The Foxfire Lights

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  Hal followed her gaze to the door, his face impassive. “I admit the possibility. But first, we must look to your own safety—and that of your husband.”

  “My safety?” Her eyebrows went up. “What do you mean?”

  “There remains a third victim of this curse,” he said. “Another person whom the spirit means to take—he said as much himself. And it must be one of the family—leaving only yourself and Lord Ransom.”

  She stared at him a moment. “You do not know who it is?”

  He shook his head, smoke curling up from his pipe. “How can I know? Without knowing who has cast the curse—or why . . .”

  “I have just told you,” she said. “That boy—and that woman—they hate me and my child. Why—why does no one listen to me?” This last was said half to herself, as she looked away from him and back down at her blanket.

  Hal regarded her gravely. “I assure you—I am listening to every word you say. But I have not yet drawn a conclusion. You must be patient.”

  “Patient?” she said without looking up, her voice choked. “Very well—I shall be patient. While my son . . .” She broke off, choking back a sob.

  “We will find him,” Hal said. “It may take time—but we will find him.”

  She looked up at him then, her eyes filled with fear. “That is where you are certain—and I am not. You must—please listen to me. I know—I have lived with these people . . .”

  “I know that you have,” he said quietly. “And I am listening.”

  She shook her head and lay back against the pillows. “I am tired,” she said, waving a hand. “I need to rest.”

  With that, we took our leave from her and headed off to our own rooms.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Hal was silent as we made our way down the passage, his pipe billowing smoke in the air. I had wanted to speak to him about the curse—what he thought of Lady Ransom’s theory—but he was plainly in no mood for conversation. His brows were drawn together tightly, and his face had taken on a familiar brooding expression. I was glad to reach my own room—I had not realized how tired I truly was until I sat down on my bed.

  I made ready for bed, but it was not easy to fall asleep, even exhausted as I was. I had too many questions—about Father, about Matthew, and about Mrs. Forsythe. I turned over in my mind what Lady Ransom had said about the housekeeper—that she might have laid the curse on Matthew’s behalf. It seemed a sound enough theory to me—Mrs. Forsythe clearly resented Lady Ransom and was just as obviously fond of Matthew. But something was missing—I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but the theory didn’t quite fit.

  I woke from a fitful sleep to the sound of rain beating against the window. I went down to find only my brother seated at table, his breakfast untouched before him. He was leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest, with a hazy cloud of pipe smoke surrounding his head. He had his eyes closed, but he opened them as I sat down.

  “You slept well?” he said, frowning at me. “Your arm didn’t trouble you?”

  My hand went to cover the burn mark on my arm. “No—only when the spirit was in the room. The rest of the time it doesn’t hurt at all.”

  “Good,” he said, closing his eyes once more. I waited—but he had lapsed back into a brooding silence.

  I poked at my eggs, pushing them around my plate, as the silence stretched out. My patience ran out before the silence did, and finally I spoke. “What did you think of what Lady Ransom said?”

  He opened his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “What she said about Mrs. Forsythe,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It fits, doesn’t it? She knows magic, and she doesn’t like Lady Ransom—but she’s fond of Matthew.”

  “Hm,” Hal said, closing his eyes again. “Yes—it seems to fit. And yet . . .”

  “I know,” I said, poking my eggs around the plate again. “There’s something—not quite right about it. I don’t know what.”

  He didn’t answer immediately, and when I looked up, he was watching me with a bemused expression, eyebrows raised.

  “What?” I said, setting down my fork. “Did I say something wrong?”

  He shook his head, taking the pipe from his mouth and tamping down the tobacco. “You say that something in this theory doesn’t fit—have you any idea what that might be?”

  I chewed at my lip a moment, frowning down at my plate. “No—I’ve puzzled it over but I can’t see where it’s wrong. But it—it feels off, somehow.”

