The Foxfire Lights

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  The study was a cavernous room with a stone floor and a roaring fireplace, in front of which lay a finely woven rug. Before the fire, two chairs and a sofa crafted of a fine soft leather were arranged, and to one side Lord Ransom sat at a large desk, the fire reflected in its polished mahogany surface. But all of this was dwarfed by the curio cabinets and shelves that lined the room—here sat a shrunken head, there the shillelagh that Lord Ransom had brought to show Hal, among dozens of other curiosities, all carefully labeled and catalogued. I forgot myself for a moment and stared openly around the room.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Lord Ransom said, sounding pleased. “I can say that, though it’s mine—it’s taken me long enough to build it. I’ve been working on it since—since I was a very young man.”

  I nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I should say not,” Lord Ransom said. “It’s the only collection of its kind in the country.”

  Hal walked over to one of the shelves, and bent down, frowning. “Have you any idea what these items do?”

  Lord Ransom waved a hand. “Most of them don’t do anything. I’ve had magicians in to look at all of them—but the rest of the world has such a primitive idea of magic.”

  Hal stood, raising an eyebrow. “I wonder,” he murmured. Then, turning to Lord Ransom, he said, “Well, we have come, as promised.”

  “Indeed,” Lord Ransom said, gesturing at the chairs before his desk, and we took our seats. Now that my attention had been drawn away from the cabinets, I realized that he looked terribly weary—his face drawn and haggard and his sandy hair in disarray. I thought he must not have slept at all. “My wife should be down shortly—if she can pull herself away from Albert. She spends much of her time in the nursery now.”

  He kept his tone mild, but there was an undercurrent of sadness in his voice. He had a carved stone figure in his hands that he kept turning over restlessly, glancing at the door. After a long moment, there was a knock, and he bade whoever it was to come in.

  The door opened to reveal one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen—small and slender, she had a heart-shaped face with large liquid dark eyes and a full mouth that fell open to reveal even white teeth. With her olive skin and glossy dark hair pinned haphazardly back from her face, she seemed as foreign to this lonesome English manor as any of the items on Lord Ransom’s shelves. My attention was drawn from Lord Ransom and his curio cabinets, and it was a moment before I realized I was staring. She smiled at me and I looked away, feeling the color rise in the back of my neck.

  “Mrs. Forsythe tells me I have been summoned.” Her English was careful, the barest hint of an accent behind the words, and there was something almost insolent in her tone. “Why? I was with Alberto.”

  “Albert,” Lord Ransom corrected, reflexively.

  Her mouth flattened into a thin line, but she did not press the issue. “I wish you would not send that creature to summon me,” she said. “I do not like the way she looks at me.”

  Lord Ransom ran a hand over his forehead. “Isabella, this is Mr. Bishop. Mr. Bishop, my wife.”

  Upon hearing my brother’s name, her entire demeanor changed—she stepped forward, all insolence gone from her manner, and clasped Hal’s hand in both of her own, her eyes wide. “Oh, Mr. Bishop—thank God you’ve come.”

  “Er—yes,” Hal said, awkwardly extricating his hand. “His Lordship has explained the trouble to me.”

  “Has he?” She turned to her husband. “And have you told him who is responsible?”

  “Isabella,” Lord Ransom said, a warning in his tone.

  It was a warning she ignored. She turned back to Hal, her dark eyes alight with fury. “He asks me who would curse a baby—when the answer is as plain as the mustache on his face.”

  “Isabella,” Lord Ransom said again, his tone sharp. “That is enough. Matthew is only a boy—and my son. I would thank you to remember that.”

  She tossed her head, lifting her chin stubbornly. “Well, he is not my son. And I have seen the way he looks at Alberto—like he would smother him if he could.”

  Lord Ransom’s face reddened. “That is . . .”

  Hal cleared his throat, and both Lord and Lady turned to him with startled expressions, as though they had forgotten we were there.

  “Who is Matthew?” Hal said, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe. “You did not mention him.”

