by Cynthia Hand
“Sleeping,” the first agent said skeptically.
“I . . . I . . .” Jane stammered. “I was drunk. From the drinking of . . . the brandy.”
“Right.”
By now, the Shrieking Lady was uncomfortably close to Jane, who tried with all her might to pretend she couldn’t see the wayward spirit.
“Hello,” the ghost said.
Jane could feel the masked man’s eyes on hers. She quickly glanced at the ceiling. A table. The painting on the wall. Anywhere but at the ghost.
“You are so beautiful,” the ghost breathed.
Jane’s cheeks went red. She never knew how to answer to this, mostly because living persons had been telling her all her life how very plain she was.
What a commonplace girl.
And . . .
Oh dear. I do hope she can secure a position . . . somewhere.
And . . .
Oh goodness. How unexceptional. (She always wondered why, if she was so unexceptional, did people feel the need to comment on it?)
To ghosts, however, she was the epitome of beauty.
This left Jane to believe that something was seriously askew in the afterlife.
“You’re so like my Jamie,” the Shrieking Lady continued. “With the sun setting behind him.” Jane didn’t know who this Jamie person was, but the dead woman obviously felt entirely different about him than she had about her husband. “A soft breeze ruffling his red hair,” she cooed.
Jane’s hand, almost of its own accord, reached up and brushed away a few strands of her unexceptional hair from her unexceptional eyes, as she tried desperately, tenaciously, to ignore the ghost.
The agent in charge glanced from Jane to the ghost and back again, his head tilted to one side.
“Oh my, would you look at the time.” Jane gestured to where, until a few moments ago, the clock had been hanging on the wall. “I must go.”
The dratted ghost breezed even closer. Jane had seen this type before. This could turn into a fly-on-flypaper situation. Which she could not let happen now.
She took another two steps back. The ghost floated two steps forward. “I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she said in a sigh. “You’re truly radiant.” She wrapped her arms about Jane.
Jane smiled nervously at the men. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your important work. So I will just stand here. Not moving.”
The agent in charge frowned at Jane in a puzzled way. Then he bent and picked up the pocket watch from the floor. He walked cautiously toward Jane and the ghost. When he reached the apparition he whispered, “Spirit, you are hereby relocated.”
“What are you doing?” Jane asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead he raised the pocket watch high into the air and bopped the ghost on the head with it.
(We understand, reader, this is an extremely pedestrian way to describe something, this “bopping on the head.” But after numerous revisions and several visits with a thesaurus, that really is the most adequate description. He bopped it on the head.)
A frigid blast of air blew Jane’s hair from her face. The silver pocket watch glowed, and then, to Jane’s horror, sucked the ghost in. Poof—Claire Doolittle was gone. Gone. But where?
Jane stared at the pocket watch, hoping the ghost was all right, but the watch vibrated and shook and jerked away like the ghost was trying to escape. The agent dangled the watch by its chain until it stilled. Then he made a move to toss it to the redhead, but at the last moment seemed to think better of it, and wrapped the watch in a scrap of fabric before returning it to his pocket.
It was all so sinister. “Where did she go? Is she in there?” For a moment Jane completely forgot herself.
The agent turned to look at her sharply. “So you did see her.”
Drat. Ever since the Red Room, Jane had operated by the following set of rules:
Rule #1. Never tell anyone that she could see ghosts. Never. Ever. Ever.
Rule #2. Never interact with or speak to a ghost in the presence of a living person.
Rule #3. No matter how tempted she was, no matter how interesting the ghost, no matter how pressing the situation seemed to be, refer to rules #1 and #2.
“No, I—I didn’t see her,” Jane stammered. “It, I mean. I saw nothing.”
The agent narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”
“No one, sir.”
“You’re obviously someone,” he countered. “You’re a seer, at the very least. And you came from somewhere. Where?” His notebook was in his hand again. Jane felt a surge of panic. In spite of her strict adherence to the rules concerning ghosts (which were more like guidelines, really), she was not a very good liar.
