Worlds of Ink and Shadow

by Lena Coakley

  She unwound her veil now, and Branwell’s breath caught in his throat. There was a tragic poignancy about Charlotte’s heroines that always clawed at his heart. Her pale skin and bright hair were luminous against the dark interior of the carriage, and she wore a diamond pendant at her throat that glittered like a star. Charlotte’s going to kill her off, Branwell thought with certainty. They’re always at their most beautiful right before they die.

  “You may rely on me completely,” Branwell said.

  Mina put a warning hand on her lady’s shoulder. “This man is no friend to your husband, milady.”

  “If your husband was not my enemy before,” Branwell said, “he would be now, after his behavior toward you, Duchess.” He was not usually so gallant when playing Lord Thornton, but the words came from his heart. Mary Henrietta deserved better.

  The lady lifted her chin proudly. “I suppose all of Verdopolis speaks of my shame.”

  “The shame lies entirely with Zamorna.”

  She frowned and fingered her pendant. It seemed to glint with its own radiance, the diamond’s facets refracting beads of light across the roof of the coach. He found himself wishing she didn’t have to die. Why Charlotte was driven to kill off heroines again and again was beyond him. It was as if all their beauty and goodness only served to make their eventual sacrifice more heart wrenching—and he didn’t care to have his heart wrenched.

  The duchess gave a long sigh. “An affair with my stepmother.” She leaned her head against the window of the coach. “I try not to care so very much, but Zamorna is my all. I shall die without his love.”

  Branwell knew her words should seem ridiculous—they were typical of Charlotte’s highly charged romantic dialogue—and yet he found himself moved by her suffering and angry at her fate.

  “Why anyone would spare so much feeling for that overdressed tin soldier I have no idea,” he said.

  Mary Henrietta’s expression turned icy, and Branwell knew he’d gone too far by insulting her husband. He tried to stammer out an apology, but she only rewound the gauzy veil about her head. “I have been too talkative. Do not let my conversation trouble you, sir.”

  After a somewhat uncomfortable pause, Mina pulled open the drawstrings of a reticule and took out a small prayer book. She lifted her veil to speak. “Would you care for something to read? I fear we must journey a while longer.”

  Mina was looking rather too lovely as well, though in an innocent-country-girl sort of way; she’d probably be for the block, too. Often Charlotte killed off her women in pairs, the heroine taking a faithful friend or dutiful servant with her somehow, just to make things more tragic.

  Branwell refused the offer of the prayer book and fell to looking out the window instead. They seemed to be on the outskirts of the city; Verdopolitan buildings were beginning to give way to rolling countryside. What am I still doing here? he wondered. His eyelids fluttered, then shut.

  He was still in the coach when he awoke, but he was alone. He climbed out. The driver was not in his box, but Branwell saw Mary Henrietta ahead of him, with Mina at her side. They were standing atop an arched bridge that spanned a dark river. He recognized the place from Charlotte’s stories. Normally it was picturesque, with gliding swans and low-bending willows. Now the swans had disappeared, and a stiff wind made the willow branches whip frantically. Mary Henrietta’s unwound veil streamed out behind her, undulating gracefully as she stared into the fast-moving water.

  “Don’t!” Branwell called, knowing what she planned.

  She turned to him. “I must! I am compelled!”

  “Suddenly Mary Henrietta realized the folly of her actions and came back to the shore,” Branwell said—but Mina and Mary Henrietta stayed exactly where they were.

  This was where the Duke of Zamorna had proposed marriage; it was only fitting that Mary Henrietta would end her life at the same spot. Branwell looked around, wondering if Charlotte was hiding somewhere, directing events unseen. This was her story—wasn’t it?—so why was it progressing without her? Events seemed to be moving forward with a horrible inevitability.

  “Please, Your Grace,” he said, coming toward her across the bridge. “I would do anything to divert you from this fatal course of action.”

  Mary Henrietta’s face was deadly pale, but a smile twitched on her lips. “He has hidden his good manners very well up to now, has he not, Mina? Lord Thornton, I thought you were nothing more than a lackey for my wicked father.”

