I waited, a cold dread banding itself about my chest; I would not ask him where we would go next, for I knew the answer. Hal had set his mind to go and speak to the spirit, and nothing would shake him from his course. I did not like the idea of facing the spirit once more—but if Hal was going, I had to go with him.
He looked up after a long moment. “The time has come to see the spirit—but you needn’t come, Jem. I know . . .”
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m going with you.”
He gave me a quick half-smile, and pushed himself away from the wall, striding on up the stairs, where he retrieved his case. I followed him down to the entryway, where we gathered our coats. There was a rush of cold air as we went through the door—it was damp and drizzling out, and the wind had a bite to it. I pulled up my collar, and followed Hal.
It was a long walk up the fell—but it did not feel as long as the two climbs before it had. The magic was there, just the same as it had been before—I could smell it, the thick bog-water smell of it, clinging to every drop in the air, and I could feel it, seeping in through my skin—but I walked up the fell without feeling as though the life were being squeezed from me.
Hal did not fare as well. He began flexing the fingers on his injured arm halfway up the fell, and by the time we’d reached the tor, he was clutching the arm to his chest just as he had done when it was freshly injured. His face was pale and tense with pain, and his pipe was clenched tightly between his teeth. He handed me the case before we’d reached the top, as though it were too heavy a burden to carry himself.
I watched him worriedly as we reached the tor and he sat down heavily on a stone, running a hand over his face. I set the case down, feeling the chill wind blow across my neck, with a creeping sense of dread, and waited.
Finally, he looked up and gestured to the case. “Lay a summoning circle, Jem,” he said, his voice tight and hoarse. “You’ve seen me do it.”
I nodded and knelt down, opening up the case and taking from it a bag of salt. I cut it open and began laying the circle. I walked the circle three times widdershins, the salt trailing behind me, and when I’d finished that, I placed the candles—four of them, one each at the north, south, east, and west of the circle, and lit them. The pleasant smell of beeswax rose up from the candles, muting the bog-water odor of the spell, and I felt some of the tightness ease in my chest.
Lighting the last candle, I stood and glanced at Hal. “Why are we laying a circle? He’s—he’s come here before.”
Hal shook his head, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace. “We cannot wait upon him. The time is now—I must speak to him before it ends.”
He pushed past me to the case, taking out the bottle of oil and a bit of chalk. With the chalk, he drew upon the ground, the chalk grooving the muddy soil where he drew, but leaving little other impression. He poured the oil over the pattern, and held his hand out for the matches. I handed them to him, and he looked up at me, his face grim.
“Step out of the circle,” he said. “Wait by the tor.”
“But,” I said. “What if . . . ?”
“Step out,” he said sharply, then sighed. “We don’t want to tempt him, Jem.”
I blinked at him, stepping back over the circle, careful not to scuff the salt. Hal lit a match, and the oil lit, in flames of blue and green and gold. The strange, exotic odor of it filled the air, like incense. For a moment it burned bright, the light sending shadows dancing over the rock and muddy ground and Hal’s pale face. Then the air grew dark with a rush of wind, blowing out the flames, and the overwhelming smell of rot and standing water overtook everything.
“Why have you summoned me?” The sepulchral voice of the spirit rumbled out over the circle. He stood at its center, cold blue flame and dark shadow, the moans of his lantern echoing over the wind. “I have bargained with you already.”
“It will happen tonight,” Hal said quietly. “I have found the third.”
“Have you?” The spirit gave a short laugh. “Clever child.”
“I will have your replacement here tomorrow night,” Hal said, his voice careful. “No later. Or I will come myself.”
The spirit’s eyes darkened, and he moved closer to Hal. I felt a sharp spike of fear, and clenched my fists in my pockets, making myself stay where I was. Hal kept his gaze fixed on the spirit, his expression betraying nothing.
“You are altering the bargain,” the spirit said at last, his voice grave. “It requires new payment.”
“I have altered nothing,” Hal said. “I said I would replace you after the contract was ended—I did not specify a time.”
“Then the time was of my choosing,” the spirit said. “I might have taken you at once, had I wanted. You are altering it—you seek to dictate the time. It requires new payment.”
He glanced over at me, flames flickering behind his eyes, and something like a grin passed over his face. “The boy perhaps? I would hold him only for a while—until you made good your word.”
Bile rose in the back of my throat, but I made myself stay where I was, and not shrink back against the tor. It would be only for a day—I could do that. If I had to, I could do that. I clenched my fists more tightly in my pockets and waited for the spirit to take me.
“No,” Hal said, his voice tight. “I will not give him to you.”
I stared at him in some surprise, and the spirit turned back to face him. The grin slid off the spirit’s face, and flames lit the back of its eyes as it turned its melancholy gaze on Hal.
“Not even for such a little while?” the spirit said, its voice hollow. “What could happen in such a little while?”
“I am not so foolish as to think a day here is a day in your world,” Hal said. “You cannot have him, not for any time.”
“A pity,” the spirit said. “There is one who wants very badly to see him.”
The tone of his voice sent a quiver through my stomach, and I did step back then, until I felt the cold rock of the tor against my spine. I kept my eyes fixed on Hal, who had that same carefully calm expression on his face, and felt a sick sense of dread for him.
