by Lena Coakley
“What shall we do, then?” Rogue asked his new ally. “Split him like a wishbone?” S’Death gave a squawk and thrashed harder.
“Wait!” Charlotte cried. “My dear duke.” Zamorna looked to her. “Your Grace. Your motives are very admirable to me, but my siblings and I might be stranded here if you kill S’Death.”
“That’s right, that’s right,” S’Death shouted up at them. “I make the doors. There are no doors without me.”
Zamorna and Rogue gave S’Death a shake to keep him quiet. “Lady,” Zamorna said. Then more softly: “Charlotte. I won’t pretend to understand all that I’ve seen, but you know I wish to help you. Tell us what to do.”
“Allow him to stand,” Charlotte said.
“You are certain?”
She nodded. With a frown Zamorna turned S’Death over and set him on his feet.
S’Death staggered for a moment, regaining his balance, then he glared at Charlotte, his red hair standing straight up. He had said that a fox was one of his forms, and she could see the fox in him now. There was a flash of yellow in the depths of his eyes.
“I warn you, Brontës,” he said. “Don’t try that again. You think this is our last bargain, but you will cross again to your worlds, and don’t forget that I can raise the price whenever I want.”
“If you believe that, then let us go home free of charge,” Branwell said.
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “Allow us to cross over, and keep collecting your price for the rest of our lives. You win.”
She saw the doubt that crossed S’Death’s face and smiled. “He knows we’ll never come back.”
“You will!” S’Death said. He jerked a thumb toward Rogue. “That one will haunt you. And now Zamorna will, too, though what form you’ll give him even I can’t guess.”
“I assure you, I would haunt no one,” Zamorna said haughtily.
“You couldn’t help it,” S’Death said. “You’d come in your dreams. You’d long for your lost gods. I would open a door—out of the goodness of my heart, of course—and a part of you would slip through. There’s always a part that thrives in their world, the ugly parts that can’t breathe in Verdopolis, the parts they leave out. The shadowy bits.” He chortled with laughter. “You see, Genii, I’ve tied you up well in my little net.”
“But we won’t be their lost gods,” Charlotte said. “We won’t abandon our characters again. We’ll write worlds for them. We’ll write them fully, with all their . . . bits.”
She thought of Mary Henrietta, who had been the light side of Maria—the shining girl—and it came to Charlotte that she had given Verdopolis no room for darkness. For doubt. For shadows. That must change.
She glanced at Anne. “I’ll tell the truth. They will live their whole lives in our stories, and we will leave nothing out.”
“Didn’t I already live fully?” Rogue asked Emily. “I crossed to your world. What shadowy bits did you leave out of me?”
Emily thought about this for a moment. “I think you could be wickeder,” she said finally. “What do you think, Branwell?”
Branwell nodded slowly. “Yes. We’ve been holding back.”
Rogue rubbed his whiskers thoughtfully, as if this were a challenge, and Charlotte saw Anne blanch at the idea of his being even worse.
“Don’t get ahead of yourselves, Brontës,” said S’Death. “We still have our . . . negotiations to complete.”
Charlotte felt her anger rise. “Tell me, you old devil, just what do you do with our days? Do you add them to the tally of your own?”
“Not at all. A thousand girls have given me their beauty, and”—he put his hands on his cheeks and batted his eyelashes—“as you can see, it hasn’t improved this face. As for your days, I will last as long as the moor, so far as I know, with or without them.”
“Then why take them?”
S’Death leered, but when he caught sight of Zamorna’s dark countenance, his expression sobered. “Honestly, I make bargains. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. Bargains and doors, that’s all I make—that and a little mischief.” He smiled again, as if that last part were a joke, but found no one to smile with him.
“It’s our misery he wants,” Emily said. “Our regret. The bargain doesn’t really matter, as long as it’s a bad one. For us.”
He crossed his arms. “A bad bargain. That’s a thought. Make me one of those, and perhaps I shall let you go home. But it must be very bad, for you’ve put me in a very bad mood.”