  “Your goodness and beauty can melt the hardest heart,” Branwell said, stopping in front of her. It was sugary dialogue worthy of Charlotte, but he didn’t care.

  Mary Henrietta turned to lean against the iron railing of the bridge. Her diamond pendant hung from her neck over the water. “Not Zamorna’s heart.”

  The pendant caught the light, and Branwell was suddenly reminded of refracted colors scattered across a white wall. His sister. His sister and the mirror.

  “Maria?” he said without thinking.

  Mary Henrietta looked up as if she recognized the name.

  Branwell looked to Mina Laury. “Elizabeth?”

  The maid frowned at him, but didn’t answer.

  “Why have you used these names?” Mary Henrietta asked.

  Mina took a step forward, squinting at Branwell as if recognizing something in him she hadn’t seen before. “I am reminded of a dream,” she said. “You were in it, Lord Thornton, and I . . . Did I ask you for a drink of water?”

  Branwell jerked back, seeing in Mina’s plump and healthy features the gaunt face that had haunted him the night before. What did it mean?

  “I . . . ,” he faltered.

  “It is no matter,” Mary Henrietta said, and she set a hand on Mina’s shoulder as if to climb up onto the iron railing of the bridge.

  “No! I implore you! I . . . I order you!”

  “Order?” Mary Henrietta stopped, raising an eyebrow at him.

  “Indeed,” Branwell said. “I order you.” He drew himself up, throwing his shoulders back. “Prepare yourselves for a shock, ladies. I tell you that I am not Lord Thornton Witkin Sneaky, rich young reprobate, but am in fact one of the four great Genii. As your deity—as one of your creators, in fact—I do decree that you shall not die today.”

  Mina and Mary Henrietta stared at him for a full half minute, their eyes wide. Then Mina put her hand over her mouth. Mary Henrietta turned away, her shoulders shaking. A peal of laugher escaped Mina’s lips. In a moment, the two women were clutching each other, laughing so hard that tears streamed from their eyes.

  “He orders us,” Mina said through her merriment.

  “One of the four great Genii,” Mary Henrietta said, burying her face in her maid’s shoulder. “Oh my.”

  “I assure you ladies . . . ,” Branwell began, but the two women only laughed harder.

  Heat rose to his cheeks in spite of the cold wind. In the end there was nothing for him to do but wait until they had gathered themselves. After a while the laughter died down and Branwell, with all the dignity he could muster, stepped forward and gave Mary Henrietta a handkerchief.

  She took it gratefully and dabbed her eyes. “Lord Thornton, I must commend you. Never has tragedy been averted in so ridiculous a manner.”

  “Milady!” Mina said. “Is it true? Is tragedy averted?”

  “It is.” Mary Henrietta stepped toward Branwell and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. “I hear and obey, oh great Genius,” she said softly. “I find I am in no mood to die today.” She turned toward the hackney coach.

  The missing driver appeared from behind a tree, threw the end of a cigarette to the ground, and climbed atop the conveyance. Branwell watched the two women walk toward it, arm in arm. He wanted to call them back, or join them, but he was afraid he would somehow ruin what he had just accomplished.

  “That was well done,” said a voice behind him.

  He turned. It was Charlotte in the guise of Charles Wellesley. Emily was beside her, dressed in the same
scarlet gown with red roses he had seen her wearing at the party.

  “Did you see?” he asked, delighted with himself. The embarrassment he had felt a moment before was melting away, replaced by a giddy joy.

  “We read. Your story papers continue to write themselves back home. Emily and I followed along, waiting for the right opportunity to join you.”

  “They were going to die. I changed their fate.”

  “Yes.” Charles Wellesley’s eyes were dark blue—not his sister’s eyes at all—but he found great pity in their depths. “Your will changed the direction of the story, just like Anne’s when she set fire to Wellesley House. We must all be so strong willed or we shall lose control again.”

  “I’m sure I could do anything now.” He wanted her to share his elation, but she looked so grave. “I saved her.”

  “Yes. You saved her,” Charlotte said. “But now she has to die. Banny, they all have to die.”

