The Foxfire Lights

by Elizabeth O'Connell

Mrs. Forsythe lifted her head from the quilt, staring up at him wordlessly, her sharp blue eyes filled with some terrible emotion—rage, or sorrow, or some combination of the two, so strong that it seemed to blaze forth. Lord Ransom took a step back.

  “Jack,” she said, her voice low. “It’s taken—it’s taken my son. My Jack.”

  “Your son?” A voice came from behind Lord Ransom, and Lady Ransom stepped out into the light, her dark eyes perplexed. “Why should it take your son?”

  “Why, indeed,” murmured Hal. He looked over at Lord Ransom, who was staring wide-eyed at Mrs. Forsythe, his face white. “Why should it take her son, Lord Ransom?”

  “No—he should have been safe,” Lord Ransom said, still staring at Mrs. Forsythe. He did not seem to realize that anyone else was there. “He should have been safe, Nell. He isn’t . . .”

  “Nell?” said Forsythe, sounding perplexed. “Why did you say . . . ?”

  Mrs. Forsythe shifted her blazing eyes to Hal. “Ask him. He’s been trucking with the spirit—look at his face! He’s cast a curse upon me—he’s in the pay of that woman!”

  Here she pointed a trembling finger at Lady Ransom, who frowned, her eyes dark. She looked between Lord Ransom and Mrs. Forsythe with a strange expression.

  “I do not know what this means,” she said, her voice cold. “But no one has answered my question: why should her son be taken?”

  “I can answer that,” Hal said, rocking back on his heels. “But I believe we should all be more comfortable in the library.”

  Lord Ransom blinked, like a man coming out of a trance. “Yes—yes, of course. But—Mr. Bishop—must my wife be present?”

  “Of course I must,” Lady Ransom said, tossing her head. “It was my child who was taken first—it is my concern before anyone else’s.”

  Hal inclined his head to her. “I leave it to you—but you must know that it will not be pleasant.”

  “Pleasant?” She laughed, a short humorless sound. “Nothing about my time here has been pleasant.”

  Lord Ransom looked stricken. “Well—you must do as you think best, Isabella.”

  “Good,” Hal said. “Then that’s settled. Let us retire to the library.”

  We did as we were bid, and followed him from the kitchen, through the passage, and into the library. It was cold and dark, and Hal beckoned one of the maids over to light a fire, before lighting the lamps himself. Lady Ransom settled herself upon the sofa, Lord Ransom standing white-faced and rigid behind her, while Mrs. Forsythe stood, still clutching her quilt, her face set in the manner of one who was going to her death. Her husband sat down on a chair beside her, all his propriety gone for the moment, and buried his face in his hands.

  Hal stood before the fire, his face pale but with a triumphant gleam in his good eye. He pulled his pipe from his pocket and lit it, taking a deep pull before beginning. I sat down in the chair beside him, waiting.

  “I know who has cast this curse,” he said. “I know why it has been cast— and I believe it can be broken.”

  “Then—my child? He will be returned?” Lady Ransom said, her voice choked.

  “Yes,” Hal said. “All will be returned—provided that the one who has done this will do what must be done.”

  “I don’t—I don’t understand,” Lord Ransom said. “What—how can you know? What can be done?”

  Hal gave him a patient look. “I know what you believe—that these losses are only the latest manifestation of an old tragedy—the curse that has been the burden of your family all this while.”

  Lord Ransom went very pale. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do,” Hal said. “It is the reason that you spent so many years collecting those artifacts—why you never sought a specialist for your son. Because of what your father said to you—what the hedgewitch told you. Because your father had cursed his family from the moment he took his title.”

  Lord Ransom sighed and nodded wretchedly. “But if—if this is that curse, then nothing can be done. I have learned that—to my sorrow.”

  “Nonsense,” Hal said, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Any spell may be broken—you have simply gone about it in the wrong way.”

  “What does this mean?” Lady Ransom said, frowning. “What curse? What did his father do?”

  “His father stole his title,” Hal said. “He took it by magic—from the rightful heir. Jack told me that the heir to the title was a distant cousin, who disappeared in a tragic accident on the mire. His body was never recovered. And thereafter—this spirit appears. These lights on the mire. It is too much of a coincidence to be credited.”

