Worlds of Ink and Shadow (28 page)

“Five? Six, perhaps? I don't know.”

“And you were watching all along?”

“I tried to shake you,” he insisted. “I tried to pull the stick out of that woman's hand, but there was nothing . . . I even tried to shield Maria with my own body, but the stick seemed to go right through me, and she was beaten just the same, every time.”

Maria was standing now and began to cough. They both winced and stepped away. Branwell put his hands over his ears. “I couldn't do anything. I can't do anything. It just goes on and on. How can we stop it?”

“We, we, we,” Charlotte said. “There is no we. Must you even
steal my nightmares? You never saw any of this. You never saw Maria sicken, get worse every day . . .”

“I saw her when she came home!” Branwell said. “I saw her die. I saw them both die.” He took a deep, gulping breath. “It was awful for both of us. Why are you so angry with me?”

“This is the trial that God has given us,” Maria murmured.

The rage inside Charlotte crested to a peak. “I'm angry because Papa and Aunt Branwell never would have sent you here,” she shouted. “Not to a charity school. Not the precious boy.”

“I know that,” Branwell said, his voice ragged. “I've always known that. Don't you think that might be hard to live with?”

Charlotte pressed her lips together, moved in spite of herself by the pain on her brother's face.

“This is the place where my sisters went and came back to die. I don't have to have been here for it to be the worst place I can imagine,” he said.

“Brontë! Late again, I see.”

Charlotte and Branwell both turned to glare at the figure in the doorway.

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

“I can't bear to see her beaten again,” Branwell said. “I can't bear to hear that laugh.”

“I know, I know, but how can we stop it? This has already happened.” She went to help Maria, who was struggling with her frock. “Look at her. She's so young. We had an eleven-year-old for a mother.”

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

“What's wrong with you?” Charlotte cried at Miss Andrews. “We were children! You were meant to protect us!”

“Charlotte! Come away,” said Elizabeth from the door.

Charlotte's eyes fell on the little girl beside her. “Emily?” Was that her, the real Emily, trapped here just as she and Branwell were? It must be. Charlotte came forward cautiously, as if approaching something wild. “Come back now, Emily,” she whispered. “We need you.”

Emily's mouth was open slightly, and Charlotte could see she had a tooth out. At six, she'd been among the youngest girls at Clergy Daughters'. Charlotte had always believed that she'd been spoiled at school, that she hadn't struggled the way Charlotte had, but this was contradicted by the thinness of her arms and the dullness of her eyes.

“Emily, can you hear me?” Charlotte said. Her sister's gaze was locked on the little square of window. “What are you thinking about, my dear?”

Emily turned away from her daydream, slow as a diver coming up from great depths. She blinked. For a moment Charlotte thought she hadn't heard, but then she said, “I'm thinking that if we only had a rabid dog for a pet, we could make him come and . . . and tear out Miss Andrews's eyes!”

“Oh.”

“Charlotte!” Branwell called.

Maria had gone to the middle of the room and was bending down for her beating. Branwell was beside her with his arms around her. Miss Andrews lifted her cane.

“
Stop!
” Charlotte shouted. “
This all happened long ago, and my sisters are dead.
”

The scene stopped. The pair were frozen, Miss Andrews's stick arrested just before it came down. Charlotte circled them—her sister cowering, Miss Andrews with a cruel smile upon her face. Branwell had his eyes squeezed shut, but he opened them when Charlotte put a hand upon his shoulder.

“Help me,” she said. “I'm not tall enough.”

At her direction, Branwell reached up, took the birch rod out of Miss Andrews's hands, and handed it to Charlotte.

She broke it with a snap across her knee.

ANNE

N
O ONE HAD SEEN ANNE YET. SHE WAS SITTING
on one of the low beds, hands folded in her lap. She had not attended the Clergy Daughters' School at Cowan Bridge—she'd been too young—but she was surprised by how well the scene before her matched the picture in her mind. Bare walls. A dingy sky seen through a tiny window. And so cold. No one seemed to be dressed for the temperature—not her siblings, who were their proper selves again, and not the teacher, who stood like a statue in the center of the room, empty hands lifted above her head, a motionless child hunched before her.

