“What is it?” I said. “I thought it was just all the other spells covering it.”
He shook his head. “Perhaps—but I do not think so. We two would be especially attuned to that spell. For us not to sense it—well, it is suggestive. But I do not yet know what it signifies.”
“The aether-engines,” I said. “It always comes back to them—and Father. Why?”
“If I knew that . . .” Hal pressed a hand against the patch over his left eye, a rueful expression on his face. “Well, all that we can do is to press on—and see what we can find.”
We lapsed into silence then, Hal leaning back in his seat, sending puffs of smoke into the air, while I crumbled my bread into the stew, and thought about my father. The aether-engines were his work—the last thing he had been able to do before the madness took him. It troubled me to think that they had somehow been taken from him—that his work had been erased, while we were unaware.
“How would they make aether-engines without Father’s spell?” I said, after a moment. “I don’t—it shouldn’t be possible.”
Hal sighed. “One more piece in the puzzle, I suppose. Have you finished eating?”
He gave a pointed glance at the bowl of stew, untouched save for the pile of bread that had been crumpled into it. I shoved it away, my appetite now gone completely, and nodded. He gave me an odd look, but said nothing—instead he simply rubbed out the chalk of the spell circle. The air shifted once more; it was as though my ears popped, and suddenly I could hear the crackling of the fireplace, the old man’s snoring, and the snuffling of the dog. The freshness in the air disappeared as well, and a heavy ache settled in my chest. I could feel it now—the undercurrent of a powerful curse, woven into every spell that gathered in this city, sharp and acrid, burning my throat.
Hal stood, frowning at me around his pipe. “What’s wrong?”
I cleared my throat. “The magic—it’s very strong.”
He shook his head. “We’ll have to do something about it. Come along.”
I followed him from the pub up the stairs to our dingy room. Once we had reached it, I sat down on my bed, suddenly weary. Hal shut the door behind him and then stood back, frowning at it, with his arms folded over his chest.
“What are you looking at?” I said, lying back and flinging an arm over my face. “It’s not going anywhere.”
He did not respond, but after a moment, I heard the scraping of chalk. I brought my arm down and turned to see him drawing a slightly larger version of the spell he had drawn on our table in the pub. He finished it with a few quick strokes, then closed his eye and pressed a hand against it—once more there was a shift in the air, a burst of fresh, clean scent, and the ache in my chest diminished. The sounds of the wind and the bustling streets outside were muted, and the acrid taste of blood left my throat.
He stood back from the door, surveying his work. “Well—I don’t know how long it will last, but for the time being at least, we may speak freely here.”
“Good,” I said, without sitting up. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. “It’s easier to breathe here now.”
“Is it?” Hal said. I heard his own bed creak as he sat down upon it, the scrape of the case on the wooden floor as he pulled it out. “Jem—how badly is this spell troubling you?”
“It’s a curse—you know how it is with me,” I said. “This one does seem—stronger, somehow. I don’t know how to put it.”
He did not reply, but I heard the case opening—the rustle of paper packets and the clinking of glass bottles as he went through it. I sat up wearily when I heard him stand, and he came over to me with one of the bottles.
“A tonic,” he said, holding it out to me. “An improvement on Mrs. Forsythe’s work—perhaps it will help.”
I took it, eying the bottle skeptically. I remembered the last time I’d had some of this tonic—it had tasted like shoving a handful of garden in my mouth. But the memory of the acrid burn of the curse in my throat was enough for me to pull the stopper and take a drink. To my surprise, the taste was quite tolerable—the flavor of the herbs faint but present, soothing my throat and filling my chest with a pleasant warmth.
“Better?” Hal said, watching me with furrowed brow. At my nod, his face relaxed slightly. “Take some of it every day while we are here—it will ease the effect of the magic.”
“All right,” I said, setting the bottle down on the table beside the bed. The tonic’s warmth had dulled the weariness into a pleasant sort of drowsy feeling, and I yawned. “I think I’ll have a rest—this has been, as the inspector said, a bit of a morning.”
Hal’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile, and he pulled on his coat. “Very well. For my part—I fancy a walk.”
“Where are you going?” I said. “We’ve only just come back.”
“There’s something I should like to see,” he said, giving a wave of his hand as he pulled the door shut behind him.
I frowned at the door after he left, puzzling over where he could have gone to—but the tonic had its effect, and before long I lay back against the lumpy pillow and dozed off. I had not been asleep long when I startled awake, my eyes snapping open; I stared at the ceiling for a moment, wondering what had awakened me. I felt the same creeping sense I had felt when we’d met with Andrew the first time in the pub—the sense of being watched. I lay still, glancing at the door to see that Hal’s wind spell was still intact; no human would have been able to sneak past it, but there was undeniably something in the room with me.
I sat up slowly, looking around the room; from somewhere behind me, I heard a horse nicker, and just out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of red. I turned in the direction of the sound, but there was nothing—only the shadow in the corner of the room. A rush of air moved past my face, and I smelled iron and smoke, the taste of blood in the back of my throat. I lay back down, but I did not go back to sleep—my eyes kept darting back to the corner where I thought I’d seen the figure. The smell faded from the air, and I wondered if I had only imagined it—thought I’d seen the spirit when there had been nothing to see.
