Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling (16 page)

The blue light from the candles was reflected in the chain held in the woman's hands. It not only bound the strange girl who had greeted me so poorly but trailed away behind her to every corner of the room, lashed to an infinite line of creatures hiding in the shadows, all of them thin and emaciated, some crawling along the floor while others were strung up the walls by their shackles. The lady of the castle noticed my wandering gaze and spoke again.

“You do not belong, and yet still you enter.”

“There are things I must know.”

“Your questions will have a price.”

“I have no money.”

She smiled coldly. “I trade in a different sort of currency.”

“What sort?”

“Answers for questions. Mr. Whatley is not the only collector in The Ending.”

“How do you—?”

“The stench of Darkling clings to you. This way.” She descended the staircase and beckoned me into a room hidden behind a tattered curtain, the loop of keys at her waist chiming as she moved. I kept myself away from the walls as I followed, afraid to brush against the rest of her children, who slumped from their chains in a living death, staring into space with their empty keyhole eyes.

I found the woman in a small salon, seated at a table before a window that looked over a nocturnal landscape of mountains pressing into the pale flesh of the moon. She pulled the chain that encircled her wrist, and a serving boy with dirty fingernails set two crystal goblets in front of us, filling them with the scarlet contents of a dusty cask. The scent of blackberry and rye rose from the liquid, though I did not dare to taste it.

“I will give you three answers and three answers only.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but glanced again at the chain around the woman's wrist and thought the better of it. She lifted the circle of skeleton keys from her side, unhooked the catch, and placed three of them on the table. The boy with the cask still stood before us, lock-shaped eye sockets staring out the window.

“Your first answer.” The woman picked up the nearest key, all rusted brass and crooked teeth, and stuck it into the small, dark keyhole where the child's right eye should have been. I cringed and looked away as she turned it with a click of bone and metal. The boy began to speak with a thin, androgynous voice.

“You cannot hope to stop the master of Darkling. The games he invents are centuries in the making and will end only when they are played out. The most you can hope to do is twist the outcome to your own devices.”

When the boy was done speaking, I turned to the woman. “I never asked my question.”

“These are the answers you need, not the ones you want. The next answer.” She lifted the second key and inserted it into the child's left eye socket. This time he spoke with the voice of an old man, high and reedy.

“We are the things that do not die, born to end with the world, but not before. We are your gods and your monsters, indifferent and unsated, waiting for a close that might never come. ‘
The Ending, The Ending, full of nighttime portending, the place for the Things Above Death. In great houses they wait for the Season to abate, and for time to give up its last breath.
' ”

The woman touched the boy's neck and pushed down the stained collar that crowded against his chains, revealing a third keyhole at the base of his throat. She used the last key. The boy spoke with a voice more appropriate for his appearance, small and quiet, with a singsong melancholy.

“There are only the dead and the damned. Remember that when the man in black comes for you. He is coming soon, Charlotte.” With that, the woman collected her keys and placed them back upon the metal circle at her waist.

I felt as if I were going to be sick.
He is coming soon,
but the boy had not said when, and would not. Three answers only. I stared ahead as dumbly as the dirty children, not seeing the lady of the castle until she placed a length of cold metal chain into my hands, the end of it looped around the neck of the boy with dirty fingernails.

“My payment,” she said.

“I don't understand.”

She ignored me and returned to the entry hall, her children screaming as she dragged them off the floor and down from the rafters, up the length of the staircase into the hidden depths of the castle, illuminated only by the blue glow of the candelabra.

“Answers for questions. You will take him back with you, to watch, to listen. To remember.”

That was simply too much. I threw down the fetters she had given me. “I will do no such thing!”

She never heard me, for the world turned over on itself and I was back in my room at Everton. Head spinning, I regained my balance in time to see the end of the chain slip around the corner of my open bedroom door as the boy with the keyhole eyes escaped into the hallway, the rattle of metal muffled by the carpet.

The children.

I dropped the book and bolted out of my chambers. The creature was moving in the opposite direction of the nursery, dashing through the corridor on all fours with such speed I could never hope to keep up. He disappeared down the stairwell, chains slapping against the banister in a dull echo I was sure had awoken the entire manor.

I cornered the creature in the kitchen and grabbed hold of his shackles. “Stop this at once!” I hissed at him, and he responded by pressing his body against the wall, sinking into it as if he were stepping into a bath. He leered at me with a mouthful of rotten teeth as his face disappeared into the skin of the house. I wrenched and twisted the chains around my arms, but still they followed the boy into the walls of Everton. Link by link they slipped away from me until at last the final loop remained, a thin brass key dangling from its end. The teeth caught on the skin of my hands, friction burning as I lost hold of it. Then I was alone in the kitchen, sobbing despite myself.

