The Foxfire Lights

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  I waited a moment, but he didn’t continue. “Well?” I said.

  He gave me a long, appraising look, then rifled through his pockets and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper. I held out my hand for it, but he kept it back, clutched in his hand.

  “I found this when I was going through Father’s notes one night,” he said, his tone quiet and careful. “I didn’t know what to make of it—and I didn’t want you to see it. You—you’ll see why when you read it. But now—I think it is relevant. More than that—it is a vital clue about Father.”

  Having said this, he handed the paper over to me. I unfolded it, smoothing it out, and read in my father’s sprawling hand:

  My wife is dead

  My son lives

  The debt must be paid

  A reckoning is due

  I stared at the paper a moment, uncomprehending—I felt as though I had just stepped off a ledge into open air. “I don’t—Mother? But what—I don’t understand.”

  “Do you remember when Mother died?” he said quietly. “You were very young.”

  “I don’t—I remember being ill,” I said. “And then Mother was ill, too—but I don’t understand.”

  “You were more than ill,” he said. “No one thought you would live through it. But you did—and then Mother became ill . . .”

  “And she didn’t—oh, God,” I said, laying my head in my hands. I thought I might be sick. “Did—did she change her life for mine?”

  Hal was silent for a long moment. “Far more likely Father did it—but without realizing. And this person—T.S.—could have held that over his head just as he did to Lord Ransom’s father.”

  I scarcely heard what he said about T.S.—my mind was still reeling from this revelation about my mother. “God—then this is all my fault? Mother—and Father?”

  “Jem,” he said sharply, and I looked up. “Don’t do this to yourself. There isn’t—we can’t change the past. We can only—we must move forward.” He shook T.S.’s card at me. “We must find him—this person who is behind these curses. You understand?”

  “But I can’t . . .” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Mother should be alive. Father, too. And I should be . . .”

  “Don’t,” Hal said. He pressed a hand to his eye. “That kind of thinking is what leads to these bargains—and you’ve seen what bargaining with a spirit leads to. You are alive—and you owe it to them to keep it that way.”

  “But what do we do with this?” I said shakily. “Where do we go from here?”

  He took the paper back from me, and tucked it into his pocket with T.S.’s card. He took his pipe out, tamping down the tobacco and lighting it, before speaking again. “We keep doing our work,” he said. “The more curses we break—the more we learn of T.S. And the closer we come to finding him.”

  “And Father’s papers?” I said. “Will we—will we keep going through them?”

  He leaned back against the seat, closing his eye, his pipe sending up curls of smoke. “Yes,” he said, after a moment. “Yes, I think we will.”

  There was a long silence then, Hal puffing away at his pipe, while I leaned back in my seat, chewing at my lip, and trying not to think of what an albatross I’d been to my family—first my mother, then my father, and now Hal and his eye—I rubbed a hand over my forehead.

  “It isn’t your fault, Jem,” Hal said quietly. I looked up to see him frowning at me. “Whatever Father did—or Mother—it was by choice. You mustn’t—don’t blame yourself. There’s no profit in that.”

  “But . . .” I looked away from him, staring out the window.

  “No,” he said firmly. “The past is done. We must press on. If you cannot do that, then—then I will have to find another apprentice. One who may focus on magic without allowing emotions to cloud his judgment.”

  I jerked my head around and stared at him. “You wouldn’t.”

  He looked away from me. “If I had to . . .”

  “You can’t,” I said, indignantly. “He was my father—I have a right . . .”

  “Matthew, now,” he said, thoughtfully. “He has a good mind for magic.”

  “No,” I said, angry now. “You’re my brother—it’s my family—I want to do this. I’ll do this.”

  “Good,” he said, turning to face me, his mouth quirked up in its familiar half-smile. “Then let us put the past to rest, and get on with our work.”

  I nodded, smiling in spite of myself, and leaned back in my seat. I was ready to go home.