Worlds of Ink and Shadow (20 page)

A cruel leer spread across S'Death's face. “And what sort of seventeen-year-old boy with the power of creation at his fingertips
doesn't
make a brothel? That's what I'd like to know.”

“What . . . what do you mean, power of creation?” Branwell sputtered.

“Oh, pity us both, S'Death!” Rogue said, voice raised. “It's bad enough we have to live in a child's fantasy world—but we have to live in a child's
censored
fantasy world!”

“Stop!” Branwell cried. “What are you saying? What is the meaning of this?”

Rogue and S'Death shared a glance, the same wicked look of conspiracy they had given each other regarding Castlereagh. “Lady Emily told us,” Rogue said. “She told us that you are one of the four Genii and that S'Death and I have been your dupes for all these years.”

Branwell's stomach dropped. “Genii?” he repeated. Why would Emily tell them that? Alarmed, he tried to take control of the story. “
With that Rogue began to laugh merrily, and he and S'Death admitted that their words had been in jest
,” he murmured under his breath.

Rogue's eyes widened and he drew back as if in fear or disgust, pointing at Branwell. “Did you hear that, S'Death? He tried to make us laugh, like jesters in his little play.”

S'Death nodded. “I heard it. Chills the soul, I won't deny it.” After a moment he looked again at his down-faced card. “No more for me.”

“You're very cavalier,” Rogue said, but he glanced at his own card and turned up one more from the deck.

S'Death shrugged. “What can we do but play the hand we're dealt—so to speak?” They both chuckled as Branwell gaped.

“
S'Death suddenly remembered that a poor young widow who lived in one of his tenements was late with the rent
,” Branwell said. “
He leapt to his feet and looked at his watch, realizing that if he didn't act immediately, he would have to wait until tomorrow to throw her out onto the street.
”

S'Death leapt to his feet and looked at his watch.

“Be strong, old friend!” Rogue said. “He's doing it again. You are being manipulated!”

“I know it,” S'Death said. “And I curse him for it—but it doesn't make the lady any less real, does it? You know how uncollected monies nibble at my soul!”

“Think, man! When have you ever forgotten a debt?” Rogue said.

“Never!” S'Death said. “And I can't begin now. Boy! My hat!” With that he ran out of the room as fast as his short legs could carry him.

Rogue glared at Branwell with fury in his eyes—and a touch of fear, too. Then he reached across the table, turned over S'Death's hidden card, and gave a bitter laugh. “Thirteen. And I had quince. I would have won that filly.” He pulled a silver case out of his jacket pocket and lit another cheroot. For a while they sat in silence as he puffed at it thoughtfully.

“What are you going to do?” Branwell finally asked. “Now that you know.”

“At first I thought I would kill you immediately.” Rogue grinned. “Then I thought I'd kill you slowly.”

Branwell shivered. There was something truly depraved about that smile. He glanced to the door, but he didn't think running was an option. It occurred to him that he could simply hold out his hand and disappear, but then, he knew he wouldn't be able to stay away forever. Sooner or later, he would have to come back. Elizabeth would see to that.

“There's something I want to say.” Branwell tried to master his fear. “There's something I want you to know.” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to look directly into Rogue's dark eyes. “I want you to know that I never considered you my dupe. All those times I confided in you, all the things I said to you over the years, they were all true. I want you to know that whatever happens, I consider you my dearest friend, and I always will.”

“My, my. That's quite a confession.” Rogue flicked an ash into the ashtray. “Truth be told, I do still consider you a friend, in spite of everything.” He narrowed his eyes. “But perhaps that's only because you have willed it so.”

“No!” Branwell insisted. “It's not a true friendship if you have no free will.” He held out his hand. “Please. Shake hands with me. I wish us to be friends, but I do not demand it.”

After a moment's consideration, Rogue reached across the table and shook the offered hand. Branwell felt a surge of relief, but Rogue tightened his grip and yanked him close.

“Remember, boy, you did make me the type of fellow who would stab his dearest friend in the back and sell his clothes to the ragman.”

Branwell smiled weakly. “Yes. I suppose I did.”

“Still.” Rogue let him go and sat back. “I don't think I'll kill you.” Then he added quickly, “But it's not because of Lady Emily. I won't have you thinking that!”

