The Foxfire Lights

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  “For Jack,” she whispered to herself. Then she opened her eyes and looked at the spirit, her face set. “For all of them—I will—I will take your burden. I will take your place.”

  The spirit laughed—a rough, rumbling sound—and the wind swirled about us. “Oh, well done!” he shouted, turning to Hal. “You are a clever child—clever! Ha!”

  He moved back to Mrs. Forsythe, thrusting the lantern at her. “Be certain, woman—once you have taken this burden, you cannot forsake it. It is yours until another comes.”

  She set her jaw and reached out a trembling hand—just as she touched the lantern, there was a burst of blue flame, so bright that it blinded me for a moment—and then she and the spirit were gone, the wind gusting across the circle, leaving only the quilt behind. For a moment, there was nothing but silence—and then I heard a baby cry.

  I blinked, and there in the center of the circle sat Jack, wide-eyed and pale, clutching a crying Albert in his arms. Matthew, equally pale, with dark circles under his eyes, leaned heavily against Jack’s shoulder, staring at the place where the spirit had been.

  “What is this?” he said, his voice hoarse. “What am I doing here? I should be in bed—I was in bed. And for God’s sake, shut that baby up!”

  I couldn’t help it—I laughed. I laughed until tears came into my eyes, while Matthew stared at me, aghast.

  “You’ve been gone for a time, Matthew,” Hal said quietly, giving me a reproving look. “But you’re going home now. All of you are going home.”

  He took the baby from Jack and handed him to me. “Wrap that child in the quilt and take him to the cart. I’ll help Jack with Matthew.”

  I did as I was told, choking back the laughter that threatened to bubble up every time I thought of Matthew’s aggrieved tone, and we settled the boys into the cart. The driver’s eyebrows shot up as he saw them, but he said nothing, mutely slapping the reins against the pony’s back, and taking us back down the fell.

  Matthew leaned back against the cart, disgruntled and confused, while Albert’s wails died down to quiet whimpers, as he stared up at me, big-eyed. Jack sat apart, staring at the quilt, his face pale and drawn. He had not made a sound since he had returned, and I wondered if he knew about his mother.

  It was Lady Ransom who met us first when we returned to Foxfire; she ran out the door and down the front steps, rushing breathlessly up as the cart came to a stop. She plucked Albert from my arms the moment my feet touched the ground. The child threw his arms around her neck, burying his face in her shoulder, and she sank down to the ground, clutching him tightly, weeping as she kissed his face and head, too overcome even to speak.

  Lord Ransom was not far behind her—he pushed past me to the cart, where he gathered Matthew up in his arms. Matthew stared up at him, still confused.

  “Father—what—why?” he said, in that same disgruntled tone.

  “Never mind,” Lord Ransom said, his voice choked. “You’ve been gone—but now you’re back. That’s all.”

  Jack alone remained in the cart, still staring blankly ahead. Lord Ransom settled Matthew in his chair, and Lady Ransom got to her feet, clutching Albert as though he would be taken from her any moment, and still Jack remained where he was, pale and silent. Lord Ransom turned from Matthew, his brows drawing together as he saw Jack sitting there.

  “Is he—what’s wrong with him?” he said. “Perhaps I should . . .”

  He stepped forward, but Hal put out a hand and nodded to the door—Forsythe stood there, looking almost as pale and dazed as his son. He stepped forward, walking slowly toward the cart. Once there, he leaned against it, holding out his hand.

  “Jack,” he said quietly. “It’s all right, Jack.”

  Jack blinked, turning to him. “Dad?”

  “Come down, now,” Forsythe said. “It’s all right.”

  “Mum—she—,” Jack choked out. “I know—I know what she . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Forsythe said, tears running down his face. “Come down, Jack. You’re home now.”

  Jack got slowly to his feet, and took his father’s offered hand. Forsythe pulled him into an embrace as he stepped down from the cart. “Aye, you’re home, Jack,” he said, through his sobs. “You’re home.”

