Ghost Talkers

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  As they merged into the shuffling mass of wounded, Ginger tried to work Merrow closer to the middle of the group. Thank heavens they would not have to worry about tickets on a train bound for the hospital. Ben rose above the crowd and sank back down with some relief. “The major has stopped. He’s still watching, but he’s not following you anymore.”

  “It seems as if he really ought to have something useful to do,” Ginger muttered. The hospital was in Étretat, which got them no closer to Le Havre. They would have to board the train and go straight through to exit on the far side. At least then they’d be inside the station, though she had no idea how long it would be until the next Le Havre train.

  “Fellows like him never have anything useful to do.” Ben chewed his lower lip and turned toward the train station. “I’ll see if Reg is around anywhere.”

  Ginger nodded, none of her tension releasing now that they were in the line. The chances of Reg’s men spotting them, disguised and in a group, were thin. She knew that she could relax a little, but her body would not unwind.

  “Hallo, sister. Where did you come from?” A doctor in his midforties, with absurdly curly hair and a long scarf that would have made Mrs. Richardson faint, came alongside Ginger with his hands tucked behind his back.

  Well, here was a good reason to still be nervous. Ginger let go of Merrow’s arm, since there was no good reason for her to still be holding it. She concentrated and tried to sound less American when she answered. “I was at a casualty clearing station near the front. Sent back on leave, and then got pulled out almost immediately and reassigned.”

  “Oh. Don’t I know how that is. I can’t remember the last time I had leave.” His long nose bent like a hook when he smiled. “Still. Glad to have you. Canadian?”

  “Yes.” Good enough for the moment. They were even with Lyme and the MPs. Ginger turned her head away from them to look at the doctor. “And you?”

  “Oh, all over. I move from time to time, but you could probably tell that.” He stepped forward and caught a soldier who stumbled, steadying him until the man could walk by himself. “Have you worked the trains before?”

  “No. I’m really just transferring.” Her back prickled as they walked into the station. Please, please don’t let Lyme spot us.

  “No such thing as ‘just’ transferring.” He winked at Ginger. “But I’ll put you in the car with the light wounds.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  “Well, it’s a pity you lost your leave. Still, at least Le Havre is a nicer place than the front.”

  “Indeed.” Le Havre? That was unexpected luck. She had expected that the train would be going to the hospital in Étretat. Ginger glanced at the men around them and realized that they all had the fluttering letter E pinned to their uniforms. So this was a group of soldiers returning home. Maybe this would be the best possible thing. Merrow could just get on the ship with them and get out of this dreadful war.

  A cool breeze announced Ben’s arrival. “I think you’re in the clear. No sign of Reg. Looks like he just has his men here.”

  The train stood ahead of them, with steam that billowed like an aura around its iron black body. It seemed to be made of fear and grief. Some of the cars were already full, and not even the bustle in the station could mask the moans of pain from within. The group of soldiers Ginger was with headed for the fifth car.

  The doctor nodded down the line. “Go on to car eight. It’s the lightest injuries there, so you shouldn’t have to do much more than fetch water. Changing dressings on a train is a whole other skill.”

  “Thank you.” Ginger reached for Merrow. “I’ve been looking after this fellow today. He can’t hear.”

  The doctor eyed the bandages and tsked. “Looks like he might lose the eye too, judging by the blood. I’ll take him into my own car. Don’t you worry at all.”

  “Oh—” She could think of no plausible objections. “Thank you.”

  Ginger walked to car eight, praying that Merrow would be all right on his own.

  * * *

  Despite the doctor’s assurances, Ginger spent the entire trip to Le Havre working. While the soldiers in car eight had very few physical wounds, their minds were not in good repair. One man spent the ride weeping silently with his head cradled in his hands. Another had chewed his fingernails to the quick and had to be restrained to keep from gnawing his fingers bloody. Ben paced alongside Ginger, but she had no opportunity to speak with him.

