by Kelley York
“We both look absolutely frightful.”
“Justifiable, I should think.” William smiles though, faintly. “How do you feel?”
“Sore. Here’s hoping Doctor Mitchell’s supplies contain something for the pain.”
“I imagine so, but I didn’t necessarily mean physically.”
“Frustrated, I suppose. I feel as though we’re still lacking a great many answers. Why did Mordaunt do what he did, for instance? Why did King follow in his footsteps? Why couldn’t the spirits just tell us what to do or how to help them from the very beginning?”
“Perhaps,” William says solemnly, “those are questions we will never know the answer to. We might have to make peace with that.”
I suppose he’s right. I’ll never know what started Mordaunt down the path he took, how he was caught, who was responsible for putting an end to him, or what granted him the ability to come back and torment others from beyond the grave. I will never know exactly how Oscar spent his last days, how afraid he must have been, or if there was anything I could have done to prevent what happened to him.
I suppose none of it matters in the grand scheme of things. Oscar and the other boys of Whisperwood are free. I helped him find justice and peace. I did what I set out to do.
I tip my head back to peer up at William. “Then all of that aside, I think…I am both sad and happy at once, and wondering how to reconcile the two.”
William’s mouth curves up into a patient smile and he brings his hands to my face. “With time, darling. With time. And I will be there with you every step of the way.”
“Keep them closed, dear William. Wait until we’re inside.”
I heave a suffering sigh, but do as instructed, permitting James to guide me by the hand out of the carriage, along some sort of stone walkway, and across a threshold into wherever it is he’s brought me. As though I’m not covering my eyes well enough, he slips behind me and puts his palms over them, draws me to a stop, and says, “Are you ready?”
“Ready to break those hands if you don’t move them,” I reply with far more patience than my harsh words suggest.
James releases me, allowing me to take in the room around us.
The first things I notice are the high ceilings and a narrow staircase leading to the first floor. James appears to be giving me free rein to wander now, and I do so, moving through the foyer and into the adjoining rooms.
The second, but more important thing, is how wonderfully bright and airy it is. The windows are tall and wide, cracked open to allow in a cool breeze. There’s space for a parlour, complete with shelves itching to be filled, a modest kitchen, and two rooms on the first floor, both with lovely views of the countryside stretching in every direction.
The word quaint comes to mind. Certainly, it’s a small home compared to those James and I grew up in, but that’s the trade-off. Either you live in the city and have a bigger home for less and deal with the poor air quality and the stench, or you pay for something much smaller but more expensive out here in the middle of nowhere.
As I find myself admiring the view from the larger of the two bedrooms, taking in the fields of flowers that seem to go on for miles, James slips up behind me, fingers splayed against the small of my back.
“It’s quite cosy,” he says against my ear. “Isolated, too. We’d not have to worry about being bothered. Room enough for the both of us, perhaps even a servant, if we wish. Though I suppose we could manage on our own, as well.”
I could laugh at that, imagining James or myself attempting to handle laundry or cooking. We’re hardly well-versed in such things. “It is lovely,” I admit.
James watches me intently. “But…?”
I sigh. “How do you suppose we’re going to afford it?” Neither of us is currently employed, after all. Newly graduated, no university education. James received nothing from his family after refusing to make amends with his uncle, and what I received from mine is…well, likely enough to pay for the house itself. But what of the cost of upkeep, and keeping food in our bellies?
A slow, sweet smile crosses James’ face and he rocks back on his heels. It’s a gesture that comes across as more nervous and hopeful than anything and does not bode well.
He reaches into his pocket and removes from it a letter, folded in quarters, and offers it out to me. Already, I feel my face pulling into a most unimpressed look. “What is that?”
“Read it and find out.”
“I don’t think I want to.” Yet I take it, slipping it open with a sigh.
The writing is elegant but unfamiliar. It’s addressed to James and myself, and implies that it is a response to a letter written, although I’m positive I’ve not sent letters to anyone in recent memory.
I would be pleased to accept your offer to become my pupils, as I am frequently turning down work I haven’t the time for, and the added assistance would be most welcome.