  All my earlier inclination to laughter was dissolved, as I watched Jack embrace his father. Lady Ransom smiled through her tears, kissing Albert on the top of his head, and Lord Ransom had a hand on Matthew’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly, while his other arm was wrapped around his wife.

  “You’ve brought them back to us,” he said, his voice hoarse. “All of them—you’ve brought them home. There isn’t—what can we say?”

  “Thank you,” Lady Ransom said, laughing, as she laid her cheek against the top of her son’s head. “Thank you, Mr. Bishop—thank you.”

  “Never mind,” Hal said thinly. “It was nothing.”

  And then he fainted, dropping to the ground before I could catch him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Hal slept for the next two days—two very long days for me. Lord Ransom insisted on having a doctor in—the least he could do, he said—and the doctor insisted that Hal’s collapse was due to exhaustion and the pain of his injury, and that a good rest was all that he needed. I was not so easily persuaded—I had expected Hal to recover immediately once the curse had been broken, just as I had from my wound in Manchester, and his prolonged illness worried me. I kept a vigil by him, changing his dressings each day, and was heartened only by the gradual fading of the angry red mark across his face. The mark on his arm had disappeared completely, but the one on his face lingered.

  While I sat and waited for my brother to wake, the household gradually settled down into its familiar patterns—albeit under a cloud of grief for Mrs. Forsythe. On the second day of my vigil, there was a knock at the door. I bade the person to enter, and Jack pushed open the door. The cheerfulness of his face was much diminished, and I knew that his mother’s fate still weighed on him.

  He nodded toward Hal. “Is he—do you know if he’s all right?”

  “The doctor says it’s only exhaustion,” I said, trying to keep the fear from creeping into my voice. “He—he pushed himself rather hard, there at the end.”

  “Oh—I see,” Jack said. He looked down at his feet, shifting uncomfortably. “Do—do you suppose my mother is—is in any pain?”

  I remembered the spirit’s haunted eyes, his desperate plea to take his burden, and ran a hand over my face. “I don’t—I don’t know. It isn’t—the spirit world isn’t like our world. I can’t say.”

  Jack shook his head, not comforted by my vague answer. “I wish—why did she have to do that? Why couldn’t she have—she should have left it alone.”

  “She did it for you,” I said. “Because she was frightened for you.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier to bear,” he said wretchedly. “If anything, it’s worse. Can’t you see that?”

  I glanced over at Hal, his face tense under the bandages, even in sleep, and sighed. “Yes—yes, I know.”

  There was a long silence then, Jack looking down at his feet, while I grew increasingly uncomfortable—he was so miserable, and I had no words to comfort him. Finally, he sighed and looked up.

  “Well, that’s not why I came here anyway,” he said. “Master Matthew wants to see you.”

  “Me?” I said, raising my eyebrows. “What on earth for?”

  “He wanted to see your brother, actually,” Jack said. “But as he isn’t awake yet—I suppose you’ll have to do.”

  I blinked at him. “Well—I suppose I could . . .” My voice trailed off, and I glanced back at Hal, still sleeping.

  “I think you ought to,” Jack said. “He’s very insistent, Master Matthew.”

  I sighed, and stood, following him out of the room and up the stairs to Matthew’s room. Matthew was back in his familiar place, propped up on his pillows like a young raja, his face as sharp and imperious as ever. His color wa
s better—he was not as pale, and there was a spark in his eyes that had not been there before.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said, not bothering to mask his disappointment. “I thought I told Jack to bring your brother.”

  “He is still resting,” I said—with not a little irritation. “What do you need?”

  “You needn’t be so ill-tempered,” he said, lifting his chin. “As it happens, I wanted to thank him.”

  He turned and rummaged through the things on his table, taking one of them up, and holding it out to me. I took it, turning it over in my hands—it was the little model of an aether-engine that Hal had noticed on our first visit. I frowned.

  “What is this for?” I said.

  “I thought he might like it,” Matthew said, a bit hesitantly. “You know—something to remember your father.”

