Worlds of Ink and Shadow (27 page)

“Old Tom, Old Tom,” she said. “I wish to make a bargain.”

CHARLOTTE

C
HARLOTTE HAD THOUGHT THEY WERE
heading to the Tower of All Nations, but Zamorna stopped at a nondescript door along the avenue. The crowd behind them had grown. Many held lanterns, since night had fallen and even the stars were leaving the sky.

The building in front of Charlotte was identical to many others they had passed. She was sure she'd never set a story here. These places were simply pieces of stage setting for people to go by on their way to the tower. She was reminded of the white room she used to make for Emily and Anne. A blank. Something she'd never bothered to invest with any detail.

“I demand to know what you intend!” Branwell shouted. “You
will not treat your gods in this manner!” Charlotte couldn't help but love his puffed-up bravado at that moment.

Emily, in a dress that seemed to be drenched in gore, was staring at Rogue like a vengeful goddess, and she was having some effect. He tugged nervously at his hair and wouldn't meet her gaze.

Zamorna moved to face the crowd, leaving the three Brontës to be held by Rogue's cutthroats.

“None of us can truly understand the Genii,” he shouted. “None of us can imagine what they fear.”

“Drown 'em!” someone yelled.

“Burning oil!” shouted someone else. “They'll fear that!”

Charlotte took hold of Branwell's shoulder to steady herself. She searched the faces around her for kindness or sympathy, but found none, which seemed terribly unfair.
I've loved you all
, she wanted to tell them, but she was afraid this might be met with violence.

S'Death stood at the front of the mob, smiling fiendishly, clearly delighted by this turn of events. She amended her previous thought: She had never loved
him
. His grin widened as she caught his eye, and he seemed about to say something, but then he cocked his head. Had someone called his name? The complete shift in his attention reminded her of Snowflake when he heard a mouse in the grass. A moment later he was speeding off down the street, and Charlotte found herself glad he wouldn't be there to witness her end—whatever that end might be.

“Beyond this door is the worst place that the Genii can imagine,” Zamorna said.

“And where's that, exactly?” asked Rogue, who was standing a bit to the side, arms crossed, out of the path of Emily's dagger stare.

Zamorna smiled grimly. “No idea.”

Charlotte began to understand.

“Why, Duke, that is clever,” Rogue said.

“Don't think, Charlotte,” Branwell hissed beside her. “Don't think about anything.”

But the worst place Charlotte could imagine was already taking shape in her mind.

“Don't,” she pleaded. “Don't make me go in there.”

“Were you laughing at me all these years, brother?” Zamorna asked, his face lined with sorrow. “Was I your clown, my trials and tribulations nothing but entertainment?” His famous basilisk eyes seemed to sear into her. She noticed he still had a white rose petal caught in his hair from the coronation, and she longed to reach out and brush it away.

“It was my favorite thing,” she said, “my very favorite thing, to forget myself with you, to be completely lost in the scene.”

“May you be lost again,” he said. He turned the knob of the door and pushed it open. Rogue stepped up and took her roughly by the arm.

“
She went through the door and found nothing unusual inside
,”
Charlotte said, her voice high and tight as she was pushed toward the door. “
Only an empty room. Only an empty room.
”

“It's too late,” she heard Emily say behind her, voice bleak. “We all know what's in there.”

“Charlotte!” someone said in her ear. “Charlotte, can you hear me?”

She turned, but no one was there. It was cold, so cold that she could see her breath in front of her, and she shivered in her thin frock and pinafore. She was eight years old, standing in a long room with a low ceiling, and she was very hungry. In front of her, rows of neatly made beds lined the walls—neatly made except for one.

“Maria,” she cried, running over. “Maria, get up!”

With difficulty, Charlotte's eleven-year-old sister raised herself to a sitting position. “Hello, dear one. Is it morning?”

“You know it is, Maria. All three bells have gone. You must get dressed.” Charlotte pulled the sheet away from her sister's body.

“Please, dear. I'm too ill,” Maria said, drawing it up again.

