The Foxfire Lights

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  Lord Ransom’s face darkened. “He is ill. He cannot help it.”

  “Lady Ransom has accused him,” Hal said, blowing a puff of smoke at the ceiling. “That is reason enough to speak to him. I must either confirm her suspicions or dispel them.”

  Lord Ransom looked down at his soup, staring at it intently, as though in its depths he would find the answers. “The accusation is baseless,” he said, after a long moment. “You may take my word on that.”

  Hal frowned around his pipe. “I cannot. Your opinion is biased by your relationship to the boy—as is your wife’s. I must observe him for myself and come to my own conclusions.”

  Lord Ransom was silent, staring broodingly into his soup for a moment longer. “Very well,” he said at last. “But you must not upset him. If his nurse tells you to leave you must do so at once. Is that understood?”

  “Certainly, I will do my best not to upset him,” Hal said. He paused, drumming his fingers on the table. “I confess I am fascinated by your collection. Why did you begin it?”

  “My collection?” Lord Ransom stared at Hal. “Why should you ask about that?”

  “Curiosity,” Hal said, blowing out a puff of smoke. “You said yourself it was unique. I am a magician—it appeals to my professional interest.”

  Lord Ransom pulled at his mustache. “Well, there isn’t much to tell, really. I began it as a young man—just a bit of a lark—and before I knew it, it had become a sort of . . . hobby, I suppose.”

  “Hm,” Hal said. “A rather strange hobby, you must admit.”

  “No more than Egyptology,” Lord Ransom said. “Or any of the other hundreds of small occupations that men of my class invent for themselves. My father was fascinated by magic—you should know that. He worked with your own father when he was working on the Railroad Act. It was natural that I should fall into it.”

  There was something defensive in his tone. Hal raised an eyebrow, but did not press the issue, and the rest of the dinner passed in silence. When it was over, Lord Ransom called in Mrs. Forsythe to take us up to Matthew’s room. We followed her up the stone staircase, all the way up to the top floor, her candle throwing shadows on the portraits that lined the walls.

  “Master Matthew is not well,” she said, turning to us as we approached the door. Her candle cast strange shadows on her face. “I wonder at his Lordship letting you speak to him—it’s bound to end badly.”

  “What sort of illness does the boy have?” Hal said, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe. “For all the warning I have received not to disturb him, no one has mentioned that.”

  Mrs. Forsythe frowned, dark brows knitting together. “You shall see for yourself soon enough.”

  She pushed open the heavy door and we were led into a large room. At one end sat an enormous fireplace with a roaring fire that filled the air with a close, heavy warmth. In front of this sat a plump, grey-haired woman, knitting placidly. She looked up as we entered and her round face crumpled into a frown.

  “His Lordship didn’t say anything about a doctor,” she said. “And at this hour!”

  “They aren’t doctors, Nurse,” Mrs. Forsythe said. She lowered her voice. “They are magicians.”

  There was a stirring from the other end of the room, and a thin, fractious voice said imperiously, “Magicians? Show them here.”

  I turned to see a pale, thin boy, sitting up amongst innumerable cushions. He was all but dwarfed by the bed he lay in, a huge four-poster elaborately carved out of some dark, heavy wood—yet his grey eyes were as sharp as his father’s. He watched Hal closely as we approached his bed, led by Mrs. Forsythe.

  “Why has Father sent a magician to see me?” He lay back against his cushions, pale brows knit together. “Father never lets me see the magicians.”

  “This is Mr. Bishop, Master Matthew,” Mrs. Forsythe said. “He’s come to help his Lordship with—with the trouble.”

  “With Albert, you mean.” Matthew’s face twisted up. “Beastly baby. He’s been nothing but trouble since he came here. All he does is cry.”

  Mrs. Forsythe cut a troubled glance over to Hal. “He’s only a baby,” she said soothingly. “He can’t help it.”

  “I don’t care,” Matthew said, his eyes darkening. “It keeps me up all night—and that isn’t good for me, you know. Someone ought to shut him up.”