  I looked up sharply, half-believing that he was making fun of me—but the look on his face was very earnest. I sighed, tucking the model into my pocket—I hadn’t the heart to tell him that Hal already had one just like it, and that he didn’t like that one either.

  Matthew smiled. “And you can tell him I want to study magic, too. Real magic—the sort of thing he does.”

  “Do you?” I said, thinking of Hal’s wounded face, and the pain I had felt when the spirit grasped my arm. “It’s—it’s not an easy living, you know.”

  He gave a short bark of laughter. “I won’t be doing magic, you idiot. Only studying it. It fascinates me.”

  “All right, then,” I said, standing up. “If that’s all . . .”

  “Oh, don’t go off like that,” he said. “Tell him for me—tell him I said thank you. For me—and for Father. He’s—he’s better than he has been in ages. Tell your brother that.”

  “I will,” I said. “I’ll tell him.”

  Matthew nodded, then beckoned Jack over to tell him that he wanted to go out on the balcony. Understanding myself to be dismissed, I made my way back down the stairs to Hal’s room, my hand clutching the aether-engine model in my pocket. I set it down on the table beside his bed, and settled myself back in my chair, running a hand over my face.

  “Perhaps you ought to have a rest,” Hal said, his voice thin. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

  I sat up, startled. “Hal—you’re awake,” I said, rather stupidly.

  “So it would seem,” he said drily, pushing himself up on his pillows. He frowned. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Two days. Are you—do you feel any better?” I hesitated a bit before continuing. “You—your eye. Is it better?”

  He ran a hand over his face, frowning. “The burn—it doesn’t hurt nearly as much. I suppose the mark is fading?”

  I nodded.

  “Good,” he said, leaning back against the pillows. “The mark—it will fade completely in time.”

  I chewed at my lip, looking down at my hands. “And what about—what about your eye?”

  He was silent for a long moment, and when he spoke again he did not look at me. “Jem—I had to make a payment. You understand?”

  I stared at him, the realization washing over me like ice water—something that will do just as well, if he wants to see—those had been the spirit’s words. I shook my head, swallowing back bile. “Then your eye—God, Hal.”

  “It’s only one eye,” he said, pressing his hand against it. “I suppose—it could have been worse.”

  “Could have been worse?” I said, my voice hoarse. “And you didn’t—you couldn’t have known what he would take. God, Hal—you shouldn’t have . . .”

  “It’s done,” he said quietly. He turned and looked at the model I had set on the table. “From Matthew?”

  “Don’t—don’t do that,” I said. “You can’t—you can’t just accept this. We have to—to do something.”

  He took the model, turning it over in his hands. “And what should we do? How do you propose to fix it?”

  “I don’t—I don’t know,” I said, tears stinging the back of my eyes. “I could—could call up the spirit . . .”

  He gave me a furious look—as angry as I’d ever seen him—and clenched a fist around the model, his knuckles turning white. “And what? What would you offer? Your eye? Your life? It was my mistake—and I’ve paid for it.”

  “But it was my fault,” I said, my voice shaking. “It’s—you wouldn’t have done it if hadn’t been for me. I can’t let you . . .”

  He sighed, the anger leaving his face. “You can—and you will. It’s done, Jem.”

  I ran a hand over my face, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry—I never thought . . .”

  “Not your fault,” he said wearily. “Don’t—don’t take on that burden. It’s done. That’s all.”

  I nodded slowly. “All right,” I said, after a long moment.

  He gave me an appraising look, then nodded. He looked down at the model in his hands, turning it over. “Now—Matthew. Why did he give you this?”

  I shook my head, a bit startled by the abrupt change in subject. “It’s—actually, he gave it to you.”

  “To me?” He frowned, lifting the model up. “Why?”

  “To thank you,” I said, and told him what Matthew had said to me.

  His mouth quirked up into a half-smile. “Well—that is something.”