“I assure you, sir, I am no one worth noting,” she said, although this did nothing to stop his obvious noting of her in his notebook. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m very late.” She gave a quick curtsy and started for the door, but the agent stepped into her path.
“You’re late? Who could be expecting you at this hour?”
“My students,” she blurted. “I’m an instructor. I am teaching maths.”
“You teach mathematics in the middle of the night.”
“Yes,” Jane agreed. “Imagine how worried my students must be.”
The agent frowned and was obviously about to question her further, but at that moment the barkeep (having only now regained consciousness) stood up from behind the bar. “What happened?” he asked groggily.
The agent narrowed his eyes at the barkeep. “Who are you, sir?”
“I’m Pete. Obviously.” He rubbed the goose egg on the back of his head. “I own the place. You’re wearing a mask. You’re from the Society. Did you get the ghost?”
“Yes,” the agent said.
“I’m sorry I missed it.” Pete surveyed the destruction of his pub. “Good riddance, I say.”
The agent turned back to Jane, who had been silently sidestepping toward the door. “At what school do you teach?” he asked her.
She stopped. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”
“There is a school nearby,” the redhead piped up from behind them. “Do you teach at Lowood? Perhaps you are acquainted with—”
“I suppose now you’ll be wanting to be paid,” the barkeep interrupted, clearly impatient to get on with his business of straightening up the pub and reopening it. He scratched his chin. “Ten pounds, was it?”
“Fifteen,” the agent clarified, reluctantly turning his attention away from Jane as Pete the bar-owner went to fetch his purse and then slowly, grumpily, counted the coins off into the agent’s hand. In shillings, not pounds, which was going to take a while.
That was all the opportunity she needed. Jane fled, pausing only to swipe a pickled egg or two from the floor on her way out, because she had learned never to leave a room with free food without grabbing some.
“Wait, I still wish to speak with you,” the agent called after her as Pete continued to count out the cash with excruciating slowness. “Wait!”
But Jane was out the door. The street urchin was still standing in the exact spot where Jane had left her.
“Did you see a ghost?” the child asked.
“Run, urchin, run!” Jane cried. The little girl sprinted away, and Jane ran, too.
The moment Jane stepped across the school boundaries, Mr. Brocklehurst appeared.
“Miss Eyre! What are you doing skulking about at this hour! I’ve caught you!” He pointed to the ground beneath his feet. “You shall be made to kneel on Cook’s cornmeal!”
The scars on Jane’s knees prickled at the thought. But happily Mr. Brocklehurst was dead.
Which, sadly, had not made him any less annoying.
“You know, I had a wife,” he said, wiping a nonexistent tear from his nonexistent face. “And children. What will become of them now?”
Jane considered feeling bad for him, but then a few victims of the Graveyard Disease floated by, and she decided against it.
“You’re lookin
g well, Miss Eyre,” Mr. Brocklehurst noticed, his eyes narrowing. “Please don’t tell me they have increased food rations at the school. I’ll have Miss Temple’s hide for this!”
Jane’s stomach growled. The pickled eggs had done little to take the edge off. She pushed past the ghost and headed for the second floor.
“Come back here at once!” Mr. Brocklehurst shouted. “Miss Eyre!”
“Oh, leave me alone,” Jane muttered. “You can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
Mr. Brocklehurst huffed, but to her relief he did not follow.
In the stairwell she came upon Charlotte curled up with a candle, writing. She was always writing, always, oblivious to the rest of the world, scribbling away into that notebook she carried around. Jane was exceedingly fond of Charlotte. The girl was a bit peculiar, but that only made Jane like her more. Charlotte was Jane’s favorite non-dead person at Lowood, but Jane was too frazzled for conversation at the moment.
She had almost passed by unnoticed when Charlotte looked up from her notebook.
“Did you say something about hurting someone?” Charlotte asked. “Tell me more.”
