Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Jules and the Similars |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Tonja Moore |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | MissingScene, Secret of the Realm |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | List the story rating (G, PG-13, R) and if it's Gen, Adult-Het or Adult-Slash |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | List any main characters or adult relationships |
| DESCRIPTION: | Write story summary here. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
In the script, during the first scene, Jules awakens calling out the name of the ship (which if you never could figure out what is was is "Galaad"; yeah, that's right, Galahad without the "h"). The Canadian broadcast makes it a tad more obvious that Jules sees the ship before it fades into the reflections of the curtains.
I naturally assumed that these visions would continue and mean something and felt quite cheated when they didn't. So here are my revisionist scenes to be added or substituted for the broadcast. Scene one takes place after Jules has seen the "similar" Foggs on the street in London, but before the scene in the Fogg's study.
---
Jules used his key to let himself into the Fogg townhouse. The rooms were dark. "Passepartout?" he called, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "Passepartout? Are you here?" He had chased the Fogg pair through London, never quite managing to catch up with them as they went about their mysterious errands. As dawn neared, they had disappeared into the maze at Covent Gardens and he had given up.
He moved quietly down the hall and knocked on Passepartout's door. No response and when he looked inside, the room was as tidy as it had been that morning. Passepartout had not been there. Jules felt a wave of loneliness that left him breathless. He knew no one in London except for the Foggs. Even if he knew where a hotel was, he had no English money. And he certainly was not going to start raiding the house for valuables. Maybe he was just imagining the sinister atmosphere. Perhaps if he could sleep...
Jules stumbled across the threshold of his room and sank down on the bed. "When did I sleep last?" he wondered silently, and could not remember the answer. He wanted to bury his head into the pillow and forget the last few hours – the last few days. The water pitcher on his nightstand still held some water from the night before. Without Passepartout, there was no one to refill it automatically and Jules had forgotten. He poured the water into a glass and gulped it down thirstily. It helped to slow the spinning in his head some and he wanted more. He stood up, thinking to fetch more water from the kitchen, but stopped as he caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass.
All day and night he had avoided reflections – mirrors and windows and shiny surfaces seemed to mock him with dark mysterious shadows wherever he turned. But, now, he purposefully moved to the glass and took hold of it with hands that shook only slightly. Perhaps the mocking shadows held a clue. He turned it so that the light of the lamp was not in the reflection. "Show me," he whispered to the mirror. "Show me what is in the darkness."
For a moment, it seemed even this would be denied him, but then the obscure swirls began to resolve themselves into less confused images. There was the ship which he had seen before – but only half the ship showed now. It was as though some giant's ax had sheered her into two. He stared at the demarcation, and found the image changing into barrier of grey mists. He was trembling now, bracing the mirror against the stand to keep it from shaking with him. "I have to see," he told it through his chattering teeth. "Show me." A cold numbing fear was gripping him, a fear that he had known before. He had so little control over these moments and what little he had was ebbing away.
The formless grey dissolved and he could see a metal globe worked with shining bands and gemstones. It was on a table, inside some sort of cell. A cell made from hanging chains. He stared at the image in the mirror, not understanding. Was this part of the darkness? Or was this the source of it? He closed his eyes and concentrated on his other senses. He could hear... something... voices? He opened his eyes and looked again, trying to see beyond the shiny globe. Were there other cells in there? People?
He used one hand to cover the light of the globe, hoping that way to see more clearly. The darkness was stubborn in concealing its secrets, but he continued to concentrate--to bring into convergence whatever this odd talent was to get more information. He had to know. He had to see and to hear. Then with sudden clarity, he heard his name and the visions swam into focus. It was Phileas Fogg in the cell. His voice had been the one Jules had heard. And what he had said was, "Thank God we didn't wait for Verne."
And the voice that answered him was Rebecca's. "That would have been a rare treat for the Count. Do you think he expected us to bring him?"
The voice was so weary, it was merely a shadow. "I am unable to plumb the depths of that poisonous creature's brain, cousin, but I would not be surprised to find that our 'similars' are charged with bringing him back in addition to...." He waved vaguely at the globe. "I just hope he has the sense to stay out of their way."
