The Secret Stealer

by Jess Webster

  Gables nodded at both names.

  Esther shook her head, confused. “What are they doing, going to London at a time like this?”

  “A time like this? As far as I know they’re going on a holiday.”

  “James has been missing for the past two days!” Esther cried, suddenly filled with righteous indignation. “Their only son has been kidnapped, for all they know, and they are going on a holiday?”

  “Are you sure they know?”

  “The Headmistress rang them yesterday. They know.” Esther had never been so disgusted. A holiday! What wretched parents James Winchester IV had! “When were the Winchesters scheduled to leave?”

  “Not for another hour.”

  “Good. If we leave in half an hour, like you suggested, then we’ll be safely gone before they even arrive.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Byron grinned at her. “I’ll leave it to Abby to deal with them.”

  “Yes, and maybe she’ll actually acknowledge their existence, seeing as she’ll have given up the habit of constantly filing her nails by now.”

  “If only,” Byron lamented. “It makes me shi-i-ver whenever she does that. Which is a lot, actually. I’d have fired her for it already if it weren’t for the fact I’d get sued for unfair dismissal.”

  “Trust me,” Esther said, “Abby will never file her nails again.”

  He stared at her for a few seconds, finally saying, “I believe you.” He smiled a strange, light smile. He moved to leave, but a moment later turned back towards Esther and, looking alarmingly hazy again, said, “You really are the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met…”

  “How very flattering of you, Mr Gables. Now perhaps I didn’t quite succeed in fully lifting that curse…” Esther leaned in close to him once again, then pulled away and slapped the back of his head[48], saying, “Nice try. I’ll be waiting on the plane.”

  Byron Gables chuckled softly to himself as he headed back to his office.

  “Creep,” Esther muttered, plonking herself down on the chair nearest the back of the small private jet. Imagine, she thought, if she’d been gullible enough to believe him! She might have been duped into kissing the wretch periodically on the long flight ahead!

  “Creep,” she found herself muttering again. But then again, what if the curse actually did have lingering side-effects? And, even worse, what if the ludicrous man actually liked her? She inwardly admitted that he was distractingly good-looking, but – Nitwit! she quickly reminded herself, all at once feeling as much repulsed by Gables’ manner as she was discomfited by her own confusion.

  Lesson Eight: One should NEVER get in the way of a timeless romance…

  or with the timeless wrath of a woman scorned must you contend.

  Several hours later Esther Mason-Smith was feeling sublimely satisfied as she sat on her privately hired plane, imagining the Winchesters arriving at Byron Gables’ Private Flights, and their expressions of dismay and chagrin upon discovering that no one was there to take them on their infernal holiday. They would probably rant and rave about their indignation and take it out on Abby, just because she was there (a thought that made Esther feel even more smug).

  Her pleasant reverie, however, was interrupted by a voice crackling over the PA: “Would all passengers please make their way to the cockpit, all passengers – we are currently experiencing some slight technical difficulties.”

  Though a little alarmed by the phrase ‘technical difficulties’, Esther had deliberately sat at the furthest point in the plane from Byron Gables, and was determined that nothing short of the plane being ripped apart directly behind her seat would persuade her to enter that cockpit.

  But then Byron Gables became more inventive in his invitations, and Esther began to wonder whether she had done right in removing his curse and revealing his true character, which, as it turned out, was awfully annoying. By now he had started making jingles and singing them over the PA. Because of the crackling, Esther couldn’t quite decipher his lyrics, but when it became thoroughly evident that he was going to sing for as long as she refused to move, she decided at last that she could stand to be in the same room as him provided he would just shut up. Awful man! she thought, humph-ing inwardly as she got up.