  “Someone is trying to do just that,” Hal said, pulling his pipe from his pocket. “Albert is under a curse.”

  “Good,” Matthew said, glaring at him. “We’d be well shut of him.”

  “Master Matthew,” Mrs. Forsythe said, in shocked tones. She glanced back over at Hal. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Don’t tell me what I mean,” Matthew said. He turned back to Hal. “I hope he dies. Does that shock you?”

  Hal regarded him coolly, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe. “Is that your aim? To shock me?”

  “Father hasn’t been to see me even once since he brought that woman and her filthy baby here,” Matthew said, ignoring the question. “Why shouldn’t I resent him? Father doesn’t even send doctors any more. I suppose I’m worthless to him now.”

  “That’s enough,” Mrs. Forsythe said. “Don’t say such things.”

  Matthew gave her a look that would have melted iron. “I’ll say what I please. I am still my father’s heir. Now go away, you stupid cow. You’re giving me a headache.”

  He lay back against the cushions and ran a hand over his forehead, closing his eyes. Mrs. Forsythe’s eyes darted between Matthew and Hal, and she ran her hands over her skirts nervously.

  “Shall I call for Nurse?” she said, glancing back at the old woman still knitting placidly by the fire. “If you’re having a headache . . .”

  “She’s even stupider than you are,” Matthew said. “God! Just leave me in peace, would you?”

  “Are the magicians upsetting you?” she said. “Shall I send them away?”

  “Didn’t I tell you to go?” Matthew sat up, glaring at her. He picked up a cushion and flung it at her. “Go!”

  Mrs. Forsythe gathered up her skirts and went, whispering something to Nurse on her way out. The door banged shut behind her, and Matthew lay back, looking pale. He was silent for a long moment before turning back to Hal.

  “I meant it,” he said, his eyes dark. “I do hope he dies. I hope he dies and that awful woman leaves. She’s done something to Father—bewitched him or something. I hate her.”

  “Bewitched him?” I said. “What do you mean?”

  Matthew glanced at me and frowned. “He isn’t the same since she came here. He’s been ill—he hardly ever comes up to see me anymore and when he does he doesn’t stay. He’s always too tired.”

  “And before?” Hal said, folding his arms over his chest. “What was he like then?”

  Matthew looked away from him, staring up at the canopy over his bed. “He used to—to talk to me. When he would come back from a trip he would show me what he’d found. But—he hasn’t done that in ages.”

  There was a wistful tone in his voice, and I felt badly for him. It could not have been easy on him, to have his father bring in a new family. “I suppose he’s very busy with the new baby,” I said. “But surely that will change.”

  “Oh, shut up,” he said, closing his eyes. “You don’t know anything about it. I’m crippled—probably dying. When Father had nothing but me, he had to care—had to make certain I lived to inherit. Now I don’t matter at all. He has precious Albert.”

  Hal watched him silently for a moment, then stood, walking over to a little table by the bed. He picked up a small paperweight, turning it over in his hands, and brought it back over to the bed. I looked over at it, and felt a sudden wistfulness of my own—it was a model of an aether-engine, built to scale. Father had had one just like it on his own desk in our old home.

  “My father designed this engine,” Hal said. “He worked with your grandfather.”

  Matthew looked at him blankly for a moment. “Don’t you
want to ask me about Albert?”

  Hal shook his head. “I think you’ve told me quite enough about Albert. I want to ask you about magic.”

  Matthew sat up and stared at him. “Why? What do you want to know?”

  Hal set the model aether-engine down on the arm of his chair. “Are you interested in magic?”

  Matthew’s gaze turned wary. “Yes. Why are you asking me about this?”

  Hal shrugged, his pipe sending smoke weaving into the air. “You said your father never lets you see magicians. Now you have a chance to speak with one—why not take advantage?”

  Matthew looked at him skeptically, then shifted his gaze to the tiny aether-engine at Hal’s elbow. He was silent for a long moment before he looked back up at Hal.

  “Did your father really build the aether-engines?” he said.

  “He really did,” Hal said. “His great work.”

