“Mr. Bishop,” he said, without looking up. “What—what do you suppose Matthew has to say?”
Hal frowned. “I suppose it must concern the curse.”
“Yes,” Lord Ransom said, his expression distant. “But how? He can’t . . .”
And there he broke off, laying his head in his hands. There was a moment’s silence, before he waved a hand to dismiss us, and we left, closing the door behind us. I waited until we had put the study well behind before I spoke.
“What do you think Matthew has to say?” I said.
Hal shrugged. “Who can tell? But it is bound to be useful in some way—that much is certain.”
I followed him down the passage to Lady Ransom’s room. When we reached her door, Hal reached up, rapping his knuckles against it. There was a rustling sound, and then footsteps, and the door was pulled open by Addy. She looked rather like a deer caught in a lamp—eyes wide and darting, standing stock-still in the doorway. She stared at Hal without speaking.
“We should like to speak to her Ladyship,” Hal said, after a moment.
“Oh, yes—well, that is—she isn’t seeing anyone now,” Addy said. “She’s not—she’s feeling poorly.”
“It is a matter of some importance,” Hal said. “Tell her I am here.”
Addy stood uncertainly, wide eyes darting back into the room. I took pity on her—she so plainly had no idea what she ought to do.
“There can’t be any harm in telling her that we want to see her,” I said gently. “If she doesn’t wish to speak to us, we can leave.”
Addy glanced back into the room once more, then gave a tentative nod. “I’ll do that. Just a moment.”
She closed the door once more, and I heard the sound of muffled voices. Hal rocked back on his heels, staring at the door while he puffed at his pipe, impatience surrounding him as thickly as the smoke. Finally, the door creaked open once more.
“You may have a moment,” Addy said, and stood aside to let us in.
The room was dim; the sun was fading, and the fireplace was burning low. Lady Ransom sat in a window seat, watching the sunset, with her legs curled beneath her. Her face was very pale, eyes rimmed with red, and her hands were clutching a handkerchief.
“You have come to speak to me about Matthew,” she said dully, as we approached. “I will say to you what I said to my husband—I do not wish to be in the same room as that creature.”
Hal pushed his hands into his pockets, frowning around his pipe. “It may be that he has some information that will aid in the investigation—that will help to find Albert.”
She swung around to face him, her eyes burning bright in her pale face. “And why does he wish for me to hear it? Why—let him speak to his father. I am—I am nothing to him.”
“And yet he will not speak without your presence,” Hal said. “I confess I also find it strange—but that is why it interests me.”
“Strange?” She gave a choking laugh. “He is—this is cruel. If he has anything to say about Alberto—he wishes to say it where he can see my face.”
“Perhaps,” Hal conceded. He rocked back on his heels, frowning. “Perhaps he wishes to hurt you, as you say. And yet—if it might help to find your child . . .”
“I know,” she said quietly, laying her head down on her knees. “I know—I must go, as he says. Once more he gets his wish. It is a small price to pay—if my child can be returned to me. But . . .”
“What?” Hal said. “What is it that you fear?”
She was silent for a long moment, staring out at the sun setting over the moors. “Perhaps—perhaps there is no hope. Perhaps that is what . . .”
She broke off with a choking sound, and sympathy twisted my stomach. She was so frightened, and all alone here. I looked to Hal, who watched her with an odd expression on his face.
“It is possible,” he said at last, his tone grave. “But it is doubtful. A curse is a spell—and any spell may be broken.”
She looked up at him, her dark eyes solemn. “If that is what you say, Mr. Bishop—I believe you. Very well—I shall hear what Matthew has to say.”
CHAPTER TEN
After we left Lady Ransom, we returned to Lord Ransom’s study, and told him of our conversation with his wife. He listened pensively, tapping the carved stone figure against his desk, his lips pursed together as Hal spoke.
“I must say, I am fairly astonished that you accomplished it,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Now I suppose we only wait upon Matthew.”
There was the tone of resignation once more in his voice; something about it filled me with dread—for he had the tone of a man who has reconciled himself to something terrible.
