Original subtitles

Previously on Penny Dreadful...

Why are you here?

I believe I'm cursed to see things.

If you think you are touched by the demon

then you best walk out that door.

The man concerns me.

She has a protector.

Mr. Chandler?

Lupus Dei.

He shall be your challenge, daughter.

I want to know who did this to you.

Get better, Mr. Roper. We have much to talk about.

My name is Dorian Gray.

Angelique. This is where I work.

I hope you know what you've bought.

I do.

Cosmetically, she is transformed.

Lily, may I introduce...

John Clare.

Come and meet the new man we've hired.

It is good to meet you.

That face will make our fortune.

- Mrs. Poole. - Sir Malcolm.

- What do they know? - Nothing.

I can misdirect them as you see fit.

No. Let her follow the bread crumbs to me.

You have to learn to protect yourself.

From whom? Legions.

- Remember this. - No!

When Lucifer fell, he did not fall alone.

They will hunt you until the end of days.

♪

And then?

They burned her alive.

When I left the moors,

I thought I would never hear that wicked language again.

Or confront that evil.

Mr. Chandler felt you needed to know.

"For thee are not fighting

against flesh-and-blood enemies...

but against mighty powers in this dark realm."

"And against evil spirits in heavenly places."

So these Nightcomers practice a form of black magic,

while you practice a form of...

Practicing any form of magic is unbelievable enough,

do we need to parse it?

We need to know what these things are.

Yes, they're witches, understood.

Witchcraft has a long history in many cultures, Doctor,

as well you know.

As do fairies and sprites, but they don't walk about

- Greater London, do they? - These do.

My apologies.

And their goal?

They're servants to the Devil.

Doing his bidding to serve their own ends...

whatever those may be.

All of which leaves us where, exactly?

A threat to which we can now give a name.

And a language we need to decipher.

Oh. I'm on.

Take a look, won't you?

Mr. Chandler was more right than he knew.

It is a puzzle.

And more complicated than it first appeared,

which just about gave me the vapors, I can tell you.

It's not so much an actual language

as a collection of known languages

forming new patterns.

But within this thicket of obfuscation,

our old friends Greek and Latin.

Translating the Greek was easy enough,

though the idiom is decidedly pre-grammar,

if you will.

And one fragment... emerged to me, here.

"So God looked down on His defeated angels and..."

That "and" suggests what?

- More to come. - Precisely.

So I started hunting for the continuation...

and I found this, in Latin.

So, Mr. Chandler, care to test your skill?

"Found them to be evil angels,

so He cast them out. He took..."

Took what?

Aren't you all dying to know?

It's a story.

A narrative that continues.

Language to language.

Greek to Latin to Sumerian to Arabic

to 10 other obscure languages and pictographs,

changing language from relic to relic.

Is it the story of Lucifer, then?

The angel cast out by God?

Time will tell.

How could this one monk know all these languages?

- He didn't. The demon did. - Exactly.

Recall, Brother Gregory

was only writing down what he heard,

apparently in whatever language it came to him.

Do you know what I think this is?

Yes, I think it's a story.

But you made one mistake in your translation,

Mr. Chandler, more than understandable

given the archaic script and usage.

Look again.

Not "them..."

"us."

"Found us to be evil angels, so He cast us out."

It's not just a story.

It's an autobiography.

The memoirs of the Devil.

This is all giving me a headache.

You should talk to a doctor.

You know, once I would have thought

all of this impossible.

And now?

I know nothing's impossible.

Whatever we can imagine, far worse is true.

- And far better. - You think so?

I choose to.

Miss Ives, I've a...

personal favor to ask of you.

Would you mind accompanying me somewhere tomorrow?

On, well...

an errand of sorts.

Of course, Doctor.

- May I call at 10:00? - Gladly.

Thank you.

What are you doing?

Watching.

For what?

Those things that hunt at night.

Lions.

The train stops in the tunnel.

The lights go out for a brief moment.

No one in the carriages on either side saw anything.

No one came and no one went.

So how did he do it?

