“Will it hurt?” he said after a moment, very quietly. “When he—when he takes me away, I mean.”
A shudder went through me at the memory of the terrible pain I had felt when the spirit grabbed me, and my hand went involuntarily to cover my arm. Hal frowned at me, before turning back to Matthew.
“I do not know,” he said. “It is possible—in fact it may hurt a great deal. I can’t say.”
Matthew stared up at the ceiling miserably, his hands clutching at the quilt. “Aren’t you going to do anything? Aren’t you meant to stop it?”
Hal shook his head. “If the spirit is bound to take you, it is beyond my power to stop it. The only way to accomplish that would be to break the curse—and you have been remarkably unhelpful to that end.”
“But I’ve told you all I know,” Matthew said. “I don’t see . . .”
“Never mind,” Hal said, leaning back in his chair. “It is not material—what matters is that once the curse is broken, you and your brother will be returned.”
Matthew did not look in the least reassured by this, his face pale and wan against his pillows. We lapsed into silence once more. I rubbed at my arm, the memory of the spirit taking hold of it still at the forefront of my mind—aided along by the still-building smell of fetid bog water, which had not abated in the least, despite the open window.
The fog crept into the room without my noticing it, until it had built up into a miasma floating at our feet. Nurse’s needles had stopped clacking, and she was staring at the mist with wide eyes.
“That can’t be good for him,” she said, her voice hoarse. “You ought to . . .”
Hal silenced her with a wave of his hand, his eyes never leaving the mist rolling in through the open window. It was no ordinary mist—it was thick, and it glowed a faint blue, as though lit from within. These lights brightened, flying up from the mist to circle round Matthew’s bed, dancing around him mockingly. Matthew shrank back against the pillows, his breathing rapid.
“No,” he whispered. “I don’t want to—I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!”
But his protests were to no avail, for a moment later the man with the lantern floated in on the fog, the moans of his lantern filling the room. He glanced at me with his hollow eyes, and all the warmth fled from me, as though the fire had been put out.
“Not yet,” he said, in his deep and somber tone. “Not you—not yet.”
My arm gave a throb, and I clutched it to my chest. The spirit turned away from me and floated toward Matthew. Matthew stared up at him, wild-eyed, his breath coming in quick sharp gasps. The spirit stretched out an arm, just touching Matthew on the chest—and where they had been suddenly there was a column of bright blue flame. There was a sound like a scream, and then the room was dark and cold. Matthew was gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For a moment after Matthew disappeared, the room was perfectly still—no sound save the wind keening over the moors, no movement save the fluttering of the curtains before the still open window. My legs were trembling, and I sat down on the edge of the bed, still clutching my arm. Hal stood still as a statue, frowning at the place where Matthew had been.
Then there was a small, frightened whimper from the corner of the room, and I turned to see Nurse, kneeling upon the floor, her knitting discarded in a heap. She was white-faced and shaking, her hands covering her mouth.
“Oh God,” she whispered, her voice thin and quavering. “Oh God, save us from evil.”
A cold gust of wind billowed out the curtains, and Hal stepped forward, shutting the windows with a click. He turned around, his face in shadow against the moonlight, and directed Nurse to make up the fire. She stared at him, unmoving.
“The fire,” he repeated, his voice very calm. “Come now—we must have light, and the room is cold.”
Nurse blinked, and slowly gathered herself together, taking up her knitting. Hal helped her to her feet, and she stumbled over to the fireplace, poking at the coals. After a moment, the fire came up again, feeble and flickering. I shivered, thinking of the shadow, and wanted to move closer to the fireplace—but I could not make myself stand.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the passage, and the door was flung open. Lord Ransom stood framed in the doorway, breathing heavily, as though he had run up the stairs. He snapped his head over to the empty bed, his face going grey.
“Matthew . . .” he said hoarsely. “Then he is—it has . . .”
“Yes,” Hal said, with the same deliberately calm tone he had used on Nurse. “The spirit has been and gone—and Matthew is with him.”
