Possession (13 page)

"Is there
anything to eat?" I stole a pea from Lucy's bowl and popped it in my mouth.
"I'm hungry." I went to take another pea but Celia smacked my hand away.

"Luncheon
was an hour ago." She shut the ledger and blinked innocently up at me, but
I wasn't deceived. "Didn't Mrs. Culvert provide something while you...
researched
?"

I knew that tone.
She didn't think I'd been reading books in George's library for a moment. Sometimes
I forgot how shrewd Celia could be.

"We weren't
researching today. We were visiting an associate of George's to ask him about
possession, and about...other things." I didn't want her to know of the
possible connection to Blunt and the shape-shifting demon incident. That event
had shaken her considerably. Drawing a line between the possession and the
demon would certainly give her cause to end my involvement, or at least try to.
I could do without the added pressure.

I walked through
to the adjoining larder and found some cheese under a cloth and half a loaf of
bread. I sliced myself a chunk of each and returned to the kitchen, not
bothering with a plate.

Celia clicked
her tongue. "Do try to be civil, Em. We are not savages."

I couldn't
answer her because my mouth was full, but I sat and leaned over the table to
keep her happy. When I'd finished my late lunch, she said, "So you haven't
caught the spirit possessing Mr. Arbuthnot yet?"

I swept my hand
across the table in an arc, collecting crumbs. "No, but Jacob is going to
look for him tonight. If he finds him, we'll try to expel the spirit."

She picked up
the ledger and folded it against her chest. "It would seem we have the
afternoon free." It was true, we had no séances planned. "Put your
coat back on," she said. "We're going out."

***

The omnibus dropped
us at Holborn not far from where I'd been earlier at the North London School for
Domestic Service. On the whole, Holborn wasn't as destitute as the neighboring
Clerkenwell, but it did have pockets of slums huddled in dreary corners, tucked
out of sight. I caught glimpses of them down crooked lanes and through
crumbling archways as we headed for the Leather Lane market. We were looking
for Fran-Swars Something-Foreign.

Where George, Jacob,
and I had given up finding Louis' father after Mr. Graves said he couldn't help
us, Celia had persisted. While I'd been visiting Price and the School, she'd
taken it upon herself to ask other shopkeepers if they remembered the old
greengrocer. A butcher recalled he'd opened a stall at the Leather Lane market
after leaving Chelsea.

The shops on
both sides of Leather Lane were almost invisible behind the carts and stalls that
stretched as far as I could see. Shopkeepers shouted promises of the
"freshest," the "best," or the "latest fashion from
Paris." I stopped to inspect a pair of pale green gloves with beads
resembling seed pearls sewn around the edge but Celia dragged me wordlessly
away. Not before I realized they weren't silk, despite what the stall-holder
said.

My sister had
that pinched look to her nose and mouth as if she wished she were anywhere else
but Leather Lane. I, on the other hand, had never felt more alive. The street
was a narrow pulsing vein threading through the heart of London. The hum of
noise ebbed and flowed around me, and the very air throbbed with life. Seeing
so many enterprising individuals made me truly believe I was in the world's
most energetic city.

Even so, I
clutched my reticule tightly. I didn't want to lose what little money I had to
a pickpocket, not when there was a pair of pale green gloves to be had for a
bargain back at the glover's stall. Silk or not, they were certainly pretty.

With our arms
hooked together at the elbows, we strolled side by side in search of François
Moreau, greengrocer. Celia had been given his full name by the helpful Chelsea butcher.
We asked the first greengrocer we came to and were directed further along. "Next
to the lamp man," he said. "Can't miss it."

He was right. The
lamp man was visible well before we reached his stall. Strung high up between
two vertical poles attached to either end of his cart was a length of rope. Dozens
of hooks were suspended from it like crooked fingers, each one holding a lamp. They
swung gently in what little breeze managed to find its way into Leather Lane.