  It occurred to her as she hesitated before the door to the cockpit that perhaps he was, after all, still cursed. And the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. The embarrassment, the feigned nonchalance, and then the mercenary, businesslike nature he displayed after her first kissing him seemed to her to be a small window into his true character. A window that had lasted all of 30 seconds, before he’d attempted to trick her into kissing him. But perhaps this was a second stage to the curse – one that involved Byron wanting to kiss her, instead of spouting rubbish poetry. It was a particularly Blythe-like thing to do, she thought with dread. And it was a better conclusion than others that might be made (for she did not want to believe that any person in their right mind could be, by choice, this annoying). But she’d have to examine him, just to be sure. And that meant entering the cockpit. Breathing deeply and steeling herself at the prospect, she entered.

  Byron Gables turned to look up at her from behind the radio piece he held in his left hand, saw that she looked thoroughly unimpressed with his behaviour and became silent accordingly. He did, however, maintain a light, triumphant smile.

  “Hold still so I can take a look at you,” Esther said, with that same gravity and authority that had stilled him previously. Byron Gables obeyed, whether he had intended to or not.

  Having looked into Byron’s eyes once more, Esther Mason-Smith felt as if she were in an episode of ‘House M.D.’, for she suddenly (and angrily) perceived that anything she did would simply cause his ‘disease’ to present in a different way. She half expected Byron Gables to start coughing up blood at any moment, or a crash cart to burst through the door into the cockpit, followed by three doctors accusing her of killing him with her method of treatment. The curse would simply go on forever. There was literally nothing she could do to remove it.

  However, she did also perceive some use in this particular presentation of Byron’s curse. That he wanted to kiss her was evident enough. Also evident to her were the following facts: (1) he had lost the symptom of looking like a lovesick puppy at the sight of her, (2) he was clear-headed enough to try to trick her into kissing him, and (3) he wasn’t the least bit discouraged by one head-slap. Now here came the prospect of its usefulness: she could let on that she would kiss him, if he got her to James in time to stop him from making a grave mistake. In short, she could bribe him. She satisfied her conscience by telling herself that she would do everything in her power to remove his curse once he had outlived his usefulness[49].

  “You can move again, but only to fly the plane.” Esther waved a dismissive hand at him and sat down in the spare seat. Byron Gables opened his mouth, his facial expression looking dangerously musical. “If you so much as breathe one melody line, so help me…” Esther said in threatening tones.

  Byron grinned at her and settled down into his seat. “It’s a little dull in here all alone, that’s all.”

  “You didn’t have to act like an annoying eight-year-old to get me in here.” Esther cocked her head to one side. “You could’ve just asked, like any civilised adult.”

  “Ah, but you lie,” Byron countered. “You wouldn’t have come in here if I hadn’t bullied you into it by being childish. You’re a school nurse, so you probably have a natural tendency to scold. I would say that acting like an annoying eight-year-old is exactly what got you in here.”

  “Only to make you shut up,” Esther replied.

  He grinned at her. “Exactly.”

  Goodness gracious, Esther thought, as she felt her jaw clench. She wanted nothing more than to punch the man, and to have her sister within arm’s reach so she could strangle her. She determined that she would, the next time she saw her sister, at the very least give her a sound slap across the face. Perhaps a back-hande
d slap, she thought, with a metal gauntlet. Esther Mason-Smith had never once felt as violently inclined as she did now.

  She began to wonder (after sitting in the cockpit for about an hour without incident) at Byron’s continued silence. Suspicious, she asked, “Why are you being so patient?”

  “Patient? As regards what?” Byron asked in reply, not even looking at her.

  “Your curse now makes you want to kiss me. Why haven’t you tried yet?”

  He chuckled and said, “Um… because I believe that would constitute assault.”

  “I would’ve classed unwelcome sonnets as a form of assault, and that didn’t stop you before.”

  “It is puzzling, isn’t it?” Gables replied, smiling. “Look, just because I want to kiss you, doesn’t mean I’m going to attack you.”

  “You attacked me with your verbal-diarrhoea-like poetry,” Esther replied, her expression wry.

  “Ah yes, but poetry is a weakness of mine, so – you say I’m cursed, yes? – it makes sense that a curse of that kind would be very effective against me.”

  Esther wondered that he could so easily accept that he was cursed, and then go on to reason about it in such a logical[50] way.

