A Hymn in the Silence

by Kelley York

  I throw back the blankets and slide from bed with the sudden desire to be up and moving and, frankly, not having to look at him. “I’m fine.”

  As I peel out of my nightgown before the wash basin, unbothered by his presence a few feet away, the silence hovering in the room is stifling. Now and again he takes in a breath and I brace myself for whatever wise words of wisdom he’s about to spout at me, but…

  Nothing.

  When I steal a glance, Virgil’s gaze is downcast, studying his folded hands in his lap. Instantly, the guilt returns ten-fold. Here is my friend—one of the very few I have—concerned for my well-being, and I’m being quite a bear about it. I don’t want him to know how miserably I failed at trying to function throughout my fourth year. Bad enough that James had to deal with me through it all, and I was such a miserable wretch that even he deemed it appropriate for me to go back onto the laudanum after graduation.

  I brace my hands against the edge of the basin, water dripping from my chin, and take a few deep breaths. This was not how I wanted to begin my day. “I’m sorry. I’m crabby in the mornings.”

  “Mhmm. I wonder why that is?”

  I think it’s meant to be a jab rather than a question, likely to do with craving the drugs when I wake, but when I jerk my head up to peer at him in the mirror, he’s turned, gazing off out the window, and I wonder if I’m being over-sensitive.

  I finish washing and dressing and, thankfully, Virgil changes the subject to the case at hand so that I can fill him in. When we emerge from the bedroom, he heads downstairs for breakfast, and I stop into James’ room to drag him from bed and get him dressed.

  I’m still feeling rankled from my conversation with Virgil, however, so when James attempts to offer my laudanum, I give a curt refusal. I’ve proven before I can deal without it, it’s just harder. A lot harder, sometimes.

  James pauses, the bottle still in hand, his expression one of concern. “Everything all right?”

  I give him a tight-lipped smile meant to be reassuring but turn away to avoid my eyes flicking longingly to that bottle. “Quite. I just don’t think I’m in need of it at the moment.”

  His hands come to rest upon my waist and he leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. “All right. Are you hungry?”

  “Do you mean am I prepared to pretend to eat while you steal my food? I suppose so.”

  He grins. I can feel it even when I cannot see it. “As long as you’re prepared.”

  I twist in his grasp to nip at his jaw with a smile. “You test me, darling.”

  For the moment, irritation toward Virgil (and myself) aside, I’m feeling well enough that I have faith I can get through the day just fine. I’ve little appetite but do my best to eat a full breakfast anyway, knowing I’ll need the energy.

  Wakefield joins us for breakfast this time, which adds a layer of tension to the room because, I suspect, none of us wish to discuss the case in front of him. I’m not certain why that is; we’ve given more information to Adelia than to him, and there’s nothing keeping her from sharing any of that information with her father. I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

  Wakefield does enough talking on his own, at any rate. He speaks of the original inquest the coroner performed on the Brewers, on the politics surrounding the entire thing. This community hardly has the communal funds for a large, proper inquest, and although many people were questioned, no one was present at the time of the deaths and so what information could anyone really offer? Law enforcement was not going to entertain the idea of an otherworldly reason behind the murders, after all.

  After our meal, Wakefield informs us he’s leaving overnight to travel to London for some business. He asks Adelia if she’s positive she doesn’t wish to go along with him—“You could visit your cousin! It’s been awhile since you saw her last.”—and I wonder if he’s nervous about leaving her in the company of three men he does not know well.

  His leaving, though, will make our work easier if Adelia wants to accompany us tonight. It would mean she need only slip away from Foss’ watchful eye instead of her father’s.

  “I’ll be fine, Father,” she reassures him with a smile. “Albert will keep an eye on me, and I’ll spend my evening with a good book.”

  He hesitates, and I chime in, “We’ll be at the Brewers’ again tonight, I believe.” If he knows we’ll not be here, perhaps he’ll feel more at ease.