  Lady Ransom gave her husband a scorching look, and Lord Ransom looked away, picking up the stone figure on his desk and turning it over in his hands once more.

  “Matthew is my eldest son—the child of my first wife,” he said. “And he is a very sick boy. I will not have him troubled.”

  “Sick!” Lady Ransom folded her arms over her chest. “He is not nearly so sick as he pretends to be—to have all of you dancing attendance upon him.”

  “That is enough,” Lord Ransom said, the last word sharp as a whip crack. He clutched the stone figure so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and his grey eyes were hard. “I will not have him troubled.”

  Lady Ransom looked down, smoothing her skirts nervously. “I will go back to Alberto now,” she said, after a moment’s silence, in a voice that was scarcely more than a murmur.

  Lord Ransom waved a hand at her, and she turned and fairly fled from the room. Lord Ransom watched her go, weariness settling back over the features of his face.

  “I should not have taken that tone with her,” he said, setting the stone figure down carefully. “But she makes me so—so damned angry when she speaks that way of Matthew.”

  “Has she reason to speak so?” Hal said.

  Lord Ransom looked at him strangely. “Of course she hasn’t. I told you—the boy is ill. He is all but confined to his room. He couldn’t possibly . . .”

  “One need not be able-bodied to perform a spell,” Hal said, blowing a puff of smoke at the ceiling. “Does he resent his brother?”

  A muscle jumped in Lord Ransom’s jaw. “I did not bring you here to accuse him.”

  “No,” Hal said equably. “But you did bring me here to learn the truth—and I warned you that it might be unpleasant.”

  Lord Ransom sighed, running a hand over his face. “Yes. But it mustn’t be—it can’t have been Matthew. You understand?”

  Hal gave him a long, appraising look. “I think I do. I should like to see the nursery, if I might.”

  “Yes,” Lord Ransom said. He took a bell from his desk and gave it a sharp ring. “Yes, that would be best. Mrs. Forsythe will take you.”

  He rang the bell once more, and the study door opened, revealing the sharp-faced housekeeper with her piercing blue eyes. Lord Ransom instructed her to take us to the nursery, and we followed her out into the passage, the heavy door swinging shut behind us.

  The nursery lay only a few doors down from the study. Mrs. Forsythe pushed open the door, and I was struck anew by the damp, dank smell of the air—heavy and close, with the odor of a plant that had been let to sit too long in water hovering around the edges. It made my head ache. Yet there was nothing about the nursery which suggested such a smell—everything was covered in clean white linen, including the young girl who sat tending the fire. One window was slightly open, letting a breeze blow through the room. Mrs. Forsythe stepped inside and shut the window with a loud snap.

  The girl at the fire jumped at the sound, and Mrs. Forsythe gave her an exasperated look. “Addy, you simple girl. How often have I told you that you should never leave this window open? Young Master Albert will take a chill.”

  Addy nodded, her pale blue eyes wide in her freckled face. “It’s only—it was so musty in here—I thought it must be bad for him.”

  “Well, I’ll thank you to listen to those who know better from now on,” Mrs. Forsythe said coolly.

  “Yes’m,” Addy said, looking back down at her fire. “Won’t happen again.”

  “Oh, let her be,” Lady Ransom said. She sat in a rocking chair before the fire, cradling a small b
oy that could only have been Albert. “In my country, we have all the windows open. The fresh air is good for children.”

  Mrs. Forsythe sniffed. “I’m only looking out for the child. This is not your country—children have died of chill before, you know.”

  Lady Ransom clutched her small child closer and gave Mrs. Forsythe a cold stare. “You are dismissed.”

  Mrs. Forsythe lifted her chin and turned away, stalking from the room with the air of one who had been mortally offended. Lady Ransom watched her go, that same cold stare on her face. When the door had shut behind her, Lady Ransom kissed her small son on the top of his head, and looked up at Hal with wary eyes.

  “My husband sent you?”

  Hal shook his head. “I wanted to see the child for myself—he is, after all, the subject of my case.”