- Sir? - How did he come and go?

Carrying a baby, no less...

which apparently didn't squall or cry out in transit.

- Perhaps he killed it here. - Then why take it?

And the wounds... like a surgeon.

Precise and elegant...

unlike the other animal butchery we've seen.

No, we're going about this all wrong.

We're pursuing patterns of logic...

when the answer lies elsewhere.

Where?

Magic.

Evening Star! Mother and father killed!

And how are we to afford another exhibition?

It'll pay for itself in time.

What makes you think that Harry Public's

going to plunk down two bob to see those bloody things?

Go to the corner right now, you'll find the answer.

They line up three deep

for the Police Gazette and the penny dreadfuls.

And those are only pictures.

We give 'em it fully formed.

Horror in all its horror.

Yeah, time will prove it, eh?

A husband could use a show of support from his wife.

Besides, with this, we're not simulating anything...

because it's all real.

Flesh and blood and pumping hearts and all.

Here. Look at this.

We add another entrance here, at the corner.

Two attractions, two gates... two admissions.

Give 'em a discount for buying both.

They go down the stairs here.

I don't follow. Where are you keeping them?

In this half of the cellar,

if I can rent it off the tobacconist.

You see?

You're going to keep them in the cellar? All the time?

Of course.

They don't need the light.

They're freaks.

I know you're there.

Sorry, miss.

Everyone does it.

A chance to observe life at its most natural,

being unobserved.

I can always tell.

The molecules change in the air, you see.

Everything vibrates.

Oh, I'll... I'll go.

Mr. Clare, don't be such a mouse.

Now, tell me...

does this look like Mr. Gladstone?

He's been Prime Minister so many times

we have to keep making him older.

I think he does.

Aging them is easy.

Everyone knows you have to add wrinkles

and sagging skin and such...

but the trick... is the eyes.

They get cloudy as you get older.

You have to change the eyes.

What do your eyes look like?

Um...

They're not beautiful.

Are they cloudy?

No.

What color are they? No. Let me guess.

- Miss... - Blue?

No, you're no blue-eyed boy.

Not green, I sense.

I'll say brown.

Feathery brown like an owl's wing.

No, not brown.

Well, tell me.

They're...

yellow.

Well, that makes a change!

Not a lemon yellow, I hope. That would be alarming.

More of a turmeric, would you say?

Yes.

I heard the most wonderful story about Mr. Gladstone.

That almost every evening he goes out walking...

and if he comes across a fallen woman

he stops and talks to her and gives her money.

A very kind man.

Anyone who's kind to the suffering

deserves a proper place in the museum, I say.

And what about the others you work on?

Which?

Those that aren't kind.

Yes.

Father's murderers.

All those figures screaming in his new crime scenes.

Ah, Mr. Clare...

it hurts me to create them.

Like I'm bringing them to life and then torturing them.

Like some sort of terrible African voodoo doll.

They're all fresh when they come out of the molds...

and then I make them suffer.

Some people think that's what life is.

Born fresh to suffer.

Do you think that?

Uh... I did.

Now I'm not sure.

There's hope for you anyway.

Don't give up on life just yet.

No, miss, I won't.

Family murder on the Underground!

Baby missing!

Family murdered.

All horrors on the Underground!

Read about it.

Thank you, sir.

- Are you all right, miss? - Why... I...

It's all right.

It's okay. You're...

Come on, now. It's all right.

I understand your memory

may not be completely clear, Mr. Roper.

I'll take that into account.

Will you describe what happened at the Mariner's Inn?

Anything you can remember

would be a boon to my investigation.

With your help...

we can find the man who did this to you.

I don't remember.

Nothing?

- I find that hard to credit. - Credit what you like.

The pathologists tell me your wounds

were likely inflicted by some sort of animal claw.

Perhaps a tomahawk or ritual club from your own country.

I don't remember.

Then perhaps you can remember why you were wearing this.

Protection.

From what?

Mr. Roper.

My city is choked with bodies.

A baby is missing.

You will help me, or by God, I will grind you to bone.

