Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling (26 page)

“Your mother, no. It was a twist of fate that we should meet, but once I had found you I couldn't let you be. I will take responsibility for the deaths of the others. I needed you in the right place for a new game . . . my final game. You and I are more similar than you know. How many of our actions are the results of the things people expect of us rather than the things we want?”

“Murderer!” I tore another picture away from the wall and threw it against the floor as hard as I could. It cracked in half, and Mr. Whatley doubled over in pain.

“I'm practical,” he continued after he had composed himself. “You had to engage with me over the fate of Lily Darrow so that, when you defeated me, no one would doubt that I got what I deserved.”

I was about to destroy another of the paintings but froze when he said this. “Why should you want to lose?”

“There's a war coming. It's already started, but the two sides are filled with fanatics. One side wants to live forever and subjugate all the worlds, while the other wants to bring about the end of all things. I tried to placate them for as long as I could, but I refuse to commit myself to causes that have no center. I mean to provide a third alternative to Ashby and Speck, but I could never do so publicly. When they both began to suspect my intentions, something had to be done to remove me from the board. It's much easier to start an underground movement when everyone assumes that you're as good as dead.”

“My father and husband, Nanny Prum and Mrs. Norman . . . Did you kill Lily as well?”

“I might have helped her illness along, yes.”

“Over politics?”

“This is not simply politics. The existence of the universe hangs in the balance. If either party should win this war, it would mean the end of your world in addition to ours. What are a few people when the alternative is so grave?”

“And now you expect me to simply help you disappear.”

“You have no choice.”

“There is always a choice!”

“There is now. So much of your life was decided for you, but the game is ending; you will be free after this one last thing.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then they will come for me, lock me away, and everything that's happened will have been for nothing.”

I screamed in anger and ran into the gallery, using my emotions and the accompanying burst of adrenaline to tear the paintings away from the walls one by one with bloody hands, dropping them to the floor so they shattered against him, cutting into him as he withered and shrank with each act of destruction. I tightened my fingers into fists and realized that they felt different than they had before my brush with Death. They were cold, harder somehow. The pain that had racked my body continued to abate as I settled into this new state of living death.

Whatley cowered on the floor, clutching his face in pain. The human features it had once contained were starting to fade. His hand uncoiled into a grouping of tentacles.

“Yes, just like that.” He cackled through his agony. “What is a collector without his collection?”

I was torn. I wanted to inflict on him as much anguish as possible, but at the same time that was exactly what he was begging of me. “Every day, every feeling, each bit of joy or sadness or fear I've ever felt, none of them are anything compared to the hatred I hold for you, that I will wield against you. You may not choose to die today, but someday I will come for you, and I will make you suffer as you made us suffer.”

“Give me the time to overthrow Ashby and Speck, and I will willingly put myself before you.”

“The Darrows are never to be bothered again.”

“You have my word.”

“Is that worth anything?”

“I wouldn't know. I've never given it before.” He smiled at me with his crooked smirk.

I could not bear to look at him. I destroyed more of his collection, raining down fragments of colored glass and shards of alabaster until the floor was covered in the stuff and a cloud of destruction hung in the air. Mr. Whatley disappeared piece by piece until he was a shrunken stump of a thing cowering on the floor.

I wondered what to do about the remainder of his collection. There were still the lifeless, doll-like figures trapped in the compartment behind his bedroom. I lurched down to the private alcove where he slept and found the panel he had pressed to open the secret room. All of them were where they had been before, save for Lily. I picked up the one closest to the floor, a young man with ivy instead of hair, and set him on his feet. He immediately came to life and looked at me with confusion. “Where is Mr. Whatley?”

“He's indisposed. You're free,” I told him.

The boy became suddenly anxious but then saw my wound and proceeded to help me extricate his brothers and sisters from their perches against the wall. The more dolls we freed, the quicker the process became, until all of them were milling about in Mr. Whatley's room trying to understand what had happened to them and what they would do next. I slipped out in the confusion, averting my eyes from the pathetic state Mr. Whatley found himself in, a wriggling thing on the floor amid shards of alabaster and glass. He looked up at me, his black, reptilian eyes suddenly desperate.