  “But self-control has never been a problem with me,” Byron continued. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed,” he added, ever-smiling, “I’m quite good-looking.”

  Esther scoffed at the man’s arrogance[51].

  “I’ve had girls chasing me ever since high school,” Gables said, his tone philosophical.

  “And this has what to do with self-control?”

  “Well, a fellow can end up in all sorts of messes if he has no self-control, can’t he?” Gables argued.

  Esther shrugged her agreement.

  “So, even if I wanted to,” he said, “I won’t try anything, cursed or not.”

  “Well, thank goodness,” Esther muttered sarcastically. “I might’ve had to add another curse to your array.”

  “Unless you want to,” he added, looking hopeful.

  “No, I do not want to,” Esther said, exasperated. “I’ve already kissed you once, that will just have to do for now.” She inwardly kicked herself for having let the words ‘for now’ slip from her mouth.

  Byron chuckled.

  “What?” Esther said.

  “Well, it’s like a cookie. If you’re good, son, you might get another cookie.”

  “I am not a cookie!”

  “Lord, I know you’re not a cookie, your tone just made me think of a mother with a batch of cookies.”

  “Well, now that you mention it, a rewards system may be useful,” Esther said carefully. That certainly got Gables’ attention – had there been a mountain dead ahead he would still have turned to look at her. “If you get me to Manor d’Arlend, Greenwood Way, London, in time, I will kiss you.”

  “In time for what?”

  “It’s all a bit complicated, really.”

  “It’s a long flight.”

  “Alright. If you get me to Manor d’Arlend in time and don’t annoy me to death on the way, I will kiss you.”

  Byron Gables smiled to himself. “Double payment and two kisses. This is a good day.”

  “Careful,” Esther warned, “you’re about to violate the second condition of your contract.”

  “Point taken,” Byron said and spoke no more.

  Manor d’Arlend, Greenwood Way, London, was a perfect representative of the excessive nature of upper-class wealth, from a time when class distinction was more important than it is nowadays, and was apparently dictated by the amount of glass on the front of one’s house. Indeed, it was the sort of house to which Elizabeth Bennett might refer as being ‘by no means lacking in windows’, and whose most bizarre features Mr Collins might describe for 28 hours straight. Certainly, it had walls and roofs enough to suit a house, but was one of the silliest houses in England, having been designed by a ludicrously wealthy Frenchman who’d suffered more than one too many hammer blows to the head. (Why a man who lived alone should need a house with 28 rooms is beyond even my comprehension.)

  Although Manor d’Arlend was in every way excessive, it could not have had a more pleasant or happy appearance. As James approached it he felt not the slightest hint of the evil that lurked within its walls, nor any sense of foreboding or impending doom. The Secret Stealer, Domenic Mancini, had so far proven himself to be, frankly, a bit of a ratbag (in stealing the secret of a poor, defenceless nine-year-old boy and foisting half of his curse onto that same child). But evil? No, James did not – could not – think of Mr Mancini as evil[52] . It was perhaps a rare flaw in James’ character that he required an act so completely vile, so wretched, so disgusting, for him to truly think ill of someone.

  As far as James knew, they were to wait out of sight until they saw Domenic Mancini leave the manor, and then make their way to ‘The Book’[53] (in which the Secret Stealer deposited stolen secrets), from which James could reclaim his own secret. It did not seem to James the least bit suspicious that Blythe should know the location of The Book in such a large building; rather, in his mind it only served to make her look more clever and helpful.

  Something, however, was nagging at James. Before he could put his finger on it, though, or formulate a question, Domenic Mancini appeared at the closed entrance to Manor d’Arlend and began to glide along the gravel driveway, about one metre above the ground. It was very bizarre to see a man in top hat and coat with tails fly through the air, as if he were made only of light and colour.

  “Let’s go,” Blythe said quickly as Domenic disappeared from sight. She led James across the pebbled driveway and towards the den of the Secret Stealer.

