Secret Adventures of Jules Verne: Entertaining Angels (3/3)

[jordannamorgan]

Title: Entertaining Angels (3/3)
Author: jordannamorgan
Permission to Archive: Please request the author’s consent.
Category: Supernatural.
Rating/Warnings: PG.
Characters: The Foggs, Jules, and Passepartout.
Setting: Shortly after the final episode of the series.
Summary: Not every lost soul who wanders the earth on All Hallows Eve is dead… yet.
Disclaimer: Jules and company belong to Talisman Crest.



On the front stoop of McLeod’s gambling house, Rebecca Fogg primly adjusted her hat and dusted off her lace gloves, casting an ill-humored glance over her shoulder at the door. "Well. I don’t think Phileas was in there."

"You could have just asked," Jules retorted plaintively. With a wince he rubbed his shoulder, his fingers finding a tear in the seam of his coat. One of Fogg’s coats, actually, requisitioned from Fogg’s wardrobe by Rebecca, over the misgivings of Passepartout. It was too long for Jules, but warmer than his own, and far better suited to the sort of places Fogg frequented.

And now it had been ripped in a slight… altercation, caused by Rebecca.

"Jules, that gentleman made an insult to my honor." Rebecca floated down the steps, with the grace and beauty of a thundercloud. "I thought he needed a bit of a talking-to."

"With the fists?" Passepartout interjected dubiously, rubbing the back of his head—which Jules thought had recently suffered a forceful collision with a swinging wine bottle. At an ominous glance from Rebecca, the valet took a step behind his fellow Frenchman.

"I don’t know about you two," Rebecca announced flatly, "but I’ve had enough of this. Wherever he is, Phileas can take care of himself perfectly well."

Heaving a sigh, Jules trailed after Rebecca as she started off down Piccadilly. They had inquired at most of Fogg’s particular haunts, from the Reform Club to McLeod’s, without any success in finding him—and Jules had only become more concerned. Fogg was a man of strict habits, at least when he wasn’t being shot at, and his absence in his habitual places did not bode well.

Perhaps he was already back at the house, working up to a hangover… provided he ever got hangovers anymore, after half a lifetime of hard drinking. Jules couldn’t remember any evidence to that effect. It was just one more facet of Fogg’s annoying superiority that he could spend an entire evening with the bottle, and still appear fit to take on an army by dawn.

"’Ere now, you looks like a gen’l’man of good taste. ’Ave a look at this."

With a start, Jules turned to face the summons. A short, grizzled-looking man in a dirty pea jacket stood by a streetlamp, peering up at him brightly from beneath the brim of a battered cap. He held a small bundle of something in his mittened hands.

"Jules, who is that?" Rebecca had stopped walking and turned to observe—taking no notice of the fact that Passepartout continued to trudge obliviously onward.

The man glanced toward Rebecca, then smiled conspiratorially at Jules. "Want a pretty thing for your lydy friend? Let’s see now." With a rather poor attempt at a flourish, he spread open the rust-spotted handkerchief in which his bundle was wrapped. Within it lay a tangle of watches and bits of jewelry, most in questionable condition; in all probability, stolen.

Perhaps it was the way he turned his hand, some curious trick of the light. One of the trinkets caught the glow of the streetlamp just so, and for an instant, reflected a flash of brilliant whiteness.

Hoofbeats and gunshots and scarlet against snow—

It was Phileas Fogg’s bracelet.

Almost reflexively Jules caught the old peddler’s wrist, prompting a slight grunt of protest, but he didn’t care. He picked up the bracelet. It was no mistake; there, on the underside, was a small scuffed spot which Passepartout had caused with an experimental polishing solvent. Fogg had come close to slaying his valet over the error, and Jules hadn’t understood why. He’d never met another man who wore a bracelet. What did that slender band of gold mean to his friend?

The clasp was broken. It had not been gently removed from its owner’s wrist.

"Where did you get this?" Jules demanded.

The peddler squinted at him dubiously. "I buyed it off a man what wanted to sell it, not two hours past. If you’re a-likin’ of it, sir—"

With sudden force, Jules shoved the peddler against the lamppost. "What man?"

The threat in his own voice frightened him; the alarm and anger that drove him to hold an old man pinned by the throat frightened him.

Rebecca had reached his side, and her light but restraining hand came to rest on his arm. "Jules! What’s the matter?"

Fogg was in trouble—and that frightened him.

"I never seen ’im afore, honest, guv’nor!" The peddler tried vainly to squirm away. "Ugly brute ’e was too—face all puffed up and bloody. Somebody did ’im a good one, that’s sure enough!"