  I stared at Hal, scarcely believing what I was hearing. Hal rarely spoke of Father, even to me; and when he did, he never spoke of the aether-engines that he had worked so long with Father to build. To watch him speak so casually of it to a stranger was almost unnerving.

  Matthew held out his hand, and Hal gave him the aether-engine. Matthew turned it over in his hands, his brow furrowed. “He went mad, didn’t he?” he said. “Your father.”

  A pained expression passed over Hal’s face, so briefly that I almost thought I had imagined it. “Yes,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “He did.”

  “But he was a genius,” Matthew said, still looking down at the engine. “Grandfather said so. I wonder if you have to be mad to be a genius.”

  Hal was silent for a moment, refilling his pipe. “No. Father was a genius long before he went mad.”

  “Did you work with him?” Matthew looked up. At Hal’s nod, his face seemed to light from within. “What was it like?”

  Hal tamped down the tobacco in his pipe, and answered without looking at Matthew. “He taught me everything he knew about magic—but there was much he didn’t know. And that is what killed him.”

  “What didn’t he know?” Matthew said, picking up the aether-engine again. “He knew more than anybody else, Grandfather said.”

  Hal lit his pipe and clenched it between his teeth, looking away into the fireplace. “And that was the problem—it is always wrong to assume you know everything merely because you know more than others. That was Father’s great mistake—else he would have recognized what was happening to him for what it was.”

  This was beyond even the aether-engines—Hal never spoke of Father’s madness. It had taken months, and my being attacked by a cursed beast, for him to even mention it to me. I felt anger bubbling up in my chest—for Hal to speak so freely of Father’s curse to this boy we had scarcely met, when he would not even discuss Father’s papers with me—I stood. All at once the room was far too close and stuffy, and I wanted air.

  “Sit down, Jem,” Hal said. “We’re not finished here.”

  “I—I want some fresh air,” I said, my voice tight. “It’s too hot in here.”

  Matthew gave me an odd look, and reached over to the little table beside his bed. He took up a little bell that sat there and gave it a sharp ring, in a manner quite reminiscent of his father. Nurse put aside her knitting and ambled over to the bed.

  “What can I do for you, duck?” she said. “Would you like me to send the magicians away?”

  Matthew scowled at her. “If you even think of sending them away, I shall have a fit like you have never seen. I want a window open.”

  “You’ll catch a chill,” Nurse said, half-heartedly.

  “I said I want a window open,” Matthew said, through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, all right.” She ambled away from the bed and went to one of the windows, wrenching it open. A cool breeze wafted through the room.

  “There. That’s better,” Matthew said. He turned to Hal. “Now, what were you saying? What should your father have known?”

  Hal glanced at me, raising an eyebrow, and I resumed my seat. He turned back to Matthew, puffing at his pipe. “He was cursed—but he didn’t see that, because he didn’t know what to look for.”

  “Because curses are old, old magic,” Matthew said, his eyes glittering in the lamp light. “Mrs. Forsythe has told me that. She doesn’t think much of the magicians Father has in to see the collection.”

  “No?” Hal’s eyebrows went up. “Why not?”

  “Like you, she says they think they know too much,” Matthew said. “Her nan was a hedgewitch, you know. She’s told me lots of stories about the old ways.”

  “Has she?” Hal said. “What sorts of stories?”

  Matthew’s face took on a strange expression, the flickering light of the fireplace casting eerie shadows across it. “Fairy tales—the sort where everyone gets what they deserve. Especially wicked stepmothers.”

  “I see,” Hal said. He stood, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “Well, this has been enlightening. But I think we had better let you rest.”

  “I’m not done talking to you,” Matthew said, the strange expression fading into a scowl. “I have lots of questions.”

  “But I am finished speaking with you,” Hal said. “I’ve had a long day and wish to rest myself. You have been most helpful. Good night.”

  And with that, we left the room, leaving Matthew staring curiously after us. Nurse shut the door behind us, and I turned to Hal.

  “What was that about?” I said, my tone more accusatory than I’d expected. “Why did you—he’s a stranger. Why would you tell him so much about Father?”