  As suspected, his shoulders relax ever so slightly. He pats his daughter’s hand. “Very well. If you insist.”

  Once he’s excused himself from the table, I glance at Adelia with an amused twist of my mouth. She’s quite good at catering to his over-protective nature to get what she wants. Adelia only gives me a patient, innocent little smile in return.

  Lord Wakefield departs Evenbury after lunch, which means the rest of us linger about in the meantime. Of course, we still have the servants and Foss to contend with, and Foss seems to be a more prevalent presence in his master’s absence, checking on us repeatedly.

  As the day rolls on, I rapidly grow to regret my decision of foregoing my medicine. I could ask James for it and he would give it to me without question, but I’m unwilling to cave in just yet.

  But as lunch comes and goes—I’ve no appetite now—and we begin discussing our plans for that night, I’m aware that attempting to work like this, as I am, will not play out in my favour.

  I excuse myself from the group for a bit, citing a desire to get a bit of fresh air, and duck down the halls. Mostly, I just want a moment of silence to get my head on straight, but the quietest of places I find happens to be Wakefield’s parlour, where I sink into one of the chairs and find myself staring right at the table against the far wall, lined with alcohol.

  Surely, a quick nip would be better than my medicine, wouldn’t it? It will blunt the edge of this scrabbling, gnawing feeling in my insides.

  I’ve no time for puttering about and enjoying a drink, so I down a few shots of brandy, which is not my favourite by any means, and that may be why I choose it, to prove it’s a matter of need and not want.

  When I return to the others, Virgil inclines his chin in my direction. “We’ve come up with a plan for this evening. You and James will head to the farm after dinner. Once Foss has retired for the night, Lady Adelia and I will sneak out past the servants and meet you there.”

  Bonelessly, I slump down into a chair beside James’, already relishing the calmness in my head. “All right.”

  Adelia’s eyes practically twinkle when she smiles. “Mr. Appleton is going to ensure nothing dark and evil eats me along the way.”

  I chuckle at that, catching the slight colouring to Virgil’s cheeks. “I suspect you’ll be the one protecting him. Please, travel safely.” Still, it’s a wise idea for us to all travel in groups.

  We have a few hours left before heading to the Brewers’. Before James and I depart, I steal away for another quick drink or two, then join him outside to load into the carriage. No sooner have we started out on the road than James asks, “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

  At the moment? I think I’m feeling quite all right. The alcohol has dimmed everything to a pleasant hum. I give him a smile and lean into him a bit. “Prepared for a long night and hopefully some answers to all of this.”

  James turns his head toward me. A pause. A brief kiss to my hair. “Let’s hope it’s our lucky night and the spirits decide to grace us with their presence this time.”

  Lucky to me would be not to encounter anything at all, but I won’t say as much. We need to finish the job, get paid, and then…holiday. Right. That’s my end goal now. Having that end in sight makes me more compliant toward ghost-hunting.

  It isn’t quite dark by the time we turn into the Brewers’ driveway, but it’s getting there. The horse whickers nervously as we approach, coming to a halt sooner than expected and refusing to go any
further. I look around but see nothing that could be causing her distress. Not that that necessarily means anything.

  “And the fun begins,” James murmurs, dismounting. “Let’s check around outside before we head in.”

  I hop down after him, steadying myself before catching the mare’s reins and prodding it off the side of the driveway enough that I can tether her to the nearby fence post.

  Trailing after James, I study at the ground around us. It hasn’t snowed all day and the sun has been out, so there’s more slush and mud than anything else. We do a thorough sweep around the perimeter of the farmhouse and the stables, decide everything looks fine enough, and head inside after I fish the key from my pocket.

  Something does feel off, something akin to the first night we were here, which makes my pulse quicken a bit. It’s for that reason I express caution when I ease inside, immediately going to the table to get a lantern lit so we aren’t standing around in the dark. James doesn’t even wait that long before he’s moving about the rooms, peering around corners and under beds, and I scramble to hurry after him, unwilling to let us remain split up for long.