"Did who?" Rebecca protested.

"Whoever it was that took this from Fogg." Jules held up the bracelet between finger and thumb for her to see clearly in the light.

Rebecca stared for a moment. Then, without ceremony, she pushed Jules out of the way, and her dainty lace-gloved hands replaced his at the peddler’s throat.

"I would like to know who sold you this, and where," she said. So quietly. Just the way her cousin spoke, when it meant a wrong answer was going to get someone seriously hurt.

"I swear I don’t know ’is name!" the peddler protested frantically. "I ain’t seen ’im ever, afore ’e comes up to me along about Saint James’ and says let’s bargain, and that’s all, Ma’am!"

"Saint James’ Square." Rebecca abruptly released the peddler, who slumped against the lamppost and gasped for breath. "We’ve already been down that way, asking after Phileas at the Reform Club."

Jules swallowed hard. "But… if he’s hurt…"

It was difficult to tell in the dim yellow lamplight, but he thought he saw Rebecca turn pale, in the moment before she turned on her heel and hurried off in the direction of Saint James’ Square. Passepartout, who had finally realized he was walking alone and was hurrying back to rejoin them, swiftly changed his course at a sharp gesture from her. Clutching the bracelet, Jules moved to follow.

"’Ere!" The peddler had evidently recovered his wits, now that Rebecca was retreating, and he raised his voice in protest as Jules began to walk away. "I bought that right and fair, and if you’re thinking you’ll be takin’ it, I want what’s owin’ me."

Jules stopped in his tracks. The bracelet may have been stolen goods, but if the peddler claimed to have bought it in good faith, Jules could see no way around giving him the benefit of the doubt—especially after they had all but assaulted him. In any case, he was in neither the mood nor the condition to fight over it. On the other hand, what little money the young writer had was safely tucked away in his coat pocket, back on Saville Row. The pockets of Fogg’s coat which he was now wearing were empty. Rebecca would doubtless have some money at hand… but at the moment, it seemed extremely unwise to get in her way with this little dilemma. Perhaps later Jules could sneak back and retrieve Fogg’s bracelet, but all that mattered now was retrieving Fogg himself.

Sorry, Fogg, he thought, and throwing the bracelet at the feet of the peddler, he ran after Rebecca.



Phileas must have been drowsing, for he became suddenly aware that Erasmus was moving, gently easing him down onto the cold bricks paving the alley. He opened his eyes, perturbed by such a disruption of his comfort—although he now felt little pain. "What are you doing?"

Erasmus was crouching over him. His left hand was resting lightly on Phileas’ chest, as seemingly both a comfort and a restraint. Yet his gaze, as it met Phileas’, was distant.

"I have to leave now."

The elder brother’s heart skipped a beat, his muddled mind trying to make sense of the words. Erasmus, leaving him alone in the cold again—letting go, falling away. No. He couldn’t this time, not again. Never again.

Phileas drew a breath, drew upon whatever faith was in him… and seized Erasmus’ hand in both of his, feeling his brother’s flesh and bone become solid in his grasp.

Erasmus looked down at his captured hand; then up again, slowly, to meet Phileas’ triumphant gaze. And he smiled, with the infinite sadness of which only a Fogg was capable.

"Don’t say it," Phileas hissed. "Don’t you dare."

An icy chill had begun to work its way from his fingertips up through his hands, spreading from the point of their physical contact. Without knowing how, Phileas understood precisely what it was. It was the touch of that which had taken Erasmus once—and now had come for him again.

Phileas held Death in his hands.

Holding his brother’s gaze, Erasmus slowly shook his head, and there stretched open between them a chasm of emotion as vast and chilling as a mountain gorge in midwinter.

"You have to let go, Phileas."

Snarling a curse, the elder Fogg tightened his grip, and felt the numbing cold progress up into his arms. He knew that it was creeping slowly, steadily toward his heart—there to still its beating. Yet Erasmus had made no effort to pull away… and Phileas realized suddenly that he could not.

Only by Phileas’ own free will could they both be released.

"There’s nothing you can do to keep me," Erasmus said softly. "If you try to cheat Death, you’ll only forfeit your own life."

"It’s forfeit, then," Phileas ground out. "I won’t let you go again."

"Phileas." Erasmus leaned closer, an earnest plea in his eyes; they reminded Phileas of his father’s eyes, that last day, at the memorial. "It isn’t your time. You’re meant to live, for others’ sakes if not for yourself. Please, don’t undo the work I came back to do tonight."

Phileas squeezed his eyes shut. The first tendrils of cold slithered into his chest, crystallizing slowly, like frost gathering on a windowpane.

