The Foxfire Lights

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  Hal, on the other hand, regarded her skeptically, one eyebrow raised. “Are you generally clumsy?”

  She frowned, not looking up from the tea tray. “No—I told you, I’ve been nervy lately.”

  Hal nodded, though the skeptical nature of his look did not alter. Mrs. Forsythe finished pouring the tea and left the room. She had brought us the herb tea, and it filled the room with its medicinal licorice scent. I took a sip of my tea and felt the warmth settle pleasantly into my chest—but Hal did not even touch his tea, still watching the door through which Mrs. Forsythe had left.

  I set my tea down. “What is it?”

  “Her hand,” he said, without looking at me. “Perhaps it is nothing—and yet . . .”

  He settled back against his chair, closing his eyes, the pipe sending smoke billowing about his head. He lapsed into a brooding silence, and I finished my tea. I did not mind leaving Hal to his thoughts just then—for I had a number of thoughts of my own racing about my head. I wondered about Matthew’s curse, about Mrs. Forsythe’s hand—and, behind everything else, no matter how I tried to stifle it, I wondered about Father, and Hal’s reaction to the word “reckoning.”

  I chewed at my lip, staring into the fire, while the tea grew cold. We must have sat there some time, for eventually a maid came in to gather the tray. Hal’s eyes opened as she bustled about, and he watched her for a moment at her work.

  “Mrs. Forsythe has injured herself,” he said. “Were you there when it happened?”

  The maid looked at him with wide eyes. “No—no, sir. It must have happened before any of us was up. She gets up early, sometimes.”

  “Hm.” Hal tented his fingers under his chin. “And has she injured herself before?”

  “Funny you should ask that, sir,” she said, looking thoughtful. “Because she has—and it’s so odd, too, because she’s such a careful kind of person. But it was a few months ago—right around the time her Ladyship came—she cut the same hand.”

  Hal thanked her, and she finished gathering up the tea things before bustling out the door. Hal sat back in his chair, closing his eyes. His pipe had begun billowing smoke again, but now I was too curious to leave him to brood.

  “What is it?” I said. “What about her hand?”

  He opened his eyes and raised one eyebrow. “Strange that she should cut the same hand again, and especially now.”

  I chewed at my lip, unable to puzzle out his meaning. “Well—perhaps she’s just the sort of person who gets clumsy when she’s upset. The girl did say that the last time she had cut it was when Lady Ransom arrived—and I should say that upset her very much.”

  “Perhaps,” Hal said. He leaned back in his chair once more, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Nevertheless—I believe it would be prudent to take another look at the tor.”

  We went and retrieved our coats, then began the long walk up to the tor. The sun was out by then, but the wind cut sharply through my coat, and I drew my collar up, shivering. Hal strode ahead of me, oblivious to the wind, pipe sending smoke into the air. The wind grew sharper and colder as we marched up the fell, stinging my face. My throat was burning by the time we reached the tor, and there was a stitch in my side that gave a piercing throb with every breath. Hal reached the tor long before I did, and was waiting for me with an air of sharp impatience by the time I arrived.

  His impatient look gave way to a concerned frown when he saw me staggering up to the tor. “Are you all right?” he said. “I never knew you to have so much trouble climbing.”

  I stopped a moment and caught my breath. “Just—winded. It’s—I think it’s the spell.”

  “I shouldn’t doubt it,” he said, frown deepening. “And your arm?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. It—the only time it’s ever hurt is when I’ve seen the spirit.”

  He stood there a moment longer, the frown never leaving his face, then turned to go around the tor. “Well, come along. We had better make this quick.”

  I followed him around. When we reached the other side of the tor, he crouched down, scanning the rock with his eyes. At last he raised his eyebrows and pointed. I knelt down beside him, following the line of his finger, and saw a smear of rust brown hastily laid over an intricate drawing—the spell circle.

  “What is it?” I said. “Was it like this when you found it?”

  He shook his head. “No—someone has done this recently.”