It was a long while before Hal returned; the shadows had grown long, and the only magic I felt in the room was the spell he had laid on the door. I did not hear him coming up the stairs—the wind spell saw to that—but only knew that he had returned when he pushed the door open and stepped back into the room, windblown and perturbed, his pipe sending smoke into the air.
He flung his coat over the desk chair and bent to light the lamp beside his bed before turning to me with a frown.
“Feeling better?” he said. “Did you sleep?”
“A bit,” I said, sitting up. I hesitated a moment before deciding I would not mention the spirit—I could not even know if I had truly seen it, after all. “It’s—I’m too nervous to really sleep.”
“Hm.” He sat down on the edge of his own bed, resting his elbows on his knees. “Well—you’d do well to get some rest, at least.”
He spoke absently, as though his mind were preoccupied elsewhere. His knees bounced as he sat, the frown never leaving his face, and I wondered again where he had gone on his walk.
“Is something wrong?” I said. “You seem—agitated.”
He ran a hand over his face and stood abruptly, pacing around the room. “I went back to the factory,” he said.
“Did you?” I said. “Why—what did you expect to find there?”
“I don’t know,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “But what is important is what I did not find there.”
I frowned at him. “Well, don’t be cryptic about it. Tell me what you’ve learned.”
He sighed. “I wanted to see the aether-engines they’ve been building—but I wasn’t allowed into the factory at all. Inspector Cross’s orders, I was told—and the man at the gate would not be budged.”
“That’s hardly unusual, is it?” I said, leaning back against the pillow. “It’s a crime scene—they don’t want things disturbed.”
“I suppose,” he said, frowning down at his feet. “But there’s something else. I thought—well, I thought that if I went to the factory, and focused on the spell . . .” He trailed off, the frown deepening.
“Well?” I said. “What happened? Did you find it?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s an aether-spell, no question about that—but Father’s signature was nowhere in it. And—there’s something else there.”
Something in his tone made my stomach twist. “What do you mean? Is there—is something wrong with the engines?”
“I don’t know,” he said, coming back to sit down on the edge of his bed. “It may be the curse—as at Rowanwood. But—I’d have to see the spell to know for certain.”
“It may be like the furnace at the mine, then,” I said, relief easing the tension in my stomach. “Once we break the curse, the spell will be normal again.”
“Perhaps,” he said, his tone taking on that absent quality once more. “I suppose we won’t know until we’ve broken it. But—I should like to see that spell.”
“I’m certain you’ll have the chance,” I said, yawning. The sense of being watched had dissipated entirely with Hal’s return, and the tonic was beginning to work on me once more. “Who knows how long we’ll be here.”
He made a non-committal sound, and I heard the sound of a match striking as he relit his pipe. The familiar smell of sage tobacco filled the room, and I fell asleep while Hal sat and brooded over the aether-engines.
CHAPTER SIX
Hal’s desire to see the aether-engines had not abated in the least by morning. We went to the factory directly after breakfast but found the gate guarded by the same truculent constable who had turned him away the evening before.
“Inspector Cross wants nobody in here until after the inquest,” he said stolidly, standing before the gate like a boulder. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait until then, sir.”
“I’ve been in to see the body already,” Hal said impatiently. “It can hardly do more harm for me to go in now.”
“You understand magic better than most,” said a voice from behind me. “But you’ve miles to go in your understanding of police procedure.”
I turned to see Inspector Cross standing there, in his pressed suit with its crisp white collar and a friendly smile on his face. He came over to where we stood, pushing his hands into his pockets.
“We’ve had the doctor come to examine the body and the constables are going over every inch of the place,” he said. “Looking for the circle you mentioned. We can’t have any interference with that. I’m sure you understand.”
“You shan’t find a circle,” Hal said, folding his arms over his chest. “At least, not one that you would recognize. It isn’t that sort of spell.”
Inspector Cross nodded sagely. “Well, perhaps you’re right. But perhaps you aren’t. I must explore both possibilities.”
Hal frowned around his pipe. “I suppose. But I could aid in the search, at any rate. If there is a circle, I’d recognize it sooner than your constabulary.”
Inspector Cross’s smile took on an indulgent quality. “I’m certain you would. But—your connection to the family does raise certain questions. Better to leave the scene undisturbed until the coroner has made his findings.”
“Hm.” Hal glanced back at the gate, his gaze dark. “Well, I shall return after the inquest.”
“Ah, good,” the inspector said, his smile broadening. “And do be on hand for the inquest—you are a witness, after all.”
Hal nodded shortly, and turned from the gate without another word, pushing his way through the crowded streets, his pipe sending a plume of smoke into the air. I followed along behind him, and we returned to the inn, in a considerable state of frustration. Hal stalked up the stairs to our room and sat down at the desk chair, drumming his fingers upon the desk.
I sat down on my bed and watched him for a moment. “Well, what do we do now?”
“What can we do?” he said irritably. “I suppose we’ll simply have to wait until tomorrow—after the inquest.”
