Alexander
Within the first ten days of Wellington controlling the King of England, Mr. Mitten (as the king) issued several royal proclamations. The first was that everyone should recognize that his coronation had been the most-attended coronation of all time. Period. (Even though it had been four years ago, and really, who even cares?) The second decree dismissed Parliament and appointed Wellington as prime minister.
Meanwhile, Alexander—and everyone else who knew the truth about the king’s possession—were living in a warehouse off the river. It was undignified and unsanitary. And to make matters worse, they were out of tea.
But they were together, and that was something. After Miss Eyre had emerged from the palace, she and Miss Brontë had embraced and bounced and embraced some more. Miss Eyre relayed Miss Burn’s happiness to see Miss Brontë, and then Alexander and the three young ladies returned to the warehouse.
Where Miss Eyre saw the Rochesters for the first time since Thornfield.
It was super awkward.
“Uh, hello.” Mr. Rochester shifted his weight. “I’m Edward Rochester. Pleased to meet you.”
Miss Eyre just stared at him.
Then Mrs. Rochester swept in and took Miss Eyre’s hand. “Hello, ma chérie. Wonderful to see you again.” Her smile was so warm and radiant that Miss Eyre returned it, obviously surprised.
“Good evening,” she said.
“I know what you’ve been through, but we Beacons are strong and resilient. You shall overcome it.”
“What about what you’ve been through?” Miss Eyre asked.
“As I said, ma chérie: overcome.”
The joyful reunion was cut short when news of the royal decrees reached them.
To be perfectly honest, Alexander was feeling rather sick about the whole thing. He didn’t sleep anymore; rather, he lay awake going over every conversation he’d ever had with Wellington, searching his memory for some hint that this had been coming. What had he missed? That was probably the most disappointing thing of all: his own failure to stop all of this before it happened.
After that, he’d taken to reading Miss Brontë’s notebook, which he’d retrieved from its hiding spot the first time the Rochesters allowed him out of the warehouse. He knew he should return it right away, but curiosity made him open it one night. After he came to a charming passage about burnt porridge on page twenty-seven, he couldn’t stop reading.
Some pages were the budding story of fictional Miss Eyre and fictional Mr. Rochester, while others were beautiful descriptions of people and places. Alexander was certainly no literary expert, but he knew at once that Miss Brontë possessed some faculty of verse.
The final entry read: Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have as much soul as you and full as much heart. And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal—as we are.
Alexander paused at that paragraph, dated the day of the doomed wedding, and turned every phrase over in his mind. He could hear Charlotte in those words, feel the passion and conviction of the author’s feelings. Not just the characters she was writing about, but hers.
He’d read some secret part of her heart.
He really should give the notebook back.
He read the passage again and again, until he fell asleep.
The next morning, the group was collected on a circle of crates piled into uncomfortable imitations of sofas and chairs. Someone had managed to procure bundles of blankets and pillows, so they’d been able to put together a semblance of living quarters, one for the ladies, one for the men, and one for Mr. and Mrs. Rochester, who refused to be separated for any length of time now, even though the couple sharing a space was something of a scandal. (Remember, these were different times. Married couples of high rank didn’t always share a room.)
Speaking of scandals, Miss Eyre spent a lot of time watching the Rochesters from the corner of her eye, unconscious of the frown she wore, and Miss Burns’s occasional jabs. Like right now.
“They make such a handsome couple,” Miss Burns mused. She was sitting on a crate next to Miss Eyre, tapping her forefinger on her chin. “Look how age-appropriate they are. I just love it.”
Miss Eyre’s frown deepened as she elbowed her ghostly friend, but of course she passed right through.
“Now you’re just being rude,” Miss Burns said. “I’ve told you a thousand times that it’s rude to go inside ghosts.”
“Sorry,” Miss Eyre said.
Across the crate-parlor, Miss Brontë watched what to her must have looked like Miss Eyre antagonizing and apologizing to empty air.
“We’re just sitting around,” Alexander groused. “We should be doing something.”
“Like what?” Branwell paced the length of the room, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed in thought. He’d become the parson of Haworth, if Alexander recalled, and already the position had matured the boy far more than his time at the Society. Good for him.
“We need to get the ring off the king’s finger,” Miss Brontë said. “Or, rather, Mr. Mitten’s finger. Technically the king’s, but I suppose it’s under Mr. Mitten’s control.”