  “But why?” I sat back on my heels. “Covering up the spell circle wouldn’t do anything. It’s still there, underneath.”

  He reached out and scraped at the circle. Flakes of rust brown came away, dusting his fingertips. “Not generally—but this is blood. The same blood, perhaps, that the spell was laid in to begin with.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his hand.

  I stared at the circle. “Then—is it broken? Is it so simple?”

  “No.” He tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket. “This summoning circle is only half the spell—the spirit has made a contract. The contract must be fulfilled—it cannot be voided, save by a new contract.”

  “But whoever did this can’t know that,” I said, chewing at my lip. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have tried this.”

  He glanced at me, his brows knitting together. “Or they are desperate—perhaps because they have realized something . . .”

  His voice trailed off in a rush of cold wind that gusted over the tor like a whirlwind, sending dirt and grass flying through the air. My chest tightened, and I felt a piercing pain shoot through my arm. The spirit—I looked up, seeing the fog that had blown in with the cold gusting wind, and fear tugged at my stomach.

  “Yes,” said a sepulchral voice from behind me. “Someone seeks to avoid a payment. But I will be paid.”

  I turned, and saw the spirit, glowing blue against the mist, his moaning lantern clutched in one hand. He stared at me with hollow eyes, blank and black against his blue and spectral form.

  “Yes,” he repeated. “I am always paid.”

  “Payment?” Hal said, his voice thin against the moaning of the wind and the spirit’s lantern. “What do you mean?”

  “That is not for you to know, mortal,” the spirit said, never taking its gaze from me. “It is between myself and the one who has made the contract. I do not come to give you knowledge—unless you seek a bargain.”

  My mouth had gone dry, and when I spoke my voice was hoarse and unsteady. “Then why—why have you come?”

  “To collect what is mine,” he said. “There is but one left to gather, and the work is done. Then I may rest. For that, I must have my successor.”

  He drifted closer to me, raising his terrible lantern, and I shrank back against the tor, clutching my arm to my chest. The pain had become sharp and burning, and I could feel myself shaking, though from fear or from pain, I could not tell. The spirit reached out his hand.

  “No,” Hal said sharply.

  The spirit stopped, his gaze shifting from me to Hal. “He is mine by right. He wandered into my domain of his own accord.”

  “I am aware,” Hal said. “You gather lost travelers—it is your burden. But you need not take him.”

  “Need?” The spirit gave a hollow laugh. “Who are you to say what I need? He has wandered into my web, like a fly to a spider. The thing is done—you have no power to stop it.”

  I was sick with fear—the idea of following this spirit to wherever he called home filled me with an indescribable dread. I backed up, until I could feel the cold stone of the tor pressing against my shoulders, but I knew that it was futile—if the spirit had come for me, then I must go.

  “Then let me bargain for it,” Hal said, getting to his feet and tucking his pipe into his pocket.

  The spirit’s dark and hollow eyes went wide, staring at Hal. “A bargain?”

  I had gone still—what was he doing? I tried to speak, but I couldn’t make a sound—my throat felt as though it had closed up. I could do nothing but stare as Hal faced the spirit, his expressio
n impassive, as though bargaining with spirits were something he did every day of his life.

  “Yes,” he said. “A bargain. I ask that you spare my brother.”

  “So much for the boon,” the spirit mused, sparks in the dark depths of his eyes. “What of payment?”

  “Give me until you have finished your contract,” Hal said. “And I will find another to take your place.”

  The spirit tilted his head, considering. The air had grown colder, and I was shivering against the tor. For a moment, the air grew dark, swirling about us violently, blowing Hal’s coat about him.

  “And if you cannot find another?” The spirit moved closer to Hal. “What then? Do not think you can trick me, mortal.”

  “I would not be so foolish as to try,” Hal said. “If I can find no other—then let me take your place.”

  The spirit moved thrust the lantern into Hal’s face, and shook it, the moans filling the air around us and setting my teeth on edge. “You would carry this? You would take this burden of your own free will?”