  CHARLOTTE

  THE DUKE OF ZAMORNA SAT ON A GARDEN bench, gazing at the blackened ruins of Wellesley House. Charlotte stood behind him in the shadows. She had planned out the scene carefully. In a moment, the Viscount Castlereagh would arrive and give the duke some incredible news. This was to set the stage for Zamorna’s death, for the death of every character in Verdopolis, for the death of all the invented worlds.

  The reasoning was sound, she tried to tell herself. Three characters had crossed over to the real world—Mary Henrietta, Rogue, and, she had learned from Branwell, Mina. Perhaps every Verdopolitan character had this potential. The solution was to end them all—was it not? What else could the Brontës do but create a last, climactic scene of death and devastation?

  Even now, Emily and Branwell were with Rogue—at least she hoped they were—setting up the villain’s participation in the final carnage. Branwell hated the idea—they all did—but it was this or let a gytrash loose in Haworth; it was this or be haunted by her dead sister for the rest of her days.

  She opened her mouth and tried to say the words that would set the current scene in motion. They stopped in her throat. Zamorna, still on his bench, looked neither right nor left. He had no thoughts, as Charlotte had not given him any. He was as lifeless as a rag doll, left by a child.

  Why didn’t you live? she wanted to say. If left alone, Mary Henrietta and Mina would have some conversation or activity—and Rogue would probably devise some new way to take over the world—so why did Zamorna only sit?

  It couldn’t be a coincidence that it was also these same three characters who had crossed over to her world. Zamorna hadn’t haunted her. Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps it took some sort of intention to be able to cross over, and he had no intentions of his own. She couldn’t help but think that if she’d been able to grant her hero one true emotion, he might have come to life.

  “Why didn’t you love her?” she asked, coming up behind him on the bench. “Why didn’t you love your wife?”

  “Ah, little brother, how you cut to the heart of the matter. I wish I knew.” Zamorna showed no surprise at her appearance and moved over on the bench to make room. “You seem troubled.”

  She sat down beside him, her boy’s legs not long enough to touch the ground. The scene in front of her was one of desolation. There was nothing left of Zamorna’s great mansion but charred beams and collapsed chimneys. The bench where they sat and the bush of white roses next to it were the only remnants of what was once a magnificent garden.

  “Of all your wives and mistresses, I thought Mary Henrietta was the one,” Charlotte said.

  Zamorna gave her a brotherly pat on the knee. “As did I. But perhaps the Red Countess . . .” His voice tapered off. Even he seemed to realize that his affair with Rogue’s wife was not likely to end in happiness. “I suppose I have yet to find my equal.”

  “Your equal!” Charlotte cried. “I assure you, brother, Mary Henrietta exceeds you in most virtues. Goodness, charity, fidelity, piety, loyalty . . . Who among the nobility do you think could rival her in any quality you’d care to name?”

  Zamorna pulled one of the white roses to him, inhaling deeply. Then he let it go and sighed as if even its lovely fragrance bored him. “Perhaps my equal is not to be found among the nobility.”

  “What are you suggesting? An affair with a servant? Will you be seducing your wife’s maid next?”

  Her voice was mocking, but as soon as the words were out, Charlotte found herself considering the idea. Perhaps someone innocent and fresh like Mina Laury would make him fall in love. But no, it was too late for any of that. In his very next scene, Zamorna would die.

  “Why not?” he said. “If two souls meet, what does it matter? If I could find my equal, I would love her, be she poor and plain.”

  Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. “Poor and plain?” she said with a nervous laugh. These were two words she often used to describe herself. “I doubt such a woman would keep you interested for long.”

  “Just because she is poor and plain doesn’t mean she is soulless and heartless.”

  Charlotte’s heart lurched again. Zamorna could never love someone so like herself, could he?

  She allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to play a heroine, to kiss and be kissed by the Duke of Zamorna himself. She found that she longed to try. She longed to wear beautiful gowns and flutter beautiful eyelashes, to wrap her snow-white arms around his neck—but she had the most terrible fear that if she did, she would change back to herself in mid-kiss like some horrible, twisted version of The Princess and the Frog. Zamorna was so arch and condescending. How would he react? He had never seen a woman as ugly as herself.