Beside the lamp
stall was a small cart with a faded red awning stretching over lettuces, onion,
cabbage, and spring fruits. Behind the cart stood a man with tufts of wiry gray
hair clinging to his bald head above his ears and sprouting out of his bushy
eyebrows like weeds. Deep grooves cut across his forehead and fanned out from the
corners of his eyes. He was old but not ancient, a little bent but still tall
and strongly built across the shoulders. His skin was darker than mine.

"Mr.
Moreau?" Celia asked.

He finished
serving his customer before looking at us. I felt Celia stiffen. It must be
Louis' father. I could tell she recognized him.

He squinted at
her then at me, and the grooves deepened. Then he laughed loudly. He rocked
back on his heels and those big shoulders shook. "You!" He kept
laughing and it wasn't a friendly laugh. It was a crazy one. The old man—my
grandfather—was mad.

"Mr.
Moreau," Celia said in a steely voice she occasionally used on me when I'd
done something to annoy her. "Mr. Moreau, be quiet, and listen to
me."

He stopped
laughing at least. "That his girl? My boy's little girl all grown up? He's
not here, my boy," he said without waiting for her answer. He spoke with a
slight French accent. "He's gone. New South Wales. Long, long gone." There
was no hint of wistfulness, no sadness for the son who'd left him. If Mr.
Moreau had ever cared for Louis, it was in the past, buried alongside his
sanity.

"We're not
looking for Louis," Celia said. "We want to see his daughter."

Mr. Moreau
pointed at me and started laughing again.

Celia's arm
tightened, almost cutting mine in half at the elbow. "I mean his other daughter.
She's about ten years old."

"Ah, now. She."
He wiped his eyes with the back of his gloveless hand. Little barks of laughter
erupted from him as if he couldn't contain them. "She belongs to me, not
Louis. Not Louis' girl at all." He lost the fight to control himself and
burst into raucous laughter again. A customer who'd been inspecting a lettuce
eyed him carefully then backed away. "Your aunt," he said, pointing
at me again and grinning like he'd heard the funniest joke. "Cara is
Louis' sister, your aunt."

Celia's arm
loosened around mine and I heard her draw in a huge, gasping breath as if it
was the first she'd taken since arriving in Leather Lane. "Sister?"
she said weakly. "So...Louis never came back to London?"

Mr. Moreau shook
his head, still grinning. "New South Wales."

Aunt. I had an
aunt. And she was younger than me. I would have to think about that later, but
for now, there were questions that needed answering. "Are there any other
girl children? Yours or Louis'?"

He shrugged and
finally stopped laughing. "Maybe. Maybe Louis got another bastard in New
South Wales." He suddenly reached across his fruit and vegetables and
gripped my chin. His fingers were long, strong. He turned my face to right and
left before Celia smacked his arm and he let go. "Huh," was all he
said.

"Where can
we find Cara?" I asked, rubbing my jaw. His grip hadn't been gentle.

He shrugged
again and began to rearrange the onions to fill a gap left from the last sale. "Here.
There."

"Where does
she live?" Celia said.

"With
me."

"Which is
where?" I could hear my sister's patience thinning with each word. Another
vague answer and it might snap altogether.

His busy fingers
stilled. "Why you want to know? She's just a girl." I thought he was
being protective of his young daughter until he added, "Not important. Just
a girl."

Celia huffed. I
gritted my teeth lest I start arguing with the crazy old fool.

"Where can
we find her?" Celia persisted. "Tell us, Mr. Moreau. We'll give you
money."

I didn't see his
reaction because something had caught my attention. Or rather, someone. A small
figure. A dark-haired girl. I craned my neck to see around the people and
stalls. I let go of Celia and headed up Leather Lane. She called my name. I
beckoned for her to follow.

Then I saw her
again. The girl. My Aunt Cara.

I ran.

Cara looked up
and saw me. She ran off in the opposite direction, weaving between carts and people
like it was something she did all the time. I couldn't keep up and lost her at
a particularly busy intersection. She could have gone anywhere. I silently
cursed.