  But she had time to think. It felt like she had so far done little but race from one place to the next since Ben—since Ben’s death. They had thus far been assuming that the man who killed Ben was the same as the traitor that Ben had been after. But … if Ben was right, and the traitor was not working alone, then there was no reason that the murderer and the leak had to be the same person.

  Indeed, it was far more likely that it was two different people, particularly given the message from the spy in the German ranks. Given what Ben said about Axtell, could he be the one? When did he dye his hair though? That was the question—Ben’s murderer had light hair.

  But the note said that the traitor was in London. If that was so, then an accomplice here had killed Ben. It seemed likely, to Ginger, that the accomplice would be one of the people involved in drowning Capt. Norris in the baths. Both murders had involved British officers.

  And then there was the hat that Brigadier-General Davis had said was found at the scene.… Reginald had lost his hat, and it would have had the name Harford in it. He would have been able to go from Le Havre to Amiens without trouble. And certainly he had been dogging her steps. Turning up first at the train station, then at the camp. And leaving his men at the train station with her picture—

  Ginger’s thoughts skidded to a stop and she turned to Ben, almost speaking to him before she caught herself.

  His brows went up in response. “What? What idea did you just have, my darling, beautiful girl?”

  She clenched her jaw and looked about the car, but the other nurses were closer than she liked. Wetting her lips, Ginger moved a bit farther down the car and crouched next to a young man who was staring blankly out the window. Murmuring, hoping that it would appear that she was speaking to the young man, but that he wouldn’t hear her, Ginger said, “You said you carried my picture in your breast pocket.”

  “Yes.”

  “So Reginald has your things.” Of course he must. Why else would he have gone straight to the prisoners of war? “Ben, you said they hadn’t finished clearing the bodies at the … from the explosion. So, if Reginald has my photo, where did he get it?”

  He greyed, face sagging under the realization. “From my body.”

  She swallowed and forced herself to continue. “And your notebook. You always carried it—”

  “—in the same pocket.” He swirled in a storm cloud of frustration. “So we’ve escaped Amiens, when that’s exactly where we need to be. Perfect.”

  Chapter Twenty

  As soon as Ginger got off the train in Le Havre, she struggled back through the stream of soldiers disembarking from car eight to meet Merrow. Ben followed at her side, floating slightly above her head to look over the crowd.

  “That doctor you were talking to is headed your way.” He flitted forward and then back. “He hasn’t seen you yet.”

  Ginger ducked her head and pushed through the soldiers to the side of the station. Chewing the inside of her lip, Ginger put her hand on her nursing veil. There were enough women in the station that she should blend in. The question was if looking like an on-duty nurse, with the veil, would get her more attention than removing it and the apron.

  Well, she would need to have it off when they went to see Lady Penfold. Besides, it would make it easier for Merrow to spot her. Ginger uncovered her hair and took the apron off as she scanned the crowd.

  In the hubbub, she asked Ben, “Do you see him?”

  “Looking…”

  The stream of soldiers thinned as they limped out o
f the station under the watchful eyes of the nurses in charge of them.

  “Maybe he got out on the other side of the train?” Ginger folded the apron into a bundle around the veil.

  “Stay here and I’ll look.” Ben zoomed across the station and disappeared on the far side of the train.

  Ginger pressed against the wall, fidgeting with the loose strings of the apron. He must have gone past while she was helping the soldiers from her car disembark. Please, let that be all it was. Ginger wrapped the strings of the apron around it, pulling them tight just to have something to do with her hands.

  She let her soul slip a little further from her body to see if she could spot Merrow’s aura in the station, but the vast space was awash in a sea of murky colours. Picking out a single one would be impossible.

  Except for Ben’s. She would recognise his spark anywhere. He darted now from car to car, just visible through the train as a livid spot of alarm. He reached the end of the train and soared up to the high, vaulted ceiling of the station. Even before he sank to where Ginger stood, she knew what he was going to say.

  “He’s not with the soldiers. I don’t see him anywhere near the station.”

