A Midwinter Fantasy (5 page)

Because she did not know where to find her friends, she was hesitant to go out into the night and search for them. Her melancholy did her the disservice of supposing them assembled and having a grand time without her. Not that the party could ever again be complete. Not without Jane, their modest Healer, their keen judge of character and quiet recluse, The Guard’s steadfast hope and Rebecca’s dearest friend.

“What is wrong with you, Headmistress?” she chided herself. “Pull yourself together; you’ve an institution to run. You’ve never been unable to perform that venerable duty. Oh, but for the grief and these nerves . . .”

There was just so much to
feel
—something she’d attempted for years to avoid. She needed help sorting out the guilt-ridden, lonely, excitable and confused mess that was her present state of mind. But, to this end, she had no idea where to turn. She would once have gone to Jane, to sensible, stalwart Jane, since she most certainly couldn’t have turned to Alexi, both her friend and her greatest agony. But Jane had gone to the angels, to be eternally by the side of the man she loved; she had no further time for the sorry human lots of those back in London.

Rebecca allowed herself a moment of supposition: What if Vicar Michael Carroll came and called upon her? What if he roused her from melancholy as had been his job for twenty years, confessing again the new shock of his love to her? Yet, she’d ignored everyone who had knocked upon her door, even Michael. She simply couldn’t talk, exist or relate. She did not feel, after everything she had done and what
was left of her soul, that she deserved such adoration. Not by such a kind and wonderful man. Surely there was something better for him than her tired, misguided self.

Tucking herself beneath her covers, shifting but not daring to let go of Marlowe, she shuddered. The air was full of murmuring whispers, like the voices of angels—or of ghosts. After years of dealing with spirits in silence, the whispering did nothing for her nerves. She had faced down demons and was weary from the toil, so if there were indeed supernatural forces breathing down her home, she prayed that these were angels.

Christmas. The holiday was all about angels. On every street corner were carolers; Christmas trees, all the rage since Prince Albert’s use of them, sparkled in windows. Candles adorned sills, welcoming wassailing and friendly company; glitter and firelight beckoned angels to tend the lost shepherds and sheep of London and tell them of miracles.

She’d seen many unbelievable sights over the course of the Grand Work, but she wasn’t sure if any of them had been angels. Sure, she’d seen winged things, and the godlike forces that drove the Grand Work had their angelic qualities, though they remained more of myth and legend. None of them called themselves angels and they didn’t quite act like what she’d expect of one. So she couldn’t say she believed in the creatures—being a practical woman despite how little she found strange—as she couldn’t vouch that she’d encountered any.

Nonetheless, Rebecca had long held a secret hope every Christmas tide that an angel would come to her, just like in the stories, and point to a star of reassurance. It would be a private prophecy, just for her, and one that promised she might one day be able to unlock herself, to feel the sorts of
warmth, joy and celebration that the rest of London so effortlessly benefitted from during this holiday.

Thus, this year, as she had for many previous, though she felt her betraying, tortured heart unworthy, she allowed herself a desperate prayer that a miracle of this season might save her from herself.

“Alexi, darling . . . we cannot go on holiday just yet,” Percy said as her husband took great care to settle her next to him before the fire in his study. As she’d told Michael, he had been achingly tender with her since they’d found out about the pregnancy.

Her husband frowned. “What do you mean? What on earth could possibly be more pressing than spending a quiet week lounging about with me, indulging me, loving me . . .” He traced a finger down her cheek, down her neck toward her bosom, following the line of her dress and sliding it aside.

Percy sighed in delight. “Nothing at all, husband, could be more pressing,” she murmured, taking his fingers and bringing them to her lips. “And we shall go, I promise, but I’m needed here for a bit. Not for long, but I must help Michael have a merry Christmas.” Alexi opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped him. “You and I will go away, as we’ve planned. We’ll spend Christmas just the two of us, but there’s work to be done.”

“Christmas is not even a week hence!” Alexi said with a slight whine.

Percy smiled. “Have you learned nothing from Master Dickens? Spirits can work wonders in just one night.”

Alexi raised an eyebrow. “Dickens? Claptrap. Is that what you and they were discussing?”

“It’s their idea.”