“Oh, Charlotte, good evening. I didn’t see you there.” Jane thought fast for a diversion. “Did you happen to notice the moon tonight?”
“Yes. Very round. Did you say something about hurting someone?” Charlotte held her pencil at the ready.
“Did you write something about hurting someone?” Jane replied.
And just like that, they seemed at an impasse in a contest of some sort, where the opponents had no idea what the contest was about.
“I do apologize, Charlotte, but I’m rather tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Is that Charlotte Brontë?” came Mr. Brocklehurst’s muted voice from downstairs. “Skulking about in the middle of the night? Disgraceful. She should be punished!”
Jane was glad that Charlotte couldn’t hear him.
“Did you go to the pub?” Charlotte asked. “I thought you might. It’s what I would have done, if I were allowed to leave the grounds.”
The girl apparently missed nothing.
Jane attempted to look scandalized. “Why ever would I go to a pub? A young woman of my position does not belong in such a place. So . . . no, no, I certainly did not go to a pub. I was taking a midnight stroll.”
Charlotte nodded. “Was the ghost there? Did you see the men from the Society? Did they capture the ghost? Was it very exciting?”
For a moment Jane was tempted to share her secrets with her friend, but that would definitely be breaking Rule #1, so Jane simply said, “I assure you, it was only a walk in the moonlight. You know I like walking. Well. Good night, Charlotte.”
She made her way up the stairs and to her tiny room.
Where Helen Burns was waiting. Her best friend and favorite ghost in all the world.
“Thank goodness you’re back! What happened?” Helen asked, her translucent cheeks flushed with the fever that had killed her so many years ago.
Jane dropped her face into her hands. “It was terrible. He just . . . bopped that poor ghost over the head.” And then the entire story spilled out of her in a rush.
“So the Society can do all the things the papers claim,” said Helen after Jane had finished talking.
“They can.” Jane kicked off her shoes and began to struggle out of her various layers of repressive clothing. “And they’re cruel. They didn’t even bother talking to the ghost much. They were simply intent on capturing her. And she wasn’t so very troublesome. . . .” Jane recalled the brandy glass smashing against the wall. The clock. The jar of pickled eggs. “Well, she did need help. But she didn’t deserve to be trapped in a pocket watch.”
“A pocket watch. How awful,” Helen said with a shudder. “It must be so cramped. And think of the ticking.”
Jane finished dressing and blew out the candle. The two curled up together on Jane’s small, lumpy bed, as they had always done, even though sleep was only required by one of them. For a long while Jane stared up at the dark ceiling, then suddenly said, “The Society might come tomorrow.”
Helen sat up abruptly. “Here?”
Jane sat up, too. “Yes. The agents seemed very curious about me. And one guessed that I teach at Lowood. If they come, you must stay hidden.”
“I’ll stay out of sight,” promised Helen.
Jane paused for a moment. “It’s time to leave this place. This time I’m serious.”
Helen’s lower lip trembled slightly. “You would leave me?”
“I will never leave you! I meant both of us would leave. Together, as always.”
Helen had been Jane’s first true friend, her only friend at Lowood until Charlotte had come along. Helen had stood by Jane when everyone else shamed and punished her. And despite Jane’s excessive plainness and her many other inadequacies, Helen had loved her.
But Helen died when she was fourteen. That spring a particularly nasty version of the Graveyard Disease had descended on Lowood. By May, forty-five of the eighty pupils lay in quarantine, Helen among them. One night Miss Temple helped Jane sneak past the nurses into the room where Helen lay dying.
Jane had climbed into Helen’s cot. “Helen, don’t leave me,” she whispered.
“I would never,” Helen promised. “Hold my hand.”
Jane clasped her friend’s hand tightly, trying to ignore how cold Helen’s fingers were. They fell asleep like that, and when she woke the next morning, Helen’s body was pale and still.
And standing above it was Helen’s ghost.
“Hi,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I think I get to stay.”