  Lady Ransom turned to her husband, her face white and shocked. “Arthur—is this true? Why—why did you say nothing—even when Alberto vanished?”

  “Because I hoped,” Lord Ransom said. “I hoped—the curse had already taken Matthew. I didn’t believe—why should it take all of my sons?”

  “And you were not precisely wrong,” Hal said, leaning back against the mantel. “The spell that was cast on Albert was related to the spell your father cast—but not the same.”

  “But I don’t—why should anyone have cast a spell on Albert?” Lord Ransom said, running a hand over his face. “He was—he is—only a little boy.”

  Hal smiled wearily. “Because you had another son—a son whose mother had watched as you tried fruitlessly, again and again, to break the curse that had its hold on your family. Whose mother saw you come back, not with the solution to the trouble, but with a new wife and a child.”

  Mrs. Forsythe made a little choking sound, and Hal turned his gaze on her. “She had been frightened for years—watching as your health declined, as Matthew’s illness never improved. She waited, all that time, for you to find what you searched for—but you never had. She feared that you would die—that Matthew would die—in spite of all her efforts to help you. And she feared that when that happened—her own son would fall victim to the curse.”

  “Stop,” Mrs. Forsythe said. She turned her wide-eyed gaze on her husband. “Don’t—John, don’t listen to this.”

  “When the new child came, she saw her opportunity,” Hal continued relentlessly. “It was an act of desperation—of jealousy and fear. She could not see herself watching this boy grow up healthy and strong, while her own son languished in the family curse. And so she summoned up the spirit that your father had consigned to darkness so many years before—and she offered him your youngest child in order to spare her own.”

  “No,” Lord Ransom said. “No, that can’t—but then why Matthew? Why Jack?”

  Hal turned to him. “When you wrote that you would be returning with your bride, did you name the child?”

  “I don’t—no, I didn’t,” Lord Ransom said. “I only—I said that we were bringing our son.”

  “There you are,” Hal said. “She knew only that he was your youngest son—and that is who she asked the spirit to take. That is where she spelled the doom of her own child. For the spirit took them all—in the opposite order of their birth.”

  “But—who is she?” Lady Ransom said. “My husband was married only once before—I don’t—who is this woman?”

  “The only person it could be,” Hal said. “The only person who knew of the curse—and how it had been cast. Who had known your husband before he married—and who had once been a pretty young girl who came often to his home. Who else but the granddaughter of the hedgewitch who had treated his father?”

  Mrs. Forsythe choked. “It wasn’t—it should have worked. Jack should have been—he should have been safe.”

  “But he wasn’t,” Hal said, looking at her sadly. “And you knew that—as soon as Matthew was taken, you knew. That is why you tried to erase the spell—but it was too late.”

  Mrs. Forsythe sank to the ground, weeping bitterly. “Oh, God—Jack. My poor Jack.”

  “You witch,” said Lady Ransom, getting to her feet, her eyes wild. “I knew it was you—I knew. You beast of a woman—you witch.
I hope you burn—I hope you burn in Hell forever. They will hang you—and you deserve it!”

  Hal put up a hand. “She may yet redeem herself—she has a chance to save not only her own son, but the others as well.”

  He went and knelt before Mrs. Forsythe, taking hold of her shoulders. She looked up at him, her face white and set with despair.

  “What must I do?” she said. “To save my child—what must I do?”

  “The spirit is trapped,” Hal said quietly. “He seeks to rest—he wants another to take his place. It is his only desire.”

  Mrs. Forsythe nodded, a calm passing over her face. “Then—if I do this, my child will be set free?”

  “If the spirit agrees to it—then yes,” Hal said. “It will be done.”

  She nodded again, and pushed herself to her feet. “Then—that is what I will do.”

  “Nell,” said Forsythe, looking up. His face was horrified. “Nell—you can’t . . .”

  “Why not?” she said, gesturing to Lady Ransom. “She is right—they will hang me for this. And what good would that do Jack?”

