The Shadow Cabinet

by Maureen Johnson

  “What’s the matter with you?” he snapped.

  “I just told you.”

  “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “I’m telling you the truth. Whatever was in that piece of the Eye of Isis is in me, and if you touch me, you’ll be gone.”

  “She’s not kidding, yeah?” Boo said. “You can’t touch her. She’s got the power in her.”

  His eyes were a bit rheumy, and his white eyebrows were shaggy and animated. This had them doing a little dance. He reached out a hand, and I moved back even more. Callum caught my arm to keep me from toppling down a step.

  “It wouldn’t do for me to talk about the Oswulf Stone,” he said.

  “If you can’t tell us where it is,” Callum said, “can you tell us how to protect it? You have to tell us something.”

  “The stones,” Lord Williamson said, “can only be moved with the utmost care. They must always be placed correctly. It took me three years to calculate where to place the Oswulf Stone. It was the one work of importance I completed in my life. If I give away the location, I could undo that. Perhaps what you are telling me is true. Perhaps you want to protect the stone. Perhaps not.”

  “You believed Stephen,” Boo said. “Why him and not us?”

  He regarded her for a long moment.

  “I was born of the sight,” he said. “I spent my life trying to understand it. I studied the old ways and the old knowledge. I made a mistake by recording some of what I knew. I should have known all would follow the road here. I said things that were not for the living to know, or for the dead, for that matter. But when we live, we believe we have a right to everything in the universe—that everything is ours to touch. And it was the time when we appeared to own all we could see. The world was ours, why not what was beyond this world? I was a fool, but . . .”

  “You were the one who moved it?” I asked.

  “I was the one who ordered it moved. It is my belief that I remain because I touched the stone while I lived. And you say you have the Eye of Isis in you? How is that possible?”

  So I told him the story of the last night with the Ripper, my attack, the explosion. As I spoke, he seemed to grow tired and sat down on a bit of marble. He was silent for some time after I finished.

  “There are elements to your story which have a ring of truth,” he said. “I have gone on too long, and I have carried a heavy weight. Knowledge is the heaviest weight of all. It’s not something I wish to bear anymore. Your friend spoke of two others with the sight, two that he trusted. He said you were young. He told me many things. He spoke to me of the Eye of Isis, but he did not refer to it as that. He called it a terminus. I am inclined to believe you. I will tell you, and you will release me. I cannot bear being questioned. I cannot bear what I know. You must agree.”

  I’d done this before, but this time, it felt different. Somehow, it had been all right when the power to do this, to make this decision and carry it out, was spread over the group. Now it was me, and it would always just be me. I was no longer so willing.

  “Maybe you should just . . .”

  “You will do this,” he said, “or I won’t tell you. Here is what you must understand, though—everything in London depends on the stones and the water. The rivers border the lands of the dead and help convey them to where they must go. If the stone is disturbed, if it is lost, the consequences will be grave.”

  “The rivers?” Boo asked. “There’s just the one. The Thames.”

  “Oh, no, my dear. London is a city of many rivers, rivers which have been cut up and diverted and covered over. It’s part of the problem. When we disturbed the rivers, we disturbed the passages. We threw off the whole system. But you speak of Oswulf’s Stone. That stone originally sat in the waters of what became known as the River Westbourne. It was moved hundreds of years ago to a spot not far away from that location, at a corner of what we know as Hyde Park. It was at this location that the Tyburn Tree was built. This was the great hanging spot of London. Many thousands died there. That land became death’s property, so the stone was placed there to help keep the energy of the dead flowing in the correct direction. There it stood, this strange stone. Very few knew why it was there or what it meant. And for hundreds of years, this was fine. Tyburn was a remote edge of the city. But my time was an age of expansion. London was growing by the day. Tunnels were being cut under the ground. The dead were being disturbed. It was only a matter of time before someone would remove the stone from its location. So I made a plan to secure it.

  “Marble Arch was originally built for Buckingham Palace, but it was soon clear that it was not appropriate there and needed to be moved. I suggested the spot where the Oswulf Stone stood. My idea was that the stone would be imbedded inside the arch itself. Once a part of that monument, it would be very difficult to move it. However, I soon became concerned that the arch may be the target of antimonarchists, bombers, that sort of thing. London has a history of disorder. Guy Fawkes, for example, wanting to destroy the Houses of Parliament. It had to be moved, but the question was where to put it. One doesn’t simply move the great stones of London. The person who had moved the stone to Tyburn was obviously versed in the sacred geometry. The work was very carefully done, though, I think, not entirely effective. There were still many spiritual disturbances in the park. As Tyburn was no longer an active hanging spot, I felt it was safe to move it back to its true location. But where was that, precisely? I only knew the stone had been in the River Westbourne. The River Westbourne crosses Hyde Park. It was what originally formed the Serpentine. They bottled the poor girl up and made her a sewer. The blessed river, now a sewer. In the process, they also changed her course. I did the calculations as best I could, using what information I had. I found that there was an inn that still stood from the time when the river was still wild. It was called the Boatman. It used to sit on the banks. I had the stone interred there, in the northeast corner of the cellar floor. It can be distinguished by a small X I had etched, very carefully, into the surface. Now you have the knowledge, and my work is finished. I must go to Albion’s ancient Druid rocky shore. You will do as I have asked. If you are what you say you are. If you are a part of the Eye of Isis come to me, then you must do as I ask. Come now.”