"If you believe you owe me a debt, then I discharge it. Better still, I transfer it to Rebecca. Repay me for my life by protecting hers—because if you only throw away the life I’ve tried to save, you’ll dishonor me, Phileas." Erasmus drew a deep breath. "You have to let go."

For Rebecca. For honor.

Erasmus knew too well how to reach Phileas’ heart before Death could.

Something broke within him, and slowly, his fingers loosened their grip on Erasmus’ hand. His eyes had become clouded with tears, and he closed them again, clinging to one final image of anxious hope and relief in his brother’s face.

"I don’t want to lose you again," he whispered, as the cold closed in around his heart.

"Never, Phileas. I am always with you." Erasmus paused, and a gentle humor crept into his voice. "Hurry now. I think Father is waiting for me—and you know how he gets when one of us is late."

The joke was so perfectly, naturally Ras, and the sob gathering within Phileas escaped as a short, gasping laugh of bittersweet despair. Sometimes one only wins by letting go.

"Give Father my regrets that I have no intention of joining him… for a very long time."

And Phileas let go.

The deadly chill retreated, but Erasmus’ hand still rested on Phileas’ chest for a long moment. Then he felt his brother lean closer. Light fingers brushed his tears away; a kiss was pressed against his forehead, warm as a shaft of sunlight, breathing life into his soul.

"Rest now," Erasmus whispered, and the darkness faded away.



"Phileas!"

The jarring cry woke Phileas rudely from what felt very much like a deep and comfortable sleep. The cold and darkness of the alley, the throbbing pain in his head, rushed straight back to the top of his awareness. Two—no, three figures were closing in on him. And that waft of rose perfume…

It was Rebecca, and that meant Passepartout and Jules had to be near as well. His eyes flew open; indeed, his servant and the young writer were bending over him.

"Steady, Phileas." Rebecca was kneeling by his head, and if his bleary eyes did not deceive him in the poor light of the alley, her expression was one not of concern… but disgust. "Why must you do this to yourself? …Come on, let’s get him up."

Before Phileas could protest, Verne and Passepartout had him by the arms and were hauling him upright. Even as he unsteadily got his feet underneath him, he reached for his wounded side, an instinctive effort to hold his insides in—

But there was no pain.

His breath caught, and he gingerly probed his ribs with his fingers; nothing. He lifted his hand and looked at it in the moonlight; not a trace of blood.

A dream… all a dream.

"Phileas?" Now Rebecca’s voice wavered uncertainly. "Are you alright?"

He blinked and frowned, amazement warring with bitter disappointment in his heart. "Yes."

Well, almost. His head still hurt like the Devil, and his balance was none too trustworthy; the concussion was certainly real enough. He tried to straighten to his full height, swayed dangerously, and was caught by Verne and Passepartout. As he gripped Verne’s shoulder to steady himself, his fingers found a ragged tear in the younger man’s coatsleeve.

"Why Verne, presenting yourself like this in public?" he murmured dryly, fingering the damage. He peered more closely at the garment, recognized it, and scowled—with more dismay than he truly felt. "And my best coat, really, Verne."

The younger man ducked his head, his blush visible even in the dark. "It’s… a long story."

Rebecca folded her arms and glowered at her cousin. "And speaking of long stories. What happened to you, Phileas? We already know you were robbed." She paused, her voice lowering. "You must have been drunk to let that happen."

So that was what they thought. Just like Erasmus—or what he’d thought was Erasmus. They assumed he had gone out to muddle his head with drink, rather than clear it in the evening air; find Phileas Fogg lying in a gutter, and he must obviously have passed out drunk. Never mind that it was not alcohol, but worry over Rebecca’s welfare that had clouded his alertness at the time.

Oh well… Perhaps it was what he deserved. It stung, but after all, Rebecca had not said it with very much conviction. In fact, for a brief moment, he’d thought he heard genuine fear for him in her voice… but he felt as far away from fear as he ever had in his life.

"I needed to let go," he said simply.

His cousin sighed and shook her head, turning to Jules and Passepartout. "Let’s take him home."



Stepping into his house on Saville Row brought Phileas a more intense feeling of comfort than usual. He was still dazed, and now grappling with the certainty that his visit from Erasmus could not have been real, but only the product of a head injury. It was a difficult conclusion to come down to, after the moment of absolute belief which he had experienced.

He hadn’t much time to dwell on it. Passepartout insisted—in his own polite and servile way, of course—on subjecting Phileas to his mildly inept nursing skills. So, in short order, Phileas was squirming on a chair in the sitting-room as his valet examined the back of his head. There seemed to be no serious injury, but he had taken a distinct lump, probably when he was first felled by the thief. That part of his misadventure was quite real, as proven by the articles missing from his person: his pocketwatch, a bit of money. Nothing of great value to him… except for the bracelet.