The mirror slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, splintering into shards. He jumped away from it, startled, and staggered into the bed. His head was spinning again, the images he had tried so hard to see whirling in front of his eyes. And those words? The Count? Bring him back? Back to where? The Foggs were here in London--he had seen them. And yet, he had seen them there, too. There in the darkness. What did it mean? What?
He tried to stand, to get out of this house before the Foggs returned, but his abused body had been strained beyond endurance. In spite of his efforts, he found himself falling back, fainting. The shards of glass on the floor reflected only the ceiling above, but as he lost consciousness he thought he heard the echo of a dry evil laugh.
---
The next scene needs to replace the confrontation with the Foggs in the study. I didn't think the bad Foggs were bad enough, so I made them a little nastier.
---
Laughter. Jules could hear laughter. He came fully awake with a start. Sitting up, he looked around the room to try and orient himself. He was in the Fogg townhouse, in the room allotted to him by Phileas. That much made sense. He looked down at himself. He must have fallen asleep fully dressed. Then as he looked beyond to the fragments of mirror on the floor, everything came back to him in a rush and he flinched away from those memories.
The soft sound of laughter came again, from somewhere below. A feminine laugh. Rebecca? Jules felt a bit of hope return to him. Perhaps it had all been some sort of nightmare. He did not stop to change, but rushed downstairs to the study. Without knocking he burst through the door. The Foggs were standing there, dressed as remembered from last night's chase. They turned to him as one. Jules smiled gratefully. "Fogg! I'm so glad you're here..."
Phileas' voice cut him off, distant and cold. "What are you doing here?"
Jules heart stopped. This was not Phileas. It had Phileas' form, but the eyes were wrong. They did not glow green with mockery and mischief – they winked dully with cruelty. And the voice... the voice sounded harsh and raspy with none of the cultured smoothness that was Phileas' trademark. Jules gulped and spoke, hoping to buy time to think. "I... I was worried. I saw the Aurora leave... and I thought you'd gone without me. Then last night, I saw you on the street...."
Phileas shrugged. "There's been a slight change of plans."
Rebecca moved toward him. Jules watched her walk. There was something wrong with the way she was moving – it was overtly seductive, sensual, and disturbing. He backed away a step. She smiled. "Oh, we'll still be going away. But not now. Later." She leaned forward. "And we'll be sure to take you along. We won't forget."
This creature before him was more not Rebecca than the other one was not Phileas. She made Jules's skin crawl. "Rebecca," he said, "what is wrong with you?"
Her seductive smile grew into a grin. "Nothing is wrong with us, Verne."
Jules tried again to gather his scattered thoughts. The fears of the previous night were coming back. "Where is Passepartout?" he tried.
The Foggs exchanged puzzled glances. Then Phileas said casually, "Out."
"Out?" Jules repeated.
"Yes, out!" exclaimed Rebecca.
Phileas was growing impatient. "Really, Jules, we are quite occupied at the moment."
Jules seized the chance to escape. "Maybe I should..."
Phileas started toward him. "...Be going. Yes, excellent idea."
Jules turned toward the door. He did not want either of them to touch him. He was thoroughly frightened now and needed to go somewhere to think. Where he could go, he was not sure. But anywhere was better than with this unholy pair. As he fled down the hall, he heard Rebecca's mocking laugh follow him. "But come back later, my sweet. You would not want to miss the trip."
---
In the script, the Foggs, Jules, and Chatsworth are still in the room with the queen and the ambassador when the similars evaporate. But, in the broadcast, the Queen was alone with del Fuego. Again, I felt that we should have seen the disappearances from Jules's perspective, so here is my guess as to how that went. The scene starts just after the Chatsworth and Jules have been pulled out of the room by the guards, with the evil Foggs following.
---
The guards pulled Jules out of the room and shut the door, leaving the Queen alone with false del Fuego. Jules found himself facing the uber-Phileas, who smiled cruelly down at him. "Allow me to relieve you of this," he said to the guard, catching hold of Jules' left arm and twisting it so that Jules was forced to move or break it. "You have enough to manage with him," the demon continued, nodding at Chatsworth. "We'll watch this one."
The uber-Rebecca laughed softly and caught hold of Jules free wrist, digging her nails into the flesh. She pulled him and Phileas a few feet away down the corridor. "As soon as Felipe finishes with the Queen," she said softly, "We'll take our little trip."
