by Kelley York
Just moments ago, we were sharing a tender moment, and I’ve mucked it all up.
Benjamin straightens himself, smoothing a hand down the front of his rumpled shirt and waistcoat. He says, “I’m going out. Alone. Please get some rest.” His voice permits no room for argument, and it’s the closed-off tone I’ve heard him take with many people over the years—with the boys who shoved him into the dirt and called him names, with the people who realised his heritage and turned their noses up at him—but a tone he has never taken with me before now.
Every inch of me screams to stop him as he walks out the door, afraid it could be the last time I see him. Hugo and Crane and the others could run him down like the hounds they are and he would be defenceless against them.
And if I were to tell Benji I thought as much, I suspect it would not make this problem any better.
It’s true that I have always viewed Benjamin as someone who needs to be looked after and protected. Someone too gentle and incapable of defending himself. How many years have I spent, holding him close to my side where I could protect him, where I could fix whatever went wrong?
You can’t fix everything, he’d told me.
Well, I sure as hell don’t know how to fix this.
CHAPTER 12 – BENJAMIN
The San Francisco streets are freezing and fog-filled, making navigating in the dark harder than I anticipated. If I get lost, I’ll never hear the end of it from Preston.
Our disagreement has left a poor taste in my mouth. I got the last word in, I got my way, and yet I feel empty inside. Was I being unreasonable? Am I needlessly stepping into harm’s way? I feel my reasoning behind this is sound, and yet, Preston pushing back so vehemently has me second-guessing myself.
No, I’m making the right choice. I’m simply not used to making choices at all, much less making them and pushing back against resistance. Preston needs to rest. The longer the box remains in its hiding place, the longer it gives Crane and his people time to find it—or to find us. We need to contact the box’s recipient and hand it over. After that, what happens to it is out of our hands. Quite literally.
The streets are quiet, but I pass by plenty of people. The further from the hotel I go, however, the emptier it becomes until it’s just me, walking alone in the fog, distracted by the occasional shadow that moves from the corner of my gaze. I shudder, tugging my coat tight around myself.
A gust of wind howls between the buildings and far up ahead, I notice the shape of someone standing on the corner. Even encased in fog, I’m familiar enough to know that what I’m looking at is nothing alive.
The skin along my arms and the back of my neck prickles. What was a bearable chill is now almost choking. The howling has returned, louder and more insistent than before. I clutch at my chest to calm my racing heart.
It’s a woman, I think. Whatever she is, she appears to be facing me although all I can see is her silhouette. When I stop, she turns. Disjointed, broken, she skulks out of view, around the street corner. I exhale, my breath visible in the air. Yet my legs are already moving, directing me after the woman, somehow aware that I’m meant to follow her.
I turn the corner and spot her again, still up ahead and barely discernible in the dark and mist. And again, she vanishes around a corner.. As I hurry to catch up, I realise some of these buildings look a touch familiar. I’m no longer feeling quite so turned around.
In the end, the ghostly figure leads me right back to the apartment building. Whatever fear I had been harbouring dissipates into relief. I scale the ladder to the rooftop, moving carefully past lit windows where the inhabitants inside might wonder at a stranger sneaking past their homes. The box in its satchel is right where I left it with no signs of having been disturbed. With a sigh of relief, I sling it over my shoulder and start back down to the alley.
When my feet hit the cobblestones again, a whisper of air caresses the side of my face and I whirl around. The woman stands in the shadows at the far end of the alley, watching me through milky-white eyes. I force myself to stand my ground. She brought me here to retrieve the box; she must know we’re only trying to return it to its rightful owner.
“Can you tell me your name?” I ask. Not that I truly expect an answer. I dare a slow step forward. “We want to help you, but you’ve got to show us how. Can you do that? Can you show me what it is you want?”
She opens her mouth, although no sound comes out. In the blink of an eye, she goes from being twenty feet away to being two inches from my face, and she grabs me, her hands clutching my shoulders so tightly I can feel the bruises forming. I gasp, instinctively trying to jerk away, but she holds fast.
A flicker of a memory presents itself in the forefront of my mind, a memory that I realise is not my own. It’s of an ocean, a beach untouched by humans, stretching toward the sunrise in stunning hues of wine and cider.
And another memory, this one more disjointed than the first. Footsteps. Running.
Hands around my throat.
This is how she died. This woman who has followed us from England halfway across the world. She died running, trying to escape something or someone, and she was caught. Someone strangled her to death.
I choke on a scream.
Or is that only in the memory-that-isn’t-mine? I cannot be certain. I only know that the world is black for a few seconds and I cannot breathe.
When I open my eyes, I’m lying on the damp cobblestones, staring up at the sky…and the woman is gone.
CHAPTER 13 - PRESTON
Sleep comes in fits and starts. I toss and turn, waking at every small sound in hopes that Benjamin has returned. But the room remains silent and still for the better part of three hours, and I’ve begun to wonder if something has gone wrong. Perhaps Benji got turned around, did not know where he was going after all. Perhaps he encountered Crane and his group and was either taken hostage or is on the run from them as we speak.
