by Cynthia Hand
“Ha!” Jane shook her head. “There is nothing in this world that could induce me to assist you.”
The duke raised his revolver and pointed it at Mr. Blackwood’s head, about an inch away from his nose. “How about now?”
“Wait,” Jane said. “If you kill him, I will never join you.”
“Moi aussi,” Mrs. Rochester said.
“Oh, I won’t kill just him. I will start with Mr. Blackwood, who was like a son to me. And then I will kill Mr. Rochester, who was like a brother to me. And I will not stop there. You see, Miss Eyre, I have come to discover you have quite a few people in your life who mean something to you.”
For just a moment, and much at odds with the tension of the situation, Jane felt a fullness in her heart because the duke was right. She had many people she cared for, more than a penniless orphan would have ever dreamed.
But then the duke cocked the revolver and she remembered the whole kill-everyone-she-loved scenario.
“Wait,” Jane said.
The duke raised an eyebrow. “Agree, or Alexander is dead.”
“Wait,” Jane said again, trying desperately to think of a way out of this mess. One that didn’t involve the deaths of everyone she held dear. The only idea that came to her was to try and stall. “First, give me a glimpse of how the moving on works.”
The duke narrowed his eyes. “Miss Poole,” he said. “Bring her a talisman.”
Grace Poole walked over to the nearest shelf and grabbed a jewelry box with her gloved hand. Then she walked over to Jane and unceremoniously shoved it in her face. Jane flinched and reflexively took a step back.
And she felt something.
A force of some sort.
It wasn’t coming from the box.
It was coming from Bertha Rochester.
When Jane had stepped back, she had stepped closer to Bertha.
The box Grace Poole held began to shake. She looked at it curiously.
“What is it, Miss Poole?” Wellesley said. “Why are you shaking the box?”
“I’m not shaking it,” she said.
Jane stole a glance at Bertha, who was staring at Jane with a subtle smile. Jane raised her eyebrows and Bertha nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Miss Poole, stop shaking the box,” Wellesley demanded.
“I’m not,” she insisted.
With Wellesley’s attention on the box, Jane and Bertha took the opportunity. They scrambled toward each other, and clasped hands.
And that was when the entire room began to convulse with rattling talismans.
“What is happening?” the duke said. The guards glanced nervously at one another. A glass cup flew off a shelf and struck one of them in the head. He crumpled to the floor. The rest of the guards (there were only three left) abandoned their posts and bolted for the door.
They were definitely not getting paid enough for this.
Wellington’s alarmed gaze fell on Jane and Bertha, and then down at their clasped hands. “Stop this!”
He lunged toward them but before he could separate them, a hairbrush flew off a shelf and hit him on the head.
“No possessing!” Bertha shouted to any ghosts who could hear her from inside the talismans.
“Right,” Jane said. Beacons couldn’t control a ghost who was possessing a human. It would be chaos.
Blackwood and Mr. Rochester watched the two women in amazement. “Get down!” Jane commanded them.
Jane could feel the energy swirling between herself and Bertha. At the same time, she could feel it draining as the room continued to shudder. They would not be able to keep it up for long.
The flying hairbrush had stunned the duke enough for him to drop his gun, but only momentarily. He reached down and grabbed it and swung it toward Mr. Rochester, but a shoe hit his hand, flinging the gun across the room.
The women were focused on Wellington, since he was the one with the gun, so they did not notice Grace Poole sneaking up on them.
The servant lunged toward Bertha and tackled her to the ground, breaking the physical connection.
The room went still.
Mr. Blackwood and the duke both turned toward the gun and dove for it. Each of them got a hand on it, and they struggled to gain control. Mr. Rochester flew to Blackwood’s aid, but the guard who had been hit with the glass cup had regained consciousness and he tackled Mr. Rochester before he got very far.
Grace Poole was on top of Bertha, and the sheer girth of her was enough to hold her down. She put her hands around Bertha’s throat.
