not have any of it.”
“My situation is hardly the same,” I replied, knowing it was only half true. “My position at the Office of Petty Sessions is a great opportunity, and it affords me the income I need to attend the theater, among other things.”
“But you’d rather be working in the theater, wouldn’t you, Bram?”
To this question, I said nothing. I didn’t glance at Pa, but I felt his eyes on me.
Thomas continued, “If given the opportunity, I think you would leave the castle and become an actor at the drop of a hat! Imagine the life: traveling from city to city, country to country, all these far-off places and foreign people, all of them coming to behold the illustrious Bram Stoker alight upon their humble stage. They would shout your name and wait for a glimpse of you after the performance as you exit the theater, ask you to sign their playbills.”
“Nonsense,” I replied.
“It’s the truth.”
“What does any of this have to do with your gallivanting off to India?” Pa grumbled.
Thomas sighed. “If you had the opportunity to fight in the Coalition Wars, don’t you think it would have made you a better man?”
“That is even before my time, my son. The only fighting I have done has been in the halls of our government, albeit just as bloody.”
“In India, the challenge to rebuild British interests is enormous. The government, laws . . . it’s a blank slate. I’ll be fighting for what is right, no different than you. The only difference is the battleground.”
“Hardly,” Pa scoffed. “You will be a target for the locals.”
“I’ll be gone but two years; when I return, I will accept whatever post at the castle you wish. You can chain me to the desk alongside Bram. Or, better yet, I’ll take his position when he finally runs off to the theater,” Thomas said.
At this remark, I laughed. “Maybe I’ll put the bullet in your brain and save us all the trouble.”
“I’ve seen you shoot. I do not believe I have anything to worry about.”
Pa chuckled. “I will grant him that, Bram. You are a horrible shot.”
Ma poked her head around the corner. “Nobody is shooting anybody until after dinner. To the table with all of you.”
Pa rose from his chair and patted Thomas on the back. “We will continue this conversation later.”
Thomas said nothing, only pushed past him towards the dining room.
When he was gone, Pa turned to me. “He is going to go; there is little any of us can do to stop him. He has that same fire in his eye I had at that age. The service might actually do him good, give him a means to channel some of that grit burning within him. I will not sleep a wink, though, when he is gone; neither will your mother. I can see her now, running each day to fetch the post, waiting for a letter detailing her son’s last day.”
“You shouldn’t think such things; I’m sure he’ll be fine. Thomas can take care of himself. You taught him to handle firearms when he was a boy, same as the rest of us. And he’s a fighter; I have yet to see someone get the better of him.”
“I think I can take him.”
The voice came from behind me, and I turned to find Matilda smiling at the two of us. “Matilda!” I scooped her up and spun her around, the hem of her skirt swirling out around us both.
“Put me down!”
I spun her twice more, then set her back on her feet. “How was Paris?”
“Let us not keep your mother waiting,” Pa said, starting for the dining room.
Matilda leaned into me and in the lowest of whispered breaths said, “We need to talk.”
* * *
? ? ?
8 AUGUST 1868, 6:48 p.m.—Dinner went as well as could be expected. Pa and Thomas glowered at each other for the duration. Their silence brought to mind a pair of deaf mutes, and Ma attempted to lighten the mood, reminding