I am a citizen of the United States of America.

I know my rights.

Soon as I'm able, I'll be gone from your goddamn city,

you can be assured.

Honestly, Doctor, this is the last thing I expected.

Yes, well...

what's life without surprises?

It's my cousin, you see, she's coming to visit me

and she's a simple girl, not slow, you understand,

not retarded in any way...

just from the country, you know?

Your cousin, how lovely.

Yes. My cousin. Second cousin.

Lily is her name.

Lily Frankenstein. Yes, that's her name.

Excuse me. Oh!

Not a real woman at all.

The mannequin, I mean, not my cousin.

She's a real woman.

So your second cousin Lily is coming to visit you.

Yes. That's it entirely. Yes.

And... what are we doing here?

Yes, yes, of course.

Being a country girl,

I thought I might buy her a dress or two

so she'll fit in.

And you've never shopped for women's clothing before.

In a nutshell, yes.

Then I shall be delighted to assist you.

You always dress so...

You know, with the collars and the...

- black things with the... - Mmm?

Always very completely dressed.

- Good morning. - Good morning.

Vanessa Ives, pleased to meet you.

Mr. and Mrs. Ives.

Oh, God, no. No, we're not married.

Oh, I see.

No, it's not like that either.

I assure you, sir, discretion is the watch-cry of my trade.

We'll look around for a bit if we may,

my non-husband and I.

This is worse than I knew it was going to be.

Now, is she fair or dark?

Very fair. Golden blonde hair.

And her size?

Precisely five feet, five inches.

Very exact.

I had cause to measure her height.

I shan't ask.

And her general body type?

More rounded than yours. Fuller hips, larger bust.

Ah.

How about this?

It would work nicely on a young girl with fair hair.

Guipure lace is very popular

and the mousseline de soie would flatter an ample bosom.

Can you... hold it up?

Hmm. I've never seen you wear white.

- Not my color. - No.

I'm not sure about the...

- Decolletage. - Precisely.

Then we'll move on.

And... would you be willing...

if it's not too much trouble...

to have tea with us sometime, when she's in?

I shall be honored, Doctor.

She's very shy.

I'll whisper.

There is one more thing to consider.

Yes?

When we've bought the dress, we'll need...

undergarments.

You're going to laugh.

I won't, I promise.

I hate to even say it aloud.

- Hecate Livingstone. - Hecate.

I know!

It's the name of a Greek sea goddess,

Mistress of the Waves.

My parents went through a classical learning phase.

My name is the hideous result.

Why don't you just go by your middle name?

- I can't. - Why?

Aphrodite.

I'm sorry, I've been wanting to do that.

God, I'm hopeless.

And I'm supposed to be going to Spain next.

How am I going to survive the brigands of the Alhambra

if I can't cross a damn street in Soho?

I think those brigands better watch out for you...

Hecate Aphrodite Livingstone.

So, how did you end up here?

Because I'm trying to be a liberated woman.

Not too successfully thus far, it seems.

I grew up in Maine

but when I graduated from Northwestern,

I decided I'd had enough of the great cow pastures

of Indiana and lobster fields of New England

and deserved some proper civilization...

among properly civilized people.

And you're traveling alone?

Yes, Mr. Chandler,

American women sometimes do travel abroad

without armed guards.

I have a degree in botany...

a sensible pair of shoes, and a very generous account

at the American Express.

You're studying Latin.

I'm trying to make myself into one of those

civilized people you're hoping to meet.

Just don't go crazy naming your kids.

Are you a scholar of some sort?

Do I look like a scholar?

No, you look like a...

I don't know what you look like.

A train robber.

Have you ever been out West?

You mean like California?

- And the New Mexico territory. - Not yet.

Adventures to come.

Then he must have come to see you.

Who?

My father.

Your accent's good, but no trace of a Yankee in it

for a girl who says she grew up in Maine.

Northwestern is in Illinois, not Indiana.

Maybe the Pinkertons are hiring women now,

if so, I applaud them for it,

because I am all for emancipation.