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. “For heaven's sake, Maria. Don't do this again. You can't be sick—your cheeks are too rosy.”

But Maria lay back down, and Charlotte let out a little moan of frustration. At home Maria had been considered very capable; she could read at four, recite poetry at six, and speak French at eight. It wasn't until they came to school that Charlotte began to
see her many flaws. She was always being scolded for her untidiness and her poor spelling and her unladylike handwriting. All the accomplishments Papa had praised her for seemed unimportant to the teachers at Clergy Daughters'. In fact, Maria was by far the most unsatisfactory student here.

“Please,” Charlotte said. “We shall all be punished for your laziness if you do not get up, and I'm so hungry.”

“Tell Miss Evans that I am ill,” Maria said. “She is kind. She will understand.”

Charlotte began to tear up now. Miss Evans might be kind, but she had little authority over the other teachers. “I can't believe how selfish you are! You know I couldn't eat the beef last night because it was spoiled, and if we are punished this morning, it will mean no breakfast!”

Maria sighed. “Hush,” she said. She sat up again and slowly, very slowly, swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I'm getting up. See?” She sat for a moment breathing heavily. “And you will have my porridge this morning. If you share it with Emily.”

“Emily doesn't need it,” Charlotte said with disgust. Emily was the youngest at the school and so pretty with her curls and turned-up nose—the school pet. If she asked Cook for more porridge, she would probably get it. If Charlotte asked, she'd get her hand smacked for greediness.

Maria pushed herself off the bed and into a standing position. “Get my frock and pinny, dear. And a hairbrush, if you please.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. Her sister smelled both rotten and sweet, like bad fruit—but it was too much trouble to get her to wash, and by now the water in the basins would have been used by countless other girls. She opened the box at the foot of the bed where Maria kept her few belongings, pulling out a purple stuff frock, a white pinafore, and Maria's underthings.

She tried to hand them to her sister, but Maria wouldn't take them and didn't seem to see. There was something wrong with her balance; she seemed to sway like a sapling in a wind.

“For heaven's sake,” Charlotte said, practically frantic now. “Will I have to dress you?”

And then Maria coughed.

It was a horrible, painful cough that seemed to rattle up from hell, shaking Maria's whole body. It didn't seem to end.

“Oh,” Charlotte said.

Her sister doubled over, holding onto the edge of the bed to keep from falling, coughing and coughing. Charlotte could see the bumps of her bony spine poking through her shift. How thin she had become—a skeleton.

“Maria,” Charlotte whispered. “There's blood on the sheet. You coughed blood.”

Maria stared at the stain but didn't seem to see it.

“We must write to Papa.”

“It's only a cold,” Maria said, straightening slowly. “And this is the only school Papa can afford. We must be educated.”

“If our father knew what it was like here, perhaps he'd say it was better to be stupid.”

“No,” Maria said. “This is the trial that God has given us. Besides”—she lowered her voice—“if we did write, I think they would only confiscate our letters.”

“Brontë!” said a sharp voice from the doorway. “Late again, I see.”

It
would
be Miss Andrews, Charlotte thought. She was by far the most heartless teacher at Clergy Daughters'.

“Forgive me, Miss,” Maria said. “I'm getting ready now.”

Charlotte quickly pushed the purple frock over Maria's head, not bothering to remove her night shift, then she fetched the hairbrush. Maria stood docilely, allowing Charlotte to tidy her hair as if she were a little child.

“I see the Duchess has found a servant to dress her,” Miss Andrews said. Charlotte noticed she was carrying the birch rod she often used to discipline her students.

“Please, Miss!” Charlotte said. “My sister couldn't help being late. She is very ill.”

“We struggle through adversity here,” Miss Andrews said. “We do not cow to it. Please stand in the center of the room, Brontë.”

“No!” Charlotte cried. “Tell her, Maria.” But Maria had pushed herself off the bed and was shuffling to the middle of the room.

“Charlotte! Come away.” Her sister Elizabeth beckoned from the door. “Come! There's nothing we can do.” Little Emily was beside her, looking blankly at the window, as if there were something far more interesting outside.