While Phileas was being thus administered to, Verne sank into a chair, after throwing the illicitly borrowed coat over the back of it. His paleness contrasted sharply with the dark shadows under his eyes, which were half-open at best. He was going to pass out himself before long.

"Oh, Passepartout, stop fussing with me and get Verne up to his bed," Phileas groused suddenly, trying to duck away from his servant’s hands.

Verne snapped to alertness. "No, I’m alright. You first, Fogg."

Rebecca had given Phileas some sketchy details of their search for him on the way home. She was seated on the sofa now, hands folded in her lap. "Well, Phileas, the authorities should have no trouble finding the thief, after what you did to him. At least according to the man he allegedly sold your things to. Oh, I really should have kept hold of him for questioning."

"Never mind," Phileas said quietly. "There’s plenty of time to sort all that out. Actually, what I’d like to know is… why did you come looking for me?"

His cousin shot a glance toward Verne, who was drooping in his chair like an unwatered flower. The writer jerked to attention as though he had been physically prodded. "What? Oh… I just… had a feeling."

Phileas arched an eyebrow in bemusement. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one being affected oddly by All Hallows Eve, after all.

"Master, I will getting some ice for this lumpiness," Passepartout announced behind him, and trotted out of the room before Phileas could negate the proposal.

A sudden, quiet snore came from the direction of Verne’s chair.

Rebecca smiled, rose from the sofa, and crossed the room to gently spread Phileas’ damaged coat over their sleeping friend. In a very motherly way she tucked him in, and Phileas thought he heard her whisper something—"No nightmares tonight, Jules"—but he wasn’t quite sure.

Phileas sighed; he was tired as well, and his head still ached. Looking up at his cousin, he said, "Bugger Passepartout’s ice. What I want is to sleep." With that he rose from his seat, and slowly walked out of the room. Rebecca followed at a few paces’ distance, perhaps concerned that he might fall over, but he didn’t feel like minding a little concern just now.

Halfway down the hall, he was arrested by Passepartout’s voice. "Master?"

He turned slowly, expecting some form of reproach for escaping Passepartout’s tender mercies, but that was not the case. The valet was coming up the hall toward him, looking more perplexed than usual as he turned over some small item in his hands.

"There was a knock-knocking at the door, and I am finding only this on the doorstep." Passepartout held out the object for his master’s inspection.

Phileas stared for a long moment. Then, snatching the object from Passepartout’s hands, he headed for the front door at a full run.

The stout locks were a miserable nuisance as his fingers stumbled over the bolts. At last they gave way, and he threw the door open. As he did so, to the southeast, he could hear the bells of the great Parliament clock-tower begin to ring out across the city.

The street was deserted. Nothing so much as a stray cat was stirring on Saville Row.

A wave of rapidly shifting emotions swept through Phileas: disappointment, grief, gladness, and finally, understanding. He looked down at the bracelet—his bracelet—now resting safely in the palm of his hand, and clutching it against his heart, he smiled solemnly.

The bells ceased to ring; he had not counted the chimes, but he knew. It was midnight, now the first day of November, and All Hallows Eve was past.

"Phileas?" Rebecca queried behind him. "What’s wrong?"

He closed the door slowly, and only then turned to face her, his smile warming. "Nothing is wrong," he answered, stepping aside to let Passepartout dutifully rebolt the locks.

Rebecca stared at the bracelet in puzzled curiosity. "Whoever could have brought that back? I suppose the peddler must have had a change of heart—but how could he have found us?"

"No," Phileas replied quietly. "It was… a very old and dear friend."

She gave him an odd look, but did not question him further. Meanwhile, Passepartout had finished with the locks, and was now peering at the bracelet as well—with a less comprehending but more observant eye than Rebecca’s.

"The fastening has broke, Master," he noted. "Passepartout could fixing this… if you will wanting."

Phileas frowned at his sometimes overly inventive manservant, remembering the debacle of the polishing-solvent—but then his expression softened, and with a faint sigh, he reverently turned over the bracelet to Passepartout. "Oh, very well."

The Frenchman smiled. "Yes, Master! I will even fixing the scrapement which idiot Passepartout caused with the untarnishing agency."

"No. Don’t do that." Phileas put his hand over Passepartout’s. "Leave it as it is. Only repair the clasp."

Passepartout frowned in mild puzzlement, but clicked his heels together and bowed slightly. "Then I will putting it away safe until morning, Master. You are wanting for bed now?"

