Ghost Talkers

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Ben opened his mouth and then shook his head. “Thank you, Merrow. But I think we can ask Lady Penfold to help procure documents, and you’ve done enough, already.”

  “Even so, sir. It’s my duty.” The young man straightened his shoulders and looked, more or less, at where Ben stood. “I’m assigned to you while you remain in the service of His Majesty’s Army. I don’t reckon death has stopped you, so I’m still your man, sir.”

  * * *

  After the circle discussed options, it seemed as though Ginger would have to speak to the brigadier-general before leaving. While not, strictly speaking, part of the army, the fact that she served as the liaison for Lady Penfold made it necessary for her to formally take leave. Besides, Ben wanted to see Brigadier-General Davies.

  She stood outside Davies’s door, with Ben hovering next to her as a whirl of aura and cold. She could sense him more than see him.

  She tightened her lips and pushed her soul a little out of her body. Unless she pushed further out than was strictly safe, she would not be able to speak to him without her body repeating the words. So she did not push that far, just skimmed past the surface of her skin so she could see him more clearly.

  Ben cocked his head. “You probably shouldn’t do that.”

  Without a circle, in the fragile state that she was in, her danger of losing her grip on her body was much increased. But she couldn’t let him wander without someone to anchor him, and they had to find out who killed him. “I’ll need to be able to hear you while we’re in there.”

  He groaned a little. “I would much prefer it if you weren’t right.”

  “But, darling, I always am. It would be a difficult habit to break now.” She raised her hand and knocked on the door.

  “Enter!”

  Ginger pushed the door open, feeling as though she should hold it for Ben, but he passed through the wood and entered at her side.

  Brigadier-General Davies stood and came around his desk. “My dear girl, I am so terribly sorry for your loss.”

  Those simple, trite words stopped Ginger. She put her hand over her mouth and could not inhale. She had to turn from the brigadier-general before she burst into tears. Why now? Why did a banal phrase from a man she did not like gut her?

  “He was the best of us. So clever—well. I hardly need to tell you that.” Davies sighed, and it sounded so genuinely full of remorse that Ginger turned back. She had a duty and a reason for being here. His aura was dark sorrow cut with anger.

  Ben grunted in her ear. “I’m trying to decide if he is upset and angry because I was killed or because I reported in.”

  Ginger wiped her eyes with both hands. He had a point. Auras told emotions, but not the reasons for them. Her priority now was to be able to help Ben with his investigations. “I am here on two matters. The first is that we believe that the explosion at Amiens was to flood the Spirit Corps with the reports of soldiers who do not have strategic information.”

  As succinctly as she could, Ginger explained the problems the attack had created. Brigadier-General Davies grunted several times and asked pointed questions. When she finished he sighed. “There was a push by the Germans immediately after that. If it happens again—which seems likely—then let us know the moment it becomes apparent. It won’t be much, but knowing that we should have the other troops go on alert might help.”

  “I will pass that along.” Ginger wet her lips. “Which brings me to my next point … I would like to take a leave of absence.”

  “To mourn, of course.” Davies frowned, and resettled his glasses. “My problem is that I can’t really be retraining someone for your position right now. With Harford gone, there’s not a one of us that really understands how the Spirit Corps works.”

  “Aside from all the women in the Spirit Corps, of course.”

  “What? Yes. I suppose so. Not the military application of it, but certainly the minutiae of the work.”

  “I was going to recommend that Helen Jackson serve as the liaison in my absence.”

  “Who?”

  “The second in my circle.”

  “The Negress?” His brows went up in surprise.

  Ben drifted around the brigadier-general. “Shall we place a wager? I say that he won’t go for it. If I win … you have to read poetry to me.”

  Ginger tilted her head, trying to keep her eyes on Davies rather than Ben. “She is a very talented medium.”

  “I am certain that she is, but that is neither here nor there.”

  “Mm … if you win…” Ben reached out and passed his hand through Davies’s chest. The man shuddered. “If you win, then I shall provide relief from the heat by hanging out over your bed.”