  He grimaced. “Such feelings are not dependable. We must reason through it. One part of the theory fits—Mrs. Forsythe is fond of Matthew, and dislikes Lady Ransom. Matthew also dislikes Lady Ransom. If that is the motivation, then what should be the object of the spell?”

  “If it was cast for Matthew, I should say to get rid of Lady Ransom and Albert,” I said. “That seems to have been his goal from the beginning.”

  “Hm.” Hal relit his pipe and pushed it back between his teeth. “But he has accomplished only one of those—and now he is gone himself. Why should the spell have put him in danger?”

  I rubbed at my forehead. “He said it himself—justice. And you’ve told me that there’s always a price for a spell—why shouldn’t it have been to suffer the same fate as Albert?”

  “Why not, indeed?” he mused, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. “But remember what he said: it was justice for Albert. He seemed to have no idea of the third victim.”

  “But why would he cast a spell—or have it cast, I should say—if he didn’t know who the third victim would be?” I said. “Is it possible—could the third victim be a mistake?”

  He closed his eyes, his brows drawing together. “It is possible—but there must be a pattern in it. Even if Matthew did not intend it—there must be some reason for the third victim to be in danger. And we have yet one other question—who is the third victim?”

  “There’s the problem,” I said. “I should say that the third victim is certainly Lady Ransom—Matthew resents her so. But it doesn’t fit. The spirit said . . .”

  “Bound by flesh and blood and bone,” Hal finished. “But Lady Ransom is not the flesh and blood of Matthew.”

  “Leaving only Lord Ransom,” I said. “But why . . . ?”

  “Why should Matthew wish to harm his father?” Hal said. He had opened his eyes, and was watching me with that same bemused expression. “That is indeed the question.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I said.

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  I looked down at my plate, pushing the eggs around with my fork, and shrugged. “I don’t know—as though I’m saying something strange.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” he said, blowing out a puff of smoke. He glanced at my plate. “Are you finished?”

  I nodded, and we left the table. We had resolved nothing in our musings, and I could not begin to think where we should go next—but Hal, it seemed, suffered no such impediment. He went up the stairs, straight to Lord Ransom’s study. I doubted that the man would be in—after such a night, I felt certain that he would want his rest—but he answered Hal’s sharp rap with a weary invitation to enter.

  Lord Ransom sat, not at his desk, but in one of the chairs near the fireplace. His shoulders were slumped, his face grey and drawn—he seemed to have aged ten years over night. I fancied that I could even see more grey in his hair. He clutched a mug of tonic in his hands, the steam rising up with its sharp medicinal smell.

  He looked up wearily as we entered, his expression unchanging. “What do you need from me?” he said, his voice hollow. “Has anything changed?”

  “No.” Hal folded his arms over his chest, frowning around his pipe. He glanced at the mug of tonic, and his frown deepened. “You are still unwell?”

  “Unwell?” Lord Ransom gave a short, sharp laugh. “That is hardly—I am at my limit, Mr. Bishop. I can’t—I haven’t slept in days. And you tell me that I am in danger—that my wife is in dan
ger—but there is nothing you can do. Must I lose my entire family?”

  Hal did not answer immediately, stepping over to the fireplace and taking up one of the objects that sat upon the mantelpiece—a carving of a dragon, very finely done, with wings the color of fire arching up from its back. He turned it over in his hands, frowning at it.

  “I say only that I am yet uncertain of the nature of the curse,” he said after a moment, setting the dragon back carefully. “But it occurs to me that your wife may not be in any danger—the spirit specified a tie of blood, and Lady Ransom has no such tie to your elder son.”

  Lord Ransom looked up, frowning. “Then you believe . . .”

  “That you are the intended third victim,” Hal said. “Yes.”

  “But Matthew—why would he want to . . .” Lord Ransom ran a hand over his face. “He was terribly angry with me when Isabella and the baby came, but I never thought . . .”

  Hal sighed, rocking back on his heels. “It is by no means certain that Matthew was behind this curse. Can you think of no one else who would benefit by this?”