“I’ve dreamed of doing this,” she said. “I wanted to kill you from the start. But they just couldn’t get rid of a Beacon.”
Jane jumped on Grace Poole’s back and put her arms around her throat but the woman’s neck was as thick and sturdy as a tree trunk. Jane’s slight build wasn’t going to be enough.
Bertha scratched and clawed at the hands around her throat, all the while making terrible choking sounds.
Jane looked frantically around, but the talismans were annoyingly small. She grabbed a perfume bottle and struck Grace Poole’s head as hard as she could.
But the woman was a beast.
Bertha’s eyes fluttered shut.
Mr. Rochester was subdued by the guard.
The duke and Mr. Blackwood continued their struggle, but the duke was gaining the upper hand. Several shots went off in the commotion.
Jane thought fast.
She laid down next to Bertha and grabbed her hand. The force between them was not as strong, as Bertha was near the point of passing out.
Jane closed her eyes and focused all of her strength and energy on the nearest shelves of talismans. She used everything she had inside of her. Every strike of her face at the hand of her abusive aunt Reed. Every gurgling sound her stomach had made through years of starvation. Every friend she’d lost to the Graveyard Disease. Every chill she’d felt in her bones due to years of nearly freezing to death. Every fear she’d felt in the Red Room.
She used it all.
The room began to shake once again.
Jane opened her eyes in time to see a string of talismans striking Grace Poole. They flew with such speed that they appeared only as streaks in the air.
Bertha opened her eyes and used her free hand to shove Grace off her.
The two Beacons stood, luminous and glowing, their clasped hands high in the air.
More talismans flew off shelves and struck the duke and the guard.
The duke was quickly subdued, and within moments, Alexander was standing over him with the gun.
Bertha and Jane finally released their hands, and both women dropped to the ground in complete exhaustion.
“You would not kill me, my boy,” the duke said in a weak whisper.
“I am not your boy,” Mr. Blackwood said.
The smell of smoke reached Jane’s nostrils, and it was followed quickly by the sight of flames licking up the wall on the other side of the room. During the fight, candles must have been knocked over. The group would have to escape the room, and soon.
Mr. Blackwood focused on the duke as the women tried to catch their breath.
A faint voice came from the doorway. “Mr. Blackwood?”
The group turned toward the sound just in time to see Charlotte there, clutching her chest. Then she collapsed.
“Miss Brontë!” Mr. Blackwood shoved the gun into Mr. Rochester’s hand and raced across the room. He crouched down and gathered Charlotte in his arms. Jane’s heart fell at the sight.
“No, no!” Mr. Blackwood said. “She’s been shot!”
The duke used the distraction to lunge for the gun, but Mr. Rochester turned and fired.
The duke crumpled to the floor.
Dead.
THIRTY-SIX
Alexander
The fire was growing. Alexander didn’t wait. He lifted Miss Brontë’s motionless body into his arms and ran.
This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. But as Miss Eyre and t
he Rochesters led the way, and Miss Brontë continued not moving, he had to admit that it did seem to be happening. She’d been shot—hit by one of those stray bullets.
A wall collapsed, bringing oil lanterns crashing to the floor. More fires erupted, making him run faster as he carried Miss Brontë through the halls and up the stairs. He ran until his side ached, and then he kept running because Miss Brontë’s face was pale and blood soaked her jacket. Sweat poured down his face.
The others pushed their way outside. Even out of the building, the heat was intense. It billowed off the House in angry waves, making the lantern-lit air shimmer. Smoke obscured the night, hiding the nearly full moon.
The fire would only get worse. “Let’s go!” he shouted, but his voice was lost under the rush of flame and destruction. “Hurry!”
Miss Burns had joined the others ahead, all of them moving quickly, and not quickly enough.
People filled the streets, the fire reflecting in their wide eyes.
“What’s happened?” someone asked.
“I heard it was a ghost attack on the Society!”