My father failed with them and he failed with you.

So go back and tell him to leave me be

or the next time he sees me, I'll have a gun to his head

with my finger on the trigger.

I hope you enjoy the Alhambra...

it's supposed to be very dramatic.

And honestly...

those aren't very sensible shoes.

But I'm frightened.

What horrors might it contain?

Behold the evil wonders of Lucifer.

Unleashing his dark powers onto the world.

I don't admit to my real name, it's beneath contempt.

Let me guess then. Bartholomew?

Oh!

Tarquin?

- Ahab? - Never you mind.

And "Dorian" isn't the most fetching name either.

My parents were aspiring to status.

- You weren't born rich? - Not by a far cry.

Well, at least tell me how old you are.

Older than I look.

- Then tell me your secret. - Ah...

be careful what you wish for.

Should be ashamed.

You're raising a few eyebrows.

You don't mind?

Let them stare.

Provocation is food and drink to me.

Here we are.

Are you ready for an adventure?

Something brand new?

Are there any other kind of adventures?

The soldiers brought it back from India,

it's called gossamer tennis. All the rage.

They say there'll be parlors all over London soon.

God, electrical lighting.

What that does to a girl's complexion.

Champagne, please. Your best.

Sir.

Now, as I understand it, we bounce the ball

back and forth for a bit.

Yes, I'd gathered that.

Shall we keep score?

Why else live?

Oh!

One for me.

I made ridiculous errors... but it wasn't that.

He smelled me.

You might have suspected as much.

Lupus Dei.

There's no doubt now.

Then we shall have to meet him...

tooth for claw.

I'll prepare the enchantment for tonight.

Take the others.

- You know what to bring me? - Yes.

Don't disappoint me again, girl.

Caution, daughter.

You over-reach.

I don't trust that little man.

Mr. Lyle is distinctly untrustworthy.

But as weak as a lily. Have no fear of him.

And the others?

Do with them as you like.

Only Miss Ives matters.

Bring me what I need.

That's made from a champagne cork.

What is?

The ball.

How can you tell?

Darling, I can smell champagne at 30 yards

locked in a steamer trunk at the bottom of the ocean.

I do believe that makes 12 games to...

- How many is it? - None.

None, that's right, poor lamb.

Another game?

Do you think your pride can take it?

Losing again to a defenseless female?

And you are neither of those things,

as we both well know.

And where would we be without our little deceptions?

I think we should be very uninteresting.

It's the subterfuge

that makes it all the more delicious.

Knowing the secrets others don't.

Being who we want to be...

not who we are.

How's it feeling?

It's very tight.

That's meant to be the point.

I can barely breathe.

I think that's meant to be the point, too.

Ladies aren't supposed to exert themselves.

I won't be able to walk.

Lots of young ladies do.

You shall as well.

Are you going to teach me that, too?

I'll do my best.

Trust me, you've quite a challenge.

I feel like a mule.

All right, I'm finished. Are you ready?

Have on.

I can't believe you've ever been this silent

in your entire life.

Lily...

you look beautiful.

- I can't breathe. - That's the corset.

Yes, I know what it is, cousin,

I'm wearing it.

Can you help me? I think I'm going to topple over.

The shoes are awfully high.

Yes... I picked them for that.

Why?

I... like that in a woman.

Displays the talocrural region and the leg's dorsiflexion.

That's flattering.

Do all women wear corsets?

Most... of a certain class anyway.

It seems...

I don't have the word, um... cruel.

The bone's sticking into my skin.

I believe you can adjust it around a bit.

Are you going to fix that yourself?

Of course.

I'm good with stitching.

So, women wear corsets so they don't exert themselves?

Partly.

What would be the danger if they did?

They'd take over the world.

The only way we men prevent that

is by keeping women corseted...

in theory... and in practice.

They're meant to flatter the figure.

To a man's eye, anyway.

All we do is for men, isn't it?

Keep their houses...

raise their children, flatter them with our pain.

No.

Does this corset flatter me?

Yes.