"No." Jules struggled against the hold, his tendons straining. "No!" The creature may not have been Phileas, but he had Phileas's whipcord strength. It was like trying to fight a steel band.
She laughed again, and lifted a hand to his cheek, caressing it. He flinched away, but she caught the flesh between thumb and forefinger. From a distance the gesture looked playful, but Jules could feel the bruise forming under the hold. "Such a sweet thing," she murmured, looking into his frightened eyes.
"Easy, cousin," Phileas advised. "The Count wants him intact."
"The Count wants his mind intact," she corrected him. She slid her hand up into Jules hair, twining her fingers around the strands to hold his head firmly. "I think," she said, with another of those soft cruel laughs, "I will ask the Count if I can have you once he finishes."
Jules tried again to pull away. This was like a mockery of his most private fantasies and he could not bear it. The cruelly beautiful face came closer. Jules struggled harder, straining his tendons against the solid hands that held him. He knew that if those lips touched his, he would retch. Once again, the creature laughed, her breath warm against his cheeks. Then, suddenly, when she was but a whisper away, she was gone.
Phileas started violently, completing the dislocation of Jules shoulder. Then another moment later, he was gone. Jules fell forward, catching himself on a table. The pain and shock made him lightheaded and he tried to steady himself.
Chatsworth recovered from the surprise before the guards. "To the Queen!" he shouted. "Look to Her Majesty!" The guards burst into the room as Chatsworth hurried to Verne. "What happened?" he gasped, pulling Jules erect. "Where did they go?"
One of the guards reappeared. "The Queen has fainted. There's no sign of the ambassador, sir."
"Then get the doctor, man!" Chatsworth ordered. "Get two doctors! Hurry!" The guard ran down the corridor shouting.
Jules ignored this. "A mirror!" he panted to Chatsworth. "I need a mirror! Now!"
"A what?" Chatsworth started to protest, then stopped himself. The Foggs were always demanding outrageous things at inappropriate times. This Verne person had probably picked up the habit from them. It was faster to give in than to debate. He pointed down the hall at one of the ornate frames. "There's one there."
Jules staggered toward it, supported by the confused Chatsworth. The throbbing in his shoulder made it hard to concentrate, but he brought all his scattered wits to bear on the image in the glass. "Please," he pleaded in a thin whisper. "Show me."
There were still swirls of darkness, then he could see the ship again. There was less of it than before--the demarcation had moved so that fully two-thirds of the ship was gone. What did that mean? His spirits sank even farther. Had the disappearances marked the deaths of his friends? "No," he told the image. "No, it can't...." From behind the edge of the ragged sail, another image swam into focus. "The Aurora!" he sighed, then the pain overcame him and he fainted away.
---
OK, here is the final part of the Jules missing scenes. Once again it is pretty long. But, I couldn't seem to get the characters to stop talking to each other. These two scenes take place one right after the other, in between the scene in the corridor with the bad Foggs and before the tag scene where they present themselves to Queen Victoria.
A quick apology to my two faithful betas. I wanted to get this part out there tonight, so I just had Isaac read it. He said it was ok. But to make up for this, I put in a CHM for Danaan and a little shipper scene for Ephian to say thanks for helping me out.
---
Jules pushed the front door shut with a sigh of frustration. Still no sign of the Aurora in the sky. The preceding hours had passed in a blur of pain and confusion, and he was only now beginning to sort the memories from the illusions. His last clear memory had been of the sight of the demon--he could think of it in no other terms – that had Rebecca's form dissolving in front of his eyes. That was a sight he would not soon be able to forget. Even now a cold chill passed through him when he thought of it.
Chatsworth regarded him warily as he came back into Phileas's study and sank down into one of the chairs. Jules did not speak to him. The doctor had agreed to let Jules return to the townhouse as long as he was not alone. The pain in his dislocated shoulder had subsided into a constant ache since it had been reset, but the sling he was wearing limited his movements. He could not remember when the shoulder had been worked on. That was part of the miasma of confusion that he was trying to sort out. There was a neat bandage on his right wrist as well, where the nails of the creature had scored him.