  “Did you see him get on the train?” Ginger pressed her hand to her brow, trying to remember. “I was ahead, going to car eight. I didn’t think to watch him.”

  Ben shook his head. “I was watching you.”

  “Do you think Lyme grabbed him?” She shook her head. “I don’t know why I asked that as a question. That’s the most likely scenario, isn’t it?”

  “Damn it. Yes,” Ben growled, the sound rolling out from him on a wave of vivid frustration and anger. “If Reg hurts him—”

  “Let’s keep that from happening.” She rubbed her forehead, over the growing ache behind her right eye. “The train took three hours. If they got him, they’ve had him at least that long. So, we’re going to my aunt’s. She will make things happen, and we’ll get him back.” She hoped.

  * * *

  The Hôtel de Ville seemed impossibly grand after their days in Amiens. The daily grind of life at the front made the contrast between Le Havre and even Amiens stark. The hotel still had flowers on the tables in the lobby. With her head ducked, Ginger hurried across the lobby, feeling grubby against the opulent interior.

  Ben flitted in front of her. “The way is clear up to your aunt’s. Take the stairs, not the lift.”

  She raised her brow in question. Her aunt was on the third floor.

  “In an elevator, you’re trapped, and someone else controls your passage. Stairs are confined, but you have more options and control.” He stared behind her, gaze flicking from the door to the street, to the people sitting in the lobby. “No one is following us, at least.”

  She waited until she was on the stairs and less exposed before answering him. “Do you really think Reg would be looking for me here?”

  “Yes. I do.” Ben’s aura had pulled in tight around him, and fractures of murky red showed with each brittle movement. “If he has Merrow, then we must assume that Merrow has told him where we were headed.”

  “But Merrow wouldn’t—”

  “Given the right lever, any man will speak.” Flakes of dry blue calm crumbled off of him as more fissures of apprehension cracked the surface of his aura.

  She continued up the stairs, and Ben peeled away from her, floating up through the middle of the stairwell. He rotated slowly, eyes constantly moving around the space. Ginger’s heart was racing from more than just the climb by the time she reached her aunt’s floor. Ben gestured for her to wait at the top of the stairs as he sped down the hall.

  Ginger leaned out in time to see him disappear through Lady Penfold’s door. He reappeared a moment later and beckoned her. “It’s all clear. Only the maid is here.”

  “No Aunt Edie?” Ginger knocked on the door, palms sweating suddenly.

  “I didn’t see her.”

  The door opened. Upon seeing Ginger, Bernetta, her aunt’s maid, gave a little curtsy. “Pardon, mademoiselle. Your aunt is not in.”

  “When do you expect her back?”

  “Not for some time. She has gone to London.”

  “London!” Ginger put her hand to her chest and looked at Ben. It would be too great a coincidence for that to be related to their London spy. Besides which, her aunt went to London all the time.… But why now? With everything that was going on, why would her aunt leave the country now? She shook her head. Ben’s paranoia was infecting her.

  “But she left instructions to make the apartment available to you.” The maid beckoned Ginger in. “Please, mademoiselle. I will bring you some refreshments.”

  “Thank you, Bernetta.” Ginger made her way to the sitting room and dropped into one of the overstuffed chairs. She leaned her head against the soft velvet and turned to stare at Ben.

  He paced around the room, hopping from place to place with his agitation. The last fragments of calm had shivered free, so he had only a mesh of red and heavy grey wrapped around him. “I think you should go to the Spirit Corps billets. Better—to Potter’s Field.”

  “I thought you wanted to get me away from there.”

  “At least it has walls and guards. This…” He gestured at the large picture window. “This is like a trap.”

  “Well, first I’m going to have a sandwich and send a telegram to Aunt Edie. She can make things happen from London, perhaps even more easily than here.” She rubbed her eyes. God, but she was tired. “And I need to talk to the circle.”

  “Why?”

  “To tell them about Mrs. Richardson.”

  Ben’s brows came together. He compressed his lips and nodded, looking away. “Of course.”