  “Benefit?” Lord Ransom frowned. “By consigning two children to—to God knows what? Why should anyone do such a thing?”

  Hal pushed his hands into his pockets, looking away into the fireplace. “Two children—and yourself. Tell me—to whom does your fortune pass in that event?”

  Lord Ransom jerked his head up to stare at Hal, his hand clenching around the mug so tightly that his knuckles went white. “My wife—but you cannot suggest—her own child . . . she could never have done something like this. Never.”

  “Perhaps not,” Hal said, without looking up. “But she is hardly the only person who should benefit in that case. Consider—where do you think she would go, if you should also disappear?”

  Lord Ransom stared at him. “To—back to Argentina, I suppose. To her father.”

  “Hm.” Hal rocked back on his heels, frowning into the fireplace. “Her father—who has made desperate pleas to you for money on several occasions already.”

  “That is—her father is not here,” Lord Ransom said hotly, setting the mug down on the tea table with such force that the tonic spilled over the sides. “How could he have possibly done such a thing? How dare you to make such accusations without—without any basis?”

  “I do not accuse,” Hal said mildly, turning back to face our host. “I merely ask. I must consider every possibility. You are in danger—your sons are in danger—and if you would be out of it, I must have my questions answered.”

  “Very well,” Lord Ransom said, through clenched teeth. “And I have answered them. But you have yet to answer mine—how would he have done such a thing?”

  Hal glanced pointedly around the room, at the shelves and cabinets full of magical items. “Did you bring anything home with you from Argentina?”

  Lord Ransom blinked, looking around the room. “I don’t—yes. Yes, there was . . .”

  He stood, striding over to one of the cabinets behind his desk, and flinging it open. He knelt down, rummaging through it, and brought out a stone the size of a man’s fist—it was broken in half, and the inside of it gleamed like diamonds. He stood up, holding it out.

  “This—this was a gift from her father,” he said. “It—he said it was rumored to have healing powers. But I am not—I have no sense of magic.”

  Hal took the stone from him and turned it over in his hands, frowning down at it. He handed it off to me. “What do you make of it, Jem?”

  I took the stone; it was warm in my hand—it felt almost alive. I frowned—there was plainly magic about it, but it was not a magic I knew. I closed my eyes and focused—there was a smell of salt air, of rich, deep earth, and a strange, unfamiliar smell I did not know. I was filled with warmth, like I had been sitting out in the sun, a curious warmth, heavy and close. There was an energy to it, the energy of green and growing things. I opened my eyes, holding the stone out.

  “It’s—I think it’s an earth spirit,” I said, frowning. “But it isn’t—I’ve never felt one quite like that.”

  Hal took the stone from me. He looked rather disappointed, as though he had expected something entirely different—though whether from the stone or from me, I could not say.

  “As I thought—a perfectly ordinary elemental spell,” he said, turning back to Lord Ransom. “If your wife’s father did cast this curse, this was not the means he used.”

  Lord Ransom set the stone back in the cabinet; and when he had shut the door, he sat there a moment, staring at his own reflection. “Then we have learned nothing,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “Nothing at all.”

  “On the contrary,” Hal said. He looked around him at all the cabinets and shelves filled with Lord Ransom’s odd collection, then turned back to our host. “Tell me—do all of these items have healing powers?”

  Lord Ransom’s shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand over his face. “That is—yes, that is what they were meant for. But none of them—they haven’t healed a damned thing.”

  There was a weary bitterness in his tone—a bitterness touched by melancholy, and my stomach twisted with sympathy. The reason for his collection had suddenly become clear—what he had intended it for.

  “Then all this—it was for Matthew?” Hal said, evidently coming to the same conclusion.

  Lord Ransom nodded, standing slowly up from his position beside the cabinet. “I hoped—he was born with that twisted spine,” he said, his voice quiet and full of pain. “And Catherine—I had nothing but that boy. And the doctors told me—they said he would not live. And I knew . . .”