He stared at the table, frowning silently. A waiter came and cleared it, but Rogue didn't seem to notice. He was distracted by his thoughts, and Branwell was afraid to interrupt him.

“Just now, before you came, I think that I was dreaming of her,” Rogue said finally. “I dreamt she was the moon and I was howling for her. Did she will that? Has she put this ache in me? Or has she given me a choice as you have?”

Was he still referring to Emily?
Branwell wondered. He couldn't be. Not the Emily who was always bringing home injured animals and who still sometimes forgot to comb her hair, not the little sister who spent half her waking hours in a daydream.

Rogue sat up, seeming to come to himself. “If I thought you were the true architect of my fate, I wouldn't hesitate to kill you—if the Genii can die, that is, which I think they can. No. There's someone else, isn't there? Someone else who is behind all of Zamorna's successes.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Come, come. Admit it. I've thought hard on this. I have met
three Genii so far: you, Lady Anne, and Lady Emily. None has any love for Zamorna, and yet he is so clearly the hero of this place. There is a fourth Genius. The most powerful Genius.”

Branwell felt a twinge of annoyance at this. Charlotte was no more powerful than he. “Certainly not.”

Rogue stood up. “I have no patience for argument. Bring this Genius to me.”

Branwell hesitated. “I don't know that I can . . .”

“These are my terms. Bring him to me, and I'll let you live.” Without saying good-bye, he turned away and began to walk to the door, but he had only gotten a few steps before he turned back, a finger raised.

“But do not tell Lady Emily that I showed you mercy.”

ANNE

S
OMETHING HAD HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT
. Anne knew it. The animals knew it. Earlier that morning, Jasper Pheasant had refused to come out of the peat house, and now the finches, Rainbow and Diamond, were chattering in their cage. Snowflake was sitting in the cold fireplace swishing his tail back and forth, and no one dared remove him, not even Emily. Perhaps the animals were only remembering last night's storm—it had strewn litter across the yard and flattened all of Charlotte's flowers—but Anne was convinced it was more than that.

“
Attention s'il vous plaît
,” said Aunt Branwell.

“
Je
. . . ,” Anne began, her voice a hoarse whisper. “
Je
. . .” Her face grew alternately hot and cold. She knew the answers, but it was difficult for her to think extemporaneously at the best of
times, let alone now, with the world so obviously upside down and no one to tell her why.

“Remember your verbs,” Charlotte said. They were in the dining room. Emily was on the sofa next to Anne, and Charlotte was perched on a chair in front of them, an open French book before her. She was so pale today, and Emily kept giving her such worried glances. How could Anne possibly concentrate?

“
Je . . . coupée ma . . .
”

Charlotte and Emily both winced.

“Non!”
Aunt Branwell was standing at the dining room window, looking out at the wet yard. “
Je me suis coupée. Il s'agit d'un verbe réfléchi
.”

“I'm sorry,” Anne mumbled.

They never knew when Aunt Branwell would decide it was time for an
examen de français
, but she seemed to have a hound's ability to sniff out the worst possible occasion. Now she gave a frustrated hiss, but it wasn't directed at Anne. “Where is that boy?”

Branwell had gone to Verdopolis in the night and hadn't returned, something he'd never done before. They knew he was still there, because his story paper was still upstairs, writing itself. The last time they had looked at it, he'd been in the Elysium Club, to Charlotte's great vexation. The rules of crossing over had been established long ago: Never miss meals; never stay too long; always be in your bed in the morning. The four Brontës hadn't kept their worlds a secret all this time by being careless.

At breakfast, Charlotte had made up a story about his having a headache and taking an early walk on the moor, but now morning was wearing on to noon. They couldn't make excuses for him forever, and Aunt Branwell's patience was growing short. Anne saw her sisters catch each other's eye and then glance away. Their very faces made her sick with dread. They were worried about something—afraid about something—and it was more than Branwell.

“I expect he's met up with Papa and Grasper, and they have all gone visiting,” Charlotte said.

“Yes,” Emily quickly agreed, though under other circumstances, she would have giggled at the idea of Branwell visiting parishioners with Papa—listening to their aches and pains and offering up opinions about wool carding and the Reform Act.