There were more footsteps, and voices in the passage, and Mrs. Forsythe appeared in the doorway behind Lord Ransom, her dour-faced husband following. When she saw the empty bed, her hand flew to her mouth.
“No,” she said, her voice trembling. “No, not him—not Master Matthew . . .”
“Shall I make up a party, my Lord?” Forsythe said.
“A party?” Lord Ransom said blankly. He had moved into the room now, walking toward the bed like a man in a dream—as though he wasn’t quite aware that he was doing it. When he reached it, he stretched out a hand, smoothing over the quilt. “I don’t believe—no. We—we shall not find Matthew.”
His voice was shaking as he spoke, and he stood there, smoothing the quilt, with an empty expression, as though all feeling and thought had been drained from him. Mrs. Forsythe stepped forward, but he waved a hand at her.
“Go and see to my wife,” he said, without looking up. “She is—this has been very hard on her.”
Mrs. Forsythe’s mouth tightened into a frown, but she left, taking her husband with her. Silence fell over the room once more, and I shivered. Nurse had gotten the fire back into a respectable state, but I felt no warmth from it. Hal glanced over at me with a frown, and strode over to the fireplace, reaching into a pocket and flinging one of his herb packets into it. The smell of sage and sweetgrass filled the room and I felt the chill begin to leave my bones.
“My sons,” Lord Ransom said, at last, still staring down at the quilt. His voice was hollow and very quiet. “I never thought—God help me, is this what he meant?”
“What do you mean?” Hal said, filling his pipe. “What who meant?”
“My father,” Lord Ransom said. “When he died—I was there, at the last. And he said to me, ‘There is a reckoning to come.’ His last words . . .”
“What?” Hal had gone perfectly still, his hands frozen in the act of tamping down tobacco. “A reckoning? You are certain that is what he said?”
Lord Ransom looked up, his face weary. “Of course—it was the last thing he said to me. That he was leaving me a debt—and there was a reckoning to come. I never—I didn’t know what he meant. His affairs were in order—but when Matthew was born—and Catherine died . . .”
His trailed off, running a hand over his face. “Never mind. I am tired—I ramble.”
“No,” Hal said, still frozen in place. He had gone very pale. “No, I don’t believe you ramble at all.”
Lord Ransom gave him a strange look. “But it doesn’t matter. Albert is gone—Matthew is gone—and what am I to do?”
Hal went silent for a moment, staring down at his pipe. He finished tamping down the tobacco, very carefully, and lit it, before speaking again.
“You wait,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “The rest of the puzzle will reveal itself in time. But I must warn you—there may be danger ahead for you.”
“What do you mean?” Lord Ransom said, jerking his head around to face Hal. “What sort of danger?”
“That you may be the third person the spirit seeks,” Hal said, blowing out a ring of smoke. “Or perhaps your wife—but you seem altogether more likely. Unless you have another relative about.”
A very odd expression passed over Lord Ransom’s face then—a flash of terrible fear, quickly extinguished, and his face rearranged into a blank expression. “No—no, I haven’t.”
Hal raised an eyeb
row. “No? Well, then—I am surprised that you had not considered the danger to yourself.”
Lord Ransom looked back down at the quilt, smoothing his hand over it once more. “I was—my sons were in danger. I had not a thought to spare for myself. And Isabella—what of her? If—if Matthew has done this thing . . . I mean to say, he has always resented her.”
Hal frowned around his pipe, shifting his gaze to the balcony window. “She may yet be in danger—but if anything, I think tonight has demonstrated that Matthew did not cast the curse.”
“Did not—but he confessed,” Lord Ransom said, staring at Hal. “He said that he . . .”
“A mere confession means nothing,” Hal said. “Especially when it is against all the evidence. He knew nothing of the spell circle nor of the third person—if he had cast the curse he would have had an answer for those questions.”