The spirit moved closer to Hal. “Ah, well. I can think of something that would do almost as well—if he wishes to see. It will satisfy.”
He put out a hand and pressed against Hal’s face, against his left eye—flames spread out, covering Hal’s face, and he screamed. I shot forward, with no clear idea what I would do, but before I even reached the edge of the circle, I was pushed back by a sudden rush of wind, and the spirit was gone. Hal knelt in the center of the circle, his hands pressed over the left side of his face, his shoulders shaking.
I scrambled to my feet and rushed over to him, crouching down beside him. The half of his face that I could see was starkly white, even to his lips, and he was shaking badly, staring at the place where the spirit had been.
“Hal,” I said, my voice hoarse and breathless. “Hal, what did he do?”
He didn’t answer me—he scarcely seemed to know that I was there at all. He never even looked at me—just kept staring, white-faced, at where the spirit had stood. I took hold of his shoulders and shook them.
“Answer me,” I said. “What did he do? Hal!”
His one visible eye blinked at me, and he brought his hands slowly down from his face. I sucked in a breath, feeling like I had been punched in the stomach—the left side of Hal’s face was covered by a hand-shaped mark, as though it had been burned there, and his eye—his eye was clouded over, blotted out. I dropped my hands from his shoulders and ran a hand over my mouth.
“God,” I said, my voice shaking. “Hal—God, we need to—you need to get back to the manor.”
He blinked at me again, some focus coming back into his good eye. “It’s—the mark will fade, I think,” he said, his voice quiet and strained. “It’s—it’s all right, Jem.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s not—you—I’m sorry. God. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” he said, l
ooking away from me. “I knew—I made a mistake. I knew it, as soon as we got back to the manor—it was too easy, and he gave us too much. I knew.”
“But you—why didn’t you just let him take me?” I said. “Only a day—I could have done that. There’s been a baby missing for longer than that. You didn’t . . .”
“It’s different with you,” he said. “I keep telling you—you don’t listen. You never listen.”
I sat back, feeling as though I’d been slapped. “I know—I know. That’s why—your eye—God, Hal. I’m sorry.”
He pressed his hand back over his face. “Don’t—it’s not your fault, Jem. I—it was my mistake. That’s all.”
He closed his good eye and took a deep breath, as though steadying himself. “You were right—we must go back to the manor. We’ve a curse yet to break.”
“All right,” I said, my voice unsteady. “I’ll just—gather these things up.”
I turned away from him, picking up the candles and the bottle of oil, my eyes stinging. I placed everything back in the case, and turned to help him up. He kept his hand pressed over his eye, and I tried not to think about how much it must be hurting him.
“We’ll have to—your eye,” I said. “Will the—will the ointment help it?”
He gave me a weary look. “I don’t know. Perhaps. What is important is that now I will have time—time to break the curse.”
I picked up the case, clutching it tightly in one hand, and followed him back down the fell. I hoped he was right—that the curse was close to being broken. And I hoped that he could break it—for all that it had cost him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was a long walk down the fell—far longer than the walk up had been. By the time we reached the manor, Hal was leaning heavily on me, one hand pressed against his face, while his other arm was draped over my shoulders. He was stumbling, scarcely able to keep his feet, and managing both his weight and the case made for a slow pace. I was glad to see the manor, and half-carried my brother inside, where we were met by a maid. She took one look at Hal and went rather pale, then disappeared into the depths of the manor.
She returned with a pair of boys—footmen, I supposed—who helped Hal up the stairs to his room while I trailed behind, carrying the case. I told one of them to send Mrs. Forsythe, and he scratched his head, looking perplexed.
“She won’t want to leave the master,” he said.
“I don’t care what she wants,” I snapped. “Send her up now.”
He nodded, and the two of them left the room. I set the case down on the writing desk beside the bed and pulled out gauze, bandages, and ointment, lining them up carefully on the desk, and trying to still the shaking in my hands.
Hal lay back against his pillow, hand still pressed to his eye, his face blank and remote. He was still very pale, and there were drops of sweat along his upper lip. His other hand was trembling, and he clenched it tightly into a fist. I was sick with guilt and fear—worried that some permanent harm had come to him on my behalf.
I gathered up my supplies and set them on the bedside table, pulling the chair around to the side of the bed. “Hal—you need to let me look at your eye.”
He glanced at me, and pulled the hand away from his face. It looked worse here, in the light of the lamp, than it had outside—the burn mark red and angry, his eye clouded over with grey. I swallowed, looking away, and took up the gauze, coating it with ointment.
As I pressed the gauze to his eye, he winced. “Sorry,” I said. “I—you’ll be all right once the curse is broken, won’t you? Like I was, with the beast . . .”
“The mark will fade, I think,” he said quietly. He sounded terribly tired. “I think.”
I chewed at my lip, unwinding the bandages. I carefully wrapped them around his head, covering the mark on his face. His face relaxed slightly, and relief eased the tension in my shoulders.
There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Forsythe appeared, carrying a tray with a tumbler on it. She moved past me, setting the tray upon the bedside table, and glanced at the jar of ointment sitting there.
