My Plain Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  Branwell gasped. “That’s horrible! That poor three-headed dog!”

  “I bet he just keeps it in his desk,” Alexander said. “Are you sure that obstacle course of death isn’t something else?”

  Mrs. Rochester tilted her head. “Oh, I think you’re right.”

  Miss Eyre stood up. “I—”

  “Even if the book is located in his desk,” Miss Brontë said, “it might as well be behind a hungry lion. How will we get into the Society?”

  “Miss Eyre might be able to get it,” Alexander said.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” She put her hands on her hips. “I have the Book of the Dead with me.”

  “What!” Alexander lurched to his feet. “Why didn’t you lead with that? The Book of the Dead is our biggest asset! This changes everything.”

  Miss Eyre let out a huge sigh, then retreated to her crate room, and when she returned, she carried the Book of the Dead. “I took it to the castle—”

  “Palace,” Miss Brontë muttered.

  “—with me to make the king able to see the tree ghost and I didn’t have time to give it back before Helen told me you were all outside and that Wellington was evil.” Miss Eyre smiled and opened the book. “Here, we can practice. I’ll read this, and Charlotte, if you can see Helen, then it works!”

  “All right.” Miss Brontë stood and straightened her dress. “I’m ready.”

  Miss Burns stood, too—right in front of Miss Brontë.

  Miss Eyre read the incantation aloud: “‘Ostende nobis quod est post mortem! Nos videre praestrigiae!’”

  Miss Brontë jumped. Of course. Because Miss Burns was standing right in front of her, grinning widely.

  “Helen?” Miss Brontë’s soft voice was filled with excitement as she looked right at the resident ghost. “You look just like Jane’s paintings.”

  Miss Burns squealed and clapped her hands. “Finally!”

  Miss Brontë smiled. She had a nice smile, Alexander thought. Slightly crooked, very charming, and wholly genuine in the way her face lit with joy. “Now,” she said, “we storm the castle.”

  “I thought it was a palace.” Miss Burns grinned.

  “Whatever.” Miss Brontë lifted her spectacles. “Let’s storm it.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Charlotte

  “Are you ready?” came Mr. Blackwood’s voice. “It’s nearly time.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Mr. Blackwood, I must protest. This isn’t remotely proper.”

  “Let’s see.”

  “I’d feel more comfortable in my normal attire.”

  “Let’s see,” he insisted.

  She moved out from behind the wall of crates they’d piled up to serve as an impromptu dressing room. Her face burned. She was wearing trousers, something she’d never imagined herself doing in her life, plus a fine button-up shirt that used to belong to Mr. Rochester, and knee-high leather boots with tissue stuffed into the toes. She stared down at the boots, pulling her ponytail over her shoulder. She didn’t have her spectacles in place, but she could still feel Mr. Blackwood staring at her. She wondered if he would laugh.

  “We discussed this quite thoroughly this morning,” he said at last. “The Society doesn’t often employ women.”

  “Which makes no sense.”

  “Which makes no sense,” he said gently, “but it’s the reality we’re faced with. As far as Wellington knows, Miss Eyre is still a faithful agent of the Society. So the rest of us will have to go in disguise. You’re a footman.”

  “Very well,” she grumbled. “But I don’t like playing a boy. I am perfectly at ease as a woman.”

  “So you are,” he agreed. “But the clothing suits you, in my opinion.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.

  “I mean, I would never mistake you for a man. But you must admit it’s far more practical than that birdcage you’re always wearing.”

  “It feels strange.” Strange didn’t begin to describe how she felt. But at least she could breathe without impediment. She felt unbound, unmoored from the stifling constraints of her gender. She felt like she could be quite capable of anything.

  She smiled, in spite of her mortification. Mr. Blackwood reached for her hand, which was clutching her glasses, and held them up for her. He was smiling, too. He’d been in a good mood all day, dashing about, preparing. Like this business of confronting the king was not terrifying, as Charlotte found it, but merely putting him a step closer to the revenge he’d been seeking half his life. His dream within his reach once again.

