by Emma Newman
Yawning, Charlotte arrived at the dorm and headed in, only to realise that the woman she’d seen on the first night was lying on her bed again, with her back to the door. Charlotte sighed. She was too tired for this. “Excuse me, that’s my bed now.”
The woman coughed, sounding dreadfully ill. Charlotte hung back, unwilling to get close. “But I’m so tired,” the woman whispered. “Just a little longer, please?”
Charlotte felt a pang of guilt and went over to sit on Dotty’s bed. The woman didn’t roll over at the sound of the bed’s squeak. “Which one is your dorm?” she asked. “Maybe it’s the floor above. I got muddled up here the first day.” Met with silence, Charlotte decided to start getting changed anyway. With the woman’s back to her it was easy to take out the piece of paper and tuck it under Dotty’s pillow as she unbuttoned her overdress.
“I’m so tired,” the woman said again.
“Me too,” Charlotte said. “Do you work the looms or do you do something else?”
“The looms,” the woman replied. “Always the looms. I just want to sleep but they won’t stop screamin’.”
Now just in her underdress and corset, Charlotte froze. “Screaming? Who?”
“Can’t you ’ear them?”
She listened. There was the background hum of the city, with its carriages and sheer mass of people, but no screaming. “I can’t. Was this earlier?”
“It never stops.” The woman groaned.
Charlotte feared the poor woman was feebleminded, but then thought about how her ears were still ringing. “Oh, I can hear a high-pitched sort of ringing noise. It fades after a little while.” She wondered if that was just because she hadn’t worked there for very long. She’d noticed how loudly most people talked, as if they were all partially deaf. The woman didn’t reply so Charlotte carried on getting changed. “What’s your name?”
“Betty.” The woman coughed again with an awful rattling wheeze lingering afterwards. “Oh, I just want to sleep but they won’t stop screamin’.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear them.”
“I tried to tell ’em to be quiet, but they won’t listen. It never stops.”
Charlotte did up her buttons and stuffed the piece of paper back into its hiding place. She yawned. “Well, if you tell me where they are, I can go and speak to them.” She fully expected Betty to say they were in the room with them, or nearby, thus proving her theory about her hearing.
“They’re in t’mill.”
A chill passed through Charlotte’s body. “The mill?”
She went over to the window and opened it, leaning out to listen intently. There were no windows on the wall facing the lodging house, so she couldn’t see inside, but she knew it would be empty in there now. Everyone was still at dinner.
So who was screaming in the mill?
Gripping the windowsill, Charlotte listened to what sounded like dozens and dozens of people screeching. It was a terrifying sound, as if they were being rent apart, and she slammed the window shut.
“Gettin’ some fresh air, love?”
Charlotte yelped at the sound of Mags’s voice and spun round. “Oh, Mags,” she said, hand pressed over her chest to try to steady herself. “I heard them!”
“Who? Oh, pet, you’re white as a sheet.”
“The people that Betty”—Charlotte looked down at her empty bed—“that Betty told me about.”
Mags looked at the bed. “Betty? But . . . Betty died last week, love.”
Charlotte realised why the bed had been free when she arrived. She shook her head. “It must have been someone else,” she said, but even she didn’t believe that.
“She died there. She ’ad the cough really bad,” Mags said. “Did y’really see ’er?” She took a step closer. “Did yer? I always knew there was such a thing as ghosts!”
“I . . . I made a mistake,” Charlotte said, heading for the door. “I’ll be back later.” She ran from the room and didn’t look back.
Chapter 9
CHARLOTTE WALKED AWAY FROM the lodging house briskly, in the hope that leaving that place behind faster would make what she’d seen less real. Unsteady, she stumbled on the uneven cobbles enough times to make her ankles ache, but she didn’t slow down.
Ghosts? She didn’t believe in ghosts. Nobody did. At least, nobody sane.
A boy crashed into her on the way to the cottage, snapping her mind back into her body again. He pressed a note into her hand before running off.