  “Oh, God,” he said, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, God.”

  “John,” she said, waiting for him to look up. “Only promise me one thing—don’t—don’t hate the boy on my account.”

  His dark brows drew together. “What sort of man do you take me for? Whatever has been said here—he is my son. That will not change.”

  “That is all I wanted,” she said. “On the morrow—I will go.”

  Hal nodded, and she went from the room, still clutching the quilt. We watched her go, and for a moment there was a stunned silence, before the party broke apart, and we went to our own rooms, leaving Forsythe alone in his sorrow.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I went up the stairs and to my own room, but I did not sleep. I was too stunned by the revelation that Jack had been the third victim—and I was too worried about Hal. He had looked very pale and tired as he made his way up the stairs, rubbing at the bandage over his eye. I lay back against my pillows and tried to push the niggling fear to the back of my mind—he would be fine once the curse was broken, just as I had been when the beast attacked me in Manchester. I lay awake, thinking of my brother and Mrs. Forsythe, until the sun peeked dimly through the curtains.

  I splashed some water on my face and went down to the library, where Hal was already waiting. He was leaning back in a chair before the fire, his eye closed and his pipe clenched between his teeth, sending smoke curling into the air. His case sat on the floor beside him—ready to take to the fell and summon the spirit. I sat down on the sofa and cleared my throat.

  He started, sitting up and blinking at me. He was still rather pale, and his face was tense—but he ran a hand over his forehead and some of the tension eased.

  “Well, here we are,” he said, glancing out the window. “The morning has come. Shall we go and find Mrs. Forsythe?”

  “I suppose,” I said slowly, looking at the case. I chewed at my lip a moment before speaking again. “Hal—I can do the summoning. I did it before—you needn’t . . .”

  “No,” he said flatly. “That is not an option. These spirits are clever—this one very nearly tricked me. You will not summon it on your own.”

  I sighed resignedly—I had not really supposed that he would let me summon the spirit without him, and I was not really certain I’d wanted him to, but still—I didn’t like the idea of his facing the spirit again.

  “It will be all right,” he said, as though reading my thoughts. “I’m going to him on Mrs. Forsythe’s behalf—there will be no danger to me this time.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, and beckoned me to follow. We went through the kitchen down to Forsythe’s office, where Mrs. Forsythe sat in her husband’s chair. Her face was pale and set, her hair drawn back into its customary knot—and she had draped around her shoulders the quilt that she had clutched the night before; it was the same quilt that had draped Jack’s shoulders the last time we had spoken to him.

  Her husband stood behind her, his face a mask of despair, with anger deep behind his eyes. He glared at Hal as we entered, gripping his wife’s shoulder tightly.

  “Why is this necessary?” he said hoarsely. “Why must she suffer this?”

  “It’s all right, John,” Mrs. Forsythe said, her voice hollow. “It’s to save our Jack—it’s payment for what I’ve done.”

  “It is your wife that has made this decision,” Hal said. “Not I. But if she had not so decided, it would have been the noose for her—which would have saved no one. In doing this, she spares three lives, including her own son.”

  Forsythe squeezed his wife’s shoulder once more. “If—if it spares Jack, I will understand. But if not . . .”

  Mrs. Forsythe patted his hand. “You’re a good man, John. You’re—you’ve been better than I deserved.”

  She looked up at Hal, resolution entering her face. “I’m—I’m ready, Mr. Bishop.”

  “Good,” Hal said. He looked up at Forsythe. “We’ll need the cart—to bring the boys home.”

  Forsythe nodded. “I’ll—I’ll have the driver bring it round.”

  He fled from the room, with one last backward glance at his wife, leaving us alone with her. A weariness settled over her face, and she drew the quilt about her more tightly, looking very old all at once.

  “I never meant to hurt him,” she said. “Nor Jack—never Jack. But I’m afraid, Mr. Bishop—I’m very afraid.”

  “I suppose that’s natural,” Hal said, giving her an appraising look. “To be afraid. Do you suppose the children were frightened, when you sent them away?”

  She covered her face with her hands. “I know—I know. I won’t shirk it, Mr. Bishop. But I . . .”