“What else do we have to give?” Charlotte asked. “You have taken our days. Take all of mine, then, if it will save my siblings. Take all I have left!”
“No,” S’Death sniffed. “It’s not so many now. And the bargain isn’t bad enough.”
“Then what! What do you want! What could I give you that is worse than the knowledge that I have played a part in damning my siblings and myself to shortened lives? What could possibly be worse than what you have taken?”
But as soon as she said it, she did think of something worse. S’Death’s eyes lit up.
“That,” he said, pointing at her face. “That’s what I’ll take. Nothing less. Oh, I knew that there was one more bargain to be squeezed out of you all.”
“No,” Charlotte said, weakly. “Not that. I couldn’t bear it.”
But the look in S’Death’s eyes told her it was the only way.
They were home. They were in the children’s study, and Charlotte had only a moment to sigh with relief when she heard a gunshot.
Branwell was at his desk, and Anne was sitting on the floor. Both looked as dazed as Charlotte felt. Emily was the first to act, running to the door and throwing it open. The shot had come from the backyard. Tabby gaped as they came running down the stairs and crowded past her to the kitchen door; she must have been wondering where in the world they had come from.
Papa stood in the yard with his pistol at his side. It was dusk. Charlotte could see Grasper on the other side of the stone wall, his nose to the ground and his tail straight back. He lifted his head and barked when he saw them.
“Why, there you are,” Papa said. “Your aunt is in a terrible state. I went out looking for you wicked children, but I see you came back while I was gone—and Branwell in his dressing gown already.”
Branwell looked down at his clothes but could provide no explanation.
“What were you shooting at?” Anne asked.
“A fox just over the wall. A big one. I was afraid he was after your pheasant, Emily.”
Jasper, the pheasant in question, was sitting in a tuft of grass by the near side of the stone wall, oblivious to the danger. Emily gathered him into her arms. “Did you get him?” she asked their father. “The fox, I mean?”
She and Charlotte shared a glance.
“I thought so,” Papa said. “But Grasper can’t seem to find a body. Perhaps not.”
“It’s just as well,” Emily said, rubbing Jasper under the chin.
“You don’t mean that,” said Charlotte in surprise.
Emily looked at her and blinked. “A fox can’t help being a fox.”
“My aim was true, or so I thought,” said Papa, squinting over the wall.
“I’m sure it was,” said Charlotte.
“You’ve all missed your tea, but I will not let you miss your prayers.”
“No indeed, Papa.” Charlotte was surprised to hear the shaking in her voice.
A wave of love for her father crested over her. How selfish they all had been. Their father had lost two children already, and yet they had risked never coming back from their invented worlds. He would have wondered for the rest of his life what had happened to them.
“You should all be punished, I suppose, though you’re all far too old for it.” He hesitated. “How shall I punish you, Charlotte?”
Abruptly she threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Papa!”
“Oh!” Papa wrapped his arms around her stiffly as she began to cry. “Have you punished yourself alrea
dy, my dear? That is always the way of it. The punishments you give yourself are so much worse than anything I would give you. Is that what happened?”
“Yes, Papa.” She wiped her face. “It is.”
CHARLOTTE
EMILY BRONTË!” CHARLOTTE SAID, EMPLOYING the same tone she used when Snowflake jumped up on the kitchen table. She hadn’t even had to look over that time; she had caught a faint shimmering in the air from the corner of her eye.
“I wasn’t going to cross.” Emily spoke without looking up, pen scratching away, hair hanging down, obscuring her face. “I can’t help it if the door comes.”
They were in the children’s study, Charlotte at the window, Emily at the desk, and Anne sitting on the floor. Grasper sat on Emily’s feet.
“She’s telling the truth,” Anne said. She was organizing Branwell’s latest writings, tying them in ribbons or folding them up into little tin boxes to be put back under the floor. “You needn’t worry, Charlotte.”
