath!” Jane shrieked before collapsing back against the pillows.
Walter sat up slowly, cleared his throat, and said, “I take it you had another wedding dream.”
Jane groaned. “It was horrible,” she said. “I’d forgotten all about the flowers. For some reason every florist in town was closed, and I had to run to the A&P and buy one of those horrid bouquets of daisies dyed bright blue and wrapped in cellophane. Then when I tried to check out, my club card wouldn’t scan and I couldn’t remember the fake telephone number I’d given them when I opened the account, so the clerk wouldn’t give me the discount. I only had a ten-dollar bill and the bouquet was twelve ninety-nine. The woman behind me was yelling at me to hurry up because her chicken thighs were thawing and she was worried about salmonella, and the bag boy kept shouting, ‘Paper or plastic? Paper or plastic? Paper or plastic?’ ”
She began to cry. Walter reached over and put his arm around her shoulders. Jane leaned against him and sniffed loudly.
“I’m going to have a nervous breakdown,” she informed him. “I’ll have to be institutionalized, and I’ll spend the rest of my life sitting in an uncomfortable chair next to a window, wearing my wedding dress and staring out at the sidewalk, waiting for you to come. And you will at first, because you’ll think there’s still hope, but after a few years you’ll realize that I’m never getting better and you’ll stop coming. Then everyone will start calling me the Bitter Bride and torment me by humming the wedding march until I go completely mad and begin mumbling our wedding vows incessantly. Eventually all I’ll say is, ‘I do, I do, I do,’ over and over and over and the other patients will wait until the nurses aren’t looking and pelt me with rice.” She paused. “Or more likely with rice pudding, because that’s what they make you eat in those places.”