We spent the rest of that day cloistered in our room. Hal was perfectly content to sit and think—or rather, brood—over things, but I was restless. I tried to read, but my mind was filled with questions, and Hal was in no mood to answer them. By mid-afternoon, the room was filled with a dense cloud of tobacco smoke, and I could stand it no longer.
“I’m going for a walk,” I announced, and Hal nodded minutely, his head bent over a notebook. “I’ll be back.”
I took my coat up and wandered down the stairs, through the pub. I stepped out into the street, muddy and rather empty now, only a scarce few wary faces watching me as I made my way through the city. I had no idea where I was going or what I intended to do, but I found myself wandering in the direction of the factory. The stone-faced constable gave me a stern look as I approached, but I did not go to the gate, instead wandering around to the back of the property, behind which stood a great stone wall. I stood there for a moment, hands in my pockets, and repeated Hal’s experiment from the day before—I closed my eyes and focused on my sense of magic, searching for my father’s spell.
As soon as I closed my eyes, a shiver went down the back of my neck, and I felt once more the inescapable sense of being watched. A cold wind blew past me, and I smelled iron, tasted blood. I opened my eyes, glancing behind me, but the street was empty. I shivered again, pushing my hands into my pockets, and turned away. I heard a horse nicker, the faint sound of hooves against the ground, and from a shadowed corner I thought I saw once more a glow of red.
I turned from the factory, unwilling to chance even a backward glance to the corner where I’d seen the red glow, and began walking back toward the inn. As I walked, the sound of hooves beating against the ground grew louder, until I could have sworn the horse was riding me down. I put my head down and quickened my pace—I was almost running, until I ran headlong into a person I hadn’t seen coming, and stumbled back, falling to the muddy ground.
“What’s the hurry?” said a familiar, amiable voice, and I looked up to see Inspector Cross leaning over me, putting his hand out. “You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”
I took the offered hand and let him help me up. “No. Just—I thought I’d come and see what I could make of the magic.”
“Ah,” he said, pulling at his mustache and gazing back at the factory. “Looking for evidence of the curse, although you can’t get in? That is clever.”
“Not—not exactly,” I said, brushing the mud from my trousers. “Well, that too, I suppose. But—I was looking for the aether-engine spell, actually.”
“Your father’s spell?” Inspector Cross gave me a sympathetic look. “His death was a sad loss to magic in this country—the more so for his sons, I’m certain. You were close to him?”
I had a sudden flash of memory—Father locked away in his study on all my holidays from school, slowly going mad, and I swallowed a lump in my throat. “He was ill—I never had the chance to work with him. But Hal . . .”
“Ah, yes,” the inspector said, pulling at his mustache once more. “He was your father’s apprentice, wasn’t he? Just as you are his.”
I nodded, rubbing at my forehead. The subject of Father was not one I cared to dwell on, especially with a near-stranger like the inspector, and the close contact with the spirit had given me a headache. “I’ll just be off back to the inn now.”
“Are you well?” the inspector said. “You’re looking a bit pale.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just—magic sometimes has that effect on me. It will pass.”
The inspector regarded me skeptically. “You had a rather strong reaction to the body, as I recall—is your sense of magic so sharp?”
“I suppose,” I said, wearily. “Hal says it’s better than most.”
“Better than any I have ever seen,” he said. His face folded into a frown. “But if magic affects you so strongly, I wonder at your brother taking yo
u along on these cases. It must be taxing for you.”
“It’s not so bad,” I said. “He’s made a tonic for it—that helps.”
“Does it?” he said, still frowning. “Well, that is something, I suppose. But it is a poor master who puts his apprentice in danger—at least, that is the maxim I was taught.”
“He knows what he’s doing,” I said. “The danger—sometimes it can’t be avoided, that’s all.”
The inspector frowned at me a moment longer. “I suppose.”
I looked away from him, shifting my feet uncomfortably. “Well—I’d better be getting back. Hal will be wondering where I’ve got to.”
“And the constable will be wondering the same of me,” he said, friendly smile spreading across his face once more. “Good day, Mr. Bishop.”
He turned away toward the factory, and I watched him go for a moment, puzzled by his sudden appearance. I began walking back to the inn, but stopped abruptly when a realization hit me—I had not heard the hooves nor smelled iron and smoke from the moment I had begun speaking to the inspector, and I did not hear them now. I took a deep breath—the air was merely the ordinary, sooty air of the town, not the strange acrid burn of the curse. I sighed in relief—the spirit, if it had been following me, had evidently changed course.
My headache had built up to a pounding throb in my left temple by the time I reached the inn, and I was glad to get inside and out of the wind. I trudged heavily up the stairs and pushed open the door of our room.
Hal had not heard me coming, thanks to his wind spell, and he did not look up as I entered. He had his notebook open before him on the desk, but he was not reading it—he had his arm propped up on the desk, left hand covering the patch on his face, and his other eye was closed. He looked pale and tired. I stood there a moment, waiting for him to look up, then cleared my throat.
He jumped, startled, and sat up, turning to face me. “Jem—when did you get back?”
“Just now,” I said, shrugging out of my coat. I frowned at him. “Are you all right? Is—is your eye troubling you?”
The Phantom of the Marshes Page 5