  He stopped abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “But it hasn’t worked. Nothing has worked—I bring magicians here and they say the same as you do—only ordinary spells. Nothing that will help him.”

  Hal frowned, taking the pipe from his mouth and tamping down the tobacco. “But what makes you so certain that magic could heal him?”

  Lord Ransom stared at him for a moment, like a beast caught in a trap—but the expression passed as suddenly as it had come, and he looked away from Hal, shuffling papers on his desk. “I am not certain—if I am certain about anything, it is only that medicine cannot help him.”

  “Hm.” Hal relit his pipe and stuck it between his teeth. He gazed around once more at the collection. “Well—you have been very diligent at hunting for magic to help your son. Tell me—have you been so diligent in hunting for medicine?”

  “What sort of man do you think I am?” Lord Ransom said, without looking up from his desk. “I told you—the doctors did not expect him to live. The only thing that has kept him alive is Mrs. Forsythe’s tonic.”

  “Hm.” Hal blew out a puff of smoke, rocking back on his heels. “And were you acquainted with Mrs. Forsythe’s grandmother?”

  “Yes.” Lord Ransom finally looked up from his papers, fixing Hal with a steely gaze. “She nursed my father at the end and she was here when Catherine—when Matthew was born. Why are you asking me these things? You’ve just said this—this rock can have nothing to do with my sons.”

  “I said that I did not believe it had been used to cast the curse,” Hal said. “Not that it was entirely irrelevant. No—this has been very enlightening.”

  “What do you mean?” Lord Ransom said impatiently. “Why are you—do you believe that my wife’s father cast this curse or not?”

  “I believe it is possible,” Hal said equably. “But it is far too soon to make any definite conclusion.”

  Lord Ransom sat down heavily behind his desk, weariness passing over his features once more. “Well—don’t mention this idea to anyone else. I shouldn’t want Isabella—if her father has done this, she did not know. Of that I am certain. She would not have harmed Albert for all the money in the world.”

  Hal nodded, and Lord Ransom waved a weary hand at us in dismissal. I followed Hal out the door, turning to him when we reached the stairs.

  “What was all that?” I said. “You can’t have really t
hought that stone was used to cast the curse. You’d seen the spell circle.”

  “Yes, there was a spell circle.” He frowned around his pipe, pushing his hands into his pockets. “But it is entirely possible that the spirit summoned was bound into that rock—though I thought it rather unlikely.”

  “Then why—I see. You wanted to look at the collection,” I said, remembering what he had said the first night we were at the manor. “What is your fascination with it?”

  “You just heard—Lord Ransom believes his son’s illness is beyond the power of medicine,” he said, blowing out a puff of smoke. “What does that tell you?”

  I frowned, chewing at my lip a moment. “He must believe—oh! You mean—he believed Matthew was already under a curse?”

  “Precisely,” Hal said, with a satisfied look on his face, and went down the stairs without another word.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I was still puzzling over what Hal had said when we reached the library—what sort of curse could Matthew have been under, and why hadn’t Lord Ransom mentioned it when we’d arrived? I sat back on the sofa, staring into the fireplace, so deep in thought that I never noticed Mrs. Forsythe bringing in the morning tea until Hal spoke.

  “You have injured yourself,” he said. “What happened to your hand?”

  I looked up to see her clutching her hand to her chest; it was clumsily wrapped in a clean white cloth. Her face was pink, as though she hated to be caught out, though the bandage made her injury quite obvious.

  “Oh, just a bit clumsy this morning,” she said, pouring the tea. “I’ve—I’ve been a bit nervy, of late.”

  Her appearance bore out her assertion of nerves—the hand that poured the tea was unsteady, and her hair, usually so severely pulled back, was escaping from its knot to hang down about her face. There were dark circles around her eyes, made all the darker by the pallor of her face, and I imagined that she must not have slept at all. I felt a twisting pull of sympathy in my stomach.