"Yes." Phileas smiled wearily. "I am wanting for bed. But see to that, first."

The valet bowed again, and scurried off.

"I never have understood why you wear that thing, Phileas," Rebecca mused, watching Passepartout’s retreat.

"Ah. Well." Phileas came as close as he ever did to shrugging. "Only a piece of the past, my dear cousin. And perhaps one of the many I would do better to let go… but it has its place in my heart."

A place which a bullet should otherwise have occupied, he added silently.



In short order Phileas lay in bed, half-asleep, as Passepartout moved about the bedroom and fussed with various articles of clothing—laying out his master’s wardrobe for the next day, then gathering the clothes which Phileas had just replaced on his own person with his nightshirt. The nearly inaudible sound of the valet going about his domestic tasks was oddly comforting.

He had been wrong, Phileas decided, to compare himself to that lost soul for whom the Jack’s-lantern was named. Perhaps his way, too, lay somewhere between Heaven and Hell—but he had more, much more, than one lonely spark to fill the darkness. He had Rebecca and Verne and Passepartout. As long as he walked in the light of their affection and friendship, his soul was not yet lost.

A muffled noise of perplexity came from Passepartout’s direction. Phileas frowned, and reluctantly rolled over to survey whatever problem had arisen. "What is it?"

"Your clothings, Master." Passepartout turned, holding up the shirt Phileas had been wearing that night. "How was this happened?"

So saying, he thrust three fingers through a large hole beneath the left sleeve, waggling them at Phileas. Then he withdrew his hand, shrugging both his shoulders and his eyebrows.

For a moment, Phileas gazed in wonder at the knife-slashed garment.

Then he calmly rolled over again, drawing the covers up around him. "A minor accident, Passepartout. Have it mended, will you? I rather like that shirt."

He could almost hear the gears grinding in Passepartout’s head. "Yes, Master."

After a few more moments, Passepartout slipped out of the room with the clothes that needed laundering and mending. Silence descended, and Phileas committed himself to his need for sleep.

He was not quite sure whether or not he had drowsed off when he heard his door open again. The scent of roses identified Rebecca; he lay still, feigning sleep, as he sensed her closing in on him. Her hair tickled his cheek as she leaned over him—and she placed a kiss on his forehead, light as a breath, in precisely the place where Erasmus had done the same.

"You’re utterly impossible, Phileas," she whispered fondly. "But I love you anyway."

She silently withdrew. Phileas let her get halfway to the door before he turned his head and spoke.

"Rebecca?"

His cousin froze, hesitated, and turned, perhaps somewhat chagrined—not only at her words and deed, but her state of undress. She was wearing a dressing-gown over her nightgown, and her long copper-red hair hung loose over her shoulders.

"Yes, Phileas?" she answered, badly attempting to sound casual.

He smiled. "What would you say, if I told you I had spent the evening… arguing with Erasmus?"

She gaped in surprise—yet somehow, she seemed to lack the incredulity he had expected. And gradually, the expression changed to a smile that must have been very much like his.

"I might say that it was a dream come true," Rebecca said softly. "Good night, Phileas."

She went out of the room, and Phileas closed his eyes.



The sitting-room clock was ticking again, but this time, Jules Verne did not find it annoying. Now it was as comforting a reminder and reassurance of life as the pulse in his own veins. No more did he feel the fear of time that he had felt earlier; the fear that they would find his friend Phileas Fogg too late. They had found him, safe and reasonably well. Everyone was safely home, and for once Jules felt he might sleep without the night terrors that so often came upon him—something of an irony for the Eve of All Saints, when thoughts might so easily become dark with ghosts and witches and other terrible things.

So he drowsed right where he was, curled up in the armchair in the sitting-room. Someone had covered him with Fogg’s coat, but he wasn’t sure who; Rebecca, perhaps, or Passepartout.

Distantly he heard the sound of the door closing. As he drifted in the pleasant twilight between sleep and waking, for a moment he thought that Passepartout, Phileas, and Rebecca must all have left the room… but no. Someone was still there. A presence, a sound of movement, as the figure moved closer to Jules. He felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. Then he heard a voice, a hollow whisper, close to his ear—yet he did not feel its breath against his cheek.

"You answered my call… you went to my son. Thank you, Jules Verne."

With a jolt, Jules started fully awake. For a single instant, he thought he saw before him the face of a white-bearded old man; yet the sitting-room was empty, and he was alone.

Save for the clock that was softly tolling midnight.

---

© 2004 Jordanna Morgan


Chapters: 1 :: 2 :: 3 ::