Finally, Chatsworth broke the silence. "You know, Verne, it could be another day before it arrives. If it arrives."
"It is coming," Jules said simply. He had to believe that. If those images in the mirror had meant anything at all, the Aurora had sailed up and away from the doomed ship. At least one of them had to have survived. He refused to believe anything other than that they all had. "It will be here soon."
Chatsworth cleared his throat. "I would like to... er...."
Jules raised his head and looked at him inquiringly. Chatsworth's tone sounded odd, almost ingratiating. "What, Sir Jonathan?" he encouraged.
"I would like to apologize for my rude behavior." The words came out in a rush.
Jules smiled faintly. "Apology accepted. I must have sounded like a madman. I felt like one, at any rate."
"Without your help, things might have turned out... well... badly." Chatsworth shifted uncomfortably. Apologies did not come easy to him; nor did the strange reticence of everyone connected with this episode sit well upon his mind. "Her Majesty has assured me that they--whoever and whatever they were--did not achieve their goal. Whatever that was." He gave a disgusted "harumph!" to punctuate that.
"I don't know what they were after either, Sir Jonathan," Jules said. "I only knew it was not Phileas and Rebecca."
"Yes, but how?" The question exploded from Chatsworth quite suddenly, causing Jules to start and set his arm aching again. "I mean, it was obvious from their treatment of you in the hallway that they were imposters, but you were quite sure before."
Jules regarded the man with surprise. He could begin to understand why Phileas found him so irritating. How could you explain something so obvious without sounding like you were talking to a fool? "Phileas and Rebecca are my friends," he said finally. "I know them. I know their voices and their gestures. I know how they move and the patterns of their speech. Those creatures did not sound like them or move like them. Even the physical resemblance was only on the surface." He shuddered as he remembered the cold dull eyes of the one who looked like Phileas and the bright cruelty that shone in the other's. He wondered if he should tell Chatsworth of his vision of the Foggs in the cell. Those had been the real ones, he was sure. But where the cell was he did not know. And Chatsworth probably would not believe him anyway. He contented himself with saying, "I knew that they were wrong."
Chatsworth harumphed again, and Jules leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes to shut him out. His shoulder ached and his head hurt and it was getting harder to keep the uncertainty at bay. He had no energy for dealing with the fussy bureaucrat any longer. Apparently, Chatsworth sensed that and left him to his thoughts.
He must have dozed for he came awake quite suddenly. The angle of the sun through the window indicated it was late afternoon. Jules looked around for some clue as to what had awakened him, then realized it must have come from outside. "The Aurora!" he cried, running for the door. He crossed over into the park, scanning the overcast sky.
Chatsworth appeared beside him. "I don't see anything," he complained.
"Listen," Jules said. He could hear it now--the faint "chuff" of the main propeller. A moment later, he saw the bottom of the gondola drop through the cloud layer. He held his breath, waiting for the forward deck to swing around into view. The knot of uncertainty that had been residing in his stomach rose up into his throat, threatening to choke him. He leaned against a tree trunk to steady himself.
And, was very glad that he had since his knees nearly buckled as relief shot through him. Both Foggs stood at the forward rail, along with someone he did not recognize. If they were on the deck, that meant that Passepartout had to be landing the dirigible. They were all alive. With an involuntary prayer of thanksgiving, he moved closer, shielding his eyes from whirl of dust and leaves as the airship settled lightly into its accustomed spot at the back of the park.
Jules could not keep from running forward as the door swung open. Unsteady as he was, he stumbled and felt himself caught by a familiar firm hand that pulled him up to the vertical again. "Verne! Good God, man, you look like you been to the wars!"
Jules looked up into Phileas's face, into the tired but gently mocking eyes, and smiled. "You don't look that good yourself, Fogg."
Phileas smiled back at him. "I daresay I do not. Thank you so much for drawing attention to it." Without releasing his hold on Jules's uninjured shoulder, Phileas turned to Chatsworth who had approached at a more sedate pace. "The Queen?" he asked, hearing the question echoed by the others.
"Unharmed," Chatsworth answered, nodding at Phileas but primarily addressing Rebecca. "Safe. I trust, Miss Fogg, that you can make a full report this time? I would really like to know just what has been going on the past few days."
