Worlds of Ink and Shadow (23 page)

“Of all your wives and mistresses, I thought Mary Henrietta was the one,” Charlotte said.

Zamorna gave her a brotherly pat on the knee. “As did I. But perhaps the Red Countess . . .” His voice tapered off. Even he seemed to realize that his affair with Rogue's wife was not likely to end in happiness. “I suppose I have yet to find my equal.”

“Your equal!” Charlotte cried. “I assure you, brother, Mary Henrietta exceeds you in most virtues. Goodness, charity, fidelity, piety, loyalty . . . Who among the nobility do you think could rival her in any quality you'd care to name?”

Zamorna pulled one of the white roses to him, inhaling deeply. Then he let it go and sighed as if even its lovely fragrance bored him. “Perhaps my equal is not to be found among the nobility.”

“What are you suggesting? An affair with a servant? Will you be seducing your wife's maid next?”

Her voice was mocking, but as soon as the words were out, Charlotte found herself considering the idea. Perhaps someone innocent and fresh like Mina Laury would make him fall in love. But no, it was too late for any of that. In his very next scene, Zamorna would die.

“Why not?” he said. “If two souls meet, what does it matter? If I could find my equal, I would love her, be she poor and plain.”

Charlotte's heart skipped a beat. “Poor and plain?” she said with a nervous laugh. These were two words she often used to describe herself. “I doubt such a woman would keep you interested for long.”

“Just because she is poor and plain doesn't mean she is soulless and heartless.”

Charlotte's heart lurched again. Zamorna could never love someone so like herself, could he?

She allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to play a heroine, to kiss and be kissed by the Duke of Zamorna himself. She found that she longed to try. She longed to wear beautiful gowns and flutter beautiful eyelashes, to wrap her snow-white arms around his neck—but she had the most terrible fear that if she did, she would change back to herself in mid-kiss like some horrible, twisted version of
The Princess and the Frog
. Zamorna was so arch and condescending. How would he react? He had never seen a woman as ugly as herself.

“Sometimes I almost dream of her, you know,” Zamorna said. “My perfect woman. I wish I could invent her like a character in a story. She would be vexing and challenging. A strange elfin thing who'd be as clever as I. Not pretty, perhaps, but stark and austere.”

Charlotte felt tears sting her eyes. Her beloved character did
have thoughts of his own. And they were of her—or someone like her.

“Will you listen to a fancy, brother? I often imagine that she is just around the corner listening to all I say.”

“Perhaps that's true,” Charlotte said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Perhaps she hides.”

“I wish she wouldn't. I wish she'd know I wanted to meet her.”

Oh
, Charlotte thought.
If only I'd been brave and created the story I wanted. If only my stories had been a little more true
. But it was too late now.

It occurred to her that perhaps Zamorna had never found a true and vibrant life of his own because she hadn't wanted him to find happiness with a woman other than herself.

“
Suddenly, hoofbeats were heard upon the road
,” Charlotte said. “
At the blackened gate the viscount Castlereagh dismounted from his thoroughbred and ran through the ruined garden to his friend.
”

“Zamorna!” Castlereagh cried. “I bring incredible news!” He stopped in front of Charlotte and Zamorna, breathing heavily. When he had caught his breath he went on. “All of Verdopolis is abuzz with it. A new country has been discovered, called Angria, and you are to be its king! They say the Genii have already built its capital city on the banks of the Calabar River. Your coronation is tomorrow at St. Michael's.”

Zamorna did not remark on any of the oddities and inconsistencies of this announcement. He did not ask what he had
done to deserve the honor. Nor did he ask why a king of Angria would be crowned in a Verdopolitan cathedral, nor why he must be coronated so soon, nor how such an event could be planned in only a day. Charlotte did not put these questions in his head, and so he took the news as a matter of course. The fact that this new country did not exist, he would not live long enough to learn. Charlotte hoped that Branwell and Emily would have as easy a time getting Rogue to come to the coronation—where tragedy awaited them all.