No amount of trying to think of other things works to clear my head. If I’m not dwelling on all the terrible things that could have happened to Benji, then I’m dwelling on our earlier conversation and how horrible I feel for it.
It’s one thing to want to protect a friend. It’s another entirely to tell that friend you think they’re useless at protecting themselves. Especially, I realise grimly, right after that friend rescued you.
I owe him an apology. But is it proper to apologise for something when I have not changed my way of thinking? Benjamin has never been good at fending for himself. The day I met him, he was face-down in the mud, not fighting back. And that’s how it was all through Whisperwood. Even his own mother… I recall the first time I ever visited Benjamin at his home in London. Ms. Prichard was delighted for the company and the first time she got me alone, she had asked, “Is Benjamin really all right at school? I worry about him. He’s such a delicate boy and I know how cruel others can be…”
I had given her my word I would look after him, but it didn’t quite stop there. For as much as I adored the woman, Ms. Prichard largely managed every major decision in Benji’s life. He sought her permission for most everything he did, fretted over how she might react, revolved his world around looking after her for the rest of his life. Never have I heard him speak of what he would like to do. It always came down to what his mother wanted for him, what she hoped he would become.
It was why he’d been willing to give up whatever it was we have—or had—to stay in London near a father who despises him, working a miserable job and potentially setting himself up for a marriage that would never make him happy. That had cut me deeply and the taste is still bitter in my mouth.
I stare up at the ceiling in the dark, mulling these things over, transitioning from worried to frustrated to angry to sad, then back round the loop again. When the door finally opens and Benji’s soft footfalls enter the room, I’m cycling back through worry, and the relief of him being returning unharmed has me heaving out a heavy breath and closing my eyes.
He’s safe and
he’s even got the box—I hear him place it upon the table. Perhaps tonight, when we’re both so exhausted and on edge, is not a good time to reopen this topic. We can sleep and start fresh tomorrow after we’ve had a little time to clear our heads. It will give me a bit longer to sort out what I ought to say; the last thing I care to do is upset him again. Or to say something further that I’ll regret.
I stay attuned to the sounds of Benji moving about the room. Undressing. Sliding into the bed beside me. His skin radiates a chill from being outside and he nestles down beneath the thin blankets and curls in on himself. He does, however, remain very prominently on his side of the bed, careful not to encroach on mine. I want to roll onto my side and wrap my arms around him, but would the touch be unwelcome right now?
The ground is still most definitely off-balance beneath us.
If we aren’t going to speak, then there’s little left to do except try to get some sleep. Even my constant thoughts can only keep me awake for so long through my exhaustion. One moment I’m certain I will never sleep again and the next, I’m opening my eyes to sunlight streaming in through an open window, curtains fluttering in a chilly ocean breeze, and the smell of food greeting me.
I sit up slowly and with a wince. My arms are still sore and the gunshot injury throbs a bit, although the bandages have held nicely. Benji is seated at the table before a spread of breakfast foods, sipping at a cup of coffee. He meets my eyes, steady, and with a smile that makes me wonder if everything last night was all some horrible nightmare.
He greets, “Good morning. I thought you’d wake hungry.”
Is this better or worse than him still being cold to me? “Quite. How long have you been up?”
“Just an hour or so.” He gestures to the food as I relocate to the chair across from his. Just as I had tried to be accommodating and provide him with vegetarian meals the night before, he seems to have ensured a selection of meats for me. The scent of bacon alone makes my mouth water.
As I tuck in to eat, I remain vigilantly aware of Benjamin and his body language. He’s relaxed in his seat, reclined, legs crossed, gazing out the window at the city as he enjoys his coffee. His own plate is already mostly empty. Did he eat without me because he’s angry? Or was he being considerate by allowing me to sleep? He’s quiet but no longer aloof and angry. It would truly be simple to play along and go about our business as usual.
I would be doing us both a great disservice if I did that, I think.
“About last night,” I say, after I’ve wolfed down a fair bit of my breakfast, enough that my stomach has stopped protesting. “I… I owe you an apology. For what I said.”
Benjamin hmm’s into his cup, dark eyes flicking to me. “No, you don’t.”
I lower my cutlery with a frown. “I do. It was unfair and I—”
“You said what you meant, Preston.” His tone is firm, but not unkind. Not that I could ever picture Benji being unkind to me. “It wounded me, of course, but sometimes the truth does that.”
“It wasn’t true. You aren’t incapable of looking after yourself.”
“Hm, maybe. But I haven’t proven that much and you were only going off my past record.” He shrugs, takes another sip, and places his cup aside with a sigh. “You and I both know I’ve looked to you to protect me ever since we met. There is no sense in ignoring that. You stepped in and frightened off those who sought to do me harm and you attempted to shield me from anything unpleasant. I was so used to Mother doing that, that I don’t think I even noticed it until after she was gone and I was truly left on my own for the first time.”
