by Cynthia Hand
The ghost frowned but then bowed. “I shall follow the instructions of my top advisor. Thank you, good fellow.” He went to pat the king on the back, and actually made contact, his emotions were so strong.
“Excellent,” the king said with a cough. “Miss Eyre, you will guide him from here?”
“Yes, Sire.”
Jane spared one last glance at the ring on the king’s desk, and figuring her mission was accomplished, walked out with the tree ghost and Helen in tow.
Once in the hallway, Helen stood in front of Jane, and had she been a solid human instead of a ghost, she would have prevented Jane from walking. Still, Jane stopped.
“Why am I here?” she said, her hand on her hip.
“Because you wanted to come to the palace with me,” Jane said.
“That’s not what I mean.”
Jane had a sinking feeling she knew what Helen meant.
“Why are you helping ghosts to move on to the place we are supposed to move on to, and yet I stay? With you?”
“I don’t know, dear,” Jane said. “But maybe it is because I need my closest friend, and she needs me. Are you not happy?”
Helen frowned and her lower lip trembled. “I don’t know. I don’t know if happiness exists for ghosts here.”
“That can’t be,” Jane implored. “I’ve seen you happy.”
Helen sniffed. “But what if that’s simply a reflection of you? You’re a Beacon. I’m a ghost. Is that why I have stayed?” She raised her voice. “Is that why I linger?”
Jane glanced around to see if they had drawn attention, but there were only uninterested guards in this corridor. And, also, Helen was a ghost.
“Helen, please. You saved me at Lowood. You are my kindred. I can’t imagine a life here without you.”
Helen frowned. “But maybe you are meant to live it without me.”
She turned and ran down the corridor, and Jane would have followed but it was definitely against royal protocol for a woman in a dress and heels to run. And she had the tree ghost now.
“Follow me,” she said.
It was a long walk back to the ballroom and then down the stairs and then to the entrance of the palace, and during the walk, all Jane could think about was Helen. She would not leave Helen. Helen needed Jane as much as Jane needed Helen. Helen was an anchor. A lighthouse. A compass, showing Jane the better way.
Sure, she was still a bit naïve. And she hadn’t progressed emotionally or intellectually, as Jane had. But she was a ghost. And that was fine.
But what if she left?
The tree ghost stayed close by Jane’s side as they approached the grand doors. Jane held the talisman at the ready if he suddenly decided to bolt, but he didn’t. “Where did your friend go?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Jane whispered, not moving her mouth because there were people around.
“Is she coming back?”
Jane didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about the possibility that she would never see Helen again.
The guards heaved the doors open, and suddenly Helen came rushing in.
“Jane!” she said.
“Helen!” Jane replied, causing the guards to look at her with confusion. Jane quickly turned around and motioned Helen to follow her. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me.”
“It’s not that,” Helen said. “I saw Mr. Blackwood!”
“His ghost?” Jane said.
“No, him! He’s alive. He said the duke is bad. He has a message for you.” She ticked off her pointer finger as if she wanted to get the message perfectly correct. “He said don’t put the ring in the king’s study, because the duke wants to possess him. Phew.” She put her hand to her stomach and took several deep breaths in. “That’s it.”
“Wait,” Jane said, not even bothering to keep her voice quiet. “Wait. Mr. Blackwood is alive?” Jane felt a moment of relief that Mr. Rochester hadn’t killed him.
Helen nodded, wheezing. “And don’t forget the other part I told you.”
“The duke is bad, and don’t put the ring in the study because he wants to possess him?” Jane said.
“Oh, good, your memory is so good.” She smiled. “We did it!”
“But, Helen, I already put the ring in the study!” Jane exclaimed.
“Oh right,” Helen said.
The door guards started to approach her.
Jane, Helen, and the tree ghost started to walk away. “How could the duke possibly possess the king anyway?” Jane said.
“The ring is a talisman,” Helen said. “It’s holding a ghost who can control the king.”