“I am sorry for what I've wrought upon you,” he said in a small voice. “People like us, we are stronger. We must do the things that others cannot.”

“No matter the cost?”

“In spite of it.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Whatley.”

“You can't leave me here. There is work to be done! Markham!”

I left him alone in his study with the former pieces of his collection and made my way slowly and steadily through the house. The wedding guests that had not been taken by Death were still milling about in the ballroom. They had apparently decided to hold the reception regardless of the presence of the bride or the groom. Dabney's wheelchair lay empty in the corner. The pain in my chest began to throb again, and I steadied myself against a wall, nearly toppling over when someone put an arm beneath me and carefully lifted me into the air.

I blacked out from exhaustion, and when I came to I found myself stretched on a metal chair, back in the room with the turning veils. Duncan stood nearby, fussing with a tray of tools on the wheeled table. I cried out in anguish, my wound still smarting. He turned to me, and rather than putting a finger to his lips, he opened his mouth and spoke.

“You're awake.” His voice was soft and musical.

“You can talk?”

“A recent development. The servants of Darkling grow into the needs of the house. With Whatley in decline, someone must speak for the estate. My brother was much the same, or so I'm told. I think you knew him.”

“Roland.”

“I believe he caused you great sorrow, though he was only following Mr. Whatley's instructions. I cannot make right what has already passed, but I can at least give you something for the pain.”

“That would be worth more than you know.”

He nodded and held a smoking cup to my lips. “Drink this. It will help.” It tasted of citrus, and as it passed through my body, it brought with it a cool, soothing sensation.

“I need one more thing. I won't be but a moment.” He left me in the room, the veils spinning gently across the walls, hypnotic and serene. I had nearly slipped off to sleep when I felt the presence of someone else in the room. I sat up as best I could, and a man stepped forward.

“Charlotte?” His voice was familiar, but the room was so dimly lit I could not make him out until his face was close to my own.

“Jonathan?” His body was still blackened from the fire.

“I'm afraid you've seen better days, my love.”

I touched his cheek and felt his blistered skin. “How are you here? You're dead.”

“What do you think you are?” he asked.

“Nothing can die in The Ending unless it wants to.”

“You can't live as you are.”

“I miss you.”

“Don't change the subject.”

“Do you want me to be dead?”

“I want you to be comfortable.”

“Who are you talking to?” Duncan had returned, a small velvet jewelry box in his hand.

“My husband is here,” I said, looking from one to the other.

“I've been under the impression that he was deceased.” Duncan did not or could not see Jonathan, who shrugged his shoulders.

“That doesn't seem to be stopping him.”

“You do not look well.” Duncan peered at the gash in my chest and placed his hand over it. “We must tend to your wound immediately.”

“Where will that leave me?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Will I be alive or dead?”

“I do not know. I suppose that it cannot be good for you as long as you can see your late husband.”

Jonathan brought his ears close to my lips. “You must let him, Charlotte. It's not your time. Not yet.”

“I miss you so much.”

“I'm always with you. Can't you feel me?”

“It's not the same.”

“We will meet again, at the end.”

“You'll be waiting for me?”

“Forever and always.”

“This will feel peculiar,” said Duncan, interrupting my good-bye. He opened the jewelry box and extracted a small hooked needle attached to a golden spool of thread. He placed the needle into my wound and backed away, the thing moving of its own accord, tugging at the severed strands of muscle and artery in my torso, stopping the tepid flow of blood and leaving me with a mildly sore sensation where there had once been excruciating pain. When it was done he plucked the needle from my skin and set it back on the table.

“How do you feel?”

“Like the living dead.”

“At least you are living.”

I looked around the room. Jonathan was gone, but I felt the loss of him less than I would have in a dream, for he had truly been with me and I had chosen to make him go away. The pain of it was softer because of this.

“That was quite a wedding,” said Duncan. “Or at least it would have been.”

“I'm afraid that Mr. Whatley may be indisposed for some time.”

“It wouldn't be wise for you to stay here,” he said.