Do you want me to wear it?

I want nothing to cause you pain.

Not for flattery, or... my vanity...

or anything under the sun.

Now, please... go and take it off.

The dress will look fine without it.

Thank you.

But I'll keep the shoes on if I may.

I thought they hurt your feet.

Yes. But you like them.

Fortunately for her, you were there, otherwise...

I'm fluent in Arabic,

but this script's highly obscure.

I can only make out certain words.

These might help.

Oh, yes. That's much better.

I don't know if they entirely suit you...

a bit de trop.

Look, it's something like...

"Us by our winged backs

and raised us over His head. Thence..."

"Found us to be evil angels, so He cast us out. He took..."

"Us by our winged backs

and raised us over His head. Thence..."

You're enjoying this, aren't you?

Now that you've given up the Nile,

you need a new quest.

Perhaps I do.

And you shouldn't be vain

about needing spectacles, you know.

You're a strapping sort of man all told.

Well, I suppose I'm...

courting after a fashion.

Sir Malcolm, you vanquish me. Who's the lucky lady?

You know her, in fact.

I first met her at your house.

Mrs. Poole.

Oh, yes, our clairvoyant friend.

You might... well, proceed with caution, eh?

I have no choice but to. I remain married.

All for the best then.

Those little dalliances can get so Byzantine.

My past is littered with overly Byzantine dalliances

from Stoke-on-Trent to Budapest.

Hmm.

I think she came from my father.

Why?

He wants me to come home. He's sent others before.

What was her name?

Alias, more like.

Hecate, she said.

It's some kind of Greek sea goddess.

Oh. That was a lie as well.

Hecate wasn't a sea goddess.

She was a moon goddess, and bringer of magic.

And also a character in Macbeth,

the Protector of Witches.

She didn't look like a witch.

And would an old crone have attracted your eye?

No, Mr. Chandler,

they can assume many guises, like a chameleon on a leaf.

In their natural state, they're more... memorable.

She was some chameleon then.

Do you feel like some coffee?

No, thank you.

I'll be right back.

Vanessa... come and look at this.

Well, don't you look fetching?

I'll do that.

I don't mind. Pays for my keep.

Pays for my keep.

She should eat more.

You worry about her, don't you?

She's a lioness. She does not worry me.

But you worry about Sir Malcolm.

- Can I ask you a question? - Can I stop you?

Were you a hunter where you came from?

Partly.

What was the other part?

Private.

I should get you an apron.

"In the great war

for the Heavenly Throne, we were vanquished..."

"So God looked down on His defeated angels and He..."

"Found us to be evil angels,

so He cast us out. He took..."

"Us by our winged backs

and raised us over His head. Thence..."

- Thence? - Cast us to Hell?

Does any of this strike a chord in you, Vanessa?

Yes.

My friend, the Cut Wife, said to me...

"When Lucifer fell, he did not fall alone."

And the Demon's purpose in telling his tale?

A prophecy.

Give it a thought.

Lucifer tells a past tense narrative to a monk. Why?

Just so his history can be recorded?

No.

If we accept the Devil walks amongst us today...

we must consider this is meant to be part

of an ongoing story,

that it has relevance now.

It's possible he wasn't just recounting the past

but foretelling the future.

Whose future?

I think most likely yours.

You don't know that.

- Vanessa... - You don't know that!

Are there any references to a woman?

- To anyone like me? - We're not done yet.

You'll understand I find it difficult to accept

I'm the object of an eternal Satanic quest

that's so far only demonstrated

in something that's half-poetry, half-gibberish.

I'm sorry. No!

I'm tired. I apologize.

No need.

I think I should turn in. You'll excuse me?

- Good night. - Sleep well, my dear.

As I can.

Good night, gentlemen.

Don't tell me you're going to miss Sembene's...

- What is that? - Buttercream torte.

Two words I thought I'd never hear

coming out of your mouth.

Save me some for breakfast.

Good night.

Does she really eat dessert for breakfast?

Always.

No sensible shoes now, Mr. Chandler.

♪