“Well, you and the spirits had best wrap up your salvation by Christmas Eve day, when I’ll have you to myself for as long as I please,” he stated, rose and moved to the door. His eyes narrowed, flashing darkly. “And if there’s any thought of you going again into the Whisper-world, I swear to you I will open hell with my bare hands to come collect you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she laughed, used to his zealous protection and knowing just how to defuse it. “But that’s hardly the plan, my love. I’ll be a mere bystander. Someone who can hear spirits should be on hand. Trust me.”

Her husband took a breath. Despite his domineering nature, he was adapting admirably to keeping his voice and his mood tolerably level. “I trust you, Percy, with all my life. In fact, I’ve learned to trust you more than myself . . .” Percy opened her mouth to thank him for the hard-fought praise she well deserved but he continued. “But I don’t trust ghosts. I can’t. You wouldn’t either if you’d seen the same sights and performed the Grand Work for the years the rest of us did. It’s one thing to help a spirit find peace. It’s another to allow one to meddle with your life.”

“Alexi, please.” Her voice was calm and sure. She artfully managed to hold the rose of his love without grasping the thorns. “You must support me in this. You and I have such love between us. It’s possible for all the world to have such passion, and if we are given the opportunity to help soul mates finally come together—”

“You cannot force them to love one another.”

“But they do already!” she argued. “Michael
always
loved Rebecca, and she’s only just now realized it. They simply have to trust it, and themselves. As we shall have to trust Constance, a spirit friend I would trust with any noble life. The pair will also need to procure a hearth of their own; the spirits insist on it. We’ll employ our and Withersby’s fortunes
to that end, I suppose, and make it look like it came from Athens. Oh, Alexi, I want to see those two happy so badly it hurts!” A lump rose in her throat. “In addition, maybe this can alleviate my guilt. Maybe this can be my penance for . . .”

Realizing what she could not bring herself to say, Alexi moved to her side and bent a knee. “Darling, Jane’s death was not your fault!”

Tears fell from her eyes. “I’m not sure I’ll ever believe that. Nor will you ever overcome your own sense of responsibility. I know you.” Her expression brightened suddenly, a hopeful look in her eye. “Oh! Perhaps Jane could help! Do you think she could? If Constance could return . . .”

Alexi only shrugged. They hadn’t seen Jane’s spirit since the night of the final confrontation with Darkness. “Though I’d love to see her, she went towards peace, to the arms of her ghostly love. How could we wish her to linger with us instead?”

“Of course,” Percy murmured. “Perhaps seeing ghosts has spoiled us to the precious fragility of mortal life.”

“Ah, I’ve had too many reminders of the precious fragility of life,” Alexi murmured, kissing her cheek, then bending to kiss her abdomen; the living miracle within. “Having nearly lost all that I’d begun to live for.”

Not wanting to lose himself to sentiment, the stern professor rose and cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed. Do make our friends’ Christmases merry, Percy; do. You’ve such magic about you and I suppose it’s only right that you should share it.” He softly kissed her atop the head, turned on his heel and strolled toward the other room. “Come to bed, though,” he called. “Where magic assuredly awaits.”

It was an irresistible command.

Michael went to the orphanage infirmary in the morning, as was his weekly custom and the duty he’d long ago requested.

As a child, he’d had no idea which vocation would call him. He’d been a strapping lad, strong and energetic, with a zeal for life that family and friends envied and admired. He had supposed he’d be a woodworker like his father, but then came The Guard. As their Heart, there was suddenly too much love, goodness and wonder within him to possibly contain; he’d had to give it to others—as many others as he possibly could—or it would overcome him with its intensity.

The church had been the obvious choice, and he’d pursued a level within the hierarchy that maintained autonomy and a bit of flexibility, so as not to conflict with outside work, his
Grand
Work. The vicar duties of guest preaching, visits to shut-ins, infirmary patients and children of orphanages had quite served his need. Now, however, the Grand Work was gone and Michael feared for his faith. They’d been inextricably tied.

Of course, duty was duty, and he could hardly explain to his superiors that he was suddenly unfit for his position; the guiding force he’d lost had been an ancient power that in the church’s eyes might appear more than a bit pagan. He doubted the children would care even if he was pagan, and he hoped they wouldn’t notice any difference. He still loved them.