Lord Ransom’s shoulders slumped, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, a dazed expression on his face. “Not Matthew—thank God. But who? Why?”
“Those questions remain,” Hal said. His frown deepened. “And indeed, having eliminated Matthew—I fear the question is less clear now that it was before.”
The room slipped into silence. Lord Ransom looked down at the quilt again, his face filled with sadness, and I began to feel that we were intruding on his personal grief. I pushed myself to my feet, and had to blink back dizziness. When I had gathered myself together I went over to Hal, who still stood by the window. He had his hands in his pockets, and he was staring out across the moors with a strangely intense expression.
“Hal,” I said, but he did not turn. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he jerked his head around, startled. I nodded back over to Lord Ransom, and kept my voice low. “Hadn’t we better go?”
He nodded, and we took our leave. Once the door to the room had closed behind us, I took a deep breath, clearing my head. It was good to be out of the close warmth of the room and the thick cloying odor of the magic that filled it.
Hal strode on ahead of me down the stairs, his pipe billowing out smoke. “A reckoning,” he muttered. “Why should he say that?”
I frowned, remembering the look on his face when Lord Ransom had mentioned his father’s last words. “Does that mean something to you?”
He stopped short, so that I had to catch myself to avoid running into him, but did not turn around to face me. For a long moment, he said nothing, and I waited, biting back the questions that came into my mind.
“It’s—it’s to do with Father,” he said, finally. “Something Father left—but I can’t talk about it yet. It’s too . . .” He let the sentence trail off, still not facing me.
I went stock-still on the stairs. “Father?” I said, my voice choked. “I don’t remember anything like that—what . . . ?”
“I said I can’t talk about it yet,” he said sharply, cutting me off. Then he sighed, running a hand over his face. “I have to—to think about it first. I don’t want you to—never mind.”
I stared at him, his words stinging. “Don’t want me to what? I thought—how am I meant to come up with my own theories if you never share any information?”
“Never mind,” he said, starting down the stairs again. “We must focus on the case at present. There will be time to speak of Father later.”
“Will there?” I said, hotly. “It seems to me that there has been plenty of time to speak of Father before—and yet you never do.”
He sighed again, finally turning around to face me. His expression was strained, his face still rather pale. “Jem, don’t—I must work it out for myself. But first—I must finish my work here.”
“Our work,” I said, my anger fading. He looked so tired—and I was tired, myself. It was no time to pick a fight. “All right. If Matthew didn’t cast the curse—who did?”
“That is the question,” he said, relief in his tone. “Who else could have had a motive for it? But, more importantly—what happened to Lord Ransom’s ancestor? If I had the answer to that—the case might be solved.”
“Lord Ransom’s ancestor?” I said, frowning. “But—what could he have to do with Albert? He died ages before Albert was born—or Matthew.”
“Nevertheless—there is a connection,” he said. “You found it yourself—the same spell, but older. It’s far too great a coincidence that the same spell should befall two—no, three now—people in the same family.”
“Then perhaps we are looking in the wrong place,” I said, chewing at my lip. “If the spell was cast so long ago—it may be no one here who has done it.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I do not think so—I believe that the answer will show itself within the family.”
I frowned, puzzled by that—but I had no chance to ask him, for as we reached the second floor, we were greeted by the sound of a woman weeping bitterly. At first, I thought it must be Lady Ransom—but as I peered down the passage, I saw the shadow of a woman, leaning against the wall, her hands covering her face. I turned to Hal, who was watching her with an odd expression, and we went over to her. She looked up as we approached, and I was startled to see that it was Mrs. Forsythe—her blue eyes bright in the moonlight, and made even brighter by the red that rimmed them. She glared at Hal.
“A fine mess you’ve made of things,” she said, her voice hoarse. “It wasn’t supposed to—Master Matthew shouldn’t have gone. He should have been safe.”
“But there was nothing we could have done,” I said. “If the spirit meant to take him . . .”
“No,” she said fiercely, shaking her head. “He should have been safe. He’s a sick boy—what do you think this will do to him?”