“Doesn’t that make it Mr. Mitten’s finger?” Branwell turned to Miss Eyre. “You were possessed. What do you think? Is it Mr. Mitten’s finger or the king’s finger?”
But before Miss Eyre could open her mouth, Miss Burns leaned forward. “Maybe we should ask Mr. Rochester. Since he was possessed the longest and made to do all sorts of things he wouldn’t normally.”
Miss Eyre, who’d been translating for the two in the room who couldn’t see ghosts, abruptly stopped. Unfortunately for her, Branwell picked up where she left off, because Miss Burns wasn’t done.
“Remember when Rowland possessed him and tried to make him marry Jane, even after being mean and manipulative?” Miss Burns shot a dark look at Rochester, the real Rochester, who’d done none of those things except as an unwitting vehicle for his dead brother’s actions.
As Branwell finished echoing Miss Burns’s words, he clamped his mouth shut and blushed furiously. “Sorry.”
Meanwhile, Miss Burns smiled, triumphant.
Mrs. Rochester was also blushing, her gaze aimed straight at the floor as though she could will away all the terrible things that had happened, including her husband’s possession.
“Can we just get back to the problem?” Miss Brontë said. “Saving England?”
“Right.” Alexander fidgeted with his gloves, because talk of talismans always made him check to ensure those gloves were firmly in place. “The king is constantly surrounded by guards, and he’s not going to let us waltz right up and take the ring off his finger.”
“Of course not,” Miss Brontë said over a cup of hot water. Everyone had a cup actually, though no one was drinking. The news about the tea had truly been a blow to the group. “Which means we need a plan. Fortunately, I have one in mind.”
Alexander was not surprised.
Miss Brontë leaned forward. “I’ve always thought that good plans need to have firm goals. So we start with the ring.”
“Everything should fall into place once the king is himself again,” Alexander agreed. “It’s just returning the king to himself that’s the problem.”
“Exactly!” Miss Brontë jumped to her feet. “So here’s my idea.”
Everyone waited. Even the Rochesters leaned forward in anticipation.
“We storm Saint James’s Palace,” Miss Brontë announced. “And Jane and Mrs. Rochester use their Beacon powers on Mr. Mitten the Ghost and ask him nicely to take off the ring.”
“That’s a fine plan,” said Mrs. Rochester, “but our Beacon powers of compulsion do not work on ghosts currently possessing someone. Otherwise I could have prevented Rowland from taking over Edward for so long. And Miss Eyre could have saved herself an incredible amount of trouble.”
Miss Brontë frowned. “But ghosts still find Beacons irresistible when they’re possessing people, right?”
“Yes,” said Rochester. “That seems to be the reason Rowland was . . . attracted . . .” He coughed. “But there seems to be something about the living body getting in the way of the compulsion.”
“All right,” Miss Eyre said, “so we can’t compel Mr. Mitten to leave the king. What’s your next plan, Charlotte?”
“Um.” Miss Brontë sat down.
“Maybe we can figure out the ring bit when we get there,” Miss Eyre said. “The answer will just come to us. Like magic.”
“There’s no such thing as magic,” Miss Burns muttered.
Everyone (except Miss Brontë and Rochester) looked at the ghost.
“I mean that kind of magic.” She rolled her eyes.
“Anyway,” Miss Eyre said, “we’ll figure it out when we get there. I think we need to discuss how to storm the castle—”
“Technically it’s a palace.” That was Miss Brontë, of course.
“It looks like a castle.” Miss Eyre crossed her arms.
“It’s a palace that looks like a castle, but really it’s a palace.” Miss Brontë looked to Alexander, as though asking for help.
“Let’s get back on track,” he suggested. “I’d also like to propose that we don’t need to storm the, ah, palace or castle, whatever you want to call it. After all, Miss Eyre, doesn’t everyone believe you’re still part of the Society? You can request an audience with the king.”
“Oh.” Miss Eyre frowned. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Mr. Blackwood, I believe I was the one announcing the plan.” Miss Brontë stuck her hand on her hip.
“Go home, Miss Brontë.”
She rolled her eyes. “As I was saying, we’re definitely not storming the palace, since Jane can get us in the front door with a lot less mess. But we’re going to call it storming the palace, because that sounds far more exciting. And once we’ve stormed the palace, we get the ring off Mr. Mitten’s finger. Somehow. Possibly by magic.”