"Yes, I can, Sir Jonathan," she replied with a slight laugh, "but first, allow me to reintroduce you to an old acquaintance of yours. Senor Filipe del Fuego, Sir Jonathan Chatsworth."
The Ambassador bowed and smiled. He was carrying the globe wrapped in one of the damask tablecloths from the Aurora. "I remember you, Sir Jonathan," he said. "I am pleased to see you again."
Chatsworth relaxed. He did recognize this man. There was nothing left of that peculiar "off" feeling he had experienced before. "I too am most pleased to see you, Ambassador."
Passepartout came out of the Aurora at last, shutting the door carefully behind him. He caught sight of Jules and his smile changed to a look of alarm. "Master Jules!" he exclaimed. "You breaking your arm?" He trotted over to examine the sling.
"No, no, Passepartout," Jules said. "It's my shoulder. My arm's not broken."
"Oh, Jules!" Rebecca turned and stretched her hand out to him. Jules flinched away from the movement, colliding with Phileas, who just managed to keep them both on their feet. Rebecca drew her hand back, puzzled by his reaction. "Jules? What's wrong?"
"I... I'm sorry," he stammered, but he would not look at her.
Phileas cleared his throat. "As accustomed as my neighbors are to my eccentric comings and goings, I think holding a family reunion in the park dressed in overly ripe clothing will start them talking again. I suggest we adjourn to the house." Careful of the injured shoulder, he gave Jules a push in the correct direction. "Sir Jonathan, since you are the only one who does not look like a ragamuffin, would you mind arranging for the ambassador's things to be sent here?" Taking his consent for granted, he motioned for Rebecca and del Fuego to follow him. "We can reconvene in the study after we have freshened up and changed."
---
Phileas examined his chin again carefully in the mirror. Probably not as good a job as Passepartout could have done, but satisfactory. He had sent the valet to Jules to help him manage with that injured shoulder. He picked up his shirt and walked over to the window where a few rays of the setting sun were piercing through the clouds. It was ridiculous to feel so relieved at the sunlight, he told himself as he slid his arms into the sleeves. One of the sunbeams struck a window across the street, sending a bright reflection slanting across to him. Or, perhaps not so ridiculous at that, he continued silently. It does at least banish the shadows.
A soft knock sounded at the door. "Come," he called, turning.
Rebecca opened the door and came in. Phileas stared in surprise for a moment, then felt his cheeks warm. He spun away and hurriedly finished fastening the buttons of his shirt. "Sorry," he said over his shoulder. "I thought you were Passepartout."
A slight smile flickered across Rebecca's unusually somber countenance. In some ways, Phileas was as strictly conventional as her godmother, the queen. But, she could think of no witty retort or tease at the moment. "Shall I come back in a few minutes?" she asked. "I wanted to speak to you before we talk to Sir Jonathan."
"No, don't go." With his shirt under control, he faced her again. He did not like what he saw and frowned. She was pale, too pale, and her hands were clasped together tightly in front of her. "What is it, Rebecca?"
Rebecca had thought she was prepared for this, but she was not. She temporized by voicing the least of what she wanted to say. "I was wondering..." she began, in a hesitant voice very different from her usual confident tones, "wondering how... I mean, what should we tell Sir Jonathan about the Grail?"
Phileas's face softened. "What is it really, my dear?"
The concern in his voice demolished the last bit of control she had. "Oh, Phileas!" It was part sob, part wail. He was there instantly, pulling her into his arms. She continued to sob against him, the words tumbling out. "Did you see the way Jules leapt away from me? Do you suppose he knows what I nearly did? He sees things. Is that why he treated me as though I were poison? It's bad enough that the ambassador thinks I'm an assassin. Now, I have to go down and tell everyone that I came within a hair's breadth of killing you! I can't do it, Phileas! I can't!"
Phileas held her. They had not escaped the darkness yet. He had seen it in the haunted eyes of Jules and now in his Rebecca. He stroked her hair. "Rebecca, stop this," he murmured. "You are not an assassin. No one thinks that of you."
The weeping did not stop. "I could have killed you! I would have!"
"Rebecca." He shook her gently and tilted her head up so that he could gaze into her tear-filled eyes. "Yes, dear one, you could have and would have. But, you did not. When these thoughts come to you, remember that one. You did not do it. Look at me. I am here and you are here. We are both alive. And together."