  Only once I’ve seen for myself there’s nothing lurking in the shadows do I allow myself to relax. Attempting anything to try to summon the Brewers outright ought to wait until the others have arrived, and we’ve no idea just how long that will be.

  I reach for James’ hand, fingers gliding against his. “It appears to be just us for now.”

  He loosens his tie and flashes me a smile. “Let’s fetch our things, then.”

  “In just a moment?” I place the lantern aside and drift closer to him. We’ve scarcely had a moment to ourselves all day, save for a few brief minutes this morning.

  James’ smile doesn’t falter, but he takes a step back. “Before it gets too dark and we lose our light, sweetheart.”

  Something about the dismissiveness in that comment takes the breath right out of me, my hand dropping limply to my side. I could point out we’re doing all of this in the dark, but the coldness of his words is enough to tell me it has less to do with the dark and something more to do with…I don’t even know.

  Still, if he wishes to get our things from the carriage, then I’ll head outside with him to do just that.

  It’s not as if we brought much. We have our holy water from Reverend Thomas, our Bibles, crucifixes, some spare candles, all stuffed into our individual packs along with a spare set of clothing and medical supplies in the event of injury. Anything else is unimportant in the grand scheme of things for tonight. I even thought to go to the kitchens and request a few snacks, packed neatly, and I pull them out and slide them over to James in hopes it might warm his chilly mood.

  Thankfully, it does immensely brighten his expression as he practically pounces on them. “You’re too sweet to me, dear William.”

  Perhaps I was imagining his distance a bit ago. “Eat your fill while we wait or else you might have to share it with the others.”

  James scrunches his face and has a seat. “Only if they want their hands broken.”

  With a chuckle, I leave James to enjoy his snacks whilst I set to lighting candles around the house. Spirits don’t, by and large, seem to care about lights at night, so no reason to suffer by lingering in the dark.

  For the better part of an hour, we linger in silence with James licking sandwich crumbs from his fingers, hunched over a few slips of paper and a pen in hand, while I sit across from him with a book. The sound of the mare outside draws our attention, her hooves slamming into the ground and her whickering high-pitched and frightened.

  In unison, we set our things aside and rise to our feet. I wait for the paralysing sense of fear to settle in. And it does, to a degree, but at the same time…the alcohol has done a good job of dulling it, making it manageable. I feel as if I’m viewing all of it from behind a piece of sheer muslin. I don’t hesitate to move after James and head for the door; my heart is racing, but I’m able to somewhat focus through it.

  At first glance, everything is silent and still save for the horse throwing a fit. I advance out into the cold and go to her, hushing her soothingly. The wide, frightened look in her eyes and the quivering of her muscles suggests she would bolt in a second if she could get free.

  The horse barely settles enough that I’m confident I can leave her side and hurry after James, who’s begun to circle round to the other side of the house. Everything is deathly quiet, unnervingly so. It doesn’t mean nothing is out there, really. Just that whatever it is doesn’t wish to be heard.

  Around the side of the house, James halts so abruptly I nearly bump into his back.

  “Our friend appears to have returned.” He nods at the footprints not unlike those we encountered the other day. In the slush and mud, it’s difficult to tell where the tracks came from, only that whoever made them appears to have lingered here, just outside one of the kitchen windows. Yet I see only prints coming toward the farm and none away.

  “This is getting ridiculous,” I mutter.

  James sighs, squaring his shoulders to look around. “They’ve got to be around somewhere. They can’t have just vanished into thin air.”

  The window is still closed. Whoever it is didn’t manage to get inside—at least not through here. I’ve got quite good at sensing these things, following that subtle twinge inside my gut that tells me where the dead are, but the alcohol has muddled my ability to focus after all.