  “I know there’s not time now,” he said, “but we should get you some proper spectacles. The sort that you wear on your face.”

  She shook her head. “I had those type once. They hurt my nose. And I looked . . .” Dreadful, she wanted to tell him, but she didn’t wish him to picture it.

  “What matters is for you to be able to see.” He let go of her hand and held out a plain black jacket. Charlotte slipped her arms into the sleeves. The coat, like the boots, was much too large, but there was nothing to be done about it. Just then Jane came into the room, wearing the same enormous dress that she’d worn to see the king the previous time. She looked at Charlotte and heaved a great sigh.

  “How is it?” Jane asked.

  Charlotte shrugged. “Comfortable. I could go directly to sleep. However do men get anything done?”

  “You look just like a fledgling agent.” Mr. Blackwood reached into his pocket and withdrew a black Society mask. For a moment he seemed about to tie it on, but then he remembered that he was not playing the part of an agent tonight. He sighed and put it back into his pocket.

  Jane blushed and donned her own mask. “Let’s go now. I don’t believe I can stand any more waiting.”

  “Do you have the book?”

  Jane pulled the Book of the Dead out of her handbag. “And I’ve read it cover to cover. I know the words.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “Branwell!”

  The Rochesters appeared in the warehouse doorway, also dressed as men (although that was only strange on Mrs. Rochester, who still seemed to gleam like a star in whatever she was wearing). Bran popped up behind them. His hair was messy, his glasses inexplicably smudged again, and half of his shirttail was hanging out. But his eyes were bright with excitement. “Are we going yet? It’s nearly sunset.”

  “We’re going.” Alexander swung his own coat onto his body in one fluid motion. Charlotte lifted her glasses to her face to admire the view as he strode toward the door, his coat billowing behind him, his steps purposeful.

  She gave a faint sigh.

  “Mr. Blackwood . . .” As they went headlong into this danger, she was flooded with the urge to tell him all the things that had come to her when she’d thought he was dead. To say the words out loud.

  He stopped. Turned. “Yes?”

  But now was not the proper time.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot.” He reached once more into his pocket and withdrew . . .

  Her notebook!

  The one with her Jane Frere story in it.

  The one she’d left behind when she and Jane had fled Thornfield.

  The one she thought she’d lost forever.

  “Where did you find this?” she gasped.

  “It was in Miss Eyre’s room. I picked it up after my duel with Rochester. I thought you’d need it back. I imagine it’s going to be a famous novel someday.”

  “You didn’t read it!”

  “I read . . . a bit.” (We know, dear reader, that this was a fib. Alexander had read it from cover to cover, some of it three or four times.)

  “Oh.” She didn’t know what to say.

  He ducked his head. “I’m sorry—I was unable to resist. I found it quite compelling, truly. You should finish it.”

  He put it into her hands. She clutched it to her chest for a moment and then slipped it into her jacket breast pocket. It was handy, she’d admit, to have a jacket br
east pocket.

  “You think you might have time for some casual writing?” His eyebrows lifted.

  She grinned. “You never know.”

  The sun was sinking fast as the group approached the palace. Charlotte’s nerves were jittering. At the gatehouse of Saint James, they stopped.

  “Who goes there?” asked the chief officer from behind the gate.

  “Jane,” said Mrs. Rochester. “C’est your cue.”

  Jane lifted her chin and stepped forward.

  “I am an agent of the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits,” she announced. “I’m here on urgent Society business. I need to speak with the king at once.”

  “And who are they?” The guard narrowed his eyes as he looked around at their assembled party.

  “This is my entourage.” Jane’s voice wavered. “I’m the star agent.”

  Mr. Blackwood coughed uncomfortably.

  “Very well.” The guard stepped aside and let them pass. And then they were inside the palace. It had been the fastest storming of a castle ever.