“What—what do you suppose he will say?” I said, my mouth dry. “Have you any idea?”
He gave me an odd look, setting the figure down upon the desk. “Why should I? My son—he is not precisely predictable.”
Silence fell then, and we waited as the sun crept below the horizon and the shadow became longer and darker over the room. The dinner hour came and went, almost unnoticed—no one seemed to have the appetite for it. At last there was a knock on the study door, and Mrs. Forsythe stepped in.
“He is ready, your Lordship,” she said. Her face was impassive—but there was a tightness around her mouth that suggested precisely what she thought of all this. “I’ll have a tonic ready—I’m certain the doctor would not approve of this excitement.”
“Doubtless he would not,” Lord Ransom said wearily, waving a hand. “Tell Nurse we will be up shortly.”
She nodded curtly and left. Lord Ransom did not immediately rise to follow her; instead he picked up the stone figure on his desk and turned it over once more. There was a strange look in his eyes as he turned it, before setting it carefully back on his desk.
“I brought this back for Matthew after one of my travels,” he said, very quietly. “But I had to take it from him—it gave him nightmares. He swore that it came alive at night.”
He pushed it back with a finger and looked up at Hal. “That is how he is. He has—he gets ideas in his head, and no reason can dissuade him. He is—he has a very active imagination. Please—keep that in mind as he speaks to us.”
Hal regarded him gravely, pipe smoke curling about his head. “I shall. But bear in mind—he may know something, even if he has misunderstood it.”
Lord Ransom nodded, then stood, running a hand over his face. “Well—I suppose we can put it off no longer.”
We followed him from the room and down the passage to the long staircase that led up to Matthew’s room. We were met at the landing by Lady Ransom and Addy, whose deer-like expression turned to panic when she saw Lord Ransom coming up the stairs. She clutched at Lady Ransom’s sleeve, and Lady Ransom turned and saw her husband. Her expression was cold and remote—but as he looked up and met her gaze, her face softened, and she put out a hand.
Lord Ransom took his wife’s hand with a grateful look, and clung to it like a lifeline as they went up the stairs together. Addy followed behind, wringing her hands—and Hal and I came last, trudging up the stairs. Addy fell back a bit, darting her eyes back over to her mistress.
“Her Ladyship’s been in a right state all day,” she whispered. “She’s never been up to see Master Matthew before—I don’t know what to think.”
“Then this should be interesting indeed,” Hal said, pushing his hands into his pockets and quickening his pace.
Addy stared after him, still wringing her hands. “Interesting, he says? Oh—this is going to be dreadful.”
“Why do you say so?” I said.
“Because they hate each other—her Ladyship and Master Matthew,” she said. “Putting them together—it’s like putting grease in a fire.”
Having said her piece, she scurried away, catching up to her mistress. I hung behind, dread twisting around my stomach. I thought Addy was quite right—whatever Matthew had to say, it was certain to upset Lady Ransom terribly.
At
last we reached Matthew’s room, and Lord Ransom led us in. The sun had set completely now, and the room was lit only by the fire roaring in the cavernous fireplace, and a lamp set next to Matthew’s bed. It was very warm, and very close—as though a heavy blanket had been thrown over the whole of the room.
Matthew himself sat up in bed, propped up on his innumerable cushions. His face was pale; the flickering light of the fireplace cast eerie shadows against it, making him appear almost skeletally thin. He watched us file in with the air of a prince receiving courtiers, his hands folded over his stomach.
“Well, we are here as you asked, Matthew,” his father said, when we had all gathered around the bed. “What is it that you wish to say?”
Matthew darted a glance over to Lady Ransom, who had dropped her husband’s hand and was staring at the thin figure in the bed. Whatever she had expected, it seemed that Matthew’s appearance startled her. Matthew looked away, plucking at his quilt.
“I’m dying,” he said. “Tonight, I expect.”
Lord Ransom sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Matthew—the doctor says . . .”