  He blinked at me. “He has an interest in magic—I thought I should use that to my advantage. And it worked quite well.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t—you won’t even look at Father’s notes anymore, and yet . . .”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, sounding genuinely confused. “This has nothing to do with Father’s notes. I needed to know what Matthew knew of magic, that’s all. He was clearly fascinated by Father’s work—so I used that.”

  “And what did you even learn?” I said. “Matthew hates his brother and he’s heard fairy tales. I suppose the case is halfway solved now.”

  “Not even remotely,” he said, frowning around his pipe. “Did you not hear what I said to Matthew? It is dangerous to assume that you have all the facts. But I am beginning to gather pieces of the puzzle.”

  “Well, I hope it is an interesting one,” I said, and went down the stairs, leaving him behind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I went down to my room, but when I had gotten into bed, I could not sleep. I was still too angry with Hal, although it was fading into a sort of frustrated confusion—there was some reason Hal would not discuss Father’s notes with me any longer, something beyond the oft-repeated maxim against making conclusions on too little evidence, and I wished he would tell me what it was. I felt left out in the dark, as I so often did when Hal was turning something over in his mind—a feeling made all the worse by Hal’s freedom with Matthew.

  I stared up at the ceiling, trying to put it out of my mind and sleep, but I could think of nothing else—and my head was throbbing. The herb packet that Hal had put in the fireplace had burnt out long before, and the headache that had started in the nursery had come back in full force. I rubbed at my temples, wishing that I had at least troubled Hal for another packet before quarreling with him about Matthew.

  As I lay there, rubbing at my head and trying to sleep, the stillness of the night was broken by crying—it came from the nursery, one floor below. It was a baby’s cry, unmistakably so, and yet it was different from any child’s cry I’d ever heard. There was a piercing quality to it, a haunting sound like wind whistling over the moors, and it gave me a shiver up my spine. It came in one loud, continuous wail, and I threw my pillow over my head to shut it out.

  Then, just as suddenly as the crying had started, it stopped. The silence was almost as eerie as the wailing had been. I la
y still beneath my pillow, feeling an unaccountable sense of anticipation, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. I heard a sudden rush of wind, and a blue light pooled through the window. I jumped out of bed and rushed to the window, but by the time I had reached it, the light was gone.

  For a moment I stood there in the darkness, staring out the window, and feeling a bit foolish—nothing had happened. It was only a trick of the light. The baby had been soothed to sleep by his mother.

  And then another cry rang out—a woman’s scream this time, full of anguish. I turned from the window and went still as I heard the cry once more. The door to my room swung open, and Hal appeared, his face pale in the light of the lamp he carried.

  “That was Lady Ransom,” he said. “Come.”

  I dragged on a dressing-gown as I followed him down the stairs to the nursery. We met Lord Ransom on the way; pale and disheveled, his eyes large and alarmed in the darkness.

  “What has happened?” he said. “Was that my wife?”

  Hal pushed past him wordlessly, making his way to the nursery. He flung open the door, and there sat Lady Ransom. She was crumpled on the floor, clutching a small blanket to her face and weeping bitterly. Addy knelt beside her mistress, her long arm draped awkwardly about Lady Ransom’s shoulders. Her freckled face was pale, and went even paler when her gaze fell on her master.

  “It weren’t my fault, your Lordship,” she said urgently. “There was nothing I could’ve done to stop ‘im.”

  Lord Ransom stared at her, his eyes wide. “Stop whom? From doing what?”

  Lady Ransom gave an anguished sob, and let the blanket fall from her face. “Alberto,” she said, her voice hoarse and shaking. “Oh, Arthur . . . he’s gone. My baby . . .”

  She let out another sob, and buried her face in the blanket once more. Lord Ransom stared for a moment longer, then stepped past his wife to the child’s crib, and then to the window, which was standing open, curtains fluttering in a chill breeze.

  He stood there at the open window, looking out. “I don’t . . .,” he said, turning around to face us. “How—who? Where is my child?”