Numb with exhaustion, I did the only thing I could think of: I made a cup of tea. I sipped it quietly in the dark as I glared at the wall, at yet another problem I had not the faintest idea how to solve. The woman had said that he would only observe us, but that could hardly be trusted.
What have I done?
I was as bad as Lily, stubborn beyond reason and steadfast in a belief that my own abilities were unmatched; a belief that was apparently misguided as I had released something wicked into Everton.

I wondered if Lily felt the same.

Through the window, the grounds of the estate were bathed in moonlight, just like the House of Darkling. With the thought of the place, I set my cup onto its saucer so severely that it fell off the table and cracked into a dozen pieces. I cursed myself under my breath and knelt down to collect the ceramic fragments, so absorbed in my own melancholy and frustration that I didn't notice Henry standing over me.

“Are you all right?”

I stood, holding the sharp pieces too tightly in my hand.

“Yes, I hope I didn't wake you?” I glanced again at the place in the wall where the dirty little boy had escaped, and then into Henry's soft sapphire eyes. Every anxiety, doubt, and fear that had been building within me melted into the ether.

“No, I've been awake. I had tea prepared, but no one else came down.”

“How thoughtful.”

“I had hoped you would join me.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't realize.”

“How could you have known? I should have made my intentions clear.”

He gently took the pieces of the broken cup out of my hands, his fingers lingering against my own. Even after he moved away, I could feel the echo of his touch singing through my body. I gasped softly and backed away, but he held my arm, pulling me against his chest and pressing his lips to my own. The song I felt at his touch erupted into a chorus of emotion, the darkened space around us blazing with invisible light. We parted, and I rested my head against his shoulder to catch my breath.

“Henry.”

He stiffened at the sound of his own name, releasing me and beginning to stammer. “I'm so sorry—don't know what I'm doing—if I've offended you—”

“You haven't.” I tried to take his hand, but he pulled away.

“I've taken advantage. You're in my employ. The children—” He backed away, shaking his head. “Forgive me, but I've made a terrible mistake.” Mr. Darrow spun around and nearly ran from the room, leaving me alone with the broken pieces of the cup in the sink, which were not nearly as sharp or painful as the ones I felt inside.

CHAPTER 13

Death Revisited

A
fter a fitful night of straining to listen for the rattle of chains or the scraping of dirty fingernails against the walls, I rose for breakfast. Mr. Darrow was nowhere to be found, nor was he at lunch, yet his presence weighed heavily on me. The dread I felt at the prospect of our next meeting was so suffocating that when the boys asked to go on their late afternoon walk, I was outside waiting for them before they could even find their coats. We left under the pretense of visiting the cemetery, and found the cloud of mist just beyond the cage of roots in the forest.

I did not know what I would say to Lily. How could I look her in the face?

Why should you be ashamed to take what is yours?

I tried unsuccessfully to silence the voice in my mind that had grown steadily louder since my conversation with Mr. Whatley. The tone was selfish and callous, but also powerful and assured, threatening to overrule the well-mannered woman I had always prided myself (perhaps foolishly) on being. I remained undecided about whether or not this was something to resist.

Duncan was waiting for us in the orchard, even taller than before and ever closer to my own age. His skin had lost all of its discoloration, leaving him nearly human in every way but for the impish smile that was imprinted upon his face like a mask.

There were two crisp suits waiting for the boys in their room.

“It would appear that we are expected to dress for dinner,” I observed. I attempted to help James change, but he became jealous over his older brother's silver cuff links, and Paul did not take kindly to having his little brother attempt to strangle him from behind. I split them apart as best I could, each brother taking something from the other—like hair and skin—during the course of the separation, and I threatened them both with a form of Indian torture so terrible that I couldn't describe it to them for fear that it would scar their delicate, youthful psyches.

I left them alone and returned to my own quarters. A dark green gown had been placed over the blank fabric body of the dressing mannequin next to the wardrobe. I slid it off the dressmaker's dummy and held it against my body. It was exquisite and sleek, much more extravagant a thing than I could ever have afforded, let alone purchased from Mrs. Willoughby's dress shop. I thought about Susannah and the promise I had made to her husband.
Leave it to me.
Yet what progress had I made? I still only half understood the game I was playing. I refused to dwell on what would happen to my friend if I failed.

I began to undress, and when I was down to my underthings, Lily entered the room dressed in a slender silver gown encrusted with glittering jewels. She closed the door. I was startled and tried to hide my nakedness by pressing the dress against my body, and I snapped at her. “Lily!”