BRANWELL

O
NCE, WHEN THEY WERE SMALL, BRANWELL
and Emily went for a walk with Nancy, who was their servant before Tabby came, and they were caught in a terrible downpour. They took refuge in a lonely farmhouse on the moor, its owner so surly and ill-tempered that he almost didn't let them in. It was a filthy place. Branwell had been as much afraid of the scowling farmer as he was of the violent storm that raged outside, but Emily seemed to enjoy herself. She made repeated attempts to pet the farmer's two liver-colored hounds, though they bared their teeth whenever she came near.

Suddenly there had been an enormous explosion, greater than any thunderclap. The whole cottage shook. A collection of
pewter plates and pitchers fell from their shelves, crashing to the floor.

“The end times are upon us!” Nancy cried, putting her arms over her head.

Emily bolted to the door. “I must see!” she said, her eyes shining with excitement. “I must see the four horsemen and the lamb-horned beast.” Young as she was, she knew the stories from the Book of Revelation, and she took Nancy's words to be the truth.

Branwell tried to stop her from going out, but she slapped his hands away. She ran outside, while he clung to the doorframe, reaching to her and calling her name.

From that day to this, Branwell had carried a picture in his mind of that small girl, pelted with rain, squinting up into the black clouds. He never forgot the look on her face when she turned to him: The disappointment there was unmistakable.

Later they found out that a bolt of lightning had caused a pocket of marsh gas to detonate—a freak occurrence, but not unheard of. Out on the moor the explosion had caused a landslide that sheared off part of a steep hill. The whole family had gone out to see it a few days later, and their father lectured them about the awesome power of nature. Branwell's eyes kept slipping back to Emily. She looked so sweet and modest, following with interest all that Papa said—but Branwell had seen another side of her. He'd seen the girl who was just a little disappointed when the end of the world didn't arrive.

“We're committing a murder,” Branwell whispered now.

“I know,” Emily replied.

“Of someone . . . someone who I think we both love.”

“Yes.”

They were in the sitting room of a rough-stone house, standing in front of a huge fireplace. Branwell had made reference in some of his stories to a “hideout” in the countryside outside Verdopolis, where Rogue and S'Death sometimes retreated, but he had never set a scene here before. In faded sofas or high-backed chairs, half a dozen examples of the criminal class sat sharpening swords and long knives, giving off a clear impression that they were getting ready for some great mischief. These men ignored Emily and Branwell for the most part, though some occasionally looked up from their work to give them a sly glance or a knowing leer.

“He says I'm to wring your pretty necks if you don't talk,” said S'Death, entering the room from what appeared to be the kitchen.

“We'll tell him what he wants to know,” Branwell answered, shielding Emily with his body and forcing a boldness into his voice that he didn't feel. “But it's for his ears alone.”

S'Death gave a sullen grunt and told them to wait.

When he was gone, Emily ran her finger along the mantel of the fireplace, seeming unsurprised by the thick layer of dust she found there. Above the mantel was an impressive gun collection, with fowling pieces and horse pistols hanging on pegs all the way
up to the ceiling. At the far end of the room, shelves of pewter plates and tankards sat row upon row. Two liver-colored hounds lay in the corner, licking themselves. Branwell wondered if she recognized Alexander Rogue's hideout for what it was, or if she'd forgotten that day in the rain. Then it occurred to him that this might be as much her creation as it was his.

“Look,” she said. “It's Gondal.” To the right of the fireplace was the only painting in the room, a dark landscape in a small, rectangular frame.

“Oh,” Branwell said, stepping up to it. He had only just learned his little sister had made a world, and he was curious to see it. At first he was rather disappointed. “It's . . . a moor.”

And a more desolate moor one could hardly imagine. He would never have chosen such a subject for a painting—or for a world. There was nothing to be seen but gray hills and gray sky. A rock. A leafless tree. The more he looked, though, the more he began to admire the mood of the place. There was a bleak beauty about the painting. He decided that he'd be very proud to show such work to Mr. Robinson someday—but a moment later he saw that this painting could not exist in life. The clumps of wild grass swayed in the rough wind, and the clouds moved across the sky. He felt that he might reach his hand through the frame and travel to this stark place.