She was unconvinced. "How can you bear to have me near you?"
"How could I bear it if you were not?" he countered, tightening his hold. "Do not even consider leaving me."
"My touch must sicken you."
"Must it?" With deliberation, he caught hold of the hand she had come so close to using and brought it, protesting, up to his bare throat. He pressed it against his skin, holding it there firmly in spite of its trembling. "I am not afraid of your touch, Rebecca. You must see that." He continued to hold her eyes with his and gradually, the trembling under his fingers ceased. He slid the hand up to his cheek, let it rest there for a moment, then turned his head and kissed the palm, allowing all of his affection and care to flow into the caress. He closed her fingers over the spot and released her hand.
The tension in her relaxed and Phileas indulged himself for a moment, simply holding her. He knew that neither of them was really ready to continue down this path, but it was such bliss to stand together with the barriers down for once. He sighed. With the darkness at least temporarily thwarted, he knew that he had to try to help her regain some of her protective layers. Putting a deliberate teasing note into his voice, he said quietly, "As for Ambassador del Fuego, for a man who was supposedly at death's door, I consider he was far too interested in watching you walk around the cell. I think he was trying to catch a glimpse of your ankles."
"What?" She leaned back to look up at him. After a moment of studying his face, she smiled with at least some of her customary insouciance. "Do you really think so?"
"Yes, I do. In fact," he added, stepping back and regarding her dress carefully, "I predict... Actually, I am willing to wager fifty pounds, that once he sees you in this, he won't be able to take his eyes off of your décolletage."
Her smile widened as she smoothed the primrose fabric of the skirt. "I know it is not the right time of day for a morning gown, but of the things here it was the only dress that wasn't... wasn't dark."
Phileas chuckled and indicated the pearl grey smoking jacket he had placed on a chair. "I unearthed that for the same reason." He moved toward the closet. "Of course, I have to change shirts again. Someone seems to have gotten this one damp." He paused and smiled at her. "Are you better now, cousin?"
"Some." She went to the door and turned back to him. "Phileas, what about Jules?"
"Let me see what I can do in that quarter, Rebecca. You had best go downstairs and start relieving Chatsworth's curiosity before he explodes. We will join you shortly."
"Thank you," she said simply and left.
Phileas changed into a clean shirt, donned the jacket, and caught up a cravat to tie on his way to Jules's room. Rebecca's visit had made him all the more anxious about those shadows that haunted his young friend. When he got to the door he could hear Passepartout still in the room, describing the alternate dimension in rapid French. He knocked and went inside.
On the surface, Jules looked much better than he had previously. Passepartout had helped him shave and change into clean clothing. Phileas had to smile at the selections. When the valet chose garments for Jules, he often ended up looking like a smaller, younger version of Phileas. He did not know where Passepartout had managed to obtain the smoking jacket. Certainly it was not part of Jules's regular wardrobe. "I see we shall be bookends this evening," he observed.
Passepartout made a show of dusting Jules's lapel. "See, Master Jules? You be sartorially splendiforous. Look at Master."
Jules did, shrugging helplessly. "Well, I couldn't wear this in my garret. But Passepartout insisted." Asserting his independence, he told Passepartout, "I am not going to put on a cravat."
Passepartout looked as if he were going to protest, but Phileas intervened. "Definitely not. It would clash with the sling. Passepartout, come and tie this for me. Excuse us a moment, Verne."
He drew the valet out into the hall, where Passepartout got to work undoing the hasty knot. "How is he?" Phileas asked.
Passepartout answered the implied question, as well as the actual one. "He is in much pain, Master. Hurting other than shoulder. Not saying why. But it involves Miss Rebecca."
"Yes." Phileas would have nodded, but he did not want to disrupt the complicated knotting procedure that Passepartout followed. "I'd like for you to go along to the Ambassador's room to see if he needs anything, request that he wait in his room for me, and then build a fire in the study. See what you can find for a simple tea, nothing elaborate because you will need to be in on the discussions."
Passepartout adjusted the now perfectly tied cravat into its proper position. "Yes, Master. Shall I be fetching compass protector from the Aurora?"