The study was very tidy today, with no easels or unfinished paintings to trip over. All of Branwell’s work was on display downstairs. At that very moment, the great portrait painter William Robinson, who had studied with Sir Thomas Lawrence, who had painted the Duke of Wellington, was in the dining room viewing Branwell’s efforts. Charlotte was sure that everyone else in the house found his presence as distracting as she did—keeping their voices low and their steps soft—everyone but Emily. Emily was lost in her writing, as she had been every day since they’d returned.
“Tell us what’s happening in Gondal, my dear,” Charlotte said.
Emily took so long to answer that Charlotte thought she hadn’t heard. These days her pen moved at a rate she’d only seen during Branwell’s periods of “scribblemania.”
“The Gondals are discovering the interior of Gaaldine,” she said finally.
Charlotte looked to Anne for explanation, but her youngest sister only shrugged. Anne was the only person allowed to read the Gondal writings, but even she didn’t read all of them. Some Emily burned without showing another soul.
“These Angria stories of Branwell’s are marvelous, Charlotte,” Anne said, carefully tying the last stack of their brother’s writings. “The city of Adrianopolis is even more opulent than Verdopolis.”
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed, still frowning at Emily. “Very impressive.”
“I’m sure he’s made it so as to tempt you.”
Charlotte looked over at her younger sister now. There was a question in her words. Anne was asking when Charlotte was going to write again.
“You know, Charlotte, he will cross over to our world if you don’t write about him.”
“Branwell writes about Zamorna,” Charlotte said, “so he has no reason to . . . come looking for us.”
“I think he does. I think . . .”
“I’m going to take some of our old magazines to Michael Redman and his mother,” Charlotte interrupted with a forced smile.
“In Stanbury?” Anne said. “But Mr. Robinson—”
“Is here for Branwell, not for me. I’ll post some letters while I’m out.”
Minutes later, Charlotte came down the stairs wearing her bonnet and struggling with the button of a glove. A drawstring bag containing two letters and some of her aunt’s old magazines hung from her arm.
“Tabby!” she hissed. “You are quite incorrigible.”
Tabby had her ear to the door of the dining room but straightened up as Charlotte approached, a guilty look on her face.
“Well,” Charlotte whispered. “What are they saying?”
Tabby smiled and bent to the door again. “Nary a peep!”
Charlotte listened, too, but heard nothing, not even a footstep. They stood silent for a full minute, frowning at each other. Finally Charlotte said, “Are we certain that they’re in there?”
She knocked gently. No response.
They opened the door to find the room empty, a note propped up on the dining table. Have taken Branwell to the pub to discuss the artistic muse. W. R.
“Oh dear,” Charlotte said, looking at the paintings and sketches so carefully displayed around the living room. “And Branwell worked so hard. I do wonder if Papa’s two guineas a lesson are well spent.”
“I didn’t like to say, but he stank of whisky, that Mr. Robinson.”
Charlotte put the note into her bag. “Best to tell Papa that . . .” She changed her mind. “No. I suppose we shouldn’t lie.” She took the note out again, setting it back upon the table. She was done hiding things from her father.
Charlotte was halfway to Stanbury when she saw the shadow.
She was walking down a lane thick with blackberry bushes on either side. In the weeks since she’d made her final bargain, summer had turned to autumn. Now, though it wasn’t yet cold, there was something on the breeze that promised winter, and Charlotte was imagining the lane around her as it would be then—leafless, snow-covered, and utterly silent.
She stopped at the base of a small hill for no other reason than to admire the slate blue sky and to take a long pull of crisp air. From over the hill ahead it came: a shadow that resolved itself into a great, black dog. Charlotte’s first thought was of Emily’s gytrash. Would Zamorna take that form, too? Her heart swelled at the thought, and she took a few steps forward to greet the creature.
“Pilot!” someone called from beyond the rise.