  He crooked his hand at me, beckoning me closer.

  “Come now, Isis. Come to your son.”

  Now it was really creepy. Now I was Isis. Now an old man—an old dead man—was calling himself my son.

  “You don’t have to,” Boo said, looking over at me. Boo always understood this, that the terminus wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

  “You think I don’t know what I’m asking for,” he said. “No, my dear. The thing that should concern you is that I do understand. Two people have come for the stone now. This has meaning. The stone is stirring. London is stirring. The gates will open. I wish to pass through before that happens.”

  This man, who’d been doddering around the folly a few moments before, now moved like a ball rolling across ice and was in front of me, his hand on my face. Even as I opened my mouth to try to speak, I felt everything falling away. The marble of the folly looked like it was electrified, glowing. The sky went white. Unlike before, though, this time I felt unable to breathe. I was being flattened, my lungs pressed. Then there was no ground under me. Everything was reduced to a single point.

  Then I was on my knees, Boo hunched over me, telling me to breathe, telling me I was fine. Lord Williamson was gone.

  “Bloody hell,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  Callum too was crouched in front of me. I tried to speak, but my throat was burning. I shook my head. They helped me to my feet. It took me a few minutes to recover.

  “It was worse than before,” I said when I could talk. “It hurt.”

  “It didn’t hurt before?”

  “Not like that. It’s getting harder each time.”

&nb
sp; “Right, come on. Let’s walk a bit. Take it slow.”

  They supported me back to the car. Boo texted Thorpe, and he and Freddie came out a few minutes later, trailed by Lady Williamson, who was still complaining about the intrusion and how she was “going to speak to Philip.”

  “And who are these people?” she said when she saw us. “What are you playing at?”

  “Thank you for your help,” Thorpe said, getting in the car.

  She was still talking as we pulled off.

  “You found it?” he said. “Rory, what’s happened to you?”

  I let Boo and Callum explain. I needed to rest.

  18

  I SLEPT IN THE CAR. WHEN WE GOT BACK TO HIGHGATE, I returned to bed and slept some more. When I woke, it appeared to be the middle of the night, but it was only six, or so said the clock on the wall. I made my way downstairs and found everyone in the living room talking.

  “You all right?” Boo said.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Just hit me hard.”

  “Is it difficult?” Freddie asked.

  “Not like this. Not usually.”

  “We need to be careful with it,” Boo said. “Every time, you’re looking worse. We don’t know what it’s doing to you.”

  She had a point, but it wasn’t a point I felt like reflecting on at the moment.

  “I’m starving,” I said. “Is there anything to eat?”

  There were some cookies. I ate half the pack while they told me what had been going on. While I slept, Thorpe had a team sent over to the Boatman under the auspices of being from a brewery. They’d found the stone marked with the X in the basement, exactly where Lord Williamson said it would be.

  “So it’s fine,” Callum said. “They don’t have it yet, but if they know where it is, we’ll have to move it.”

  “I think we need to speak to Charlotte again,” Thorpe replied. “I want a better idea of what she heard. I’ve phoned Dr. Marigold. We can go over and speak to her. Charlotte wants you to come along, Rory. She knows you. She’s more comfortable with you there. Are you up to it?”

  I brushed some cookie crumbs from my front. I’d now been in these clothes for two days. I’d slept in them twice. I was feeling sweaty and gross and grimy. What I wanted was a shower and something new to wear, and maybe something more substantial than cookies, and maybe a few hours in front of the TV.

  “Sure,” I said. “Are there any other clothes I could wear?”

  “Freddie, do you have anything that would fit Rory?”

  “I might,” Freddie said, digging into her bag.

  I was given a pair of Freddie’s jeans, which were loose and comfortable. They kept falling down around my waist a bit. She also lent me a sweater, which was long enough to cover the fact that the jeans were halfway down my butt. I gave myself a quick wash in the sink and stared at myself in the mirror for a bit. My hair was looking coppery and crisp, like a sweet potato fry. I didn’t really know my own reflection anymore. I was some strange girl with short hair and someone else’s clothes. This feeling was oddly pleasant. For a moment, I was content in a way I didn’t really understand. I had simply become someone else. This life was direct. There was no screwing around with makeup or wondering what I looked like. There was no phone in my pocket. There were things that needed doing, and I would do them.

  While the incident in the folly had tired me out, it reassured me as well that what I could do was real—that what happened in the hospital still counted. We’d found Charlotte, and now I could concentrate on Stephen.

  Every time I even thought his name, I had the inclination to look around. This was especially true in the bathroom. He might be there. It was always possible. Given my luck, he would turn up when I was in there.

  But once again, it was me alone with myself, looking around at the tiles and the empty tub.

  Thorpe was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, phone in hand.