  In the great hall, they found the king on his throne, surrounded by lavishly dressed nobles, eating fistfuls off a tray of sweets. The room was easily the most extravagant that Charlotte had ever been in. The high ceilings were embellished with real gold leafing. The carpet had the look and texture of red velvet. The walls were covered in a wine-red wallpaper, and every few feet were adorned by large portraits of the past kings and queens and other various royalty.

  Beside her, Charlotte heard Jane draw in a sharp breath.

  “Are you all right?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’ve never liked red rooms,” her friend said darkly. Charlotte made a mental note to ask her about that someday. It could be good material for her book.

  She was so excited that she was now going to be able to finish her book. She could practically taste the ending. (We know the feeling.)

  “Your Highness, an agent from the Society here to see you,” announced the guard. “She claims that it is urgent.”

  Charlotte gave her a little nudge. Jane moved forward again. “I’m Miss Eyre, Your Majesty. If you will recall, I was here to see you recently.”

  The king eyed Jane. “No. Can’t say that I do recall.” He glanced at Mr. Blackwood. “But you’re somewhat familiar. You look . . . like someone’s father.”

  “I have one of those faces,” Mr. Blackwood said. “I look like everyone’s father.”

  So now came the tricky part. The getting-the-ring-off-the-king’s-finger part.

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Sire,” Jane said a bit awkwardly. “Again.”

  She stepped up to the throne and held out her hand as if to shake. The king took it, reluctantly. Then he gasped and drew back as if she’d bitten him.

  “Did you just attempt to steal my ring, young lady?” he puffed.

  Well, it’d been a long shot, the simply getting-the-ring approach.

  “I only need it for a moment. Then I’ll give it right back,” she said.

  “How dare you! Guards!” he cried.

  And then they were immediately surrounded by a dozen guards with swords and guns.

  “Well, that was fast,” remarked Bran. “No time for niceties or anything.”

  “On to plan B,” Mr. Rochester said quietly.

  “Take them out of here,” the king ordered. “Now. Perhaps a few days in the stocks would be appropriate.”

  Charlotte hoped plan B was going to work. Otherwise it would be an unpleasant weekend.

  “We require that one ring,” Mr. Blackwood said.

  “It’s my ring,” said the king. “It’s my precious. And I think I know you, sir. You are Mr. Blackwood.”

  “And you are Mr. Mitten. We will be taking the ring now,” continued Mr. Blackwood smoothly.

  The king smirked. “You and what army?”

  “Precisely.” Mr. Blackwood sighed. “Miss Eyre, it’s ghost time.”

  Jane cleared her throat. “Hello,” she said a bit timidly, glancing around her. “It’s so nice to see you this evening. Would you, perhaps, if you’re not too busy at the moment, assist us?”

  “You should command them,” Mr. Blackwood said out of the side of his mouth. “Call them. Order them to your side.”

  “That seems rude.” She sighed. “Oh, very well.” She raised her voice. “Hello? Can you hear me? If you can hear me, please come toward the sound of my voice.”

  Mrs. Rochester came to stand beside Jane. “Allez, l’esprits,” she said in her musical French Creole. “Come!”

  As far as Charlotte could tell, nothing happened. But then Bran smiled.

  “It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” he murmured, shaking his head at the wonder of it all. “There’s so very many of them.”

  “So many ghosts?” Charlotte wasn’t the type to be frightened by spirits, but the idea of there being “so many” ghosts all around them was a bit unsettling. What a place was London, where you only had to call out, and in seconds ghosts came from every direction. It was a city crowded with both the living and the dead. Even the palace.

  “That’s probably enough, ladies.” Mr. Blackwood stretched out his arms to the main guard. “Now the book.”

  “Oh! The book.” Jane lifted the book, opened it, and spoke the words in a clear, loud voice.

  “‘Ostende nobis quod est post mortem! Nos videre praestrigiae!’”

