Alexander
Alexander existed in pure agony for what felt like days. Weeks. Months. The cut on his head throbbed in time with his shuddering heartbeat, slowing as blood flowed out and out, into the dirty river.
Vaguely, in a faraway sense, he knew he had to climb out of the water. That he would drown if he slipped off the carriage door he’d managed to grab. It had been a frantic scramble as he’d heaved the top part of his body onto it, and already, his shirtsleeves were shredded from the ragged wood edges, and splinters dug into his cheek and neck where they pressed against the damp wood.
Still, he could feel himself slipping, gravity dragging him deeper into the river. Objects bumped against his legs and feet. Trash tangled around his limbs, drawing him off the carriage door. But when he tried to kick, to gain just a little momentum and haul himself farther out of the water, his body refused to obey. Whether that was from the cold or his body’s slow betrayal, it was hard to tell.
I need to climb onto the bank, he thought, but his mind was so sluggish that the thought could hardly form at all. I need to go after Wellington. I need to find Miss Brontë and Miss Eyre.
But his body did not respond.
He floated on the door until the force of the earth, the river, and all the debris finally succeeded in drawing him down far enough that the door tipped.
And he slipped under.
“Welcome,” whispered the ghosts who’d drowned here.
What Alexander did not see—could not see—were their eyeless forms, the shriveled echoes of their skin picked to shreds by fish. They reached for him, translucent fingers drifting through his ribs and face.
He didn’t see them because he’d fallen unconscious again, but even without his guidance, his body fought for survival. His lungs held fast against the urge to breathe in. His mouth pressed tight against the temptation of falling open. Even as his blood pumped into the water and his body began to shut down from the lack of air, that human desire to live kept him going.
Until even that failed.
“Welcome,” said the ghosts that surrounded him.
Suddenly, water whooshed away and air surged into his body.
He felt heavier as he was heaved onto solid ground, and half the Thames exited his lungs in a sputtery cough.
Rocks dug into his hip and shoulder, but he was definitely alive. When his breathing became steady, he was distantly aware of being lifted into strong arms and carried.
Reader, though Alexander spent much of this time barely aware of his surroundings, focused mainly on his heartbeat and the throbbing in his head, we feel confident in painting this picture for you. What we describe is based on separate accounts of no fewer than one hundred ghosts:
A tall, radiant woman had approached the water, her hair gleaming, her skin glowing. She’d drawn the attention of every single ghost in the Thames, which meant when she asked about a missing young man, they were able to lead the way.
Then she’d dived into the water and pulled him onto the shore, where she and a man made sure he was alive. Satisfied, the radiant woman lifted the young man into her arms and bore him into a building off the river.
“Will you stand guard for me?” she asked, and every single ghost scrambled to do her bidding. They ringed the building, ready to alert her at the slightest suspicious activity.
Gentle reader, by now you’ve probably guessed the woman’s identity: Bertha Rochester. Indeed, she and Mr. Rochester had left Thornfield almost immediately upon reuniting, rushing to London to confront Wellington. Instead, Wellington had dumped Alexander in the river, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Alexander, it seemed, was going to live.
Even so, he was mostly dead all day.
When Alexander finally came to, the sun was down and only a candle glowed in the warehouse where Mr. and Mrs. Rochester had taken him. He’d been stripped of his outer clothes and wrapped in layer after layer of blankets, but in spite of those attempts to warm him, chills still racked through his body. Probably from the blood loss, he realized. And his head felt light and floaty. Also probably from the blood loss.
But he seemed to be alive, so that was something, and Wellington wasn’t there. More good news.
Both Rochesters were sitting with their heads bent together, discussing something in hushed tones, but when Alexander groaned, they looked up.
“You’re safe,” said Mr. Rochester. “And we won’t be disturbed.”
Alexander wasn’t sure how comfortable he could feel with Mr. and Mrs. Rochester looking over him and offering assurances, as one had been possessed for years and the other had been locked in the attic. But the former seemed a changed man from the one Alexander had known during his time in Thornfield, and the latter was clear-eyed and clean.
“Wh—” Alexander’s voice cracked, which would have been humiliating if he’d had the energy to be humiliated. Instead, he just closed his eyes and breathed through the exertion.
“I forgot to mention,” Rochester said. “Wellington is evil.”
Alexander groaned as he forced himself up, struggling to hide the fact that his head was swimming and his whole body hurt. “Thanks.” His throat felt like it was on fire with the word, but he’d rested enough while he’d been mostly dead. “Thank you for coming to help me. Are you both well now?”
Mrs. Rochester cut a glance at Rochester, her expression darkening for a moment. She already seemed much better than any mere mortal had any right to be after being locked in an attic, but she hadn’t forgotten. That much was clear. Her husband’s face had been the face of her captor for so long, and no one overcame that overnight. “Perhaps not yet,” she said at last, “but we will be.”
“This may sound strange,” said Rochester, “but are you the son of Nicholas—”
“Yes! Yes, he’s my father. You knew him, right?”
“You look just like him.”
“He was a good man,” added Mrs. Rochester.
“I found a letter.” Alexander patted his breast pocket, but it wasn’t there. Nor was Miss Brontë’s notebook; he’d stashed both in a secret location outside Westminster—a last-moment impulse. Now he was glad he had, or they’d have been drowned with him. “It seemed to indicate that you were at odds with Wellington.”
Rochester nodded. “He was betraying everything the Society stood for.”
“I was the only one of us who could see ghosts,” Mrs. Rochester said, “and because I am a Beacon, Wellington saw the most value in me. I was the closest to him. The star agent.”
Alexander knew that feeling.
“In those days, I could use the Book of the Dead to help ghosts move on to the afterlife. We had a Collection Room, but it was only used by other agents who needed to drop off their talismans before going on their next assignment. Whenever I returned to London, Wellington and I usually spent a day or two releasing all the ghosts. But after a time, I began to notice Wellington kept some of the talismans. I asked about it only once.”
“What did he say?” Alexander breathed.
“That he wanted to keep them for emergencies.” Mrs. Rochester rubbed her temples, as though the memory still gave her a headache. “I never said anything to him again. I let him believe I understood. But I told Mr. Rochester, and I told your father.”
Mr. Rochester touched his wife’s shoulder. “After more investigation, we discovered that some of the ghosts Mrs. Rochester and other agents had captured—they had worked for the Society before they died. That was the travesty we wanted to deal with.”
A chill ran up Alexander’s spine, like someone had just stepped on his grave. “David Mitten is dead. I captured him for Wellington just earlier this month.”
“It was soon after we began tracking the deaths in the Society that your father died. Then Rowland took possession of me, and then locked Mrs. Rochester in the attic, hoping we might be useful again one day.” Rochester’s voice shook slightly.
Mrs. Rochester closed her eyes and reached for her husband’s hand. “Mr. Blackwood, do you know what Wellington was doing with the ghosts he didn’t take to the Move-On Room?”
Alexander shook his head, but a sense of doom niggled at him.
“The duke is ambitious,” said Rochester. “He was always power-hungry.”
Alexander’s mind still felt full of river water, so the answer didn’t come as quickly as it might otherwise.
“He had George IV possessed,” Mrs. Rochester said. “The king was under Wellington’s control—at least until he died and William ascended the throne.”
“Oh.” Alexander recalled the David Mitten job again. The ghost who wanted to be captured. The signet ring. Wellington’s urgency. “Good God,” he muttered. “He’s going to have Mr. Mitten possess the King of England.”