"Where are we going?" shouts Kneath-Evans from the rear seat of the steam motor carriage, trying to be heard above the din of the engine.

"To the Carnival, of course!" Miss Van Hasding answers him. How right she is. Whether she is unnaturally intuitive or Valenta Hun was right about my being able to project my thoughts into others' heads, Carmilla and I have, of late, been very much attuned to one another. Such a rapport will be most advantageous in our shared role of protecting Lord Drakesheath.

My decision to go to the carnival grounds instead of Drakesheath Hall came rather abruptly, but it seemed to make more sense, given the circumstances.

"But what of the key? What of the chest?" Leopold growls.

"They will have to wait! If Lord Drakesheath is at the Carnival, he will certainly require our watchful eyes. Prof Henbane's is no typical Lenten amusement!"

I swing the steering wheel to the right and the carriage veers, narrowly missing a large stone in the road. There are more to dodge farther down the dirt path. Somebody is clearly trying to break an axle. Highwaymen? Vampires? With puffs of steam in its wake, the motor carriage rumbles into the darkling moor where the Carnival has set up.

The smell of brimstone and treacle. The disquieting glee of barrel organ, concertina, banjo, brass, and clarinet. The barker's cries. The roustabouts who sing and gibe in Shelta. Hellebore's potions. Captain Fantham's Demon-horses. Voodoo priests. Egyptian Graverobbers. Snake-charmers. Fairy-catchers. Fire-eaters. Ventriloquists. Hypnotists. Contortionists. All these things and more are what I remember of Prof Henbane's Midnight Carnival. Even at 4 o'clock of the evening, one would find himself wrapped in midnight at the Carnival, for midnight is the hour at which anything can happen...and will, if one lets it.

I turn off the engine and engage the brake. My friends and I step from our impressive transport and nod pretentiously to the ladies and gentlemen at the Carnival who look upon us with interest. Before we can get too far, I am stopped by a familiar face.

"Hector!" Madame Zaira appears suddenly, as though from thin air. Her hair is a wild mane of coarse, silver brambles, and her skin is dark and leathern, just as I remember it. She sees me despite the useless, pale orbs that rest in her head, for The Sight is with her. Her every movement rattles some bone, stone, or gold bauble that hangs from her ears, neck, and wrists, while her ring-festooned hands scramble to take mine and begin their journey, tracing the lines of my palms. "How is it you have returned to us? You were lost to the Darkness..."

Her voice is of genuine concern, though she knows full well that she is not employed by clergy. "I have not returned, as you say, Madame. I merely come looking for someone."

"Alone?" she asks suspiciously.

I sigh. "Alone."

"Liar," she answers back quickly. "You've enough for quadrille."