“Yes, I know.”

“Where will you go?”

“Back to Everton, of course.”

“But how? It seems as though you've destroyed every way back, and Mr. Whatley is in no position to help you.”

“Perhaps someone in the underground will know the way.”

“You should be careful. You've brought Death to The Ending. Ashby will come for you.” Duncan pulled a fresh cloak and a plain dress similar to the kind I had seen worn by the servants of Darkling from beneath the table. He helped me change into them.

“What will happen here?” I asked.

“Mr. Whatley will gather his strength for the time being. After that, I do not know. Are you able to walk?” He helped me out of the chair. It was much easier to stand than before. He led me out of the chamber to the back of the house, where the orchard stood waiting, now empty of the carriages and wedding guests.

“I wish you the best of luck, Mrs. Markham.”

“And I you, Duncan.”

We shook hands, and I stepped out into the night air. My body must have been nearly drained of blood, and I had no responsibilities, no companions, and no idea of where to begin my journey home. Yet something else was wrong, something that sat heavily against my breast.

I reached into the dress and extracted my father's pipe, my mother's lock of hair, and Jonathan's wedding ring. I had brought them all this way with me from Everton to The Ending, but I could not recall why I needed them. I knew who they were, what they smelled like, how their laughter sounded, how they smiled. I saw them every night in my dreams, reliving old memories and making new ones that could never have happened. I had seen them, and I would see them again someday. I knelt down to the ground and pushed aside a handful of soil, burying the three articles I had saved from the fire. When I was done, the weight I had felt was lifted.

With the moon hanging low in the sky, I followed the winding path away from the House of Darkling to the large gate at the edge of the property. There was a man waiting for me, a man dressed all in black.

“Lovely to see you again, Mrs. Markham.” The gentleman who was Death tipped his black bowler hat to me.

A man waits for you. He watches you.

“You've come back,” I said.

“I've never been to The Ending. Much to do and see, I'd imagine. And people in need of my services.”

“Some of them might not be so glad to see you.”

“Few are. And where will you go?”

“Home.”

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I did not offer to escort a lady home on a dark moonlit night? Perhaps we should walk together. We both seem to make friends wherever we go,” he said with a measure of playful sarcasm, extending me the crook of his arm.

I accepted it. “Am I dead?” I asked him.

“I'm not quite sure. This is new for me as well. A road untraveled. Shall we make it up as we go along?” He pushed the gate open.

I thought of Henry and the children, and oddly enough, of Mr. Whatley. The game had ended, and my life was now my own. There were no more rules to adhere to, no shadowy figures taking the lives of my loved ones; the things that defined me had been stripped away, leaving behind not the person I was but the one I could become.

I took a deep breath and crossed the threshold into The Ending arm in arm with Death, the one constant of my past and my future; for whatever came next, all roads would only, could only lead back to him.

Acknowledgments

I find myself growing sentimental as I prepare to send
Charlotte
out into the world, and this morning I went back to read through a bit of the first completed draft of the novel, dated February 9, 2009. To say that it was a different book is an understatement, and I am indebted to a number of people for helping me discover the right voice (both mine and Charlotte's) over the course of the past three years.

Danielle Taylor was the first person to ever read the manuscript, and gave me the confidence that I had some idea of what I was getting myself into, along with Laura Stephenson, Sara Stephenson, William Couch, Katherine McKee, and my stepmother and father, who all provided me with invaluable feedback and asked the right questions.

Rakesh Satyal, my proverbial fairy godfather, brought the book to HarperCollins. Without him this novel would not exist in its current form.

The fearless editing duo of Maya Ziv and Chelsey Emmelhainz coaxed
Charlotte
out of her shell, and helped me see the light so many times.

Amanda Goldman and Reece Runnells brought my website to life so flawlessly that they made everything look easy.

And finally, there is my agent, Sandy Lu, who said “yes” and loves this novel just as much as I do. Her enthusiasm and guidance have been more important to me than anything throughout this entire process. I am lucky and grateful to have her by my side.

I will happily ply any of the above individuals with free alcohol whenever they so desire.