You are being followed. Take the next right and immediate left. Get to the far end of the alley as quick as you can.
It was from Hopkins! Charlotte set off again, even faster, even though it felt as if the shivering and fluttering panic riddling her body could shake it apart. She followed the directions, found the alley and ran through it, seeing a black Clarence carriage at the far end. The door opened as she approached, and the steps were kicked down. A gloved hand with a burgundy cuff reached down and pulled her up. By the time she was seated, the steps had been pulled back in, the door slammed and the command given to drive on.
Seeing Hopkins, blond curls free of a top hat and looking so divine in such a beautifully appointed carriage, made Charlotte feel like little more than a smudge on the corner of his page. She was shaking so violently that her teeth chattered. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling like she had to physically hold herself together.
His usually placid demeanour faded quickly as he took in the sight of her. “Miss Gunn,” he said, leaning forwards. “My goodness, are you quite well?”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Magus Hopkins?” Her voice wobbled as she spoke, as if she’d been standing outside in December without a coat, despite the warmth of the evening.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I have just had a conversation with one.” She laughed. It sounded so ridiculous. She clamped her hand over her mouth. She must appear quite mad.
His brow descended into a frown. “Miss Gunn, I think I should take you to my hotel. I think you need rest and a good meal.”
“No, Ben is waiting for me. He’ll be worried as it is.” Not to mention the fact that going to his hotel room seemed desperately inappropriate, no matter how much she craved comfort and a warm bath. She mirrored his frown. “You don’t believe me? Do you think I’m just tired and hungry?”
“No, I just think that being tired and hungry may be contributing to your distress. Tell me what happened.”
She told him about Betty, about how she’d seen her the first night, about the conversation earlier and the sounds coming from the mill. As she described it all, Hopkins listened in attentive silence, and she could tell he believed her. And what was more, he was most concerned.
“It must have been very frightening,” he said softly when she was done.
Tearful, Charlotte nodded, wishing that he would just gather her into his arms and steady her somehow. No, not him—George, of course. But he was so far away. “It’s been the most beastly two days. How did you find me?”
“I followed you from the station. Please forgive me. I had to be sure you were safe. It was quite a shock to see you leave that cottage dressed as a mill girl.”
“You must have watched us for hours!”
“Not every moment, my dear. I took tea when you did, I ate when you did, and I moved between locations a little way behind. I was otherwise quite absorbed in my reading materials. I had hoped to send you a note yesterday, to ensure your well-being, but I was invited to the most appalling play at the Theatre Royal by the head of my college here. I couldn’t refuse. I’ve been quite worried about you, Miss Gunn, and it seems I was right to be.”
She didn’t have the energy to be irritated by the way he’d followed her—besides, how many times had she wished for him to appear? She had no right to be both disappointed in his absence during the past two days and irked by his nosiness. As she looked at him now, at the worry in his eyes, she realised he hadn’t been nosy at all. He’d wanted to watch over
her. His angelic guardianship made her burst into tears. “Oh, Magus Hopkins, it’s so awful! So awful!”
Sobbing, Charlotte poured out everything that had happened, from the shock of the terrible working conditions to the blackmail, even confessing how hard it had been to rein herself back in after destroying the loom. Throughout, she feared she was telling him too much, but she was far too tired and upset to judge. It was all too tangled to separate out into the acceptable and the inadmissible and besides, she needed to tell someone who would understand.
He pulled a blanket from a box under the seat, moved across to sit next to her and draped it around her shoulders as she confided in him. She didn’t think about how he stayed by her side, nor how he pulled off his gloves to rest his hand over hers as they clutched the blanket. When she finally stopped, everything confessed, she realised his hand was still there. His face was so close, she dared not turn to face him, lest their lips touch.
“My apologies, Miss Gunn,” he said, hurriedly moving across the gap to return to his seat. “You were shivering.”
She wiped her cheeks with her hand before accepting his handkerchief, passed across without comment. “I’m so terribly sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m not in the habit of falling apart, especially in company.”