Another person called, “It was the king! He realized he’d made a mistake by dismissing Parliament and set the House on fire!”
Alexander staggered through the growing crowd of onlookers, his heart beating wildly in his ears. In his arms, Miss Brontë was as light as a doll, and just as motionless. Was she breathing? He couldn’t tell. She was so still; her head lolled back and her eyes were shut.
He pushed through the crowd, caught in the wake made by Miss Eyre’s flying elbows. “Make way!” Miss Eyre cried. “My friend has been shot! Is there a doctor?” People shouted at them, telling them to stay still and watch the fire like everyone else, but Alexander ignored them all.
Finally, they reached a break in the crowd, and Miss Eyre cleared a pair of children off a bench they’d been standing on. Alexander settled Miss Brontë there and dropped to his knees at her side. Miss Eyre, Miss Burns, and the Rochesters clustered around him.
“What do you think?” Miss Eyre asked.
Alexander tore off his gloves and touched Miss Brontë’s throat, seeking her pulse. Nothing.
He let out a strangled cry. “Miss Brontë.” She couldn’t be dead. She just couldn’t.
But his bookish friend was completely still, her pale face streaked with soot and ash.
“Miss Brontë,” he whispered. “Please don’t die. Please don’t leave us.”
The fire warmth of her skin was fading. He leaned in close, listening for her breath, but there was no sound of it, no evidence of life. Her black lashes fanned across pale cheeks, unmoving.
“No, no, no.” His fingers searched her throat again, wanting more than anything to find a pulse. In the months he’d known Charlotte Brontë, had he really appreciated her as he should? In the back of his mind, without him truly realizing, he’d assumed Miss Brontë would always be in his life. Always influencing, planning, smiling, writing. Oh, Lord, could he imagine her always writing.
And the idea of losing her—it was a stab to the gut.
An eruption tore from the building, followed by terrified screams. Alexander looked up just in time to see an enormous fireball hurl into the sky, and the House—which might have been saved before—was now completely engulfed in flames.
Hot wind gusted off the building, making the crowd of onlookers scream and stagger back.
That was it. The Society—all its records and talismans and library—was gone now. But Alexander could hardly feel the pain of that loss, because when he turned back to Miss Brontë, she was still silent and unmoving.
He bent and rested his forehead on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I should have—” The words clogged in his throat as tears spilled out of the corners of his eyes. Was he crying? Blast it all. “I care about you, Miss Brontë,” he rasped. “And now I’m too late in saying so.”
Furiously, he wiped at his eyes, but the tears kept coming and after a moment, he let the sobs heave out of him.
“Oh, stop watching,” Miss Eyre said from behind him, “and get back in there.”
Alexander sat up just in time to see Miss Brontë’s ghost sniffle. “Shh, Jane, I’m trying to listen.” But she disappeared back into her body.
Then the body gasped.
“Miss Brontë!” He cupped one hand over her cheek, feeling warmth bloom beneath her skin. Her color lifted and her pulse fluttered. “Miss Brontë, you’re—”
She opened her eyes and looked around, though she wasn’t wearing her glasses.
“Can you see anything? Shall I find your spectacles for you?” He didn’t particularly want to leave her side, but he would search ten thousand burning buildings if it meant pleasing her.
“I—” She coughed a little.
“What?” He smoothed hair off her face. “What is it?”
“I was dead, wasn’t I?”
“Yes,” he breathed. “But you’re going to be all right. I think. How do you feel?”
“You said . . .”
“Yes? I said a lot of things when you were dead.” And suddenly he was running through every word. Then he remembered: he’d admitted (out loud, yes) that he cared for her. Cared for her cared for her, if you know what we mean.
Her eyes widened. “That means—”
“I know,” he said. “I know it was forward of me to just say so, but in my defense, you were mostly dead.”
“No, no, that’s not it.”
He was confused. “Then what?”