I frown, skimming over the remainder of the text. An address, an invitation to visit to speak more, and signed by one Eleanor Bennett. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Who is this?”
James presses his palms together and touches his fingers to his chin, eyebrows lifting and a nervous smile tugging at his mouth. “Mrs. Bennett is Preston’s aunt.”
“All right.” I pause, mulling that over, trying to place the significance of it, before— “Wait. His aunt, the medium?”
“That would be the one.”
“You want us to go work alongside a medium, purposely seeking out ghosts? Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” He swiftly gathers me up into his arms, quite possibly so I don’t throw the letter in his face. “We’d be quite wonderful, wouldn’t we? We have the first-hand experience, and she could bestow her knowledge upon us. Between my tenacity and your brilliance, we could become the best in all of England. The spirits are particularly drawn to you, after all. Think of all the people we could help!”
I stare at him as though he’s grown two heads, and I suspect that he might at any moment. After what happened at Whisperwood over a year ago, I would have thought he’d be too terrified to ever put us in such a situation again.
And yet, he has a point. Neither of us would be happy with whatever meagre, monotonous work we might find, crammed in some miserable and dusty old home in the city, where our personal affairs would surely be the talk of the town. After everything we’ve been through together, after having survived our fourth year of school while hiding our relationship, I’ve no desire to be persecuted for it now.
Besides, James’ handsome face is so hopeful and eager that I cannot seem to pull together any real reason to tell him no. At least not yet.
I sigh. “You’re impossible and I hate you.”
“And?”
“And I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a meeting with Mrs. Bennett, just to hear her out.”
James grins and kisses me so solidly upon the mouth that it serves to soothe my frazzled nerves a bit. He has that effect on me. Damn him. He holds me to his chest, and together we look out over the fields of flowers.
“This could be ours, dear William. We could make it work. Would a poem further convince you?”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I would enjoy seeing you try.”
He chuckles, bows his head to my ear, and he murmurs to me like a hymn that sends a shiver down my spine:
“Come.
Home.”
Two simple words, and I should think it ridiculous a poem exists such as that, and yet I don’t question him on it. Two simple words, and I close my eyes with a smile.
“Darling, I am home.”
FROM THE AUTHORS
Every book brings about its own set of unique challenges, and this one was no exception. Tackling a historical setting for the first time was a daunting enough task, but adding on the extra layers of addressing certain societal issues in that setting? It was pretty scary.
One of the challenges was addressing William’s addiction
in an era where “addiction” was seen as more of an inherent character flaw than something that needed fixing. We wanted to write it in a way that was both realistic to the period while remaining sensitive to the issue. We faced a similar dilemma with James and his trauma. Yet again, we’re talking about a time where sexual assault was largely ignored, and victim-blaming was even more rampant than it is today. Of course, William and James aren’t done facing these demons. Especially without much in the way of mental health care in the late 19th century, you’re going to see the effects of these things, and the struggles they face to overcome them, for a long while.
A more technical challenge is maintaining a sense of historical realism while making it easy enough to read and follow for readers of today. This meant walking a line between overdoing the popular British slang of the era, especially for posh schoolboys, and not wanting things to sound too American.
The amount of research, time, and love that went into this book was totally worth it. We put a piece of ourselves into everything we write, but James and William’s story is one of my favorites. We love their characters, their flaws, their big hearts, and who they are together—now and in the future. We like to think we’ve created a dynamic that’s going to be really special in the stories to come.
We owe a ton of thanks for those who lent a hand in this journey. Natalie, Lacy, Beedoo!, Jamie, Jada, and Jon, who edited, beta-read, and fact-checked, and caught all the most ridiculous and embarrassing typos and Kelley’s insane overuse of ellipses. (They’re fun, okay!) They really were a dream team and we couldn’t have asked for better. And, of course, a thank you to Melissa at The Illustrated Author for her gorgeous work on formatting. The moment we saw her portfolio, we both knew we wanted her for this book.
I hope our readers enjoy this story as much as we enjoyed writing it. William, James, and some of their friends will see you again soon.
Kelley and Rowan