  Hal glanced back at me, his face unreadable in the dim light. “Yes.”

  The spirit laughed again, hollow but deep, rolling and echoing through the fog. “Then let it be so! The mark will be yours to bear now.”

  He thrust out a hand, grasping Hal’s arm. Flame spread from his hand over Hal’s arm, over his chest, and Hal gave a terrible cry, collapsing back against the tor. That was enough to shake me into motion, and I pushed myself to my feet, scrambling over to where he lay. He was very still, his eyes closed and his face white as paper.

  “Hal,” I said, shaking his shoulder, but got no response. My stomach twisted, and I turned to the spirit. “What—what have you done to him?”

  “I have given him what once was yours,” he said, gesturing to my arm.

  I pushed back my sleeve, pulling at the bandage that still covered the welt on my forearm, and saw that the skin was clear, save for the scar left by the beast in Manchester. I chewed at my lip, feeling a lump rise in my throat.

  “I admit that he has surprised me,” the spirit said. “He has put my mind at ease. For this, I grant him a second boon.”

  I stared at him. “A second—what?”

  “Knowledge—he seeks it. He is starving for it,” the spirit said. “I grant it to him. When he wakes, tell him that the last is unexpected, and pays for all the rest.”

  “I don’t—what does that mean?” I said.

  “He will know,” the spirit said. “Or he will find out. As for you—I leave a warning.”

  My throat went dry. “I don’t want—I asked for nothing.”

  The spirit regarded me gravely, flames flickering behind his eyes. “Do not question what I give you. I say this—he cannot protect you forever. A reckoning is due. Remember that.”

  Another rush of cold wind, the smell of bog water filling my nostrils, and he was gone as suddenly as he had come, the fog gone with him. I stared at the place where he had been, blinking in the sudden brightness, frozen to the spot with confusion and fear.

  Then I heard Hal groan behind me and I snapped my head around to face him. He had opened his eyes and was clutching his arm to his chest, his face still quite pale and twisted with pain.

  “Why did you do that?” I said, more harshly than I had intended. “Why—you didn’t have to do that.”

  He blinked at me, some of the pain giving way to surprise. “You—I did it to save you.”

  “Save me?” I said blankly. “But—all you had to was break the curse. You didn’t—that’s what happened last time. I would have—I’d have been fine.”

  “It’s not the same as last time. You—did you not hear him?” His voice was breathless, punctuated by short gasps. He sat up with another groan. “You went to him—voluntarily. If I can break the curse, then—but that is never a guarantee. You cannot expect—not everyone is Sir Jasper.”

  I stared at him, the full understanding of what he was saying slowly washing over me. “Then—but what about you? Why—you shouldn’t have done that. You should have found—found another way.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s—never mind. We should set ourselves to breaking the curse. That is the best course.”

  “No,” I said, my chest tight. “You can’t—you shouldn’t have done that. It was my fault—I went after him on my own.”

  “You didn’t know,” he said quietly, looking away from me. “I didn’t—I should have told you. It’s my fault, Jem. I was—I was fixing my mistake.”

  I blinked at him, uncertain how I should respond—it was rare that Hal admitted to any sort of mistake. I scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to get my bearings once more, and took a deep breath. “It doesn’t—I ought to have known better, anyway. We’ll just—we’ll have to find a way to fix this—that’s all.”

  He gave me a bemused look, the same one he had given me earlier that morning, and put a hand out. I pushed myself to my feet and helped him up.

  He tucked his injured arm into his coat before turning back to the spell circle. “Then we should start with this. It must have been Mrs. Forsythe who did this—but why? For Matthew?”

  “I don’t know.” I chewed at my lip, pushing my hands into my pockets—then remembered what the spirit had said. “The spirit—he wanted me to tell you: ‘the last is unexpected, and pays for all the rest.’”

  He glanced at me, frowning. “He told you that? Why?”

  “He said it was a second boon for you,” I said. “Because you surprised him.”