  “Text your friend,” Thorpe said, passing me the phone. “He’s been texting for the last two hours and wants to know where you are. Don’t mention Charlotte. Do it in the car.”

  As we headed to see Charlotte, I tried to think of something simple to say to Jerome so he would know it was me. I settled for: It’s me, stupid. Everything ok.

  It took longer for him to reply.

  I’m with Jazza.

  I stared at the phone for a moment, unsure what to do next. I envisioned them together, Jerome and Jaz, my friends, being normal. Maybe going to the pub.

  Is she ok? I asked.

  A quicker reply.

  Not really.

  What’s wrong? I said.

  “That’s enough,” Thorpe said, taking the phone. And, of course, it was pretty obvious what was wrong. There was no point in asking stupid questions. What was wrong was me.

  Charlotte met us at the door, opening it before we could even knock. She looked more alert than she had the other day, more like her old self. Her head was held higher, her gaze more steady, her red hair back piled high and neat on her head.

  “Oh, hello,” she said. “Come inside.”

  This was delivered in the crisp tone of a prefect. She was extremely calm. I remembered the days after my first attack. I slept a lot; I was disheveled. Charlotte had pinned her hair up and was neatly dressed in a black sweater and jeans. I passed her on the way in and she smiled. I had to wonder how she was handling this so well. I understood that Charlotte was made Head Girl for a reason, but there are limits to everything. We all break down a little.

  “You look well,” Thorpe said, eyeing her.

  “I feel well,” she replied, shutting the door behind us. “I know I should probably be traumatized, but I honestly don’t remember much about it at all.”

  “You certainly don’t have to feel traumatized,” Thorpe said. From his expression, I could tell he was as puzzled as I was about Charlotte’s steady demeanor. Maybe it was shock. Maybe Charlotte was made of something resolutely English, something that was going to get on with it no matter what it was. Or maybe . . . and this was more likely . . . maybe it was medication. She was staying with a doctor.

  “Where’s Dr. Marigold?” Thorpe asked.

  “Upstairs. I think she’s speaking to someone on the phone. She’s in her office. It’s upstairs. Straight ahead at the landing.”

  Thorpe started up the stairs. The television was on. Charlotte had been watching a talk show.

  “I’ll just turn this off,” Charlotte said.

  When she picked up the remote to turn off the television, she accidentally turned the volume all the way up.

  “Oh! Sorry! Sorry, sorry!” She fumbled with the remote for a moment before getting the volume down. She left it on.

  “Maybe I’m not quite as well as I think,” she said, with an embarrassed smile. “If it’s okay, maybe I’ll leave the television on. It makes me feel better for some reason. I suppose it keeps me distracted. It’s too quiet otherwise. She’s busy all day, and she doesn’t say much.”

  This I understood.

  “TV was my best friend when I was stabbed,” I said. “I didn’t even care what was on as long as it was on.”

  “Then you know,” she said. “Come to the kitchen with me. Have some tea.”

  I followed her back to the kitchen, where she put on the kettle. This was reassuringly normal.

  “I’m allowed to treat this house like it’s home—as long as I don’t go anywhere except this room and the spare room,” she said wryly. “I’ve been told it’s important I stay here, for safety’s sake. I wish I could see my parents, but . . . well, things are complicated, aren’t they? Things have changed for me. Dr. Marigold has been explaining some of it to me. She calls it the sight. I know you have it too. I know that’s how you saw the Ripper. So many things make sense now. Now when I look back, I think you were very brave. I couldn�
�t have done what you did.”

  They were kind words, but they were delivered in a strange, distant tone, like she was reading the weather report for a foreign country.

  “Once you get the sight, so many things about the world just make sense suddenly,” she said. “You know?”

  My experience had been largely the opposite, but I didn’t want to say that.

  “How are you?” she asked. “I don’t know much about what’s happening with you, but I know your situation is complicated as well. Whatever’s happening, we’re both in it together.”

  “I’m okay,” I said. Of course, I wasn’t really okay, and I definitely didn’t sound okay.

  “You seem unhappy,” she said.

  “I’m . . .” I stopped myself from saying fine. There was no point in lying to Charlotte. “I’m treading water.”

  “You don’t like having it, do you? The sight.”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “It’s funny, you know. At school, I used to think you were . . . well, I didn’t understand. I was the one being stupid. I was ignorant. You were always living your life. You were dealing with things that were real. I admire you.”

  Rory-positive Charlotte was nice enough, but she also made me uneasy. I didn’t want to be her role model of how to live with the sight, especially considering she seemed way more into it than I was. She reminded me of this friend I had who went away on a camping weekend and came back really into religion. It wasn’t that she became very religious that bothered me—it was the speed of it. I get that life is full of aha! moments where everything can turn—my life was now full of those. There was just something about the fact that my friend went away with this group of people to a campsite and came back different. Charlotte had done the same thing, except no one had asked her. They just took her.

  She made me a tea and passed it to me, but I found I didn’t want it. I wished Thorpe would come back down. I’d never wished for that.

  “I have something to show you,” Charlotte said. She was smiling quietly, like a saint on a Sunday morning. “It’s upstairs. Come on.”