The Foxfire Lights

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  “And not mine,” Matthew said, as Nurse draped a dressing-gown over his shoulders. “As though I could forget.”

  Jack went over round the other side of the bed and wheeled over a chair—a large wooden contraption that utterly dwarfed Matthew when Jack lifted him and placed him in it. Nurse tucked the dressing-gown about his neck, before placing a pillow at his back and smoothing a blanket over his legs.

  “I wonder if Father will go away again now,” Matthew said, half-to-himself, when he had been thoroughly settled in his chair.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” I said. “Not until Albert is found.”

  “If he is found,” Matthew said. “That mire has swallowed people up before, you know.”

  “I’ve told them about Lord Andrew—the baron before your grandfather,” Jack said. He went over to the drapes and with a twist of his wrist drew them open. The sudden flood of light made me blink.

  “Yes, that was a bit of luck,” Matthew said. “They had to shoot his horse, you know. Can’t you just imagine it, stuck in that mire, with its master nowhere to be found?”

  The image popped back into my brain at his words, and I felt my stomach turn. Matthew’s expression was almost gleeful, though his face was even paler in the sunlight.

  “The only trouble with all of this is that woman,” he went on, turning to Nurse. “Can’t somebody give her something—make her stop all that dreadful noise?”

  “Mrs. Forsythe is tending to her,” Nurse said, throwing open the French doors that led out to a long balcony. “And the doctor will likely be here later on.”

  Matthew’s face screwed up into a grimace. “So he has a doctor in for her—but none for me since he came home with them. I see.”

  “Perhaps he thinks you’re getting stronger,” Jack said, cheerfully. “You haven’t had a fit in almost a month now.”

  Matthew’s grimace deepened, and he waved a hand imperiously. “Oh, shut up, you idiot. Take me outside.”

  Jack wheeled the chair out onto the balcony, and we followed. The air was cool and pleasant against my face after that close room, and the breeze was crisp, despite the lingering after-scent of decay that followed it. Matthew shivered, and Jack leaned over to tuck the blanket around him.

  Matthew shoved him away. “Leave me alone. You’ve just said I was getting stronger.”

  “Aye, but it wouldn’t do for you to take a chill,” Jack said, tucking the blanket anyway. “Mum would murder me—to say nothing of his Lordship.”

  “I don’t even like to be outside,” Matthew groused. “But the doctor says I must go at least once a day. I think he’s an idiot—what good could air do for my condition?”

  “What is your condition?” Hal said, lighting his pipe and tucking it between his teeth. “No one has seen fit to tell me that yet.”

  “It’s because no one knows,” Matthew said, sighing. “But I’m dying of it, of course.”

  He gazed off into the distance, silent for a long moment, then pointed out to the mire. “You can see just where Lord Andrew died from here—right where they shot his horse. They never found his body. Do you think they’ll find Albert’s?”

  “No,” Hal said, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Because I intend that there should be no body—we shall find the child.”

  Matthew frowned, letting his hand fall back into his lap. “You’re a magician—you know something of the old tales.”

  “Yes,” Hal said, moving over to lean back against the railing of the balcony, facing Matthew. “What of it?”

  “Then you know how they’re meant to play out,” Matthew said. “How they ought to go.”

  Hal frowned around his pipe, tucking his hands into his pockets. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that everyone should get what they deserve,” Matthew said, a strange expression creeping over his face. “What’s coming to them.”

  “Such as the evil stepmother,” Hal said, nodding sagely. “What does she deserve?”

  Matthew looked at him, glaring fiercely. “Don’t laugh at me. Don’t ever laugh at me.”

  There was something in his tone that shot a quiver through my stomach—something hateful and threatening. “Nobody’s laughing at you,” I said.

  He looked back at me, his expression fading into mere petulance. “Good. I’m not to be laughed at.”

  “But what does your stepmother deserve?” Hal said, undeterred by Matthew’s outburst. “Does she deserve to have her child taken from her?”

  “She deserves to have everything taken from her,” Matthew said, clenching a fist. “Just as she has taken everything from me.”