  “Hm.” He returned his attention to the spell. “Unexpected—and pays for all the rest. Well—that is something.”

  “What does it mean?” I said. “The spirit said you would know—or that you would find out.”

  “It is to be the latter,” he muttered, without looking away from the circle. “Until I have learned who the third victim is, I cannot know the value of it.”

  He stayed there, staring at the circle with a frown on his face, for a long moment. I waited, drawing my coat closer about me as the wind howled around us. Hal was still very pale, and I could see him wincing with every movement as his arm was jostled.

  “Hadn’t we better go back inside?” I said at last. “You should—that arm needs attention.”

  He turned to me, as though startled to see me there, and ran a hand over his face. “Yes,” he said wearily. “Yes—I am tired.”

  We made our way back down the tor, Hal moving slowly, with his arm still tucked into his coat. I followed behind, my hands tucked into my pockets, and watched him carefully as he made his unsteady way back to the manor. By the time we reached the foot of the fell, some of the color had come back into his face.

  “You’re rather quiet,” he said, turning to me. “Did the spirit say anything else to you?”

  “No—no, just that,” I said, looking away from him. The spirit’s warning had been pushed to the back of my mind, but Hal’s question brought it back to the forefront. Until he’d asked me about it, I hadn’t made up my mind whether to tell him about it or not—but looking at his pale face, I couldn’t bring myself to add yet another worry to his burden. “I’m only—I’m thinking, that’s all.”

  “Hm,” he said, managing to infuse the short syllable with worlds of skepticism. “Well—let us do our thinking inside, where it is warm.”

  I nodded, and followed him down to the manor.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  We were greeted at the front door by a pale and harried-looking Mrs. Forsythe. She frowned as she caught sight of Hal, but took our coats wordlessly. Hal looked even paler in the dim light of the entrance than he had by the tor, and an air of exhaustion hung about him like a heavy robe. I felt anxiety—and no little guilt—tighten in my chest. I turned to Mrs. Forsythe and asked her to fetch some tonic. She nodded wearily, smoothing the coats over her arm, and disappeared into the depths of the manor.

  I followed Hal into the library, where he sank into a chair with a faint groan and leaned
back, closing his eyes. I watched him for a moment, chewing at my lip, then went to ring the bell. A maid appeared a moment later, and I sent her upstairs to fetch Hal’s case. When she had left, I sat down opposite my brother, and stared into the fireplace, letting my thoughts drift back to the warning the spirit had given me—a reckoning is due. What could it mean—and why had Hal been so shocked when Lord Ransom had first mentioned a reckoning? I rubbed a hand over my forehead; a throbbing headache was starting behind my left eye.

  “What’s troubling you?” Hal said. “You’ve scarcely said a word since we came off the fell.”

  I looked up, startled, to see him watching me with a frown on his face. I looked away again, into the fire, and shook my head. “It’s—I’m worried about you. That’s all.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. “I’m in no more danger than you were yourself,” he said at last.

  “I know,” I said, rubbing at my forehead again. “But—I didn’t realize—what if you can’t replace the spirit? What if—what if the person who cast the curse doesn’t want to break it?”

  “That is a risk we must take,” he said, wearily. “But—don’t make yourself sick over it, Jem. Most people don’t know the price they will pay when they cast a curse—and they will do almost anything to void the payment. I shouldn’t be surprised if that were the case here—indeed, under the circumstances, it seems very likely.”

  “Then why did you make the bargain at all?” I said, still not looking at him. “If I wasn’t in any real danger, then why—why would you do that?”

  There was another long silence; long enough this time that I looked up. He wasn’t looking at me, but frowning into the fireplace, a distant look in his eyes. “Because—things are different with you,” he said, very quietly. “What Mrs. Ogham told us—what Father—it’s far more dangerous for you to be involved with a spirit.”

  At the mention of Father, I felt dizzy—as though someone had yanked the floor out from under me. The spirit’s warning rushed into the forefront of my mind and I felt my mouth go dry. “Father—what?”