“But he knows how I worry about him!” Aunt Branwell said, still at the window.

“I'm sure Emily's
récitation en français
will divert you.” Charlotte turned to Emily. “It is memorized, isn't it?”

Emily stared blankly. “Not . . . quite.”

“Your students are ill prepared, Charlotte,” Aunt Branwell snapped. “I fear I shall have to give a bad report to your father.” It wasn't like her to speak so curtly. It occurred to Anne that perhaps she, too, could sense the tension in the house, the dark cloud that seemed to hang over them, and was reacting in the only way she could.

“Yes,” Charlotte said, closing her book with what seemed
like relief. “I suppose you must.” This lack of concern at Aunt Branwell's pronouncement was yet another clue that all was not well.

Aunt Branwell turned to her. “I do not enjoy having my time wasted—”

“Someone's coming through the cemetery,” Emily interrupted, nodding to the window.

Aunt Branwell rushed back to her post. “Branwell?”

All three sisters went to stand beside their aunt at the windows. Anne saw immediately that the person on the path was not her brother. It was Tabby, coming very fast with a basket over her arm.

“I've never seen Tabby run before,” said Emily. “Something's happened.”

“Oh, the poor boy must have fallen in the mud somewhere, or been taken ill,” Aunt Branwell said. “I knew it. We must send for Dr. Hartley in Keighley. I don't like that Dr. Kent.”

Anne put a hand on her aunt's arm, worried that she was becoming overwrought. Aunt Branwell nodded, trying to smile.

“Quite right, my dear,” she said in response to Anne's gesture. “We have no idea what Tabby will tell us.”

She allowed Anne to lead her to a chair, and a moment later, Tabby burst through the front door and into the dining room. Her face was as red as beets, and it took her a moment to catch her breath.

“Do not spare us,” Aunt Branwell said. “Is he”—she closed her eyes—“dead?”

“Not dead,” said Tabby, still panting. “But terribly mauled, he was.” She shook her head. “Terribly mauled.”

The sisters all looked from one to the other in confusion. Aunt Branwell sat forward, clutching the arms of her chair. “Mauled? By what?”

“A dog. A black dog with glowing eyes, or so he says.” Tabby put a hand on the doorframe to steady herself. “Nay, it's like one of Mother's stories come to life.”

“Poor Branwell,” said their aunt. “He must be out of his mind with fever.”

Tabby looked up. “Branwell? Why, it weren't Branwell who were attacked.”

“What? Who, then?”

“'Twere Michael Redman.”

The room was silent for a moment. Then Aunt Branwell said imperiously, “Who in the name of heaven is Michael Redman?”

“He's the butcher boy from Stanbury.”

Anne had read in books about a person's face turning “all colors of the rainbow,” but she had never seen it before. First her aunt seemed to grow pale and almost greenish, but then the color rushed back and she grew an alarming pink. “And you have no news of Branwell?”

Tabby looked a bit sheepish now. “Nay, miss.”

Aunt Branwell took a breath to speak, but Charlotte, perhaps fearing Tabby was about to be unfairly excoriated, interrupted quickly: “Allow Anne to take you to your room, Aunt. You've had a shock.”

Ten minutes later, Anne was standing in the middle of the tiny bedroom, not knowing what to do for her aunt, who was clearly distressed. Anne was as shy with her as she was with other people, but nevertheless there was an intimacy between them. The two had shared a bedroom for a long time, and so Anne knew her aunt's many vulnerabilities. She'd seen her without her false curls. She'd seen her in her underclothes. She knew the sound of her snoring.

Aunt Branwell gave a peevish sigh. She was lying on the bed, facing the wall.

Anne coughed. “Would you like some . . . tea?”

Her aunt didn't answer. Anne wished she could straighten something, but the room was so plain and austere that there was nothing to straighten. A Bible and a few of Aunt Branwell's things lay on the dressing table. The only picture was a sentimental seaside scene hanging next to the mirror. It had been there for years, but it had never occurred to Anne before that it must remind her aunt of Penzance. She winced with guilt. Elizabeth Branwell had given up her life and all her friends in the south to help care for the young Brontës.