I find myself slouched forward, elbows gracelessly upon the table as he speaks. He’s barely spoken of his mother this entire trip and now that he is, he does so casually, as though she’s merely back at home waiting for us rather than dead.
It may be the wrong time to ask, but since he’s being so open… “What happened with your father, Benjamin?”
One corner of his mouth twitches. His brows draw together briefly, then smooth out again before his gaze shifts from the window to me. He sighs.
“I informed my employer I would be leaving. Rather short notice, and I was apologetic, of course. The work may have been unduly boring, but he was a decent man and he paid me fairly enough. But still, it got back to Father quicker than I’d have liked it. He caught me just before I left for the train station to see you.”
“And I take it he wasn’t pleased.”
“To say the least.” His smile is tight, almost bitter. It isn’t the sort of smile that suits a face as sweet as Benji’s. “He called me all manner of unflattering names, of course. He ranted about how ungrateful I was, how foolish. How I’d made him look foolish. The idea that he had no power over me sent him into a rage. Perhaps, in a sense, he was saddened to see me go. I was the last piece he had of Mother…the last thing he thought he had control over.”
“Did he really love her, do you think?”
“I think he loved the idea of her. Someone complacent with what he felt like giving, someone who relied upon him for everything. He never had to fear losing her.” He sighs again, hooking a finger into the handle of his coffee cup and peering into its empty bottom. “Not that it matters how much or little he loved her. If someone’s love hurts you, what good is it? That is not the way I would ever want a man to love me.”
Something in that statement feels like a heavy stone in my belly. “…Your arm.”
He blinks. “My arm?”
“The bruises.”
“Oh. Nothing of consequence, I suppose.” A pause. His fingers tap the outside of his cup in debate, perhaps about how much he wants to reveal to me. “He couldn’t keep me there with words, so…he grabbed me.”
I sense there is more to that he isn’t sharing. Words that were exchanged, even. I can envision Franklin Hale, taking Benjamin’s arms so tightly that they bruise, shaking him and shouting in his face. I swallow back the guilt and the anger. I should have been there for him. I never should have left.
“You’re doing it again,” Benji murmurs.
My eyes pinch shut. “Doing what?”
“Blaming yourself for not fixing one of my problems. Stop that.”
“If I had stayed…”
“Do not make me regret telling you, Preston. I would have been humiliated having you there, handling my battles with my own father for me. It was something I needed to do for myself.” Another pause. His hand comes to rest atop one of mine, startling me into opening my eyes. “And I did it. So here we are.”
I study our hands. His fingers are long and slender. He’s never raised a hand to anyone or anything. Never lashed out in anger. He is nothing like his father. Benji’s hands are gentle hands, the sort to care and tend to, never the sort to hurt.
I can’t get the image of Hale confronting him out of my head because I was not there. I can’t put an end to the scenario without knowing what Benjamin said, what he did, how he managed to leave. And yet—it isn’t my story to know, I cannot go back in time to rescue him from it, and I think that is the point Benjamin is trying to make now.
You can’t fix everything, Preston.
My hand turns so that I can wrap my fingers around his.
“And so here we are.”
◆◆◆
Our next step is reaching out to our contact. We have his address, but we were instructed merely to contact him when we reached San Francisco, not to go showing up at his door. Benji pens a note to send out, after which point, all we can really do is wait.
Benji returns from placing the telegram and he joins me at our small table where I’ve sat staring at the box the entire time he was gone. Crane’s words are still rattling around my head, leaving me unsettled and with so many questions.
Benji permits me to sit in silence a bit before he asks, “All right?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. Sigh. Run a hand over my face. “No. I don’t know. Something Crane said has been nagging at me.”
“Ah?”
> “He said, ‘we’re all just thieves stealing from thieves.’ What do you suppose that means? Are we just transporting stolen goods from one bad person to another? This box—whatever’s inside of it—has got some spirit attached to it for some reason. I guess I’m just not convinced we’re doing the right thing.”
His lashes lower, dark eyes surveying the box, our travel papers beside it. He makes a soft click with his tongue. “Well, then I suppose the only option is to try to find out what she wants.”
“We tried that already. She wouldn’t speak with us.”
“I doubt Spencer and Esher give up after one failed attempt. If we followed some of Esher’s notes in his book that he lent you, we may get some sort of answer out of her yet.” He leans down to open his bag, retrieving Esher’s notebook. The one I couldn’t quite get through but I’m certain Benji has read four times over by now. “Besides, she may be a little more inclined to communicate this time.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because I saw her.” He pauses, considers, and adds, “Vaguely, anyway. When I went to retrieve the box. I think she understands we’re trying to help, and she wants to tell us how to do it.”
“You saw her? Did she try anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs. “We had other things we were dealing with. It slipped my mind. Do we want to try this or not?”
I bite at the inside of my cheek. James had told me about his and Esher’s little foray into summoning spirits. It worked for them, but they’d been nervous about it. Benji and I are hardly as experienced as they are, and with Benji’s sensitivity toward ghosts… But he’s staring at me intently, almost daring me to say no on his account. He’s aware of the risks and willing to try it anyway.