“And that’s it?” Rochester looked dubious. “We just walk in and take the ring from him. In front of his guards and all the court. I don’t see how this will work.”
Mrs. Rochester sat up straight. “Magic! Le Livre de l’esprit errance. We distract everyone with ghosts.”
Miss Eyre frowned.
“They’d have to be able to see ghosts first,” Branwell said, “and we can’t do that without briefly killing them, and what if we mess up? I don’t want to permanently kill someone.”
“We can make them see ghosts, though.” Mrs. Rochester clasped her hands together. “Miss Eyre and I can ask the ghosts of London to join us in the palace, and when the time is right, we make everyone see the dead. That’s when we seize the opportunity to remove the ring from the king’s finger. Voilà!”
“But how?” Miss Brontë glanced around the room, looking vaguely where Miss Burns sat. (She knew Miss Burns had been there, at least, because people kept looking there.) A longing filled her gaze. “How can non-seers see ghosts?”
“Le Livre de l’esprit errance,” said Mrs. Rochester. “With this, we could make everyone see ghosts. But it can be dangerous. People do not always react well to seeing the dead. There will be chaos.”
Miss Eyre lifted a hand. “I—”
“But we want a little chaos,” said Branwell. “To distract everyone while we wrest the ring from the king.” He paused a moment. “I’m a poet, Charlie.”
“Don’t call me Charlie.”
“But—”
“I do rather like this plan,” said Alexander. “Seeing all the ghosts of London—that’s certainly not something anyone would expect to see in the royal court.”
“Unless they’re also seers!” Miss Burns beamed.
“Then they’d be working for the Society,” Alexander said. “Wellington never met a seer he didn’t want to control.”
“Except me.” Branwell shrugged. “It’s all right, though. Really. I quite like being a parson. Blessing sermons and writing babies.”
“I—”
“So we need the Le Livre de l’esprit errance.” Rochester turned to his wife. “Do you know where Wellington keeps that, my love?”
Miss Eyre opened her mouth, but Mrs. Rochester was faster.
“I’m afraid the Le Livre de l’esprit errance is quite impossible to obtain, mon chéri.” Mrs. Rochester dropped her eyes. “He keeps it locked in a room guarded by a three-headed dog, which drops into a pit of strangling vines, followed by a life-or-death life-size game of chess, which opens into a room with a locked door and a hundred keys on wings, and then there’s a mirror. . . .”
Branwell gasped. “That’s horrible! That poor three-headed dog!”
“I bet he just keeps it in his desk,” Alexander said. “Are you sure that obstacle course of death isn’t something else?”
Mrs. Rochester tilted her head. “Oh, I think you’re right.”
Miss Eyre stood up. “I—”
“Even if the book is located in his desk,” Miss Brontë said, “it might as well be behind a hungry lion. How will we get into the Society?”
“Miss Eyre might be able to get it,” Alexander said.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” She put her hands on her hips. “I have the Book of the Dead with me.”
“What!” Alexander lurched to his feet. “Why didn’t you lead with that? The Book of the Dead is our biggest asset! This changes everything.”
Miss Eyre let out a huge sigh, then retreated to her crate room, and when she returned, she carried the Book of the Dead. “I took it to the castle—”
“Palace,” Miss Brontë muttered.
“—with me to make the king able to see the tree ghost and I didn’t have time to give it back before Helen told me you were all outside and that Wellington was evil.” Miss Eyre smiled and opened the book. “Here, we can practice. I’ll read this, and Charlotte, if you can see Helen, then it works!”
“All right.” Miss Brontë stood and straightened her dress. “I’m ready.”
Miss Burns stood, too—right in front of Miss Brontë.
Miss Eyre read the incantation aloud: “‘Ostende nobis quod est post mortem! Nos videre praestrigiae!’”
Miss Brontë jumped. Of course. Because Miss Burns was standing right in front of her, grinning widely.
“Helen?” Miss Brontë’s soft voice was filled with excitement as she looked right at the resident ghost. “You look just like Jane’s paintings.”
Miss Burns squealed and clapped her hands. “Finally!”
Miss Brontë smiled. She had a nice smile, Alexander thought. Slightly crooked, very charming, and wholly genuine in the way her face lit with joy. “Now,” she said, “we storm the castle.”
“I thought it was a palace.” Miss Burns grinned.
“Whatever.” Miss Brontë lifted her spectacles. “Let’s storm it.”