  It was basic Latin. When Charlotte had translated it for them earlier, calling on her Latin studies at Lowood, she’d come up with the following meaning: Show us what is beyond death! Let us see the ghosts! Which felt a bit on the nose, really, as magical incantations went. A little disappointing, if she was being honest. But then she supposed all of the real power stemmed from Jane. And perhaps the book. The book was very interesting. When Wellington had mentioned the Book of the Dead, Charlotte had expected some large and ancient tome written in hieroglyphs or Sanskrit, full of spells to control the dead and a secret knowledge of the underworld. But for the most part, this slim volume was a simple instruction manual on how to manage ghosts, protect oneself against possessions, and guide wayward souls in their journey to the place beyond, observations compiled by the various leaders of the Society stretching back throughout the years. It was not a magical book (although we would argue, dear reader, that all books are slightly magical), but it was certainly useful.

  The point was, the Latin worked. The air seemed colder. The candles flickered and then whooshed out. The guards and nobles immediately began to shout in alarm.

  Charlotte lifted her spectacles and gazed around the throne room again, and this time she saw them: dozens—perhaps even hundreds—of spirits all around them, the people of London who had long since passed. Bran was right—the sight was truly remarkable. It seemed to her that every period in English history was represented in this crowd of ghosts. There were men in knee-length fur-lined tunics with floppy hats. Women in long, flowing gowns with draping sleeves and veils over their hair. Women in pointy cone hats. Men in tricornered caps. Knights in chain mail and knights in plate mail and English soldiers in red coats. A band of unruly Scots in plaid kilts with blue-painted faces.

  A radiant girl with red hair caught Charlotte’s eye. She was dressed in a gorgeous embroidered, jewel-encrusted gown and an Elizabethan headdress. In her hand she held a book. She smiled sweetly at Jane, and reached for the man beside her, who, to Charlotte’s total astonishment, suddenly turned into a horse.

  The horse transformation alarmed the poor guards, especially.

  “Gytrash!” someone yelled.

  “What is this witchcraft?” another cried.

  “Oh, we haven’t bewitched you,” Mr. Blackwood clarified. “We’ve simply helped you to see things a bit more clearly.”

  The ghosts advanced. Charlotte shivered. Up close, on some of them, one could see evidence that they were not truly living beings. Some of them were translucent or glowing a strange unearthly green color. Others bore the wounds of t
he injuries that must have killed them—a noose around a neck that was bent at an odd angle, the black pustules that marked a bout of plague, an open, bleeding wound in the chest. Still others looked as though they had just dug their own way from their graves—their flesh was rotted, their clothes hanging from them in tatters.

  They were frightening, Charlotte concluded. Especially that horse.

  The crowd obviously felt the same way. Pandemonium broke out. The nobles stampeded toward the exit, often pushing right through the ghosts, which spurred them on in their frenzy. Mr. Blackwood darted off to one side, pushing and exacerbating the situation in whatever way he could. Bran and Jane and the Rochesters went off in other directions. It was all going according to the plan.

  Except then Charlotte’s glasses were knocked from her hand.

  Which was not the plan.

  The plan had been for her to creep up to the king during the confusion and snatch the ring.

  It had been decided that she should do the snatching. Because she was the most unobtrusive of the group. For once, being little and obscure was going to serve her.

  Only now she couldn’t see a blasted thing.

  “Blast!” she yelled. “Why can things never go according to my plan?”

  She groped about on the floor for her spectacles.

  “Miss Brontë,” she heard Mr. Blackwood call out. “Any time now.”

  “I really should get the kind I wear on my face,” she grumbled as she searched. “This vanity of mine is going to be the death of us all.”

  She encountered the barrel of a small gun and thrust it away from her. She’d never liked guns.

  She found a discarded ivory fan. It was probably expensive.

  She grabbed a woman’s ankle and the woman screamed and tried to kick her.

  “Blast!” But then her fingers touched glass. And then the handle of her spectacles.

  She quickly whipped the spectacles up to her eyes. And her mouth dropped open.

  In the time she’d been searching for her blasted glasses the room had emptied, save Mr. Blackwood, the Rochesters, Jane, and Bran.

  And the king. The king was still seated on the throne, surveying the scene quite calmly. And beside him was the Duke of Wellington.