  Ginger blushed at the very idea of him being over her in bed, which was likely his plan. Bless him for trying to tease her out of her temper. Still—the matter at hand stood. “Helen is the best choice among the available mediums.” She very much wanted to tell the brigadier-general that Helen had been instrumental in creating the binding for the soldiers, but that piece of classified information was out of bounds as a tool. So she deployed her aunt’s title. “And she’s a favourite of Lady Penfold.”

  “It is not possible, and if you were in a better frame of mind, I am certain you would see that.”

  “Because she is a woman of colour.” Even as she spoke, Ginger was uncomfortably aware of how she had viewed Helen when they had first met. Spending time wrapped in another person’s emotions and thoughts quickly wiped away all of her preconceptions about the West Indian troops who had volunteered to serve in this bloody war.

  “There are regulations.” He turned back to his desk and tapped a thick Manual of Military Law. “It says that people of colour, and specifically Negroes, ‘shall not be capable of holding any higher rank in His Majesty’s regular forces than that of a warrant officer or non-commissioned officer.’”

  “But the mediums are not part of the military. The Spirit Corps is a voluntary organization, so those regulations do not apply to us.”

  “They do when we are discussing a liaison who will be privy to confidential information.”

  “And yet Captain Keatley is part East Indian.”

  “His mother was Anglo-Indian, but his father is old British stock. It is not the same thing at all.”

  “Oh … of course. Because his father is British. May I point out that Helen is also a British citizen? I am not. She is, in fact, a more experienced medium than I am.”

  “I have already said no.”

  “With absolutely no grounds and in admitted ignorance of what we do.” Her heart raced and her knees shook with anger.

  Davies let out a heavy sigh and walked back around his desk. He dropped into his chair, leaving Ginger standing in the middle of the room. He picked up a paper and peered at it through his glasses. “I will speak with Lady Penfold and get her opinion. Assuming she will deign to come to a meeting.”

  “I truly do not think you understand the requirements of our job.”

  He slammed the paper down on the table. “I am making allowances because you have clearly been made hysterical due to Capt. Harford’s death, but the answer is still no. It will continue to be no. And if you insist on carrying on in this manner, I shall have you committed for your own health. Do I make myself clear?”

  Ginger drew herself upright. “Completely.”

  “You may at least satisfy yourself that I will grant your request for leave. You are not fit to serve in your present state.” He shuddered and pressed his hand to his temple, where Ben had slid his forefinger into the man’s head. “Dismissed.”

  Turning on her heel, Ginger stalked out of the office and slammed the door behind her. Childish? Absolutely. But that awful, insufferable man could have exactly the behavior he expected. He wanted to see hysteria? By God, she would show it to him.

  Ben passed though the door and circled in front of her. “So … you’ll be reading me poetry?”

  “I am not certain that I have a sense of hu
mour today.”

  “Sorry.” He glanced back at the office. “It’s not often that I wish to lose a wager.”

  “Well … I suppose you have to be right occasionally.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ginger walked down the impossibly steep stairs from her room on the upper floor of the old asylum, carrying a small rucksack she’d borrowed from Ben. Her own valise was too bulky and awkward for a journey to the front. While she packed, Ben had stayed back in his apartment with the full circle to anchor him. He’d wanted to come to help her pack, but in a building full of mediums, he wouldn’t be much of a secret.

  As she crossed the cramped lobby of the former asylum, the worn carpet muffled the click of her boot heels. One of the mediums had bargained for the carpet in an effort to give the narrow space some sense of home. They’d each added their own small touches, desperate to have a refuge. Ginger eyed the beleaguered fern that she’d rescued from the ballroom when it had become a hospital. She hoped someone would remember to water it while she was gone.

  “Miss Stuyvesant? Are you leaving us?” Near the front door, Lady Winchester lowered a week-old copy of the Times.

  “Not for long.” Explaining the circumstances seemed impossible, and yet for all Ginger’s disdain for her before the war, Lady Winchester had volunteered and been a ready pupil here. “I’ve been given leave for … for personal reasons. Lady Penfold will let you know who is in charge while I am away.”