Celia came up
behind me, puffing. "Was that her?" she asked between breaths.

I nodded. "She's
gone, but at least we know she lives near here. We could ask around or try Mr.
Moreau again."

She made a face.
"Talking to that man any more will turn me as crazy as he is." She
glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Moreau's stall further down Leather Lane. He
was serving a customer and didn't look our way. We were already forgotten.

She sighed. She
looked sadder than I'd seen her in a long time, as if buried memories had been
dug up and laid bare.

"Do you
miss Mama?" I asked gently.

She nodded but
kept her gaze on Mr. Moreau. "Every day."

***

I was woken
early in the morning by Jacob shaking my shoulder. As soon as my sleepy brain
realized it was him, I sat up, alert. If he was visiting me in my bedroom while
I was still asleep, it must be important. Ever since we'd sent the demon back,
he'd avoided intimacy.

"What is
it?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

Morning light
edged the drawn curtains and I could see Jacob quite clearly. He moved to the
foot of my bed, as far away from me as possible, and stared at me like a
startled cat. I expected him to disappear but he didn't. He must have needed to
speak to me.

I sat on my bed
dressed only in my nightgown, the bedcovers pooled around my hips. His gaze roamed
over me, hot and hungry. He licked parted lips. Perhaps he didn't need to speak
to me. Perhaps he just needed to see me.

"Everything's
wrong," he whispered. "Emily." My name was a breath on his lips,
a kiss of air.

I climbed out of
bed and went to him. My stockinged feet made no sound on the carpet. It felt
like a piece of string was tied to my waist and I was being pulled to him. I
couldn't resist, couldn't deviate.

My body slammed
into his, my breasts crushed against his rib cage. He groaned and squeezed his
eyes shut.

Then he opened
them and pushed me away. Hard. I stumbled backward onto the bed.

"Stop,"
he growled. "No more. We agreed I needed to move on and you should live
your life. But I can't if... And you can't..." He shook his head, groaned.

My breath came
in short, shallow gasps. My chest felt tight. "I know that's what we
decided but...but for now we could have each other. Be together. Just for now."

"No!"

"Jacob?"
It came out a whisper, strangled by the unshed tears clogging my throat. "Why—"

"I'm not
interested." He strode to the door. "I've been trying to spare you
this, but...you forced me to say it."

I felt my heart
cave in. It crumbled like an eroded cliff and the pieces tumbled into the
gaping hole left behind. It hurt. God, it hurt. "Wh...what do you mean? You
told me you loved me." I sounded weak and pathetic. Part of me hated that
and was annoyed, but part of me didn't care.

"A week is
a long time up there." He jerked his head at the ceiling. "Things
change. I've changed."

"Changed?"
I shook my head. "Changed how?" How could he stop these feelings? I
couldn't, not in a thousand years.

He looked at me.
Really looked at me. His eyes were cold and I shivered, suddenly chilled. "I'm
dead, Emily. I'm ready to move on. I need to."

I shook my head
again. I didn't understand. Need? Ready? I
needed
him, I was
ready
for him. We could take our relationship further. He was a ghost. There would be
no consequences like pregnancy. I stretched out my arms, but he put both hands
up, halting me.

"Don't,"
he said in that dead, cold way. "Don't do this to yourself."

"I'm not,
you
are." But his words had served to snap me awake. I felt like I'd been
dreaming, but it was no nightmare. It was real. Anger joined the hurt and
confusion and eventually won. It was easier that way, safer. I could cope with
anger better than sadness.

I had come to
terms with Jacob leaving. I had. I wanted him to find peace in the Otherworld
where he could wait for me. But my desire for him could not be switched off so
easily.

I thought he
wanted me just as much.

I was wrong.

"What do
you want, Jacob? Why are you here?" I picked up my shawl from where it lay
on the stool at my dressing table and wrapped it around my shoulders. I clasped
it tightly over my breasts.