Tentatively, Charlotte held out her hand, palm up. Nothing happened.

“Blast,” said Branwell.

“You might have power over the story again,” Anne said, “but
he
controls the doors.”

Her siblings turned as one. She wished she couldn't read their faces so well, because the emotions that flickered across them—anger, sorrow, disbelief—threatened to make her lose her nerve.

I must wear a mask
, she thought,
a mask of someone who is capable of saying what needs to be said
.

“Yes, I am here,” she said curtly. “I had to come.”

Charlotte crossed to her. “You made a bargain? How foolish! Now you are trapped just as we are.”

“But
why
are you trapped, Charlotte?” Anne asked. She looked from one sibling to another in turn as they drew around her. “Think, all of you. If you are unable to cross back home, then Old Tom doesn't get his payment, so why hasn't he made a door for you?”

Charlotte hesitated. Emily and Branwell shared a puzzled glance.

“He wants more,” Charlotte said finally. “He wants a higher price.”

Anne nodded. “I think he's worried that we'll never come again, so he's going to try to get all he can.” She looked calmly into her elder sister's gray eyes. “Is it your intention to come again?” She didn't like the answer she saw.

“I must summon him,” Charlotte said, ignoring the question and holding out her hand, “if I'm able. I must offer him something—”

“Don't!” said Anne. She leapt up and grasped her sister's hand. “Before we face him, we must be ready. Charlotte, listen to me very carefully. We must never come back here. We must arrange it so we never have to cross again.”

Charlotte shook her head. “It's impossible now. I failed. I couldn't kill them.”

“It's not impossible!” Anne said, her voice raising in pitch. “It can't be.”

“They'll haunt us—” Emily began.

“Stop!” Anne shouted. “Listen to me, all of you. There are things you need to hear.”
Braver, better Anne
, she reminded herself. “And our allies need to hear them, too.”

“Our allies?” Branwell asked.

“We'll need help if we're to face Old Tom.” Before they could question her further, she cleared her throat and said:

“Alexander Rogue, Earl of Northangerland, and Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Zamorna, fearing the end of Verdopolis, the Glasstown Confederacy, and the world, began to waver in their decision to dispatch the Genii. They resolved to rescue their makers from whatever terrible fate had befallen them, and so, full of apprehension, entered the mysterious door.”

Anne's three siblings stared at her, then slowly turned their heads toward the narrow hallway, where two figures were indeed approaching. Zamorna cast his eyes about in wonder as he entered the room.

“It's uncanny, I'll give you that,” Rogue said, giving Miss
Andrews a poke. “But is this the worst you can imagine? I thought we were sending you to the pits of hell.” He rubbed his hands together. “Too cold for that, though.”

“The pits of hell?” Emily said sharply. “And it took you this long to come for me?” Anne noticed that although she was now wearing her Haworth dress, Emily's hair was still in braided loops and scarlet bows.

Rogue drew himself up. “I'm not the rescuing sort.”

“I don't understand,” Zamorna said. “I see Thornton and my two cousins—whom I've been led to believe are Genii—but where is my brother, Charles?”

“I am the fourth Genius,” Charlotte said, meeting his eye.

Zamorna gave a start of recognition. “But I know you,” he said, taking a step closer. “I've imagined you.” For a moment they held each other's gaze. A blush rose up Charlotte's neck.

“Take care,” Rogue said, laying a hand on his arm. “Remember who they are.”

“Yes.” Zamorna's look hardened to a scowl, and Charlotte cast her eyes to the floor. “We may have come to save you, Genii, but you are not forgiven. Look at me still stained with my wife's blood. I cannot forget . . .” He stopped. His eyes had fallen on the still figure of Maria. “What is this?” He circled the strange tableau. “Is it Mary Henrietta I see? Is she a child?” His voice turned angry. “Who is this woman who threatens her?”

