Dr. Victor Frankenstein and Irene AdlerWhat:
Penny Dreadfuls, Mariner's Inn.When:
The Mariner's Inn, under cover of nightfall. Pearl-pricked obsidian, the sky, and gossamer moonlight on swarthy water. The air was thick with brine, salt of the sea and vinegar of poorly kept wine rolling in from barrels on the ships. Men of bad repute and worse health stumbled from plank to shore, then through the Inn's doors to vanquish their sea legs at barstool or bed. Victor, in his navigation of vanity's stars, with chin tipped up and bleary eyes outlining Cassiopeia's beauty, he barely avoided trample by an alarming fellow with one eye and a demon's scowl.
"Pardon me," and in retreating lack of grace, Victor bumped into a doorjamb and then a table cluttered with musty glasses and stained playing cards. He palmed the front of his dark coat, reassurance found in the familiar scrape of black twill
under his fingers. There was a vacant table near the edge of the bar, and Victor sat there in a poor attempt at belonging among rogues and gamblers.
He aimed for hard, glacial, and petrous… but his eyes remained a touch too wide, crude curiosity in the milky stare of an addict. He was nervous, despite his hands. His hands were still and without betrayal, suspended in the air near his face, fingers laced and unlaced again. Even the way that he extracted a small watch from his pocket bespoke surgical delicacy, fine-tuned precision in small details. The watch was old silver, and he checked it three times in the span of ten minutes, every tick of an intricate hand bringing him closer to anxiety. The man was running late, Victor hated that.