  Hal’s gaze remained impassive, as she sat up straighter, drawing the quilt about her once more. She closed her eyes, and for a moment there was only silence—until Forsythe returned to tell us that the cart was ready. He walked up behind his wife, laying a hand on her shoulder, and gave Hal a pleading sort of look.

  “Give me a moment,” he said. “Let me have a moment with her.”

  Hal nodded, and we left the room, the door closing behind us, to go and gather our coats in the entryway. The cart was waiting for us when we went out the door, the craggy-faced driver perched atop his seat just as he had been on the day we’d first arrived at Foxfire. It was a clear day—the sunlight a sharp contrast to the brisk chill of the wind, and I drew up the collar of my coat.

  It was a long time before Mrs. Forsythe appeared at the door—long enough that my face began aching in the cold, and that Hal’s pipe burned out. I had begun to wonder whether she would shirk her obligation after all, when suddenly the door opened and she stepped out—her head bare, and no wrap save the quilt that she carried draped about her shoulders.

  Hal nodded to me, and I wordlessly helped her up into the cart. He stepped in after us, settling the case on the floor of the cart, and leaned forward, giving directions to the driver, who was staring at Mrs. Forsythe in open disbelief.

  It was a silent ride up to the tor—Mrs. Forsythe still and pale, her eyes haunted, stared at the fells and moors that she had known all her life, while Hal, tense and focused, leaned back against the cart, his pipe billowing smoke, and his hands clenched at his sides. At last we reached the tor—Hal directed the driver to stop on the opposite side of the spell, and we clambered out. I helped Mrs. Forsythe down, and her hand was like ice.

  She stared at the place where she had laid the spell, her eyes wide and frightened. “I must do it,” she whispered. “I must.”

  Hal handed me the case and sat down heavily on a rock, running a hand over his forehead. I took out the salt and began laying the circle, a familiar dread tightening my chest. I set the candles at the four directions and lit them, and Hal pushed himself heavily to his feet, taking the chalk and oil from his coat. He knelt down in the circle’s center, drawing out the spell and pouring the oil, then beckoned Mrs
. Forsythe to join him. She hesitated, before taking several trembling steps to his side.

  Hal struck a match and dropped it over the oil, sending up the strange flames of gold and pink and blue. The strong incense smell of the oil mingled with the beeswax scent of the candles, and for a moment I breathed the scent in deeply, letting it soothe my anxious mind.

  Then there was the familiar strong rush of wind, and the smell of rot and bog-water drowned out everything else, filling my nostrils and twining around my lungs, making my stomach turn. I looked up, and there he stood—the spirit, dark blue flame and shadow, holding up his lantern. His dark gaze took in both Hal and Mrs. Forsythe, and he gave a low, rumbling laugh.

  “Well, well,” he said. “You are a clever child.”

  “I have come to make a bargain,” Hal said, his tone neutral. “This woman has an offer to make to you.”

  “Does she, indeed?” the spirit said. He moved forward, leaning down to peer into Mrs. Forsythe’s face. “Ah—this one. She has summoned me before.”

  “You tricked me,” Mrs. Forsythe said, her voice shaking. “You stole him.”

  “Stole?” The spirit’s tone deepened, a rumbling, thunder-like quality in it. “I do not steal.”

  “No,” Hal said, in that same careful tone. “But you are clever—and the woman was outwitted.”

  “Was she?” The spirit said, turning his hollow gaze back on Hal. “I gave her what she asked for.”

  Mrs. Forsythe made a choking sound. “I don’t want it anymore—give him back. Give them all back.”

  There was another chill rush of wind, and flames flickered behind the spirit’s eyes. “For what? I have done what I was asked—I have been paid. That is an end of it.”

  “She wishes to make a new contract,” Hal said. “She wants the children back. And she is willing to pay.”

  “Is she?” The spirit lifted the lantern, and brought his face close to Mrs. Forsythe. “And what will you pay now? What could pay for all of them?”

  Mrs. Forsythe darted a glance at Hal, her eyes wide in her pale face. He nodded, and she turned back to the spirit. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, clutching the quilt about her shoulders.