“You are fond of him?” Hal said.
She swung around to face him. “I am. What of it? I nursed that boy—he was born just after my own Jack, and with his mother gone, I—how could you let this happen?”
“I have let nothing happen,” Hal said coolly, frowning around his pipe. “The spirit has contracted to take three people—and I cannot break the curse until I know why.”
“Three?” Mrs. Forsythe’s face went very pale in the moonlight. “Then—another will be taken?”
“Undoubtedly so,” Hal said, folding his arms over his chest. “I fear Lord Ransom may be next.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide. “His Lordship? But why?”
“Because the spirit seeks three relatives,” Hal said. “Keep your tonics close at hand for your master—and your mistress also.”
“Her?” Mrs. Forsythe’s tone was scathing. “I don’t know why she doesn’t leave already. Anyone with any sense would have.”
“But her baby,” I said, scandalized. “Of course she can’t leave him.”
Mrs. Forsythe tossed her head. “I suppose not. But she—everything has been wrong since she came here. I don’t . . .” She broke off, clearing her throat. “I mustn’t speak like that. I must—yes, I will see to them both.”
“Very good,” Hal said, folding his arms over his chest. “Until we know who the third person is, we must treat every member of the family as being in danger.”
Mrs. Forsythe turned away from him. “Yes,” she said, her voice hollow and shaking. “Yes, I see that. Well—I must return to her Ladyship.”
“Then we shall join you,” he said. “I should like to speak to her.”
“Is that necessary?” Her voice was still unsteady, but she managed a sharp tone nevertheless. “Her Ladyship is very tired.”
“Yes,” Hal said evenly. “It is necessary.”
She clicked her tongue in annoyance, but did not further protest as we followed her back into Lady Ransom’s room. Addy was poking at the fire, and looked up as we came in, her eyes wide and freckles standing out against the pallor of her skin. She darted her eyes back to the bed, where Lady Ransom lay back against the pillows, her slender hands folded over the quilt, and a distant look in her eyes.
“Why are you still here, Mr. Bishop?” she said, without looking at us. Her tone was empty, devoid of
sadness or emotion of any kind—the blank, dead tone of someone who no longer feels anything. “My child will never be found. We know that now.”
“Would your Ladyship like a tonic?” Mrs. Forsythe said from the doorway, where she stood glaring daggers at Hal’s back. “It would help you to sleep.”
Lady Ransom waved a hand listlessly at her. “I don’t care. Do as you please.”
Mrs. Forsythe nodded curtly and left, the door shutting behind her. Hal frowned at the door, then turned back to Lady Ransom.
“You are mistaken,” he said quietly. “The confession was a false one.”
Lady Ransom turned to look at Hal, her eyes wide. “False? What do you mean?”
“I mean that Matthew did not cast that spell,” he said. “He could not tell us how to retrieve your son because he did not know how the boy had been lost.”
She lay back against the pillows, looking a bit dazed. “I don’t understand—does this mean—can you find my child?”
“It is still possible,” Hal said, rocking back on his heels. “But, as I told your husband—I must first understand this spell. And having eliminated Matthew . . .”
“But why?” She sat up, frowning. “Why have you eliminated him? How do you know that his confession is false?”
Hal gave her the same explanation he had given to Lord Ransom, and she was silent a moment, her frown deepening.
“Then you are certain he did not cast this curse?” she said at last, the frown never leaving her face.
“Positively so,” Hal said. “Else he would have known how to answer those questions.”
“But he hated Albert more than anyone,” she mused quietly, plucking at her blanket. “Tell me, Mr. Bishop—can a person cast a spell on behalf of another?”
“Certainly,” he said, giving her an odd look. “Magicians do so every day.”
“Then I know where you should look,” she said, sending a scorching glance at the closed door. “That woman—she could have done it. She—she is the one who put these—these ideas in his head to begin with. She knows magic. And she hates me almost as much as he does.”
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