  “Oh. I had heard … I so hoped I was misinformed.” She folded the paper and stood, reaching out a hand. “You have my sincere condolences.”

  In the narrow lobby, it would be impossible to leave without passing her. Ginger swallowed, pressing the tears back down her throat. She mumbled something as Lady Winchester pressed her hand in sympathy. The room spun about her.

  Ginger wrenched her hand free and stumbled out the front door. She nearly collided with Aunt Edie.

  Her aunt clapped her gloved hands together. “Oh, thank heavens you have not left yet.”

  “Did you get my note?” Ginger swallowed and pretended to fuss with the strap on the rucksack.

  “Yes, yes.” She handed Ginger an envelope. “This is the best I could do. It won’t get you everywhere, but the transfer papers will at least get you on trains. And I will absolutely listen to Helen, but I doubt that even I can sway the brigadier-general on that point. Now—is Ben with you?” Lady Penfold waved her parasol over her head. Her aura was positively vivid with worry. “No? My dear girl … I come with the most troubling news—come, sit in my car, so you have a tiny bit of privacy.”

  “You alarm me.”

  “I intended to, so that is all to the good. I only wish it were not absolutely necessary—absolutely. I cannot allow you to go without telling you—oh! Listen to me, about to tell you everything on the street. Come. Come.” Lady Penfold turned, still waving her parasol, and led the way down the stairs to where her private automobile waited, idling on the broad drive. The aged Frenchman her aunt used as a driver stood by the door, waiting.

  Looking at her watch, Ginger hesitated only a moment. They had plenty of time to make the train to Amiens, especially if she could convince Aunt Edie to give her a ride in her car to the station. “I only have a few moments.”

  “Yes, yes.” Lady Penfold patted the seat by her. “The girls told me—although I asked them not to tell me where you are going, only that you have a train to catch.”

  Ginger ducked into the cool interior, tossing her bag onto the seat at her side. A line of white crystals sparkled by the door. “Is that salt?”

  “Yes.” Lady Penfold leaned out of the car and spoke to her chauffeur in rapid French that was more fluent than correct. She sat back, shutting the door.

  “Why do you have salt lining the car, Aunt Edie?”

  “Because—a moment.” Lady Penfold closed her eyes and slid her spirit a little out of her body. Then she pulled back in. “I needed to be certain that we are alone.”

  Ginger’s chest tightened. “What is wrong? Is it Ben?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Her aunt reached out and took both of Ginger’s hands in hers. “Recall that you had asked me to talk to Brigadier-General Davies about the murdered man? Well, I did. The reason that he did not wish to speak to you about the murder is that they … they found Ben’s hat in the baths.”

  She jerked back, but Lady Penfold’s grasp stayed firm. Ginger shook her head. “That can’t be. I heard the men talking. Neither of them had Ben’s voice.”

  “I know, darling girl. There’s more.… Brigadier-General Davies had concerns because Ben’s grandmother was German.”

  “The king is German, by that measure!” Ginger wrested her hands free. “You cannot tell me that you seriously believe that Ben—whose soul you have touched—would kill a man in cold blood.…” Except, of course, that she knew he had. But that had been a traitor.

  “And this is why the brigadier-general did not want to tell you. Because he knew it would upset you and that you would tell Ben before they could question him. Of course, now an investigation is somewhat beside the point, but…” Lady Penfold fished a pocket handkerchief out of her clutch and offered it to Ginger. “But I thought it absolutely vital that you know what the brigadier-general thought before you left.”

  But Ginger knew that neither of the men there were Ben. “He did not kill Capt. Norris. His cousin—Ben has a cousin who is a captain, and they have the same surname. Reginald Harford. He’s here in Le Havre. Mightn’t it be his hat?”