  She hesitated a moment, then loosened her grip on the child, holding him on her lap. He was very like his mother—all dark eyes and hair, but porcelain-pale and very thin. His big eyes stared out dull and blank, and he was as limp and lifeless as a doll. Her chin trembled as she looked at him.

  “He was always such a happy baby,” she said, stroking his hair back from his forehead. “He would laugh . . .” She broke off, choking back a sob.

  Hal crouched down in front of her, taking one of the baby’s hands and turning it over. It was as smooth and pale as his face, and Hal frowned, tucking it back into the blanket. He stood, thrusting his own hands into his pockets. “You have had a doctor in to see the child?”

  She nodded, pulling the child closer. “He could not explain it—could not help it, either. Oh, I wish we had never come to this place!”

  “He has only been ill since your return?” Hal rocked back on his heels. “No sign of anything before?”

  She shook her head. “No—I told you. He was so—so full of life. And now look. And my husband—he is different, too.”

  Hal frowned. “How so?”

  “I met Arthur in Argentina—he was staying at my father’s home, while he searched for one of his magical things,” she said, rocking the baby as she spoke. “He was—he was so different from all the men I knew. So intelligent—so elegant. And he was—he was so kind. He never raised his voice at me there. Oh, we were so happy.”

  Her voice drifted off softly, and she laid her cheek against the top of her son’s head. “It is dreadful here,” she said quietly, after a moment. “Arthur is always so tired—and everything makes him angry. And that boy! You should hear him in a fit—he sounds like the Devil himself. I want—I want to go home.”

  There was such a quality of sadness to her voice that it seemed to fill the little room; for a moment we all stood silently before it. Then Hal went to the window, looking out. He stood there for a moment, rocking back on his heels, before turning to Addy.

  “You were the first to see the lights?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, fumbling clumsily with her poker. “Bright blue things they were, floating about his head. I would’ve gone to shoo them off him, but I was froze to the spot.”

  “I have seen them too,” Lady Ransom said. “Just as she describes. And then the face—oh!” She cuddled her child more closely. “That was worst of all.”

  Hal turned back to the window. “What sort of face was it?”

  “It was like a man’s face,” she said, shuddering at the memory. “But not a man’s face at all—it was made of light—bright blue light. He just floated out there, watching—watching my baby.”

  “Hm,” Hal said. “And the child—he doesn’t sleep?”

  “No, sir,” Addy said. “Nor eat, neither. He’s like a little doll baby—except when he cries.”

  Hal ran a hand over his chin, his brow furrowed. “Well, it is certainly strange—just as Lord Ransom described it.”

  “Can you help him?” Lady Ransom looked at him beseechingly, her dark eyes wide. “Can you save him?”

  Hal pushed his hands into his pockets. “I can’t promise anything—at this point, I scarcely understand what the trouble is, much less how to solve it.”

  “You might begin by speaking to Matthew,” she said, venom lacing through her tone. “I am certain that he has done this—I do not know how, but he has done this.”

  “What makes you so certain?” I said. “He’s only a boy.”

  “He hates me,” she said. “I have caught him watching from the window when I am walking in the garden—his face! And when he looks at Alberto—I can see he would kill him if he could. Of course, my husband tells me I am imagining it. But now . . .”

  She looked down at her baby, who stared back at her vacantly. “In my country, we have a legend—that a person can curse you just by looking at you. If a person hates you enough—he can call down evil just by staring. Do you believe in such things?”

  “I believe that there is truth in many legends,” Hal said gravely. “But in my experience—magic is rarely so simple.”

  She shook her head, rocking her baby. “Hatred is very simple, Mr. Bishop.”

  “Perhaps,” Hal said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out one of the herbs packets, tossing it on the fire. A pleasant odor of sweetgrass and sage filled the room; I took a deep breath, and felt something ease in my chest. Hal turned back to Lady Ransom. “This is as much as I can do for now—perhaps it will help him sleep.”

  Lady Ransom thanked him, and her attention turned to her baby, rocking him and humming a tune I did not recognize as she looked down at his blank, staring face. There were tears shining in her eyelashes as she looked down, and I was glad when Addy stood and offered to show us to our rooms.