“I wish I were there now,” Emily said, and Branwell was struck by the longing in her voice.

“Why?”

She needed no time to think of an answer. “I'm more myself there. He is, too, I think.”

Branwell was a little annoyed by this, knowing she meant Rogue. He and Charlotte often borrowed each other's characters, but Rogue was different. He was just beginning to realize that Emily was responsible for all the recent changes in him. The terrible truth was that she'd made him better.

He looked away from her, crossing his arms and frowning at the painting. “Reminds me of
Rob Roy
. You've been reading Sir Walter Scott.”

“I have. He is my second-favorite author.”

“Who is your favorite? Let me guess. Byron?”

“No.” Emily laughed. “It's you, of course.”

He saw that she was quite serious and felt touched.

“You made Alexander Rogue,” she said.

“Almost,” he said quietly.

The words of Elizabeth's ghost came back to him:
If history remembers you for anything at all, it will be for being Charlotte Brontë's brother.
Not only Charlotte, perhaps. He and Charlotte had been fighting all their lives over which of them was the most brilliant Brontë. It would serve them both right if it was neither of them.

“Banny?” Emily said with hesitation. “Would it be all right if I played the next scene just Rogue and me? I . . . I want to say good-bye to him.”

“Yes,” he said, after a while. “I don't mind.” Though he did, a little.

EMILY

E
MILY AND ROGUE STOOD ON A RISE ABOVE
the hideout. The sky was gray. A damp wind blew through the yellowing grass. All around them were green hills as far as the eye could see.

“Reminds me of your Gondal,” Rogue said. It reminded Emily of home. “I thought you said you hadn't made this world.”

Emily was still warm from the walk. She had tried to steel herself as she climbed the hill—Rogue was dangerous, a mad dog that needed putting down—but now, seeing his face . . . Why did his rough face claw so at her heart? She smiled at him. She couldn't help it.

“I didn't make this world, but there are some things I can do.” She closed her eyes. “
All around them, foxglove swayed in the breeze.
” When she opened her eyes again, Rogue had drawn very
close and was staring down at her. His eyes made her breath catch. “My favorite flower,” she explained, wanting to step away but not wanting to seem afraid.

Rogue raised an eyebrow. “Deadman's bells,” he said, using the country name. “Poisonous, I believe.”

Emily broke free of his gaze and looked around her. Taller than the tall grass, the stalks of foxglove teetered in the wind, each flower as white as bone. She frowned. “I'd meant to make them purple.” Tabby always said the white ones meant a death.

All at once, the enormity of what she was doing fell over her. She was setting the stage for Rogue's death—for the death of Verdopolis—and she felt crushed by the weight of it. A raw wind whistled through the grass, making her shiver.

“Fitting,” said Rogue. He looked out over the green landscape and took in a deep breath. “Everything becomes a bad omen at a time like this.”

Emily swallowed. Did he know what was coming? “What do you mean?”

“After all these years, do you think I can't feel it? You Genii have something terrible in store.”

She didn't ask him to explain further, fearing what he knew. She rubbed her arms against the chill. Almost out of earshot was a high tinkling sound, like very distant music. Emily couldn't identify it, but for some reason it seemed terribly mournful against the low keening of the wind.

“Once, years ago, I stood in front of a firing squad and knew
I was going to die,” Rogue said, his gaze still fixed on the distant hills. “I knew it. There would be no last-minute reprieve for me, no rescue by my men.”

“But you were wrong,” Emily said. “I know the story.”

“I was wrong because the gods changed their minds.” He turned to face her. “You won't change them this time, will you?”

Emily was taken aback by the directness of the question and by his gaze. He knew. He knew exactly what she and her siblings planned. “Would you be truly . . . distressed not to exist anymore?” As soon as the words were out she knew it was a stupid question—but then, Rogue wasn't a real person, after all. At least, that's what she tried to tell herself.