Little Charlie’s condition had worsened overnight, and the
nurse who ushered Michael into his tiny room looked grim. Wan light and a worn screen separated the boy from a comatose girl opposite who was wasting away. Michael was ever surprised the girl stayed dreaming, and he prayed those fluttering eyelids housed glorious visions: angels, beauty and joy, all the things little girls ought to be imagining in their blessed young lives.

Charlie’s sickly face brightened. “Hello, Father!” The children all called him “Father” here, rather than Vicar, and Michael let them use the more Catholic term. He rather liked the familiarity of it, as hearing the word eased the ache of not having children of his own.

“Hello, Sir Charles. I was told you’ve been fiercely battling a most vile dragon, and I am here to commend you for your bravery!” He looked down at the fine buttons on the lower cuffs of his coat and surreptitiously plucked one free, placing it in the palm of the child. “Your medal of honour, sir. The Queen herself has heard of your service to the Crown, and she declares that even the great St. George holds you in highest esteem.”

Charlie’s grin took up his entire face, and his shaking yellow hands clutched the proffered button. He gave a salute. “Thank you, my lord Carroll. I accept this honour with a grateful heart and pledge my life to more such battles.” He spoke cheerfully, as if the wheeze in his lungs were no trouble at all, nor the cough that rattled his frame. Michael always found it hard to keep tears at bay here in the sickroom of the orphanage, and it was never so hard as now. He steeled himself to remain strong.

Not that Charlie was frightened, as were many of the other wards; the boy was shockingly insightful, uncannily intelligent and calm. He cocked his head to the side, and Michael suddenly felt himself being examined much in same the way
Mrs. Rychman had examined him the day prior. It was disconcerting.

His discomfiture was interrupted. The air around him grew frigid, and one by one ghosts wafted through the modest brick walls and hovered behind Charlie’s head. Michael’s heart sank and tears welled up. Surely these spirits came to collect the boy. How God could take such a gifted soul escaped him, unless He was covetous and wanted such dearness closer . . .

Charlie eyed him with a dawning realization. “Oh! You can see them, too, then.”

Michael hesitated. It wasn’t something he admitted in public, his ability to see ghosts; it was a Guard’s pledge to keep skills secret. Though their power over spirits was revoked, the ability to see them was not. He could see no harm in admitting so with this child. It would even be a point of commiseration. He nodded, a tear spilling onto his cheek.

“Don’t cry, Father, it’s not for me that they’ve come. It’s for you. It seems
you’re
the one in need of caretaking this day. That’s what they said.”

Michael’s tears vanished and his heart quickened. “You can
hear
them, child?”

The boy shrugged. “Those of us who live in the shadow of death can often hear the whispers of those who have gone before us. Yes, we’ve been conversing, sometimes about them, sometimes about me. But today they’ve been talking about you. About your doubt.” Charlie screwed up his face and continued. “How can
you
doubt, Father? You’re the kindest man I know. You’re what I imagine angels to be like. Archangels, even. Like your namesake. Doubting does not suit you, Father. I beg you, be done with it.”

Michael fought off shame. “Would it were that easy, my child, to slay my dragons.”

Charlie smiled sadly. “I wish I could give you the peace the spirits say you crave. But they’ll help you. Do let them, Father. They mean no harm.”

The boy shuddered violently, the ghosts’ cool draft was having an effect, and Michael rushed to stoke the fire in the meagre hearth. Turning to address the spectres, he said, “Leave the child be. Come to me alone, if and when you will,” he commanded sternly.

The spirits vanished, nodding.

Charlie was looking at him strangely. “That story you always tell,” the boy breathed, narrowing his eyes in thoughtful concentration, “about the princess and her devoted knight. In every adventure they battle the devil himself, and then the knight returns the princess to her attic loft where she sits alone. You’ve told me the moral of these adventures is perseverance against forces that would take us under, and that I must be such a knight and must struggle onward to find my own princess to cherish, as all good men should. But . . . it’s you who’s the knight in these stories, isn’t it? Who’s the princess, Father? Why doesn’t she accept you? And, must you always part ways? How can that be a happy ending?”