Jane’s heart sank. “We have to get back to the study.”
Just then, trumpets sounded, indicating the king had once again entered the ballroom.
The three of them rushed inside, and there was the king, sitting on his throne.
“Tree ghost, can you go to him? Distract him?”
But the tree ghost only backed away. “That is not the king.”
“What? Of course he’s—” Jane caught a glimpse of the king’s hand, and on it was the ring. “No. We have to get out of here and find Mr. Blackwood,” Jane said. “He’ll know what to do. Stay with me, Helen?”
“Always,” Helen said.
THIRTY-THREE
Alexander
Within the first ten days of Wellington controlling the King of England, Mr. Mitten (as the king) issued several royal proclamations. The first was that everyone should recognize that his coronation had been the most-attended coronation of all time. Period. (Even though it had been four years ago, and really, who even cares?) The second decree dismissed Parliament and appointed Wellington as prime minister.
Meanwhile, Alexander—and everyone else who knew the truth about the king’s possession—were living in a warehouse off the river. It was undignified and unsanitary. And to make matters worse, they were out of tea.
But they were together, and that was something. After Miss Eyre had emerged from the palace, she and Miss Brontë had embraced and bounced and embraced some more. Miss Eyre relayed Miss Burn’s happiness to see Miss Brontë, and then Alexander and the three young ladies returned to the warehouse.
Where Miss Eyre saw the Rochesters for the first time since Thornfield.
It was super awkward.
“Uh, hello.” Mr. Rochester shifted his weight. “I’m Edward Rochester. Pleased to meet you.”
Miss Eyre just stared at him.
Then Mrs. Rochester swept in and took Miss Eyre’s hand. “Hello, ma chérie. Wonderful to see you again.” Her smile was so warm and radiant that Miss Eyre returned it, obviously surprised.
“Good evening,” she said.
“I know what you’ve been through, but we Beacons are strong and resilient. You shall overcome it.”
“What about what you’ve been through?” Miss Eyre asked.
“As I said, ma chérie: overcome.”
The joyful reunion was cut short when news of the royal decrees reached them.
To be perfectly honest, Alexander was feeling rather sick about the whole thing. He didn’t sleep anymore; rather, he lay awake going over every conversation he’d ever had with Wellington, searching his memory for some hint that this had been coming. What had he missed? That was probably the most disappointing thing of all: his own failure to stop all of this before it happened.
After that, he’d taken to reading Miss Brontë’s notebook, which he’d retrieved from its hiding spot the first time the Rochesters allowed him out of the warehouse. He knew he should return it right away, but curiosity made him open it one night. After he came to a charming passage about burnt porridge on page twenty-seven, he couldn’t stop reading.
Some pages were the budding story of fictional Miss Eyre and fictional Mr. Rochester, while others were beautiful descriptions of people and places. Alexander was certainly no literary expert, but he knew at once that Miss Brontë possessed some faculty of verse.
The final entry read: Do you think, bec
ause I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have as much soul as you and full as much heart. And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal—as we are.
Alexander paused at that paragraph, dated the day of the doomed wedding, and turned every phrase over in his mind. He could hear Charlotte in those words, feel the passion and conviction of the author’s feelings. Not just the characters she was writing about, but hers.
He’d read some secret part of her heart.
He really should give the notebook back.
He read the passage again and again, until he fell asleep.
The next morning, the group was collected on a circle of crates piled into uncomfortable imitations of sofas and chairs. Someone had managed to procure bundles of blankets and pillows, so they’d been able to put together a semblance of living quarters, one for the ladies, one for the men, and one for Mr. and Mrs. Rochester, who refused to be separated for any length of time now, even though the couple sharing a space was something of a scandal. (Remember, these were different times. Married couples of high rank didn’t always share a room.)
Speaking of scandals, Miss Eyre spent a lot of time watching the Rochesters from the corner of her eye, unconscious of the frown she wore, and Miss Burns’s occasional jabs. Like right now.