  “How terrible,” I said, as the door to the nursery closed behind us. “That poor child—and poor Lady Ransom. Do you know what the trouble is, Hal?”

  He took his pipe from his pocket and began filling it, frowning as he tamped down the tobacco. “Not yet. But I am certain that the child is under a curse—the magic in that room was unmistakable.”

  I nodded, rubbing my forehead—the headache the magic had given me still lingered. “Do you think—could he be a changeling, like Cecilia?”

  His frown deepened as he stuck his pipe between his teeth. “If he is, it’s a very different sort of changeling. But it’s possible—too soon to say.”

  He looked at the gangly girl leading us up the wide staircase. “Addy—does your mistress quarrel with Mrs. Forsythe often?”

  “Eh—I wouldn’t call it quarreling, sir,” she said, looking down at her feet. “But Mrs. Forsythe has her ideas, you know—she’s kind of set in her ways, like. And her Ladyship don’t always like it.”

  “Hm,” Hal said, thrusting his hands in his pockets. Smoke began billowing from his pipe, and we walked the rest of the way in silence.

  Addy led us to a suite of rooms on the third floor, just above Lord Ransom’s study. Our bags had already been brought up, and I sat down heavily on my bed, leaning back against the pillows. Hal walked over to the fireplace, where a fire had already been made up, and tossed in one of his herb packets before sitting down at the desk. He folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

  “Do you suppose there’s any truth to this idea that Matthew cast the curse?” I said.

  He opened his eyes and frowned at me. “How could I possibly have an opinion? We’ve not even met the boy.”

  I shrugged. “It was only a question.”

  He closed his eyes again, ending the conversation. I lay back, breathing in the sweetgrass and sage smell of the herb packet, and felt myself growing drowsy. I had just begun drifting into sleep when Hal’s voice startled me awake again.

  “Of course, what I’m most curious about is Lord Ransom’s collection,” he said.

  I blinked and sat up, startled at this abrupt non-sequitur. “What? Why?”

  “A strange sort of avocation for a peer, don’t you think?” he mused. “I wonder why he has made it.”

  “Why not?” I said, lying back down on the pillows. “He can collect whatever he likes, can
’t he? What does that have to do with Albert?”

  He made a noncommittal noise, and lapsed back into silence, while I drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I must have been very tired after our journey, for the next time I awakened, it was because I was being called down to dinner. I made my way down to the dining room to find my brother and our hosts already at table. There was a melancholy air about the three of them; Lady Ransom was pale and wan, and looked as though she had been crying. Lord Ransom’s face was grey and haggard, and he looked even more tired in the candlelight of the dining room than he had in his study. For his part, Hal had not given over the brooding mood he had been in when I fell asleep; he sat at table in a pose remarkably similar to the one I had left him in—arms folded over his chest and pipe billowing smoke about his head.

  I took a seat next to Hal, who did not acknowledge my presence. Lady Ransom gave me a small, shaky smile and Lord Ransom nodded at me curtly. The maid brought in the soup, and we began eating, in an increasingly uncomfortable silence.

  It was Hal who broke it, midway through the soup. “I should like to speak to Matthew,” he said.

  Lady Ransom looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and then glanced over to her husband. Lord Ransom set his soup spoon down, clattering it against the side of his bowl, and frowned at Hal, his forehead creasing.

  “I thought I made it very clear that he was not to be disturbed,” he said. “Matthew is a very sick boy. He is quite—sensitive.”

  “Yes, you were quite clear,” Hal said. “Still, he is a part of your household—and therefore relevant to my investigation. I should like to speak to him.”

  Lady Ransom glanced at her husband, her dark eyes unreadable. “I think it is a very good idea.”

  Her husband pulled at his mustache, his frown deepening. “I don’t. I think it is a very dangerous idea. You know what Matthew is like—how things upset him.”

  “Yes, I know very well,” she said. “And that is how he gets his way—he makes it so unpleasant when he doesn’t.”