She did not avert her eyes or apologize for intruding. She wordlessly walked toward me and took hold of the dress. She helped me into it without a word, her hands moving along my body, finally lacing up the back. When she was finished we turned to one another, our faces mere inches apart. I wondered if she could see in me what had happened the night before with her husband, what I felt for him.

“I wanted to apologize for the way things were left,” she said. “You were right to question me.”

She tightened the corset of the dress, and I could only muster a reply half above a whisper.

“I only want what's best for the children.”

Lily brushed a strand of hair away from my face. “Let me fix your hair,” she said. She sat me down in front of the vanity mirror and undid the tightly wound bun at the back of my head, releasing blond hair over my shoulders and combing through it gently, our faces in stark contrast to one another: Lily's, ethereal with her sharp green eyes and midnight-black tresses that took on a blue sheen beneath the gaslights; the pointed features of my own softened by the light flush of my complexion, now even richer in contrast with her paleness. I looked beneath my reflection for any trace of my mother, gathering strength from it. I wondered what Lily saw when she looked at herself.

“We're not so different, you and I,” she said. “Either in our current occupations or in the things that we want.” Our eyes met in the mirror.
She knows
. I smiled weakly and closed my eyes as the comb ran through my hair, massaging my scalp.

“If you know what I want, then I hope you'll enlighten me, because I'm not so sure that I do.”

Lily placed her hands on my shoulders and set down the comb. “We have lost too much. Life has been cruel. But we must not lose our capacity to love. We must soldier on, for life is short and death is long. We must try to love, to move on, to embrace the opportunities presented to us.”

I opened my mouth but then closed it again. I couldn't respond, at least not right away. She knew what had transpired between Mr. Darrow and me. I didn't know how, but she was aware and she approved. I doubted whether I would have been as lenient with Jonathan had our places been reversed, but then I could not begin to fathom the things that Lily Darrow had been through.

There was a charged silence between us, long enough for me to wonder if I was mistaken. Perhaps she was speaking more about her own situation than mine. Lily ran her fingers through my hair, gathering it up in her hands and pinning it into place.

“One must make sacrifices to get the things one wants most,” she said.

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

“And what's your sacrifice?”

“Don't you remember? I died.” She held a hand mirror to the back of my head, showing how she had styled my hair high onto the top of my head. I didn't fully believe her. There was something else in the mirror's reflection, an expression of anguish highlighted by the glistening of her eyes, as if she were on the verge of tears. “I'm hosting a dinner party this evening. It will give me a chance to introduce the children to the society here. Most of the guests have never seen a human child before. In fact they fear them.”

“It seems a strange thing to fear two young boys.”

“Humans are not permitted in The Ending, and Mr. Whatley has put himself at great risk to fulfill our bargain. Allowing mortals into a place without Death has caused something of a sensation among the people here.”

“And what sort of people are they, exactly?”

“Surely you must know by now. You've read some of the books. ‘
The remains of the day forged from shadows and clay, endless and moribund in twain. As the worlds flicker out and Death flits about, the Old Ones sip tea and champagne.
' ”

“How dreadful.”

“But beautiful in its way.”

“Where do they come from?”

“I don't think they're from anywhere. They always were and always will be. ‘
The Ending, The Ending, full of nighttime portending, the place for the Things Above Death. In great houses they wait for the Season to abate, and for time to give up its last breath.
' ”

I stood from the chair in front of the vanity mirror, and once again turned to face Lily.

“Such a long wait, I would imagine. It sounds very lonely,” I said.

“I suppose that's why they've become so interested in the ways of mankind. To them, we're an amusing distraction, like animals in a cage. A pleasant diversion from their own complicated society.”

“What will you do when they grow tired of this ‘pleasant diversion'?”

“I expect humanity will be entirely extinguished before that could ever happen.”

“And what will happen when the boys grow into men and stop visiting?”

We stood up and moved toward the door of the bedroom.

“I believe that we agreed upon two more visits after this one, did we not?” She opened the door and held it for me. “What will you do when they no longer need a governess?”

“Move on.” With that, I turned in to the hallway.

We found that the boys had mostly dressed, despite the fact that James's head seemed to have been intentionally wedged into the sleeve of his jacket, and Paul was missing a rather sizable patch of hair. Together and wordlessly, Lily and I smoothed out their rumpled clothing, combed over the places where Paul's scalp was visible, and did our best to make the boys look presentable. When we were finished, we left for the drawing room. James skipped ahead of us while Paul shuffled morosely behind him, leaving Lily and me to walk side by side in silence.