“They make such a handsome couple,” Miss Burns mused. She was sitting on a crate next to Miss Eyre, tapping her forefinger on her chin. “Look how age-appropriate they are. I just love it.”
Miss Eyre’s frown deepened as she elbowed her ghostly friend, but of course she passed right through.
“Now you’re just being rude,” Miss Burns said. “I’ve told you a thousand times that it’s rude to go inside ghosts.”
“Sorry,” Miss Eyre said.
Across the crate-parlor, Miss Brontë watched what to her must have looked like Miss Eyre antagonizing and apologizing to empty air.
“We’re just sitting around,” Alexander groused. “We should be doing something.”
“Like what?” Branwell paced the length of the room, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed in thought. He’d become the parson of Haworth, if Alexander recalled, and already the position had matured the boy far more than his time at the Society. Good for him.
“We need to get the ring off the king’s finger,” Miss Brontë said. “Or, rather, Mr. Mitten’s finger. Technically the king’s, but I suppose it’s under Mr. Mitten’s control.”
“Doesn’t that make it Mr. Mitten’s finger?” Branwell turned to Miss Eyre. “You were possessed. What do you think? Is it Mr. Mitten’s finger or the king’s finger?”
But before Miss Eyre could open her mouth, Miss Burns leaned forward. “Maybe we should ask Mr. Rochester. Since he was possessed the longest and made to do all sorts of things he wouldn’t normally.”
Miss Eyre, who’d been translating for the two in the room who couldn’t see ghosts, abruptly stopped. Unfortunately for her, Branwell picked up where she left off, because Miss Burns wasn’t done.
“Remember when Rowland possessed him and tried to make him marry Jane, even after being mean and manipulative?” Miss Burns shot a dark look at Rochester, the real Rochester, who’d done none of those things except as an unwitting vehicle for his dead brother’s actions.
As Branwell finished echoing Miss Burns’s words, he clamped his mouth shut and blushed furiously. “Sorry.”
Meanwhile, Miss Burns smiled, triumphant.
Mrs. Rochester was also blushing, her gaze aimed straight at the floor as though she could will away all the terrible things that had happened, including her husband’s possession.
“Can we just get back to the problem?” Miss Brontë said. “Saving England?”
“Right.” Alexander fidgeted with his gloves, because talk of talismans always made him check to ensure those gloves were firmly in place. “The king is constantly surrounded by guards, and he’s not going to let us waltz right up and take the ring off his finger.”
“Of course not,” Miss Brontë said over a cup of hot water. Everyone had a cup actually, though no one was drinking. The news about the tea had truly been a blow to the group. “Which means we need a plan. Fortunately, I have one in mind.”
Alexander was not surprised.
Miss Brontë leaned forward. “I’ve always thought that good plans need to have firm goals. So we start with the ring.”
“Everything should fall into place once the king is himself again,” Alexander agreed. “It’s just returning the king to himself that’s the problem.”
“Exactly!” Miss Brontë jumped to her feet. “So here’s my idea.”
Everyone waited. Even the Rochesters leaned forward in anticipation.
“We storm Saint James’s Palace,” Miss Brontë announced. “And Jane and Mrs. Rochester use their Beacon powers on Mr. Mitten the Ghost and ask him nicely to take off the ring.”
“That’s a fine plan,” said Mrs. Rochester, “but our Beacon powers of compulsion do not work on ghosts currently possessing someone. Otherwise I could have prevented Rowland from taking over Edward for so long. And Miss Eyre could have saved herself an incredible amount of trouble.”
Miss Brontë frowned. “But ghosts still find Beacons irresistible when they’re possessing people, right?”
“Yes,” said Rochester. “That seems to be the reason Rowland was . . . attracted . . .” He coughed. “But there seems to be something about the living body getting in the way of the compulsion.”
“All right,” Miss Eyre said, “so we can’t compel Mr. Mitten to leave the king. What’s your next plan, Charlotte?”