It was always hit-and-miss with ghosts as to which ones stayed and which ones left for some great beyond. But Helen had stayed with Jane, true to her promise. And Jane promised, in return, that they would never be parted. Helen was the closest thing to a sister Jane had ever had. She could not—would not—abandon Helen. But now she worried that the Society would storm Lowood tomorrow. And if it wasn’t tomorrow, it was only a matter of time. There were so many ghosts here, one was bound to cause a problem. Mr. Brocklehurst, probably.
“It’s not as if we have anywhere to go,” Helen was saying.
“I could get a job.”
“What job?”
“I could be a seamstress.”
“Your sewing is terrible,” Helen pointed out. “I love you, but you know it’s true.”
“I could wash clothes and press them.”
“Think of how chapped and red your little hands would get.”
“I could be a governess.”
Helen nodded thoughtfully. “You are a good teacher. And you like children. But you’re far too beautiful to be a governess.”
Helen was no different from the other ghosts in this regard. She thought Jane was beautiful, even though it was Helen, with her porcelain complexion, blue eyes, and long golden hair, who would have turned heads if she were still alive. “What does my appearance have to do with anything?” Jane asked.
“You’re so lovely that the master of the house wouldn’t be able to help falling in love with you,” Helen explained. “It would be a terrible scandal.”
Jane didn’t think that sounded so terrible. “I could handle it.”
“Trust me. It would end badly,” Helen said stubbornly.
“Please, Helen. We must do this. Say you’ll come with me. Say you’ll try.”
“All right. I’ll come with you. I’ll try,” said Helen.
They fell silent again. From outside Jane heard the mournful coo of a dove. Daylight was fast approaching. In a few hours, she had a French class to teach. She was quite good at French. And some Italian. She could conjugate Latin verbs. She could do maths. In spite of Lowood being such a hard place to grow up, she’d received a good education here. She’d studied classic literature and history and religion. She knew the rules of etiquette. She could embroider a pillowcase and knit socks (well, she’d only ever been able to finish one sock—two s
eemed overwhelming). She was adequate on the pianoforte, and more than proficient at painting and drawing and any kind of art. And she was a good teacher, she told herself. She’d make an excellent governess.
“You want to be a painter,” said Helen, as if she’d read Jane’s mind. “That’s what you should do. Be a famous painter.”
Jane scoffed at the idea of being a famous anything. “Yes, well, people aren’t posting job advertisements for famous painters at the moment.”
“They aren’t posting job advertisements for governesses, either.” This was true. Every week Jane scoured the job ads in the newspaper, seeking her escape from Lowood, and there had been nothing for governesses lately. It seemed that all the wealthy children in England were already being cared for.
“So we won’t be going anywhere at the moment,” Helen said.
“No,” Jane agreed glumly. “I suppose not.”
THREE
Alexander
The moment he stepped onto the grounds of Lowood, Alexander Blackwood was surrounded by ghosts.
Twenty-seven of them, in fact. An unusually high number.
Now, Alexander was no stranger to ghosts. Ghosts were his job. (His main job, that is. The job that paid the bills. His side job—well, more about that later.) But he wasn’t here for ghosts. He was here for a girl, the one he thought could be a seer. But instead he ended up with twenty-seven ghosts, twenty-six of whom were young girls, and one of whom wanted his murder solved.
“Are you listening?” asked the ghost. “I’ve been murdered.”
Alexander made a note in his notebook: Twenty-seven ghosts. One claims he’s been murdered.
The girls were all different ages, with different color hair and skin and eyes, and different—uh—names, too, presumably (although Alexander didn’t bother to make formal introductions), but the one thing they all had in common was the sad expressions that spoke of short, difficult lives without affection.
Well, that and the fact that they were all dead.
“Mr. Brocklehurst killed me,” said a transparent girl wearing a dress of colorless burlap. Her lips were tinged blue, as though she’d been very cold when she’d died. “He locked me in a closet for five hours. By the time anyone came to find me, I was dead.”