"Excellent idea. Verne will want to see it, and even Chatsworth may be curious about it." As the valet turned to go, Phileas realized that here was an opportunity to dispel yet another bit of darkness. "Passepartout?"
"Yes, Master?"
"I want to be sure that you know, in spite of the way that I snap at you, that I do not think, nor have I ever thought, that you are actually an idiot."
The bright smile that flashed across Passepartout's face told Phileas that he had, at least in this instance, succeeded. Bowing, the valet said, "Thank you, Master. I know it is just your way of reminding Passepartout that he suffers from 'toe-in-mouth' disease sometimes."
Phileas did manage to keep from laughing, but only just. "Run along then." He took a deep breath. He suspected that tackling the demons haunting Jules would be a very different proposition. Inside the room, he found Jules at the window with a comb, apparently using his reflection there to try and bring order to the chaotic curls of his hair. Phileas looked at the dresser. "What happened to your mirror, Verne?"
Jules stopped combing and turned to him. "It... I broke it." He tried a smile, but it did not quite come off. "I guess that means seven year's bad luck for me. I'm sorry. I'll replace it, of course."
Phileas made an impatient gesture. "Don't be ridiculous." He moved closer to his friend, inspecting the sling on his arm and his bruised face. "As for that bad luck, it looks as though it has already started. Verne," he continued, "answer me seriously. Did my... did that doppelganger with my form do this to you?"
Jules touched his shoulder. "Passepartout said you called them 'similars'."
"I didn't call them that. That's the name Ambassador del Fuego gave them." Phileas crossed his arms and frowned. "But if the one who looked like me was involved in a conspiracy against the Queen, then there is very little 'similarity' there."
"No, you are right," Jules agreed. "The resemblance was remarkable outwardly, but they were distorted. The eyes and the voices and the movements were all wrong."
"You did not answer my question," Phileas reminded him gently. "Did the one who looked like me do this to you? Did he beat you? Why?"
"Partly," Jules admitted. "He dislocated my shoulder. But, it wasn't... he... it... didn't attack me. I was trying to escape and he had hold of my arm. I think you could say it was almost an accident."
"An accident?" Phileas's disbelieving voice was close to a growl.
"No, really, Fogg, I mean it. Your... double was just... it was all very impersonal." Jules voice dropped to a whisper on the last word.
"And your other injuries?" Phileas asked softly. "Your face and your wrist? Those were... personal? Meant for you?" Jules nodded, but did not trust himself to speak. "I see. And since the Ambassador's 'similar' was unacquainted with you, those very personal injuries must have been inflicted by the one who looked like Rebecca." Jules swallowed and nodded again. "But," Phileas continued, holding his eyes, "since the injuries are not very serious--at least not in comparison to your shoulder--I can only conclude that there must be more to it."
"Yes." Jules finally forced the word out. He knew he was trembling, but did not know how to stop. The vision of that malevolent lovely face would not leave him alone. "She... it... she knew I was afraid...." The words were hard for him to say. He disliked confessing his what he perceived as cowardice to Phileas. "Afraid of Count Gregory... and then, afraid of her.... And, she enjoyed that, Fogg. She wanted me to be afraid. She...."
"Enough, Verne," Phileas said, his voice as gentle as the hand he placed on Jule's uninjured shoulder. "I understand."
Jules eyes closed and he shook his head. "I know it wasn't really Rebecca. I know that. But when I look at her, I see the other one. I can't seem to see the real one at all."
Phileas had been haunted by his own demons enough to appreciate the significance of Jules's words. What he did not know, however, was how to combat them. This was not something that could be soothed away with words and sympathy. It needed more. It needed.... "Verne," he said suddenly, "before we left, you said you were seeing things in your mirror."
Jules looked up again, some surprise showing at the sudden change of subject. "Yes, I was. I think, from Passepartout's description, I was seeing that other dimension."
"Did that continue? Did you see more?"
"Yes." He nodded at the dresser. "That's how I broke the glass. I dropped it while I was trying to see."
"And, of course, you recorded what you saw in your notebook." Phileas surveyed the room until he spotted said book. "Didn't you?" He went to the book and began rifling the pages until he found the latest group.
"Yes, I.... Why?"