  “Sometimes I almost dream of her, you know,” Zamorna said. “My perfect woman. I wish I could invent her like a character in a story. She would be vexing and challenging. A strange elfin thing who’d be as clever as I. Not pretty, perhaps, but stark and austere.”

  Charlotte felt tears sting her eyes. Her beloved character did have thoughts of his own. And they were of her—or someone like her.

  “Will you listen to a fancy, brother? I often imagine that she is just around the corner listening to all I say.”

  “Perhaps that’s true,” Charlotte said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Perhaps she hides.”

  “I wish she wouldn’t. I wish she’d know I wanted to meet her.”

  Oh, Charlotte thought. If only I’d been brave and created the story I wanted. If only my stories had been a little more true. But it was too late now.

  It occurred to her that perhaps Zamorna had never found a true and vibrant life of his own because she hadn’t wanted him to find happiness with a woman other than herself.

  “Suddenly, hoofbeats were heard upon the road,” Charlotte said. “At the blackened gate the viscount Castlereagh dismounted from his thoroughbred and ran through the ruined garden to his friend.”

  “Zamorna!” Castlereagh cried. “I bring incredible news!” He stopped in front of Charlotte and Zamorna, breathing heavily. When he had caught his breath he went on. “All of Verdopolis is abuzz with it. A new country has been discovered, called Angria, and you are to be its king! They say the Genii have already built its capital city on the banks of the Calabar River. Your coronation is tomorrow at St. Michael’s.”

  Zamorna did not remark on any of the oddities and inconsistencies of this announcement. He did not ask what he had done to deserve the honor. Nor did he ask why a king of Angria would be crowned in a Verdopolitan cathedral, nor why he must be coronated so soon, nor how such an event could be planned in only a day. Charlotte did not put these questions in his head, and so he took the news as a matter of course. The fact that this new country did not exist, he would not live long enough to learn. Charlotte hoped that Branwell and Emily would have as easy a time getting Rogue to come to the coronation—where tragedy awaited them all.

  BRANWELL

  ONCE, WHEN THEY WERE SMALL, BRANWELL and Emily went for a walk with Nancy, who was their servant before Tabby came, and they were c
aught in a terrible downpour. They took refuge in a lonely farmhouse on the moor, its owner so surly and ill-tempered that he almost didn’t let them in. It was a filthy place. Branwell had been as much afraid of the scowling farmer as he was of the violent storm that raged outside, but Emily seemed to enjoy herself. She made repeated attempts to pet the farmer’s two liver-colored hounds, though they bared their teeth whenever she came near.

  Suddenly there had been an enormous explosion, greater than any thunderclap. The whole cottage shook. A collection of pewter plates and pitchers fell from their shelves, crashing to the floor.

  “The end times are upon us!” Nancy cried, putting her arms over her head.

  Emily bolted to the door. “I must see!” she said, her eyes shining with excitement. “I must see the four horsemen and the lamb-horned beast.” Young as she was, she knew the stories from the Book of Revelation, and she took Nancy’s words to be the truth.

  Branwell tried to stop her from going out, but she slapped his hands away. She ran outside, while he clung to the doorframe, reaching to her and calling her name.

  From that day to this, Branwell had carried a picture in his mind of that small girl, pelted with rain, squinting up into the black clouds. He never forgot the look on her face when she turned to him: The disappointment there was unmistakable.

  Later they found out that a bolt of lightning had caused a pocket of marsh gas to detonate—a freak occurrence, but not unheard of. Out on the moor the explosion had caused a landslide that sheared off part of a steep hill. The whole family had gone out to see it a few days later, and their father lectured them about the awesome power of nature. Branwell’s eyes kept slipping back to Emily. She looked so sweet and modest, following with interest all that Papa said—but Branwell had seen another side of her. He’d seen the girl who was just a little disappointed when the end of the world didn’t arrive.

  “We’re committing a murder,” Branwell whispered now.