  He set the model back down on the table and lay back against his pillows. He fell asleep again only a few moments later, and I sat back in my chair, still brooding over what he had said about his eye—but I could think of nothing that I could do. My own weariness took over, and I decided that Hal was right—I needed a rest myself. I went to my own room, and was asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

  By the next morning, some of Hal’s energy had been restored, and he was insistent that he wanted to go home. We had a silent breakfast in the dining room, then made our way up to the study to say our final farewell to Lord Ransom. He was at his desk when we entered, surrounded by crates full of straw. I stared around the room at the cabinets standing open, half-empty.

  “I’ve decided to pack up the collection,” he said. “I—I think we’ve had quite enough of magic in this house for a while.”

  Hal reached into his pocket and set the little model of the aether-engine on the desk. “I wouldn’t abandon it entirely,” he said. “Your son has expressed an interest in the field.”

  Lord Ransom took up the engine, frowning. “Has he? I am surprised to hear it.”

  “I am not,” Hal said. “He has a good mind for it—provided it is guided in the right direction.”

  Lord Ransom said nothing for a moment, frowning down at the aether-engine in his hands. “I don’t—you’ve done a great deal for me, Mr. Bishop,” he said at last. “I—I know that the old curse has been broken as well. I can feel it—I’m in better health than I’ve been in for years. And Matthew—I can see it in his face. He isn’t so pale as he used to be—he eats better.”

  He paused, his frown deepening, then looked up at Hal with the expression of one steeling himself for a blow. “But—his back . . .”

  Hal regarded him somberly. “That, I fear, is purely natural. Magic did not cause it, and magic could not heal it—not in this way, at least. You must leave that to the doctors.”

  Lord Ransom looked down at the aether-engine once more, and set it down, sighing. “The doctors have always said there is nothing for it—he will be crippled for life.”

  “Then it is as well that he has an interest in magic,” Hal said. “As I said—it is a mental faculty. He may do it as well as any man.”

  Lord Ransom nodded, and there was a moment’s silence as he frowned at the little engine on his desk, deep in thought. Finally, he looked up at Hal, an odd expression on his face.

  “There was something else,” he said, opening up the drawer of his desk. He rummaged through it, drawing out a little case. “You said—I knew about the curse because of what my father had told me, and what the hedgewitch said. That was true—but it was not all.”


  He plucked a card from the case and slid it across the desk. It was old and yellowed, but the design on its back was easily seen—the likeness of a spider web, done in ink, no name and no address. Hal picked it up, turning it over, and his face went very pale.

  “Where did this come from?” he said. “Who gave it to you?”

  Lord Ransom shook his head. “It was among my father’s papers when he died. I didn’t—I didn’t know what it meant—but I kept it, because of what Father had said.”

  “What is it?” I said, trying to see over Hal’s shoulder. “What does it say?”

  He handed it to me. It read, “The debt must be paid. A reckoning is due.”

  I felt an uncomfortable shiver go down my spine—so T.S. had his hand in this as well. I gave the card back to Hal, who held it out to Lord Ransom. Lord Ransom shook his head.

  “You may keep it. This person,” he gestured to the card. “Or . . . whatever he may be—held this debt over my father’s head. It destroyed his life—and nearly destroyed my own. I—take it with you, Mr. Bishop. And find out who he is.”

  Hal nodded, tucking the card into his pocket. Lord Ransom looked down at his desk, taking up the aether-engine once more.

  “I really—I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “You have—you have lifted a terrible weight from my shoulders. Thank you.”

  With that, we left him, walking out the front door and clambering into the pony cart one last time. It was a silent ride down to the train station. Hal was brooding over something, his eye closed and his pipe billowing out smoke. I sat back against the cart, watching the countryside slip by, and did my own brooding, over T.S.—and Hal’s eye.

  We secured our tickets—fortunately the next train was only moments away from arriving. When we had taken our seats, and the train had begun the long journey back to London, I turned to Hal, who was staring out the window pensively.

  “A reckoning,” I said, recalling the words of the card. “You said—you said Father had said something like that. You—you promised to tell me.”

  He turned from the window with a sigh. “Yes, I suppose I did.”