  A faint and yet somehow deafening creak overhead makes me go still. Fear slithers under my skin.

  We slowly look up.

  There, crouched against the rooftop and looking much the worse for wear, is the reason we’re still out here.

  I can only guess the face we’re staring into belongs to Abraham Fletcher. His eyes are wide and vacant, limbs coiled tight, joints creaking like a broken toy as he shifts toward the edge of the rooftop.

  “There’s our friend,” James whispers.

  It’s all either of us can get out before Abraham lets loose a guttural snarl and launches himself from the roof, hands outstretched like a pouncing animal. His gaze is locked on me, rendering me frozen in place. I should be able to react in time, damn it all. Whether it’s the shock or the alcohol or the fear that hinders my reaction time—

  It does not even register that James has shoved me out of the way until I hit the ground, landing painfully twisted into a pile of firewood with my leg letting out a defiant jolt of pain as it angles in a direction it’s not meant to go. A shout catches in my throat. I scramble to find my spectacles where they’ve been knocked from my face. “James!”

  James is on his back in the mud and snow, too busy struggling with Abraham to answer. Even James, who is far broader-shouldered and stronger than I am, appears to be struggling to keep those gnashing teeth from sinking into him.

  And I cannot find my damned glasses.

  It hardly matters. I can see well enough for now.

  I do not want to kill this boy. I do not want a repeat of Madeline, not if we have the ability to save him. But James’ safety comes first. It will always come first.

  I grab a chunk of firewood and swing hard, bringing it against the side of the Fletcher boy’s head.

  The sound of something solid colliding with his skull makes a deafening, wet crack. Abraham releases James and stumbles back, dazed but not downed. James immediately scrabbles away and upright, nearly losing his footing more than once. Breathless, he begins his scriptures, and I’m grateful yet again for his ability to memorise because they’re fuzzy in my head as they always are in the heat of the moment. I do have the sense to pull the crucifix from my pocket and push it out in front of me, keeping it a barrier between him and us.

  It takes a moment before Abraham twists in on himself, pained, and lets out a deep, deafening moan. Instead of sinking to the ground or letting down his guard enough that I can grab him, he runs
. Damn it all. What’s with these creatures running when we need them to be still?

  James dashes after him without hesitation.

  I start to cry his name, start to give chase. Except my twisted leg doesn’t quite hold my weight, and it’s all I can do to limp after them at a pace that will leave me far behind in a matter of seconds. Panic surges bright as Abraham and James vanish into the darkness.

  If James is by himself, I cannot help him. I cannot protect him.

  I press onward until they’ve completely disappeared into the woods. Without my spectacles, the world around me is a blurred mess of blues and blacks and greys, whorls of paint haphazardly thrown together on canvas.

  “James!”

  Nothing.

  “JAMES!”

  Still nothing.

  I can’t breathe.

  What do I do?

  Glasses. First, I need my glasses.

  I limp back to the site of our scuffle, dropping to my knees, feeling through the dirty snow until my fingers close around the metal frames. They’re filthy and cleaning them on my damp, equally filthy clothing is a chore as I hurry back in the direction they went, cramming the spectacles onto my face.

  I haven’t a clue which direction to go, just that I need to find James before something goes wrong.

  I’ve scarcely dragged myself to the first row of trees when I hear the horses—plural, not just our mare—and Adelia calling my name.

  I twist toward the sound, heart lodged in my throat and frightened to the point where I’m uncertain my voice will cooperate with me. Virgil and Adelia might otherwise be a sight for sore eyes, dismounting their carriage and rushing toward me, but right now, all I want to see is— “James.” I point to the woods. “The Fletcher boy, he ran after him and I… I…”

  Virgil clasps his hands upon my shoulders and looks me over. “Take him inside,” he instructs Adelia, in an authoritative tone I’ve come to know well from him. Before I can protest or even send him with some of my holy water, he’s released me and darted off into the woods.