  “Come now, that’s no way to talk,” Jack said. “If it wasn’t for her Ladyship, his Lordship wouldn’t even be here—he’d still be in Argentina.”

  Matthew rounded on him fiercely. “Shut up, you ignorant swine! Don’t talk about my father as though you know him!”

  Jack stepped back, looking rather crestfallen, and Matthew sighed wearily, rubbing his hand over his forehead.

  “Take me back in, Jack,” he said miserably. “I’ve had quite enough air for today.”

  “But the doctor says . . .” Jack began, half-heartedly.

  “I don’t care what the doctor says,” Matthew snapped. “I said take me in.”

  Jack shrugged, taking the handles of the chair and wheeling it back into the close dark room. Nurse looked up, surprised, and opened her mouth to speak—but Jack shook his head, and she laid her knitting aside to help him with Matthew. They worked in silence, Matthew limp and unhelpful, with that same miserable expression on his face the entire time—like a martyr in a painting.

  “Perhaps we ought to go now,” I said to Hal, in a low tone.

  “Don’t you dare,” Matthew said, as Nurse tucked the pillows behind his back. “I’ve more to say to you.”

  “Have you?” Hal said mildly. “What more can there be to say?”

  Matthew’s expression turned grave, and he folded his hands over his quilt. “I like you, magician,” he said. “And that is why I am going to tell you this.”

  He beckoned Hal closer, and Hal took a seat next to the bed. Matthew gave a scorching look to Jack and Nurse, and they moved back into the shadows, Nurse back to her knitting, and Jack waiting by the door.

  “There’s danger in interfering with magic,” Matthew said quietly, when things were as he wanted them. “You can’t change fate—nor save people from what they deserve. If you try—the spirits will only be angry with you.”

  Hal gave him a long, appraising look. “When you heard those stories, did you really think all got what they deserved?”

  Matthew nodded, his pale face shadowed in the firelight. “That’s what those stories are about—justice.”

  “I read them rather differently,” Hal said, tamping down a bit of tobacco in his pipe. “The Fair Folk are petty and driven by self-interest—most of the people in the stories were, at worst, foolish. Do you think death is a just punishment for a fool?”

  “The world would be better off with fewer of them,” Matthew said, plucking at his quilt. “Why not?”

  Hal blew out a puff of smoke. “Of course, the biggest fool of all is the one who makes use of the Fair Folk against an enemy—you would agree?”

  Matthew looked at Hal with a strange expression. “I—I suppose so.”

  Hal regarded him gravely. “Then what do you suppose his punishment ought to be?”

  Matthew looked away from him, plucking at the quilt. “I’m tired now. Go away.”

  Hal nodded, and stood, moving away from the bed. We followed Jack out into the passage. He shut the door behind us and shivered.

  “Do you see what I mean?” he said. “Some days he’s all right—just a bit of a prat. But then, some days . . .”

  “Hm,” Hal said, rocking back on his heels. He was staring at the door with an odd expression on his face. “Well, he is certainly different from most people.”

  Jack gave a fervent nod. “Well, I’d best get b
ack to Dad. You know your way from here?”

  I nodded, and he took off down the stairs with unnecessary haste. I turned to Hal.

  “What was that about?” I said. “Do you think he’s done this to his brother?”

  “I’ve not formed any sort of conclusion yet,” he said. “But there can be no doubt that he is resentful enough to have tried.”

  I chewed at my lip. “And what about Lady Ransom—her father, I mean. The letters he’s sent to Lord Ransom?”

  Hal shook his head, smoke curling up from his pipe. “Too soon to say. We are merely gathering evidence now, Jem. The time for conclusions will come later.”

  “But surely you have some theory—some idea,” I said, frustration bubbling out into my words. “Can’t you tell me, at least?”

  He didn’t look at me—kept staring at the door as though he would find the answers in it. “Why? So that you may prejudice your mind, instead of taking the facts as they come? No.”

  “Because I’m too stupid to reason through facts, is that it?” I said, the words bursting out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Just like I’m too stupid to understand about Father—can’t tell me anything, who knows what I might do with it. I see.”