“That’s a hedgewitch’s recipe, no mistake,” she said. “I can smell it from here. What have you been up to, Mr. Bishop?”
“That doesn’t concern you,” I said sharply. “He doesn’t have to answer to you.”
“Jem,” Hal said, mild reproof in his tone. He looked over to Mrs. Forsythe. “Thank you for the tonic—it is much needed, I assure you.”
She sniffed. “Well, I suppose you needn’t tell me if you don’t want to. But—this has gone on long enough, I think.”
There was a weariness to her tone, and I noted for the first time her exhausted appearance—the lines about her eyes and mouth, and the pallor of her face. I almost felt badly for snapping at her.
“You needn’t worry much longer,” Hal said. “I think it will be over soon—the last will be taken tonight, unless I am much mistaken.”
She went white at those words, her lips trembling. “You—you are certain?”
Hal nodded tiredly, closing his good eye. She ran her hands over her skirt, taking up the tray and fleeing from the room without a backward glance. I turned back to Hal, who was pushing himself up on the pillows, and handed him the tumbler of tonic.
He took a long drink of it, grimacing at the taste, before setting back down on the table. He leaned back against the pillows, pale and weary, but with less pain in his face than before. I gathered up the supplies and shut them in the case.
“Are you all right, Hal?” I said, without looking up. “Will you—can you do this?”
“I can do whatever I need to do,” he said, his voice thin and strained. “But I must—I must rest now. It will be a long night.”
I chewed at my lip, running my hand over the top of the case. “But what if—how will you know? That—that you’re right, I mean. What do you expect?”
“I expect that the third will disappear tonight—just as I told Mrs. Forsythe,” he said. “And when that happens—then I will be certain who has done this thing, and why.”
There was a long silence after that, and I looked up to see that he was lying against the pillows, his eye closed. I stood there, unwilling to leave, and watched him. After a moment, he opened his eye and frowned.
“Well?” he said impatiently. “What is it?”
I shrugged, and looked down at my feet. “I don’t—I’m worried. What if . . . ?”
“We are past the point where worrying can do any good,” he said, closing his eye once more. “I must rest, Jem—it will be a long night.”
I sighed and went to the door, turning just as I opened it. “I am sorry,” I said. “I didn’t—if I’d listened . . .”
“Not your fault,” he said, without opening his eye. “Just—let me rest.”
I nodded, and left, closing the door behind me. I wandered down to the library, and sat a moment by the fire, but I was too restless and full of anxiety to stay still in one place for long. I paced for a bit, then went up the stairs, and paced about the house. The drizzle of the morning had become a pouring rain, or else I would have gone outside and walked about the grounds. As it was, I covered almost the whole of the house, stalking about like a creature in a cage. The anxiety I felt was matched by the air of the place—I saw Mrs. Forsythe flying up and down stairs, rushing between her son and her master, maids flying from one room to another. No one said anything—but their faces were all strained and weary, the long crisis wearing on one and all.
I paced up and down stairs and passages until at last it began to grow dark. The intense activity of the house settled into silence—a tense, waiting silence—and I went up to my room. I did not bother to make ready for bed, for I knew what was coming—the spirit would return tonight. I sat on the edge of my bed, restless and tense, listening to the rain against the windowpane.
The hour grew late, and I was pacing before my fire when I heard it at last—the long, piercing wail of a woman. Not Lady Ransom this time—
it was far away, from downstairs. I took up my candle and shot into the passage, throwing open Hal’s door. He looked up as I entered, already sitting up, his eye wide.
“You heard it?” he said, taking up his candle. “Come—this is it, Jem. The last piece.”
He pushed himself to his feet and rushed from the room. I followed, down the stairs, past the library, and into the kitchens. There, outside of Forsythe’s office, we saw her—Mrs. Forsythe, hair loose and wild about her face, her blue eyes starkly rimmed with red, her face a vivid white. She clutched a quilt in one hand—this she thrust into Hal’s face as we came near.
“You,” she spat, her voice hoarse. “You—you’ve done this. You’ve sent that spirit to—to take my boy. You’ve done this.”
A crowd was gathering now—the other servants coming from their chambers. Forsythe stood behind his wife, ineffectually patting her shoulder. He looked dazed, his face pale and eyes staring at the quilt she clutched in her hand.
“Nell,” he said. “Don’t—it isn’t his fault.”
She pulled away from him, her eyes blazing. “You—you were sent to punish me. Well, then—punish me. Not—not my child. My child!”
She pressed her face into the quilt, sinking to the ground, her shoulders shaking in a paroxysm of weeping. Forsythe knelt down beside her, patting her back, and staring blankly up at Hal.
“Why?” he said. “Why Jack? What—why?”
A sudden shock ran through me—Jack was the third? I stared at Hal, who was watching Mrs. Forsythe weep with a strange expression on his face—a reluctant sympathy, mixed with disgust. There was the sound of footsteps in the passage, and Lord Ransom appeared, his pale face illuminated by the lamp he carried.
“What is happening here?” he said. “What—what is the meaning of this commotion?”
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