“Um.” Miss Brontë sat down.
“Maybe we can figure out the ring bit when we get there,” Miss Eyre said. “The answer will just come to us. Like magic.”
“There’s no such thing as magic,” Miss Burns muttered.
Everyone (except Miss Brontë and Rochester) looked at the ghost.
“I mean that kind of magic.” She rolled her eyes.
“Anyway,” Miss Eyre said, “we’ll figure it out when we get there. I think we need to discuss how to storm the castle—”
“Technically it’s a palace.” That was Miss Brontë, of course.
“It looks like a castle.” Miss Eyre crossed her arms.
“It’s a palace that looks like a castle, but really it’s a palace.” Miss Brontë looked to Alexander, as though asking for help.
“Let’s get back on track,” he suggested. “I’d also like to propose that we don’t need to storm the, ah, palace or castle, whatever you want to call it. After all, Miss Eyre, doesn’t everyone believe you’re still part of the Society? You can request an audience with the king.”
“Oh.” Miss Eyre frowned. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Mr. Blackwood, I believe I was the one announcing the plan.” Miss Brontë stuck her hand on her hip.
“Go home, Miss Brontë.”
She rolled her eyes. “As I was saying, we’re definitely not storming the palace, since Jane can get us in the front door with a lot less mess. But we’re going to call it storming the palace, because that sounds far more exciting. And once we’ve stormed the palace, we get the ring off Mr. Mitten’s finger. Somehow. Possibly by magic.”
“And that’s it?” Rochester looked dubious. “We just walk in and take the ring from him. In front of his guards and all the court. I don’t see how this will work.”
Mrs. Rochester sat up straight. “Magic! Le Livre de l’esprit errance. We distract everyone with ghosts.”
Miss Eyre frowned.
“They’d have to be able to see ghosts first,” Branwell said, “and we can’t do that without briefly killing them, and
what if we mess up? I don’t want to permanently kill someone.”
“We can make them see ghosts, though.” Mrs. Rochester clasped her hands together. “Miss Eyre and I can ask the ghosts of London to join us in the palace, and when the time is right, we make everyone see the dead. That’s when we seize the opportunity to remove the ring from the king’s finger. Voilà!”
“But how?” Miss Brontë glanced around the room, looking vaguely where Miss Burns sat. (She knew Miss Burns had been there, at least, because people kept looking there.) A longing filled her gaze. “How can non-seers see ghosts?”
“Le Livre de l’esprit errance,” said Mrs. Rochester. “With this, we could make everyone see ghosts. But it can be dangerous. People do not always react well to seeing the dead. There will be chaos.”
Miss Eyre lifted a hand. “I—”
“But we want a little chaos,” said Branwell. “To distract everyone while we wrest the ring from the king.” He paused a moment. “I’m a poet, Charlie.”
“Don’t call me Charlie.”
“But—”
“I do rather like this plan,” said Alexander. “Seeing all the ghosts of London—that’s certainly not something anyone would expect to see in the royal court.”
“Unless they’re also seers!” Miss Burns beamed.
“Then they’d be working for the Society,” Alexander said. “Wellington never met a seer he didn’t want to control.”
“Except me.” Branwell shrugged. “It’s all right, though. Really. I quite like being a parson. Blessing sermons and writing babies.”
“I—”
“So we need the Le Livre de l’esprit errance.” Rochester turned to his wife. “Do you know where Wellington keeps that, my love?”
Miss Eyre opened her mouth, but Mrs. Rochester was faster.
“I’m afraid the Le Livre de l’esprit errance is quite impossible to obtain, mon chéri.” Mrs. Rochester dropped her eyes. “He keeps it locked in a room guarded by a three-headed dog, which drops into a pit of strangling vines, followed by a life-or-death life-size game of chess, which opens into a room with a locked door and a hundred keys on wings, and then there’s a mirror. . . .”