  He turned to me, frowning deeply. “No, you don’t see. You don’t see at all. And that is the problem.”

  And he turned away, hurrying down the stairs, leaving me behind. I watched him go for a moment, but I didn’t follow. I looked back at the doorway. I wasn’t stupid—I might not have been as brilliant as Hal, but I could see facts when they were in front of me. But how to show him? I made a fist, pounding it against the stair railing in my frustration. I would find a way—I didn’t know how or when, but I would show him—that much I knew.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I didn’t see Hal again until dinner that evening—I had spent the afternoon in my room, nursing a headache that had been throbbing since our visit with Matthew, and trying to think of some way to get my brother to share his thoughts about the case with me. I had made no progress on the second front—Hal was as stubborn as anyone I knew, and if he had made up his mind that I was to be kept in the dark, I would have the devil of a time convincing him otherwise. In the end, I had simply laid down for a nap, from which I did not wake until I was called down to dinner.

  Lord Ransom and Hal were already at table when I arrived; neither of them looked up at my presence. Lady Ransom’s seat beside Lord Ransom was empty—she must still have been indisposed by her grief. Lord Ransom looked pale and haggard, staring emptily down at his soup, though he made no effort to eat it.

  Hal was brooding—that much I could tell at a glance. He had his arms folded over his chest, and he stared down at his own soup—though his gaze was intense and searching, as though the soup held the answers to the questions of the universe. A heavy cloud of smoke hung about his head, filling the dining room with the smell of sage and tobacco.

  I took my seat, looking from on to the other of them, before clearing my throat. Lord Ransom looked up, startled, but Hal merely grunted acknowledgment, without looking away from his soup. I thought he must still be cross with me.

  I turned to Lord Ransom. “Lady Ransom will not be joining us?”

  He shook his head, looking weary. “No—she is refusing all food and drink. I have tried to convince her to try some of Mrs. Forsythe’s tea, at least—but she refused that most emphatically.”

  He returned to his soup, and silence fell over the table once more. I glanced over at Hal—I thought the mention of Mrs. Forsythe’s tea might provoke some reaction; but he remained in the same attitude as before.

  I began eating my soup, conscious of the fact that the sound of my spoon against the bowl was the only sound in the room. The silence lingered, growing uncomfortable, until Hal broke it at last.

  “Matthew has very strong ideas about magic,” he said, turning to Lord Ransom. “He believes your wife is getting what she deserves.”

  Lord Ransom sighed, running a hand over his face. “I am aware of what he thinks of Isabella, Mr. Bishop—he has resented her since she arrived in this house. But he cannot have cast this curse—it is simply impossible.”

  “Merely because he is confined to his room?” Hal blew a puff of smoke at the ceiling. “I would remind you that one of the greatest magicians in history was bedridden for most of his life. Magic is a mental faculty—the body need not come into it.”

  “But you said you found that spell on the tor,” Lord Ransom said, shaking his head. “How could Matthew have gotten up there? He hasn’t left this house since he was born. Do you suggest that he has fashioned himself a pair of wings?”

  Hal’s mouth quirked up minutely. “That is one possibility. But a rather more likely one suggests itself—that another may have laid the spell for him.”

  Lord Ransom went very pale, and looked back down at his plate. He shook his head. “No—no. Matthew cannot have done this thing. He cannot.”

  Hal studied him for a moment, an odd expression on his face. “And your wife?”

  “Isabella?” Lord Ransom blinked. “What of her?”

  “Does she share that opinion?” Hal said, refilling his pipe.

  “You know that she doesn’t,” Lord Ransom said, his brows drawing together. “She is convinced that Matthew has done this to Albert and she is—she is quite angry that I have not thrown him out of the house already. She—she isn’t speaking to me, if you must know.”

  “Hm,” Hal said. “And yet it is her father who is troubling you for money.”

  Lord Ransom’s frown deepened, and he laid his fork down. “Who has told you that?”

  “Never mind,” Hal said. “Is it true?”