“Calm yourself,” Charlotte said. “She is . . . a villain from another story.”

Zamorna shook his head, still frowning at Miss Andrews. “When I crossed that threshold, I imagined many villains to vanquish, many trials to overcome, but this one poses no threat.”

“No,” said Charlotte. “Not anymore.”

Anne gave a cough. “The two of you might help us in another way.” All eyes turned to her again, and she fought to control her nerves. “That's why I've called you here.” She moved back to one of the beds and sat down. “Rogue, if you will.” She gestured to the bed opposite, inviting him to sit also.

You're doing well
, she told herself.
Your mask is holding. Brisk, competent Anne.

Rogue sat, the bed creaking. “You've called me, have you?” He didn't seem to like the suggestion that his presence here wasn't entirely his own idea.

Emily, Branwell, and Zamorna gathered around, while Charlotte perched next to Anne. The weight of all their attention made her courage flag. She looked up at Rogue, but she realized it was no longer easier to speak to him or to Zamorna than it was to speak to anyone else. They were real people to her now.

“You don't like me much, I think,” Rogue said.

“No. I don't.”

He smiled, amused by this response. “You should. We share a loved one, you and I.” He gestured for Emily to sit down next to him, which she did with a lack of hesitation Anne found vexing.

“I may be brutal,” Rogue said, putting a hand on Emily's knee, “but my one redeeming quality is that I'd never harm her.”

“In the real world,” Anne shot back, “I'm not sure brutal people can draw such clear demarcations.”

“I'm not from the real world.”

“Thank heaven for that.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, and she narrowed her eyes right back at him, her annoyance making her brave. How could Emily see anything romantic in that brooding frown, those gleaming teeth?

“You bit someone,” she said. “Do you remember that?”

His guilty look told her that he did. Rogue took a moment to answer, shifting to face Emily as he spoke. “Only vaguely. It was like a dream. A dream of death. You had abandoned me. I had no world, no story. There was a light . . .”

“A door,” Emily said. “That was Old Tom opening a door, I think.”

“I remember little else except the desire to find you.” He smiled, and Emily sighed up at him.

Anne frowned at Charlotte, hoping her elder sister would say something about the warm looks they were exchanging, but Charlotte's attention was on Zamorna.

“Who is Old Tom?” Zamorna asked.

“We hardly know,” Charlotte replied. “He creates magical doors, and we believe he opened one for Rogue to enter into our world. Now he's trapped us here in yours.”

“Rogue has visited the world of the gods?” Zamorna said, amazed. “Could I do that?”

“We don't know for certain, but I believe you could now.”

Anne tried to steer the conversation back to the plan she had begun to form when she was in the children's study. “Rogue, you say you plagued us because you had no world, no story.” She looked around at her siblings. “But isn't that the solution? Once we get home, couldn't we write him a world without crossing over ourselves?”

Branwell had been leaning on the wooden box at the end of Anne and Charlotte's bed, but now he stepped in closer, excitement on his face. “Keep Verdopolis alive, but cheat Old Tom out of any further payments—is that what you mean?”

“Exactly!” said Anne. She had thought this the answer to everything, but the looks on her siblings' faces told her they didn't agree. Even Branwell's smile was beginning to fall.

“Old Tom wouldn't stand for that,” Charlotte said. “If we're not crossing over, he'd still open doors for our characters to cross to our world. What would prevent Rogue and Zamorna and all the others from plaguing us then?”

“I would prevent it!” Zamorna cried. “I have no desire to plague anyone.”

“I'm sure that Mary Henrietta, if she were here, would say the same,” Charlotte said, “and yet she haunted me in a terrible way. I think she couldn't help it.”

“Charlotte's right,” Branwell said.

“No!” Anne said. “You are giving up too quickly. Your characters are not the true enemy. You must make some pact with
them, some agreement. If you tell their stories fully, if you make them truly live on the page, perhaps they will not cross so often or so dangerously. Don't you see? You must try, at any rate.” She could tell by the way her siblings failed to meet her eye that they were not convinced.