Maria bent down into a low crouch, her back to Miss Andrews.

“Oh, Elizabeth! It's wrong!” Charlotte said. She desperately wanted to throw herself at the teacher, but she was too afraid of being beaten herself.

“Come to breakfast, Charlotte.”

Charlotte backed toward her sisters, turning her face away as the first blow fell across Maria's back. Emily showed no reaction. Charlotte envied that. She wished she could simply depart, cut whatever fine string held her to reality and get lost in a dream that way.

The sound of another blow made her wince. Elizabeth put a hand on Charlotte's arm to lead them away, but as they went through the door, Charlotte heard a sound that was even worse than the
smack, smack
of the rod. Someone was laughing.

She wheeled around, enraged at Miss Andrews, but it wasn't she.

It was Maria, who held her sides and emitted a low, slow “ha . . . ha . . . ha,” so divorced from any merriment that it could hardly be called laughing at all.

There was something awful in the sound. It was broken and hysterical. There was no hope in it. Charlotte turned away quickly, already telling herself that what she had heard could not
have been real. She'd imagined it. Maria hadn't laughed. Who could laugh at such a moment?

On the stairway, students either smirked or gave them looks of sympathy, but no one spoke to them as they passed. The unfortunate Brontë family was a target of too much attention from Miss Andrews, and no one dared to be their friend. Elizabeth wiped away a tear. She'd been so pretty a few months ago, as pretty as Emily, but now she looked pinched and tired. Her cheeks were very pink, too, Charlotte noticed, but underneath, the skin was papery, stretched too tight over the bones of her face.

Charlotte felt her heart skip a beat. “Lizzy,” she asked softly. “Are you ill, too?”

“Charlotte!” someone said in her ear. “Charlotte, can you hear me?”

And then Charlotte found herself alone. She had reached the bottom of the stairs and should have been at the entrance to the dining hall, but instead of tables, she saw a long, gray room with neatly made beds lining the walls. It was the dormitory, and her sister Maria was sleeping late again.

“Maria,” she cried, running over. “Maria, get up!”

With difficulty, Charlotte's older sister raised herself to a sitting position. “Hello, dear one. Is it morning?”

“You know it is, Maria. All three bells have gone . . .” Charlotte frowned. Had she said that before? “You . . . you must get dressed.”

Maria lay back down. “Tell Miss Evans that I am ill. She is kind. She will understand.”

“I can't believe how . . . how selfish . . .” Charlotte couldn't go on. Her sister wasn't selfish; she was ill. In a week she would be sent home. Not long after, she would be dead. “Oh, Maria.” She caressed her sister's cheek, felt how hot it was. If only she had felt it then. But wait. What was then and what was now?

“Charlotte!” someone called. “Listen to my voice!” She turned but could see no one.

Maria raised herself with difficulty. “Hush. I'm getting up. See?” She sat perched on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily. “And you will have my porridge this morning. If you share it with Emily.”

“Don't,” Charlotte pleaded. “Stay in bed. You must rest—you must!” She cast her gaze around the room, looking for help, and was surprised to find that she wasn't alone. A dim figure stood watching from the foot of the bed.

“Branwell?” she asked, squinting.

The figure became clearer, resolving itself into a boy. It
was
him. For a single moment, all Charlotte felt was delight. Her brother had come. He was going to save them all. And then another feeling overtook her gladness like a tidal wave overtaking a tiny ship. Anger.

“You can see me?” Branwell said. He ran to her, his face wet with tears.

“What are you doing here?” she asked coldly. She began to fully realize where she was—in Verdopolis still, beyond the door that Zamorna pushed her into. She had lost herself. “You were never at Clergy Daughters' School. This isn't the worst place you can imagine.”

He wiped his eyes. “Isn't it?” His words were choked with feeling, but Charlotte remained unmoved.

She looked down at her frock and pinafore and tightened her fists, willing her clothes and body to change back to their true form. She stayed the same. If there was any body she hated worse than her own, it was this one. Her younger body. Her hungry body.

“How long have we been here?” she asked. “How many times have I replayed this scene?”