  “Yes.” Aunt Edie nodded and lowered her hand, still holding the kerchief. “But it might also be Ben’s. So either the murderer is still corporeal and at large, or he is inhabiting your dreams. Either way, you needed to know. I will trust you to do with the information what you will, but I would have felt terribly remiss if I did not tell you. Was I wrong?”

  “I—no. Thank you. You were correct.”

  “Good.” Lady Penfold flopped back into her seat. “That poppy-headed man. He thought you were too delicate—now, I’ll grant that you probably could not have been trusted to not warn Ben, but, really … that is entirely understandable. Fragile? Ha! He does not know my niece. Now. Where shall I drop you? Oh! And have you a gun?”

  * * *

  Between Lady Penfold’s travel documents, and the papers that Merrow had pulled from Ben’s desk, they had no problems securing a seat on the train to Amiens. Ginger leaned her head on the window, crowded against it by Mrs. Richardson, who was in turn crowded by Merrow. Around them, the train was sea of khaki uniforms. One or two other civilians provided spots of colour amid all the drab.

  “I was thinking about the time in London when we did the charity circus.” Ben leaned against the wall, with his arms crossed over his chest.

  Ginger smiled at the memory. Pretending to sleep, she could murmur to him, without everyone on the train thinking that she was mad. “You were very dashing in your loincloth.”

  He threw his head back with laughter. “That is kind. I mostly recall being very cold.”

  “I think that is how most of us felt. Do you remember poor Miss Porter’s moment of horror when she realized what wearing a skirt on the trapeze meant?”

  “You were very kind to trade acts with her.” Ben winked. “I will grant that some of my appreciation was because you did not trouble with a skirt on the trapeze.”

  “I do have the most delightful memory of your face when I came out for rehearsal.” She had been terrified of having her legs exposed, but also a little thrilled. Watching Ben’s jaw drop had been more than enough reward for her daring. “You made a valiant effort to look only at my face.”

  Ben suffused with pink embarrassment. “Well … I was only successful at that when you were facing me.” He swallowed and wet his lips. “It is a good thing we were already acquainted, or my motives might have been susp—”

  “There! That’s finished and not too shabby, if I do say so myself.” Mrs. Richardson’s voice made Ginger jump
in her seat. The older woman had been occupied with her knitting since they left Le Havre. She held up an olive green muffler. “I’ve made you a new muffler, Pvt. Merrow.”

  “Oh…” The young man tugged at the ragged brown wool wrapped around his neck. “Thank you but … but this is—fine.”

  Mrs. Richardson frowned. “My dear … I know that servicemen don’t make much money, and in these times there’s not much opportunity to rekit.”

  “It’s just…” He plucked at the muffler, which had loose stitches dangling from it. “It’s just that my niece made it. To bring me luck, she said.”

  “Oh. Well, that explains the—” Mrs. Richardson broke off, but Ginger could still see her opinion of the shoddy knitting as a sour patch on her aura. Still, the older woman smiled and patted Merrow on the knee. “How about some socks, then?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He ducked his head. “That—that would be very kind.”

  “Good. Now to find a home for this.” Mrs. Richardson sat forward and tapped the soldier sitting in front of them on the shoulder. Doing so, she reached through Ben, and, with the reminder that no one else could see him, the few illusions Ginger had been able to create about the nature of their trip snapped. “Excuse me, young man? I noticed you shivering. Would you like a muffler?”

  The soldier turned, his brows drawn together in confusion. “A muffler?”

  Ben appeared to lean against the wall in front of Ginger. Until Mrs. Richardson had asked the soldier about his shivers, Ginger had been able to pretend that the man in front of them was simply cold. But in July, his chills came from the parts of Ben that passed through him.

  Ginger stood. “I am going to stretch my legs.”

  Surrounded by the flower of Britain, all these young men who were alive while Ben was not, was too much. Before she began to scream, she had to move. She did not wish any of them dead, and yet … and yet.

  She pushed into the aisle, stepping over the rucksacks that leaned against the seats. How many of these men would speak to Helen, or someone else at Potter’s Field, by the end of the month? By the end of the week? Tonight?