The dog, which was only a dog, turned and cantered back to its master, disappearing from sight. Charlotte’s face burned with shame and disappointment. She’d wanted it to be Zamorna. She’d wanted him. Was this why she hadn’t been writing? Because deep down she wanted Zamorna to cross over to her, no matter what the consequences? The truth was that she’d tried to write, had wanted to write, but no words came, and the only scene she could imagine was the scene that had played out between her and S’Death.
She was passing a stile that led into a yellow field and decided to sit down on it to rest, and think.
“I will be the last,” she said aloud. There was great relief in letting these words out, even if no one could hear her. These were the words she would have said if Zamorna had come to her, the words she could speak to no one, but which were always on her lips. She realized she’d been longing for someone to talk to. Someone to tell. “I will be the last Brontë sibling.”
She squeezed her eyes tight, but still the vision of S’Death rose up before her. He had reached out his hand, palm up, and though he hadn’t spoken the words aloud, Charlotte had heard them clearly inside her head: I give you back half the days I took from you, Charlotte Brontë, enough to outlive the others, enough to mourn them all. This is my bargain.
It was their misery he wanted, that’s what Emily had said. S’Death knew the guilt Charlotte would feel in taking such an offer, in getting such an unfair reprieve.
“How can I live with it?” she asked aloud. At first she received no response but the sound of crows cawing in the brambles. Then, a voice.
“Charlotte! Charlotte Brontë!”
Something thrilled through her, passing from her head to her extremities, sharp as an electric shock. “Zamorna, is it you?” She listened. The wind sighed. Had it been Zamorna, or someone else?
“Where are you?” said the voice, louder now.
“Oh! I’m coming!” she cried, and at that moment, without thinking about it, a door appeared in front of her like a fissure of light.
Charlotte stared at it. Slowly she turned her head this way and that, looking for a flash of red fox amid the green. She saw nothing, but he must be there. S’Death. Old Tom. He would always be there, waiting for a moment of weakness.
Charlotte fumbled in her string bag for a stub of pencil. Then, setting a magazine on her knee for a desk, she held her pencil poised over the back of an envelope.
“I will not cross,” she called. “Do you hear, S’Death? I’m through with bargains.”
She gripped her pencil more tightly, trying to think of a scene. Zamorna w
ould be in Angria now. Branwell had made it a magnificent place full of perfumed gardens and alabaster towers. He’d made Zamorna king and Rogue prime minister, though their alliance was already showing cracks and wouldn’t last long. Soon Charlotte would be drawn into that story again. Perhaps she would even try to do what she had never been able to do before and resurrect Mary Henrietta. It might work.
But for now . . .
She glanced up and saw that the door still hovered in front of her.
For now she wanted to write something else. She couldn’t help but wonder what Zamorna would have been like if he had come up over that hill. What sort of man would he be in her world, if he had been born in Yorkshire? A little burlier, perhaps, a little shorter. His face not handsome, but dark, strong, and stern.
Though she did not look up, she was aware that the door was right in front of her now, almost touching the tips of her toes. A warm breeze came from it, carrying the scent of unfamiliar blossoms.
“You have lost, Old Tom,” she whispered without looking up. “I will use every extra day you gave me, and I will let none of them be miserable. I will make them a gift and not a burden. I will work and write and draw and study. And . . . and plain as I am, I will marry someone, and it will be for love. If I am to have a life of sorrows, I will not let them conquer me. I will be as brave as Emily, as honest as Anne, even as wicked as Branwell, if I must be, but I will be happy! Do you hear?”
When she glanced up, the door was gone, but Charlotte barely registered the fact. She had chosen her scene. It would be a simple one: a man and a woman in front of a fire. The woman would be herself, a plain Yorkshire governess. The man? He would be a little bit like her father, a little bit like Zamorna, perhaps a little bit like someone she hadn’t even met yet. She wasn’t quite sure. She might need some time to get the scene right.
What she did know is that she would be her true self in front of him. She would sit across from him by the fire and show him her sketches. She would be his equal, and in being so would make him live.