Alexander
As a general rule, Alexander found everything suspicious. Like, why didn’t women’s clothes have pockets? And why did most mammals walk on four legs while humans used only two? And especially why did we see only one side of the moon? What was the other side trying to hide?
And then there was Rochester, who did suspicious things all the time. And Mason, who skulked about the house in the middle of the night. What was their relationship? Their greeting had been so odd and uncomfortable, as though the two men didn’t agree on their shared history. And after dinner, Mason had tried to pull Rochester aside, but the latter just hissed gruffly, “She’s not here. You should go home.”
That wasn’t the sort of warm friendship Mason had indicated when he’d arrived.
Then, when Mason and Rochester separated, Mason caught Alexander’s eye and saw he’d witnessed the exchange. “Family business,” he muttered, frowning, but he seemed more confused and hurt than anything.
Family business probably wasn’t Alexander’s business, but what did that mean about Mason and Rochester’s relationship?
All of this might have been Alexander’s suspicious nature; as we said, he found everything worth raising an eyebrow at. Nevertheless, it was enough to keep him up a second night in a row. (That and the fact that he hadn’t worn his mask in more than a week. The lack of his mask made him feel exposed. Practically naked.)
On the other side of the room, Branwell snorted in his sleep, groaned, and turned over.
Resolved to find answers, Alexander dressed and started out of the room, only to realize Branwell was suddenly standing in the doorway. Fully clothed.
“What are we doing?” asked the apprentice.
“Snooping.”
“I love snooping.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m coming along.” Without waiting for an invitation, Branwell was out the door with Alexander.
It would have been better, he thought, if he had to have “help,” if that help could have come from Miss Brontë; the young lady had proved her cleverness in getting them in to Thornfield Hall, though tonight she’d seemed to avoid him before dinner, and during dinner, and then when he tried to corner her after dinner, she wanted to talk about the tomato soup. But it wouldn’t have been proper, him sneaking around the house with a young lady. He shuddered to imagine the talk.
“Who are we snooping on?” inquired Branwell as they slipped through the hall.
“You should have asked before you decided to join.”
“I didn’t say I’d rescind the offer of help. I was just asking for details.”
“Rochester.”
Branwell gave a little hop. “I can’t wait.”
Shortly, they reached Rochester’s study, and Branwell stood watch while Alexander picked the lock with his penknife. At first glance, they found . . . everything in perfect order. No strange memory-altering artifacts. No device that removed the ability to speak French.
“What are you looking for?” Branwell at least had the presence of mind to keep his voice low.
“Anything that tells me about his relationship to my father, or why Mr. Mason is here and behaving so squirrely.”
“Squirrely, sir?”
“It’s a word, Branwell.”
“I know, but it’s not one I thought you’d use.”
“There are lots of squirrels in London. I’m familiar with how they behave. And Mason is behaving like a squirrel.”
Branwell nodded. “What about Rochester? Are you turning him into an animal as well?”
Alexander clenched his jaw. Really, he would have preferred to come in here alone, if Branwell was going to interrogate him like this.
“Maybe he’s not really a bad chap and you just don’t like him because you don’t like people,” Branwell mused as he dragged his finger over the spines of books on a shelf.
“That’s not true. I like plenty of people.” Alexander was focused on the large mahogany desk, opening drawers and flipping through papers.
“Who do you like?” Branwell asked. “Name one person.”
Alexander had to think about that. There was Wellington, a man he deeply respected, though respecting someone wasn’t the same as liking them, he supposed; he didn’t know Wellington well enough on a personal level to say he liked the man, just that he didn’t dislike the man.
And, well, there was . . .
“Ah!” In searching through the drawers, Alexander had come across a false back. He removed the pens and jars of ink from the front, then used his penknife to open the secret compartment. It was filled with old letters, the papers yellowed with age.
“What is it?” Branwell abandoned his search of the bookshelves and brought his lamp close. “Did you find something incriminating?”
Alexander riffled through the pages, skimming names and dates. He removed several of them, long enough to glance over the text. “Most of these are about Rochester’s late wife,” he said. “Her illness, treatments, something about a woman named Grace Poole. Nothing that would be remotely useful for us to know.”
But then he paused. On one of the letters in the back, a familiar name jumped out: his father’s.
“Who’s this?” Branwell asked. “Do you know him?”
“No one of consequence,” Alexander muttered. “This is nothing. There’s nothing here.”
Branwell frowned. “You seem really upset about something that’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry, Branwell. You should go back to bed.”
“So I helped you break into Rochester’s study for nothing?”
“I’m afraid so.” Alexander’s hands were shaking as he stuffed the letter into his pocket. Branwell could see it, surely, but the assistant didn’t comment. Instead, the boy just left the study with a concerned frown on his face.
Finally, Alexander was alone in the room. He swallowed, then traced a finger across the bottom of the letter where the name N. Bell had been carefully signed. That was his father’s signature. There were so few items of his father’s left after the explosion, and here was a letter in his own hand.
He swayed a little, then leaned on the side of the desk. The letter begged to be read, but if he looked at it now, there would be nothing new for Alexander to have. No more anticipation.
He closed his eyes and breathed, trying to calm himself. He’d suspected something strange about Rochester. That was why he’d sneaked into a gentleman’s study and riffled through his desk.
But memories were persistent, funny things. They lifted up at the most inconvenient times.
Alexander’s father had been part of the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits, years and years ago, back during King George III’s reign. He’d worked in the treasury, not as an agent; as far as Alexander knew, his father hadn’t been able to see ghosts. But he’d believed, and he’d done his part to improve the lives of citizens of England.
The day his father died was seared into his memory. He’d replayed it in his mind for years, polishing it until he felt he could recall every detail. Wellington had warned him that some of those details might be fantasies. He’d been so young. How could anyone remember everything exactly? But Alexander knew the truth. He’d heard the argument between the killer and his father. He’d felt his father’s anger as the killer left the house in a fury. And he remembered the impacts of his footfalls as he, a young boy, went racing after the killer.
Then. The explosion.
At that moment, the man had turned. And he’d looked triumphant.
And while the killer had watched Alexander’s house explode, and his father’s life extinguish within, Alexander had gone racing back, as though he could save him.
He’d returned to the house, coughing at the smoke, ashes stinging his eyes.
It was there he’d died.
For a moment.
That was when Wellington had found him and rushed him to a doctor. He’d breathed in too much smoke, that was all, and Alexander had been (physically) fine after that. But he’d died. Briefly.
That had been the trigger. After that, he’d been able to see ghosts.
But not his father’s.
And now Alexander held this letter from his father. To Rochester. It was dated mere weeks before the explosion.
He took a deep breath and began to read.
My dear friend Rochester, the letter began.
Alexander had been right; his father had known Mr. Rochester. They’d been friends. Not just acquaintances or passingly friendly, but dear.
The beginning of the letter was all formalities, updating Rochester on the activities in London and their mutual acquaintances. There was even a note about Alexander—My son is full of energy and curiosity. I fear I won’t be able to keep up with him—which Alexander read over and over, burning the words into his heart. He wanted to remember forever some of the last thoughts his father had about him.
Then: I know you and I have not agreed in the past about what to do about AW, but I’d still like to avoid violence if we can. We should meet in person to discuss how we might save the Society and bring this travesty to an end.
Alexander read the letter five more times. A hundred more times. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place. Rochester had come to London to see Alexander’s father. To discuss something about the Society. To avoid violence.
But there had been violence. The explosion.
Perhaps the disagreement had been stronger than his father had realized.
What if his father had died at the hands of Edward Rochester?