“I can see dead people!”
Alexander laughed and pulled out his mask, then placed it across her face. “Welcome, Seer Charlotte Brontë.”
Or, rather, that was what he’d intended to say, but before he could finish speaking her name, she pushed herself up a little and pressed her lips against his.
His eyes widened in surprise, and immediately she backed away from him, giving an embarrassed cry.
“I’m very sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t see! I don’t know what came over me. That was unforgivably rude. I shouldn’t have—”
“You shouldn’t have?” His heart was pounding.
“No!”
“Oh.” Unfortunately, now he couldn’t help but see the gentle curve of her lips, the tremble in her jaw, and the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. When had she become so delicate and strong at the same time?
“It was too forward,” she went on. “Please forgive me. I was just so happy and I shouldn’t have assumed anything about your feelings and we’ve never discussed—”
He kissed her.
It was the same as her kiss to him—just a touch of his lips to hers. A question. A hope. A promise.
“Are we even now?” He felt the blood rising to his cheeks, too, praying he hadn’t misread her. “Or should I prepare a heartfelt apology as well?”
“Don’t you dare.”
This time, they kissed each other. For kind of a long time. Only when Miss Eyre loudly cleared her throat did they pull away.
“We’re still here,” Miss Eyre said. “In case you forgot.”
“That was terrible to watch.” Miss Burns shuddered. “Please never do it again. At least, not in public.”
Miss Brontë’s cheeks were a lovely shade of pink as she sat up straight on the bench.
“How are you still alive?” Miss Eyre asked.
Miss Brontë pulled her notebook from her pocket. The leather sported a large hole right through the center. “I think this slowed the bullet just enough. I always knew my life was for books.”
When Alexander’s heart slowed to a normal pace, he climbed to his feet and offered Miss Eyre and Miss Burns space to sit on the bench, while he stood beside the Rochesters. The three young ladies—two living and one dead—all held hands as they watched the House of Lords and Commons burn against the night.
Two days later, they met in the flat on Baker Street. You know, the one that had been Alexander’s, but was currently Miss Eyre’
s (for the rest of the month, at any rate, since Wellington hadn’t covered the rent beyond that). Miss Eyre had generously offered the flat back to Alexander, as it had been his first, but Alexander had declined. Instead, he and Branwell had rented rooms nearby.
“Tea?” Miss Eyre asked.
Everyone accepted.
Miss Eyre and Miss Burns disappeared into the kitchen, while Miss Brontë and Branwell took the sofa and bent their heads together. “We need to decide what to do next,” Miss Brontë murmured.
“I should go back to Haworth.” Branwell sighed. “I do rather miss it there. Of course, not much happens in Haworth, but that’s the point, isn’t it? I think we’ve had enough adventure.”
Miss Brontë nodded.
Alexander’s heart twisted a little when he thought about Miss Brontë going all the way to Haworth. He’d spent the last two days waiting for a meeting with the king, trying to figure out the Society’s future now that the building and Move-On Room and talismans were all gone (not to mention Wellington), but the king was still recovering from what Mr. Mitten and Wellington had done in the days before the Great Fire. The Society’s future was on his list, but it certainly wasn’t a priority. Not right now, anyway.
Which left Alexander sort of the Society’s leader by default, but not really, and because all that was so messy, he couldn’t take actions like inducting new members, even if they were seers.
Anyway, Charlotte had just agreed about the excess of adventure in London. Maybe she wanted to go back to Haworth.
He moved toward the kitchen to help Miss Eyre with the tea. Even though she currently lived here and was technically the hostess, this had been his kitchen until recently. So no harm in helping.
“It’s not that I want you to go.” Miss Eyre’s voice came from behind the door, barely above a whisper. “I’ll miss you. Of course I will.”
Alexander paused in the doorway.
“But you think I should.” Miss Burns’s ghostly voice was tight. “That’s it, isn’t it? You think it’s better if I go?”