“The doctor!” Matthew made a choking sound. “The doctor wouldn’t know anything about this. I know I’m going to die—and I know why, too.”
“Stop that,” Lord Ransom said, his voice harsh. Matthew shrank back a bit, and Lord Ransom sighed. “Don’t—don’t speak that way.”
“But it’s true,” Matthew said, looking down again. He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was small. “It can’t be stopped. Because it’s justice.”
“Justice?” Lady Ransom’s voice was tight, her eyebrows drawn together. “What do you mean? Justice for what?”
Matthew was silent for a long moment, plucking at his quilt. “For Albert,” he said at last.
Lady Ransom made a strangled sound, her hands flying to her mouth. “You . . .”
“No,” Lord Ransom said, putting a hand on her shoulder. His face was very white. “No. Matthew, this is—you are taking this too far.”
“No, Father.” Matthew’s face was pale and remote. He lay back on his pillows and gazed up at the ceiling above his bed. “I’ve seen the spirit now—the man with the lantern—and I know why he is coming for me.”
There was a strained silence, as though Matthew were waiting for someone to ask him a question—and everyone was too afraid to ask. Lord Ransom kept his hand on his wife’s shoulder, his face white as paper; he did not look at his son. Lady Ransom, in contrast, stared at the boy, her hands still covering her mouth and her eyes blazing.
It was she who broke the silence at last, dropping her hands from her face. “What have you done? Where is my child? Tell me!”
“I wished him away,” Matthew said, his voice taking on an almost sing-song quality. “My wish was granted, and now I must pay.”
She pulled away from her husband and flew at the bed with a cry, seizing upon Matthew and shaking him. “You wicked, wicked beast—where is he? Where? Where?”
Matthew stared at her, open-mouthed, as she shook him. His thin arms flopped about limply, like those of a doll, and he made no attempt to pull away from her. Lord Ransom and the Nurse stepped forward at the same time, and took hold of Lady Ransom’s arms, pulling her back. She struggled at first, then collapsed, sobbing, against her husband’s chest.
“I told you—I told you,” she said raggedly. “This creature . . .”
Lord Ransom looked over her shoulder at his son with misery in his eyes. “Matthew, why—why are you doing this? Why must you torture her?”
Matthew blinked at him a moment, the shocked expression slowly leaving his face. “I’m not—I’m only telling the truth. I wished him away. I don’t know how to get him back—but I’ll pay for it. Tonight—I shall pay.”
Lady Ransom gave a wordless cry, her legs buckling under her, and Lord Ransom sank down with her, looking over to Nurse. Nurse bustled over, whispering something soothing to her, and Lady Ransom let herself be helped to her feet and led from the room. Lord Ransom got to his own feet, striding over to the bed and fixing his son with a steely gaze.
“This is not amusing,” he said. “You’ve—do you see the state you’ve put her in? How dare you—to use your brother in this fashion . . .”
“He’s not my brother,” Matthew said venomously, picking at his quilt. He was silent again for a moment. “I didn’t mean to wish him away, Father. I only—you never came to see me anymore.”
Lord Ransom stared at him, ashen-faced. “My God, Matthew—what have you done?”
Matthew said nothing, his eyes fixed on the quilt, his face white and small against the pillows. His hands were shaking, and there was real fear in his eyes. I looked over to Hal, who had watched these proceedings wordlessly, his pipe sending smoke curling into the air.
“I have a question,” he said, stepping forward. “Matthew—how did you lay the spell circle?”
Matthew looked up at Hal, face screwing up into a puzzled frown. “Spell circle? I don’t—why does it matter? The spirit is coming for me tonight.”
“Hm.” Hal pushed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “And who is the third?”
“The third?” Matthew’s voice took on a strained edge. “The third what? Why are you asking stupid questions? I’ve told you the spirit will take me tonight. Oughtn’t you to be doing something about that?”
“Such as?” Hal said, raising an eyebrow. “It is justice—you said so yourself.”
“But . . .” Matthew looked stricken, his eyes wide in his pale face. “But you won’t just let him take me, will you? Will you, Father?”