T
he other dinner guests had already started to arrive and stood around the drawing room with drinks in hand, making small talk and gossiping whenever they were out of earshot to do so comfortably.

They were an eclectic group to say the least. There was a kindly-looking older couple doing their best to resemble humans, but their skin bulged uncomfortably in the wrong places, as if it had been put on very hastily or at least without much understanding of how it was supposed to fit. The couple excitedly greeted Lily, who introduced them to the children and me as Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Puddle.

“SO PLEASED TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE!” said Mrs. Puddle as if she were speaking to a very slow child.

Lily cut in before I could reply. “There's no need to shout, Mrs. Puddle. Most humans have ears.”

“Is that what you call them? How odd.” She felt the sides of her head and found her own ears. They shifted uneasily, as if they had been pinned to her skull. James stifled a giggle just as Mr. Whatley joined us with a younger couple who seemed to more closely follow his philosophy of individuality.

The woman, if she could be called a woman, wore a sheath of netting over the entire surface of her body instead of skin. Her innards pushed uncomfortably through the gaps in the fabric, red and glistening. Still, she was roughly shaped like a person, and she had features resembling eyes and lips that were fixed in a perpetual expression of haughty disdain. Mr. Whatley introduced her as Miss Yarborough, and she nodded to me without a word of greeting. The children gazed upon her with rapt fascination rather than disgust, for she was very much a living, breathing variation on some of the anatomical diagrams we had studied in class. I had to swat James's hand away before he could poke a finger into the wet flesh beneath her netting.

The gentleman, on the other hand, was most talkative. He had no body at all, as he was made of some thick, gaseous substance that coiled itself into a humanoid figure, but this did nothing to prohibit him from being the liveliest person in the room. He had no facial features, and as Mr. Whatley introduced him, he changed from the color of silver mist to a deep blue.

“Mrs. Markham, this is Mr. Snit,” said Mr. Whatley.

The gentleman bowed deeply, so deeply in fact that it seemed he was mocking the very custom of bowing. He took my hand into his cool, misty tendrils and kissed it. “The pleasure is mine a thousand times over, my dear lady.”

I blushed politely, and Miss Yarborough rolled her eyes. “Do sober up, Snitty, or you shan't make it through dinner.”

Mr. Snit turned an indignant shade of red. “One must have a certain level of intoxication, my dear Miss Yarborough, to put up with you for an entire evening.”

Lily pulled me away to the other side of the room for further introductions. There was a blond boy a few years younger than Olivia who was more beautiful than Miss Whatley could ever hope to be; his mother, a formidable but pleasant-looking woman; and a pair of tall, gangly creatures that resembled oversized centipedes, both of them with twelve different limbs along dappled undersides that curved into the air as they held themselves to conversation level, bulbous eyes blinking sideways.

“Mrs. Markham, I would like to introduce you to Mrs. Aldrich and her son, Dabney,” said Lily, referring to the woman and her son.

Mrs. Aldrich nodded. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Markham.”

“Good evening,” said the boy. When he spoke, everyone in the room seemed to stop to stare at him, watching his perfect lips shape themselves around the words. If he noticed the attention, he pretended not to.

“And this is the Professor and Mrs. Baxter.”

“How do you do?” I greeted both of the centipede creatures, but as I blinked I noticed something odd about them. In the moment just before my eyes closed, and again just after they opened, the Baxters seemed to disappear. It was an odd sensation, and so I tried not to blink as I faced them.

“Hello,” the Baxters said in unison, smiling together.

Fortunately I was rescued by the sudden incursion of Mr. Samson. He took my arm and steered me to the other side of the drawing room.

“Mrs. Markham! Pleasure to see you again, my dear.” I could smell the bourbon on his breath.

“And you, Mr. Samson,” I said primly, releasing myself from his grip.

“What do you think of the party?”

“An interesting collection of guests to say the least.”

“I don't much care for them myself. Present company excluded, of course.” He glared at the only guest I had not yet met, a gentleman with a squat, flat face, tendrils of graying hair obscuring the place where one might typically find a mouth and chin. His body was sheathed in plates of calcified, translucent skin, and in place of arms or legs he had boneless, trunk-like appendages that protruded through cracks in the dried-out husk of his flesh.

“It's impolite to stare,” said Mr. Whatley, approaching us from behind.

Mr. Samson turned and poked his host in the chest. “Do you insult me, sir? By inviting that . . . creature?”

“Mr. Cornelius is a valued member of society, just as you are. As I have told you in the past, I play no favorites. Your disagreements are your own.”

“You're playing a dangerous game, Whatley.”

“They are the only kind worth playing. Wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Markham?” He gave me a knowing look and smiled with his lopsided smirk.