  Only upon reaching the entrance of the manor did James finally feel something; a distinct uneasiness settled over him as Blythe opened the doors, but although suddenly frightened, James inwardly resolved that nothing would stop him from retrieving his secret. He had his parents to think of, after all.

  After spending several minutes walking about in a seemingly aimless manner through the chilly, convoluted hallways, Blythe said, “We’re here, James.”

  “I thought you said it was a book!” James exclaimed, for what stood before him could not at all be described as such.

  “Well it used to be a book, but then there were too many secrets for it to hold, so they turned The Book into a room,” she explained, with a sudden, quiet reverence that made James grow nervous all over again.

  So here he stood, before the room in which his deepest secret lay.

  The doors were huge and heavy, with an asymmetrical stained-glass design of swirls and spirals interspersed with leaves – as if the wind had taken the form of a ribbon and allowed itself to be captured, liquefied and solidified, into the incredibly beautiful glass panels that stood before him now. Beyond the doors James could tell there lay a heavy darkness, in which tiny, strange lights flickered and winked.

  “I’ll open it for you, James.” Blythe spoke softly, and so saying swung wide the left-hand of the two doors, allowing James a full view of what lay behind those glass panels. Inside was a room of impossible dimensions given the size of the house: a cavernous blackness like an empty night sky. “I need to close the door, James. Secrets have a way of getting out. It’s the one thing they all have in common.”

  “I have to go in all by myself?” James asked, suddenly afraid. He felt uncomfortable about entering so dark and somehow sacred a place without an adult escort. And he wondered, anxiously, if secrets could be broken, and if they could, how one would go about repairing them.

  “The Book is only fooled into letting you in because you have half the curse on you,” Blythe explained. “So I, not having any of the curse, can’t go with you. You need to go in now, before any of them get out. I’ll wait for you here.”

  She motioned for him to enter, and hardly knowing that he was actually moving, or how he was going to find his secret, James Winchester IV found himself alone in the dark, with heavy doors clicking closed behind hi
m, unpleasantly calling to his mind the image of a gaol cell, swinging shut.

  For a few moments he was surrounded by a palpable, thick darkness, and he felt panic rising within him. But then the lights, which he had seen flicker and wink beyond the closed doors, slowly began to reappear. The lights, he soon discovered, were secrets, taking the only form they could when displaced from their owners. They were furtive little things, darting here and there; little strings of words made from a ghostly, coruscating whiteness, all wrapped up into tiny balls that were forever changing shape, as the words whizzed in and around themselves like haphazard electrons. There were millions of them, and in that endlessly vast, dark room it seemed to James that he was under an inconstant heaven, filled with fickle stars and fireflies.

  “I wonder where my secret is…” James whispered to himself.

  As if in response to his words a certain secret appeared before him (or perhaps he had moved towards it – he really had no way of knowing, in that blackness). He found himself frowning as he looked upon it, for it was a tiny, pathetic thing, with drops of powdery golden light falling away from it to land near his feet, like tears. His was a sad secret, he knew.

  But there were other secrets nearby, he noticed. With a quiver of excitement he realised that they belonged to children and teachers from his school – dozens and dozens of them. Some were sad and seemed to drop tears, like his own. Some were angry, emitting a light that possessed the subtlest of crimson tints. Some were embarrassing, and seemed to shrink away from him accordingly. Some were dear and sweet: childish ambitions that had been left unspoken.

  What was it that Blythe had said to him? He would be rid of the half-curse once he had his own secret back. If he could take the secrets of his schoolmates and then his own, James reasoned, he would be rid of the curse, and still have secrets to make use of! And better yet, he would be able to keep Miss Mason-Smith out of the whole business.

  Heedless of his previous feelings of unease, James grasped as many secrets as he could, drawing them inward as Domenic had shown him. At last he came to his own secret. He felt a strange warmth as he pulled it towards his chest – that vague, empty feeling that had plagued him seemed to disappear, and for the first time in several days James Winchester smiled. He had his secret back.