The Phantom of the Alleyway

The London fog was particularly cooperative that evening. It hung thick and yellow over the cobblestones of the West End, providing excellent cover for stray cats, cutpurses, and Prudence "Penny" Pringle.

Penny pressed herself into the damp brickwork of the alley behind the Royal Olympus Theater. She checked her silver pocket watch—a modest thing, chipped at the rim. It was 11:14 PM.

"He is late," she whispered to the empty alley. "He usually storms out at 11:08 PM on Tuesdays. Unless the understudy missed his cue in Act Three, in which case he storms out at 11:20 PM."

Penny adjusted her spectacles. She was a small woman, possessed of the sort of beige invisibility that made her an excellent governess and a terrifyingly efficient stalker. In her reticule, wrapped in a lace handkerchief, lay her prize for the evening: a half-smoked cheroot Sir Julian Thorne had discarded near a puddle three days ago. She intended to press it in her scrapbook, right next to the button she had bribed a laundry maid for in 1886.

Suddenly, the heavy iron stage door banged open.

"Philistines! Troglodytes! I work with amateurs and cattle!"

The voice was a rich, baritone thundershock that vibrated in Penny’s marrow. Sir Julian Thorne emerged into the gaslight. He was, as always, devastating. Tall, broad-shouldered, sweeping through the fog in a velvet opera cloak that cost more than Penny’s entire boarding house. His dark hair was disheveled in a way that suggested artistic torment rather than a lack of a comb.

He was alone, which was rare. Usually, he was flanked by sycophants. Tonight, he was flanked only by his own rage.

"A tea set!" Julian roared at the brick wall, flinging his cane down. "They used a porcelain tea set in the second act! Do they not know the acoustics of porcelain offend me?"

He paced the alley, his breathing ragged. Penny held her breath. She should leave. This was a private moment. But she couldn't look away. It was like watching a thunderstorm trapped in a tuxedo.

Julian grabbed the collar of his shirt, tugging at a heavy gold chain around his neck. "Suffocating," he muttered. "This skin... too tight. Just for a moment..."

He unclasped the chain.

The moment the gold amulet left his skin, the air in the alley warped. There was a sound like wet leather stretching, a crack of bone, and a sudden smell of musk and sawdust.

The handsome, brooding Sir Julian Thorne vanished.

In his place stood a seven-foot-tall monstrosity. His head was that of a massive bull, covered in sleek, black fur. Two wicked, curved horns jutted from his brow, scraping the brickwork. His tuxedo jacket strained terrifyingly across a barrel chest that was now distinctly inhuman, and his patent leather shoes burst open to reveal cloven hooves.

The beast threw his head back and let out a low, mournful moo that sounded suspiciously like a Shakespearean soliloquy.

Penny didn't scream. She didn't run. Her brain, conditioned by years of reading penny dreadfuls and managing unruly toddlers, simply processed the information.

* Sir Julian Thorne is a cow,* she thought. *Well. That explains the vegetarianism.*

The beast-man sighed, scratching his wet nose with a furry hand. Then, his large, dark eyes swiveled toward the shadows. He sniffed the air.

"Lavender water," he rumbled. His voice was deeper now, distorted by the muzzle. "And... stale tea biscuits?"

He peered into the dark. Penny realized she was visible.

The Minotaur froze. Panic flared in his bovine eyes. He scrambled for the amulet he had dropped in a puddle. "No! Stay back! I am... I am merely a very method actor!"

Penny stepped out of the shadows. Her knees were trembling, but her spine was stiff with the discipline of a woman who had once stared down a bulldog to save a picnic basket.

"Sir Julian," she said, her voice squeaking only slightly.

The Minotaur whimpered, covering his face with his hooves. "Ruined. I am ruined. The press will have a field day. 'Leading Man is Literal Livestock.' I shall have to move to Paris."

Penny looked at the amulet in the mud. Then she looked at the giant, terrifying creature cowering against the stage door.

"Don't be silly," Penny said. She walked forward, picked up the amulet, and wiped it on her skirt. "Paris is dreadful this time of year. The damp would wreak havoc on your fur."

The Minotaur peeked through his fingers. "I... beg your pardon?"

"Here," she said, holding out the gold chain. "And for heaven's sake, stand up straight. You’re slouching. It ruins the line of the shoulders."

Julian stared at her. He took the amulet with a trembling claw. He clasped it around his thick neck.

With a *pop*, the monster vanished. The brooding human returned, looking disheveled and frantic. He grabbed Penny’s shoulders.

"You saw," he hissed. "You saw the... the..."

"The Minotaur," Penny supplied helpfully. "Asterion of Crete, I presume? I read a fascinating monograph on labyrinths last summer."

Julian released her, clutching his chest. "She knows. A governess knows my shame. Are you going to blackmail me? I have money. Not as much as people think, my tailor is a bandit, but I have some."

"I don't want your money," Penny said. She reached out and adjusted his cravat, which had become askew during the transformation. "However, I did notice that your itinerary for next week has you double-booked for the charity gala and the rehearsals for *Hamlet*. And you haven't responded to the invitation from the Duchess of Kent, which is rude."

Julian blinked. "I... I haven't?"

"No. You need a secretary, Sir Julian. Someone who knows your schedule better than you do." Penny smoothed her skirts. "I know that you take your tea with three lumps of sugar, you are allergic to lilies, and you have a dentist appointment next Thursday that you are planning to skip. You shouldn't. Your molars are important."

Julian stared at this small, plain woman in the grey coat. He saw the terror deep in her eyes, but he also saw an adoration so profound it bordered on madness.

"You aren't afraid I'll eat you?" he asked.

"Do you eat governesses?"

"I prefer clover. And the occasional ottoman when I am stressed."

"Then I see no issue."

Julian straightened up. A slow, dramatic smile spread across his face. "What is your name, strange creature?"

"Prudence Pringle. My friends call me Penny."

"Well, Miss Pringle," Julian offered her his arm. "Come inside. The ottoman in my dressing room is looking delicious, and I have a great deal of filing to do. My horns are scraping the ceiling."