Phileas found the page he was looking for and allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. "Come with me, Verne. I think it is time to show you what this was all about."
Jules followed him down the hall, still confused. Phileas tapped at the door of the room he had allotted to the ambassador. A moment later, the door opened and del Fuego regarded them both with curious dark eyes. "Yes, Mr. Fogg? Monsieur Verne?"
"I have something to show you," Phileas said. "And then I would like you to show something to Verne."
The ambassador frowned. "Mr. Fogg, I do not think..."
Phileas did not interrupt, but held up the notebook so that del Fuego could see the page. Jules peeked at the page, too. It was the one where he had drawn the sphere he had seen, the one with the gold work and gems on it. It had been one of the more persistent visions, following him throughout the city, so he had recorded several different views of it. The ambassador studied the sketches, then looked up at Jules and subjected him to the same scrutiny. "Come in," he said finally.
The sphere was sitting on a table away from the door. Jules caught his breath as he saw it. The reality was different from the images he had glimpsed. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. "What is it?" he asked.
Phileas answered. "Ambassador del Fuego is of the Knights Templar, Verne. He is the Messenger of the Grail."
Jules eyes widened. "The Holy Grail?" He stared in wonder at the sphere. "I thought it was just a legend."
The Ambassador laughed softly. "That is one way we have of protecting it, Monsieur Verne."
"Count Gregory was using our 'similars', the Ambassador's, mine and Rebecca's, to try and trick Queen Victoria into giving him the secret of opening the sphere," Phileas said. "But, he did not succeed."
"We were all willing to die to prevent that," del Fuego added. "But, it was Mr. Fogg who had the means. Miss Fogg was going to kill him, but we escaped before she had to do so."
That wrenched Jules attention away from the globe and back to Phileas. "Rebecca was going to kill you?" he repeated incredulously. "Why?"
"Because I asked her to," Phileas answered. "Because we could think of no other way to alert the Queen she was dealing with imposters."
"You asked her to?" Jules was still trying to absorb this. "You asked her to kill you? Fogg, how could you do that?"
"Monsieur Verne, there was no other option at the time," del Fuego protested.
"How could you do that to Rebecca?" Jules demanded again, angry now.
"It was the hardest thing I have ever done," Phileas said quietly. "I shall have to live with that. And that is the image I must carry now."
Jules's anger fled. He felt the pain in his friend's voice, and Jules was glad he had never been called on to make that kind of decision. "It must have been hard," he acknowledged. He looked back at the sphere, then at Phileas again. "I would like to see Rebecca now."
Phileas nodded toward the door. "She is downstairs with Chatsworth. Go on. The Ambassador and I will be down shortly."
Jules hurried down the stairs to the study. "Rebecca," he called as he opened the door. Passsepartout was in the process of handing a teacup to Chatsworth, who glared at Jules for the interruption. Rebecca got up from her chair and came to the door. She stopped in front of him, her eyes wary. Jules reached for her hand. "Fogg just told me what he had to do," he said quietly. "Are you all right?"
Rebecca looked at their clasped hands, then smiled up at him. "I was a bit shaky," she admitted. "But, I seem to be getting better." She squeezed his hand. "And you?"
"A bit shaky myself," he replied. "But, I seem to be getting better, too."
Her smile widened and she led him to the sofa where he could sit beside her. Passepartout handed him a cup of tea. Chatsworth gave one of his "harumphs" and said, "I was just telling Miss Fogg that you were not fooled by the imposters."
The door opened again and Phileas came in, followed by del Fuego. Chatsworth rose and bowed. "I have heard from Her Majesty, Ambassador" he said. "She will receive you in the morning."
"Thank you, Sir Jonathan," del Fuego said, bowing in his turn.
"Now then," Chatsworth said, seating himself, "I would very much appreciate a complete account of this incident from start to finish."
Phileas motioned del Fuego into a seat and took his accustomed chair. He saw the ambassador look at Rebecca and mentally awarded himself fifty pounds. He had told del Fuego to take the lead, so that he could determine how much to tell Chatsworth about the real object of the journey. He murmured a thank you to Passepartout as he received his teacup and smiled over at Rebecca and Jules on the sofa. He gave a contented sigh. For now, at least, there was no darkness here.