  “Do you … do you remember what happened—”

  “Of course I do!” The cracks in his aura widened, shattering into a whirling cloud of fury. “I’m dead, not stupid.”

  “No, no, of course you’re not.” Ginger held up her hands to try to soothe him, though she could not touch him. “I didn’t mean that you—I only thought … never mind all that. Help me find some paper so we can draft a telegram?”

  A drawer shot open, the paper within rattling in a breeze. Ginger bit the inside of her lip. “Ben…”

  He pulled his head down to his chest, bending over until he formed an unnaturally small ball. The tight wad of soul stayed there, while a thinner, paler version of him stood, smiling bloodlessly at Ginger. “My apologies. Of course I remember what happened to Mrs. Richardson. It just slipped my mind that you would need to tell the circle. Nothing more sinister than that.”

  Ginger swallowed and sat down to write.

  * * *

  Before Ginger was finished writing, Bernetta appeared with a plate of watercress sandwiches. Ginger’s stomach gave a sudden, deep growl. Good heavens. When had she last eaten? Thank heavens that Bernetta was well trained, and gave no sign of having heard the indecorous noise.

  Ben, however, raised both eyebrows. “Did you bring a monster with you?”

  “Thank you, Bernetta.” Ginger gestured to the small table in front of her aunt’s sofa. “If you could just put them there and wait for a moment. I have a telegram I’d like for you to have sent for me.”

  “Of course, madame.”

  “And while you are out, may I ask you to run to the asylum where the Spirit Corps hospitality girls are and ask Helen Jackson to come here?”

  “Oh—I am sorry, but all of the Spirit Corps women have been moved inside to new dorms at the old knitting mill.”

  That was the warehouse they were using for Potter’s Field. It had no proper barracks. There were offices on the upper floors that could be converted, but most of the women had wanted to avoid being so close to spirits when they slept. The only rooms that had been in use were for the small infirmary. “For heaven’s sake, why on earth are they there?”

  “It is for safety, I believe. The walls.” She gave a small shake of her head. “But no one can enter without a pass, so I am not certain
of all the reasons. Only what I heard Lady Penfold say.”

  “And I suppose you don’t have a pass.”

  “Correct, mademoiselle.”

  Circling her, Ben said, “I’ll go. You stay here and rest. And eat. I don’t want your monster to get any bigger.”

  Ginger snorted and wrinkled her nose at him. “Thank you.”

  “Will that be all, mademoiselle?”

  Ginger handed the young woman the telegram she had written to Lady Penfold. “Just this, thank you.”

  * * *

  Ben returned in no more than a half hour. His spirit was frayed around the edges, and wisps of blue-grey drifted off of him with each movement. He hung in the air in the middle of the apartment, plucking at the collar of his shirt.

  Ginger sat up on the sofa, lowering her feet to the floor. “Darling?”

  His brows drew together, and he stared at her.

  “Ben…” Ginger bit the inside of her lip. He did not entirely look as though he recognised his name. “Ben, love. Do you know me?”

  “Ginger.” He nodded and drew a hand over his face, shuddering. “Ginger. Yes. Sorry.”

  “No, no. There is no need to apologize.” Her heart beat raggedly in her chest. “What is the matter? Did something happen to the circle?”

  “The…? Oh. The circle. No.” He inhaled, as if he still had breath, and drew the folds of his soul tighter. “Give me a minute, I’m still … I just need a moment.”

  This was the point at which she would have once urged him to sit down and pressed a cup of tea on him, or perhaps held his hand, but she could do neither of those things. Ginger twined her own fingers together and drew her legs up under her on the sofa, huddling into the corner for warmth while Ben wafted in the air. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Talk to me—” He waved his hand vaguely at the room. “Remind me of before.”

  She swallowed and nodded. “I had a letter from Dorothy Porter the other day. She’s engaged to Lord Lakefield and blames it all on us. Apparently, when I brought her along to your parent’s country home for that hunting party—because lord knows I was not going to go riding with the dogs—”