“My dear Miss Gunn.” Hopkins sighed. “There is no need to apologise. The only individual upon whom that obligation rests is your brother. What was he thinking, putting you in this position, knowing of your talents?”
“He was thinking about transportation, and avoiding it at all costs.” Charlotte sniffed. “And I still want to help him. But I’m frightened. I don’t want to go back to that place. Am I going mad, Magus Hopkins?”
“No,” he said, unable to maintain his steady gaze. He reached for his gloves, lining them up to rest them on his knee and smooth them flat.
“What are you afraid to say to me?”
“You’re not going mad,” he said. “But I fear you are turning wild.”
She bit her lower lip to stop it from trembling. “But I controlled myself. It was hard, I confess, but I did it.”
“That’s only part of turning wild.” He leaned back, raking a hand through his curls, the most uncomfortable she’d ever seen him. Only now did she appreciate how studied his usual composure was. His eyes, so pale in the interior shade of the Clarence, looked deeper, somehow. Distressed. She clutched the blanket more tightly.
After silent deliberation, Hopkins knocked on the roof and consulted the driver briefly. “We’re going to the edge of the city,” he said to her.
“No, we can’t. Ben is waiting for me, I told you!”
“It isn’t far. We need to speak somewhere safe and there is no such place in the city. Besides,” he added, “your brother deserves to worry. Putting you in this situation . . .” He shook his head as he fell silent, although she had the impression he could have spoken far more on the subject.
Hopkins was angry with Ben, and it made a spark flare in her breast. He was angry on her behalf. He cared about her. His glances, the pinched skin between his eyes, all confirmed it as the carriage raced along. She closed her eyes, trying to centre herself again and find the core of calm that she relied upon when her mother was getting hysterical. She thought of George, consciously trying to push the presence of Hopkins away from her mind and utterly failing to do so. She wanted him to come back over to the same seat as her, wrap his arms around her, hold her until she felt safe again.
She was a wicked woman and she didn’t deserve George. Charlotte wiped away a new tear and wished that the blinds at the carriage windows were open so she had something to look at other than Hopkins.
“All will be well,” he said, misinterpreting her fretful face. “You’ve had a terrible fright, off the back of two very trying days. You’re coping magnificently. We’ll talk this through, I’ll look at those symbols you mentioned and we will make a plan. You are not alone in this.”
His kindness made that spark burn all the more brightly. “Magus Hopkins?” she said hesitantly.
“Yes, Miss Gunn?”
“I think you . . .” She suppressed the words that rose to follow. “. . . are very kind and I thank you.”
The road had become horribly bumpy all of a sudden and soon the carriage drew to a stop. He peeped out from behind the blind first and then, satisfied, opened the door, flipped down the steps and descended to help her out.
They were out in the open countryside. It was so disorienting after being in the city. It felt like she’d been in Manchester far longer than two days. The carriage had pulled off the main road, then down a small track to pull into a passing place so they wouldn’t obstruct any carts returning to farms from the city.
Hopkins pulled a second blanket from the carriage and climbed over a gate into a nearby field. He found a spot free of sheep dung, spread the blanket out and sat down upon it. He patted a space on the blanket next to him and Charlotte sat down, feeling rather odd. It was like the preamble to a romantic picnic, only without the hamper. And the right man.
“This is going to be a difficult conversation,” he said, pulling a long stalk of grass from its root to let it play between his fingers. He was nervous.
She reached into her dress and pulled out the piece of paper, but when she held it out to him, he pushed it back gently. “We’ll come to that. Miss Gunn, I cannot think of a way to tell you this without causing distress, but seeing the ghost this evening is proof that you are turning wild.”
Charlotte put the piece of paper on the blanket between them, drawing her legs up beneath her skirts so she could hug her knees. She took a deep breath, trying to soothe the panic that threatened to bubble up again. “But the Royal Society says there’s no such thing as ghosts. I don’t understand.”