Lord Ransom had not moved at all, still staring ashen-faced at his son. As Matthew addressed him, his whole body jerked, as though he’d been shocked, and he ran a hand over his face.
“No—no, of course not,” he said, his voice unsteady. “No—Mr. Bishop, we must—there must be something we can do.”
Hal frowned around his pipe. “Might we have a word outside?”
Lord Ransom nodded, and led us from the room, casting a glance at the pale figure lying in the bed before he closed the door behind us.
“What is it?” His voice was thin—past weariness and into despair. “Can you do anything for him? Even if—he’s my son. He’s still my son.”
“I doubt that I shall be able to stop the spirit from taking him,” Hal said. “But I can sit with him—observe what happens. It may well aid in breaking the curse.”
“Breaking the—I don’t understand,” Lord Ransom scrubbed his hands over his face. “We—we know who’s cast it. And why. If you could break it . . .”
Hal gave a sour glance to the door. “I am not certain that we know any such thing. And at any rate—I will not understand the curse until I learn who the third victim is.”
Lord Ransom stared at him, comprehension slowly washing over his features. “Then—there is still hope. It is not . . .”
“No, all is not yet lost,” Hal said. “As I told your wife—this is a spell. And I have yet to meet a spell that cannot be broken.”
Lord Ransom leaned against the wall, burying his face in his hands. “Ah, thank God. I didn’t—I couldn’t have faced losing two sons.”
Hal gave him an odd look. “Yes, well—you may lose him for a time. But once the curse is broken . . .”
“I see.” Lord Ransom stood straight, running his hands through his hair. His face was still very pale, but the despair was gone. “Then—you will sit with him now?”
Hal nodded, and Lord Ransom sighed, stepping away from the wall with a strained glance at the door.
“I must see to my wife now,” he said wearily. “I leave you to your work.”
He disappeared down the stairs, leaving us behind. Hal pushed open the heavy wooden door, and we went back into the close, warm room. Matthew had strained himself badly with his performance—his face was paper-white, with bright spots in his cheeks, and his breathing was labored. He looked
up as we came around to the bed, his eyes widening.
“Where—where’s Father?” he said. “Why are you here?”
Hal pulled a chair around to the side of the bed and sat down in it, tamping down tobacco in his pipe. “Your father is with your stepmother,” he said, off-handedly. “She has had a very trying evening.”
“She?” Matthew said scornfully. “And what of me? I am awaiting a terrible fate.”
“Yes,” Hal said, lighting his pipe. “And one to which you have, by your own confession, consigned your infant brother.”
Matthew lay back against the pillows, closing his eyes. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he said, after a moment. “I only—I wished for it so, the spirit must have heard me. Perhaps you were right about those tales—the fairies are capricious after all.”
“Perhaps.” Hal leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “But then—if you were left to the law of England, you would be hanged.”
“Hanged?” Matthew said, sitting up. “Why should I be hanged?”
“For the practice of dark magic, of course,” Hal said evenly. “But we need not trouble ourselves there—the spirit will take of it himself.”
Matthew lay back again, flinging an arm over his face. There was a long silence, punctuated only by the clacking of Nurse’s needles and Matthew’s ragged breathing. I was aware of a smell building in the room—the familiar sickly odor of rotten plants, of stale and heavy marsh air. It filled my nostrils, twisting around my lungs, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The smell of the magic and the warmth of the room made my stomach turn.
“Can’t we open a window?” I said. “It’s—it’s far too warm in here.”
“No,” Matthew said sharply. He brought his arm down from his face, his eyes wild and dilated. “The spirit—you’ll let him in.”
“A closed window could not stop him,” Hal said. He stood and went over to the windows leading out onto the balcony, pulling back a curtain and throwing them open. “He is not a mortal creature.”
A rush of cold air filled the room, a welcome relief from the overbearing closeness. Matthew shivered, drawing the dressing gown closer about his neck, and stared out the open windows with wide, frightened eyes.
The Foxfire Lights Page 9