  “Yes, it is,” Lord Ransom said, his grey eyes hard. “And I have done what I can to help him. What of it? Are you suggesting . . . ?”

  “I suggest nothing.” Hal leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. “I merely ask. I told you when you came to me—this will be unpleasant.”

  The weariness settled back over Lord Ransom’s face. “Yes—you did. But my own family—I can’t think it of them. You understand?”

  Hal nodded, without opening his eyes, and silence fell back over the table. Lord Ransom looked down at the table for a moment, fidgeting with a napkin, before speaking once more.

  “Another thing—don’t speak to Matthew of magic again,” he said, without looking up. “It—it upsets him. That is why I had Mrs. Forsythe stop telling him those stories.”

  Hal opened his eyes, fixing Lord Ransom with a curious gaze. “Upsets him? I had the impression that he was rather interested in the subject.”

  “Perhaps upsets is not the right word,” Lord Ransom said. “But it—it is not good for him. For his condition.”

  “His condition?” Hal drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. “What is his condition? I have asked and asked and been given no answer.”

  Lord Ransom was quiet for a long moment, still fidgeting with his napkin. “It—what he has is difficult to describe. He’s been—he was crippled at birth. His mother—my wife—did not survive it. His spine is twisted—that is all that is wrong with him, physically, the doctor says.”

  “Hm,” Hal said, his fingers drumming more insistently. “But there is something else.”

  “Yes,” Lord Ransom said, very quietly. There was a terrible kind of sadness in his voice; the same sadness that had been in Lady Ransom’s when she spoke of her baby. “He has never been—normal. His mind—perhaps it is because he never leaves that room. But he is not—he is not . . .”

  He broke off, his voice trembling, and covered his face with one hand. Sympathy tugged uneasily at my stomach. I glanced at Hal, who was watching Lord Ransom with a pained expression. He caught my gaze, and took his pipe from his mouth and turned it over in his hands, frowning down at it.

  “He is not like other people,” he said, without looking up.

  “No,” Lord Ransom said, taking a breath and sitting straight. “He is not. His m
ind is very—very excitable. And now you understand why I must ask you not to speak of this to him again.”

  Hal was silent, studying his pipe. After a moment, he lifted his head, gazing at Lord Ransom shrewdly. “I will speak to him as little as I must; but he is a member of your household—contact cannot be avoided entirely.”

  Lord Ransom looked down at his napkin. “Very well. I suppose that is all I can ask.”

  He stood and excused himself, leaving Hal and I alone at table. I turned to Hal, meaning to ask him about what we had just heard, but he was already standing himself, and he left without saying a word to me. I watched him go, frustration once more rising in my chest—that he would respond to my complaints of being left in the dark by shutting me out entirely was not unexpected, but it still stung. It was a long moment before I stood and went to my own room, and even when I’d gotten into bed, it was a long time before I was able to fall asleep.

  I had not long been asleep when I was startled awake by some terrible cry. Someone was shrieking—a strange, almost inhuman sound, filling the house. I sat up, heart pounding, and threw on a dressing-gown, taking up my lamp. I did not wait for Hal to fetch me, but stumbled out into the dark passage. A flurry of activity met me; servants darting here and there, all converging on the staircase, and going up—up to where Matthew’s room sat at the top of the stairs.

  I followed them up, the shrieking ringing in my ears the entire time, people shoving past me right and left. When I had made it up the stairs, the shrieking had died down to a mournful keening, punctuated by gasping sobs. I pushed past a group of servants and through the open door. Nurse was leaning over Matthew, who was twisting and turning in his sheets, his face livid. She patted his face with a flannel. Lord Ransom stood at the foot of the bed, hand covering his mouth, his eyes closed.

  Someone pushed past me, and I looked up to see Hal standing there with his own lamp raised. “What is it?” he said. “What has happened?”

  “Young master’s having a fit,” Nurse said, without turning away from her work. “And I can’t say I’m surprised, with all that’s happened.”

  “Mrs. Forsythe is bringing a tonic,” Lord Ransom said, his voice hoarse. “That—that always seems to calm him.”