“As far as the masses are concerned, they don’t exist. Only those that are turning wild see them. The Royal Society has pushed the idea that any ghostly activities can be explained by uncontrolled Latents, so that if someone reports seeing ghosts, they can be flagged up more easily for the Enforcers. It’s illegal now, but before you and I were born, there used to be people who would earn a living from claims that they could communicate with the dead. No doubt many were charlatans, but the fact that they used to advertise such services tells you how much influence the Royal Society has now. The masses have been successfully convinced that ghosts are simply the province of fanciful storytelling and that anyone trying to profit from such is a criminal.”
“Have you seen a ghost?”
He shook his head. “My ability was identified very early, Miss Gunn, and I was delivered to the Royal Society at a young age, long before there was any possibility of my turning. It’s only those left unchecked who see them. It’s why the Royal Society makes regular checks upon Bedlam and other such institutions. Poor souls considered to be going mad because they talk to people whom no one else can see may simply be manifesting atypically. They may not have set anything on fire, or destroyed anything by accident, but they are still Latents.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
He snorted. “Do you think it would have helped? It would have made you jump at every shadow.” He looked away, gazing over the rolling hills. “And I confess I had hoped I could spare you the experience. I have been an arrogant fool, and I beg your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive! You’ve been helping me.”
When he looked back at her, the sadness in his eyes made her feel shaky and afraid again. “But I fear I misled you—not intentionally, you must understand that. But in my arrogance, I wanted to believe I could give you freedom from the Royal Society. I fear I cannot.”
Charlotte gripped her legs tighter. “Are you abandoning your efforts? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“No!” He scrabbled onto his knees to face her, his earnest expression making him all the more beautiful. “I have no intention of doing that. But I cannot in good conscience allow you to believe that my
efforts are guaranteed to be sufficient. No one else has ever done this, to my knowledge. I can teach you the techniques to stay calm and focused, but the Royal Society does more to Latents when they join, to stop them from turning wild, and I simply don’t know what that is.”
“How can you not know? Wasn’t it done to you?”
His eyes were shadowed by his brow, darkening. “Something was done to me, Miss Gunn, but I do not understand it sufficiently to do the same to you.”
The way he said it chilled her. “Is that what you are trying to protect me from?”
“In part.” He looked up at the evening sky, sighing heavily. “I want to keep you from their clutches so that we can act independently. And safely. But if you’ve seen a ghost . . . I don’t know if that is even possible, let alone wise. As much as it pains me to say this, Miss Gunn, submitting to the Royal Society may be the only sensible option for you. For both of us.”
“And what if I refuse?”
He closed his eyes, cutting off their light from her briefly, before he looked at her again. “I will help you as long as I can. But if you become a danger to yourself and others, I will have no choice but to report you myself.”
She turned away from him, staring instead at the cornflowers bobbing near the hedgerow. First Ben, now Hopkins. Was there no hope for her? “I want to keep trying.”
“Then you have my ardent support, Miss Gunn. But we will have to work harder and see each other more regularly. And that increases the risk.”
She wondered if he was considering the same risks as she was. “I’m willing to take it, if you are.”
“I am.”
“But you must explain why you want to do this. There’s something you’re not telling me, Magus Hopkins. And given the conversation we find ourselves having now, I feel you should be open with me, so that I might fully understand all the risks involved.”
He nodded. “That is entirely fair. I have kept you at arm’s length, it’s true. You have placed me in your confidence and I will do the same.” He paused, shifting into a more comfortable position leaning to the side. His frock coat slid from his hip, revealing the top of his trousers and more of his waistcoat. Charlotte looked away, lest she stared too much. “I’ve suspected the Royal Society has been acting dishonourably for some time. I’m not willing to give details. Ignorance will protect you, should you be forced to submit. It isn’t that I don’t trust you. It’s more that I wouldn’t want to put you in an impossible position.” He flicked a curl from his eyes and she could see he was finding it difficult. “I had a friend, in the Society, a fellow magus. She was . . . astonishing.”
