A Matter of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 1) by Ichabod Temperance

sounds of a scuffle become unmistakable. We rush downstairs to see Mr. Temperance being dragged out of the clubbe by main force, and the odious Herr Doktor Himmel lying in a fetal ball upon the floor, clutching his own person in a most unseemly manner.
    Stanislas and I rush past the excruciated Doktor and catch up to where the many staff members have tossed Mr. Temperance out of doors.
    I make hurried apologies to the officers of the Clubbe, but they seem more concerned over the reputation of their establishment rather than of Herr Himmel’s present condition. Likely enough, he has not been the most pleasant, nor the most popular, of members. Once I make a few discreet murmurings about Herr Himmel’s unwarranted attentions, my friend, Monsieur Trevor Aeon, assures me that I am welcome to return at any time.
    “But if you bring your American friend,” he adds, “Mr. Temperance must learn to restrain his...boisterousness.” Trevor attempts to remain stoically stern; however, his exquisite ebony expression reveals a trace of bemusement as a tiny smirk is allowed to find its way onto his debonair countenance. I think Trevor has wanted to do exactly what Mr. Temperance has done for a long time and is secretly delighted at the isolated violent disturbance.
    As we leave the Clubbe, I cannot help but notice that the line of dark clouds above has grown heavy and ponderous. The atmosphere is leaden and unnaturally oppressive. Clearly, the weather mirrors my inner turmoil and growing sense of a storm about to strike. A storm consisting of Something else... Something heavy...waiting...hidden. But where? And what?
    Stanislas brings Mr. Temperance his pistol and knife belt.
    “You may very well need these and much more, Monsieur Temperance, before your tasks are complete.”
    My American friend is obviously embarrassed and deeply chagrined at his actions.
    “I sure am sorry about whoopin’ up on the ‘Dok’ in your nice clubbe, Mr. De Guaita.”
    “Do not trouble yourself over tonight’s unpleasantness, Monsieur Temperance.” The young prodigy attempts to console the regretful combatant. “No doubt the odious Doktor had that and much more due to him. I confess to being envious of your forthright actions. May they see you through your coming trials.”
    “Yessir, thank you.” Mr. Temperance answers, shaking the youth’s hand. “We’ll try an’ do that.”
    We are then directed by young de Guaita to this translator, a man of great reputation. I caution Mr. Temperance that we must keep this man’s identity secret. Mr. Temperance hires us a Parisian-style Hansom cab to carry us on our lengthy journey. Leaving the Rive Droite and crossing the Seine at Pont d’ Austerlitz, we arrive at our destination: the Arabian Quarter, located in the Gobelin Arrondissment. By the time we reach the  building, rumbles of thunder are maintaining a steady roll, and the skies are alight with great flashes of lightning, giving the streets a surreal aspect.
    We knock upon the scholar’s door. After what seems an interminable wait, we hear a slow, shuffling tread, and a series of furtive, careful slidings and scrapings of various lock mechanisms disengaging. At last, the door opens but only by a few inches, obviously secured by a thick chain inside. “Who is this, please?”
    “Mr. Bin-Jamin, I am Miss Persephone Plumtartt. My friend, young Stanislas de Guaita, recommended you as an expert translator in obscure languages.”
    “Miss Plumtartt?” The door opens a bit wider. I can see glimpses of a wizened face through the aperture.
    “I am but an humble scholar. Perhaps you are at the wrong destination.”
    The wrong destination? What can he mean? Why all of the trepidation? And then I recall my father once telling me that certain scholars were quite reticent to discuss certain topics without a type of verbal “pass-key”.
    “Monsieur Bin-Jamin, my father, Professor Plumtartt, asked me to convey a message to you. It is of a personal