Alexander
“You are quite possibly the most annoying person I’ve ever met,” Alexander shouted above the beating hooves as the carriage careened wildly along the road. He and his assistant were not currently riding in the carriage, as normal people are meant to do, but clinging to the back as a ghost in a top hat laughed maniacally from the driver’s seat, spooking the already spooked horses.
It had been a bad day. A bad week, really.
“I’m sorry, sir,” shouted Mr. Branwell. “Please don’t tell Mr. Wellesley. I didn’t know he was a ghost.”
Alexander cursed as a rock flew past his head. “How could you not know? He was transparent. You could practically see through him.”
“My vision’s not the best, sir.” At the moment, Mr. Branwell’s spectacles were dangling from his nose upside down, snagged on his mask.
“Fine. I’ll take care of it.” Alexander struggled to lift himself to the roof of the carriage, but then fell back again. They were moving too fast. The wind was blowing. The moon was in his eyes. Otherwise, he could have climbed up no problem.
And then it started to rain.
Things had been going wrong for Alexander since the mysterious Miss Eyre had rejected him at Lowood. First, his bumbling new assistant had contracted a man cold (which in pre-Victorian England they believed to be far worse than a lady cold). Then Mr. Branwell had proceeded to share said cold with Alexander. His nose was still red. And it hurt. He resented this.
Then Branwell had almost burned down the inn in a misguided attempt to make Alexander a bowl of chicken soup.
After that the innkeeper had understandably wanted them to leave. So Alexander had decided they should return to London and report to Wellington.
And oh, yes, he meant to report all of this to Wellington.
They’d been going along just fine toward London, when the carriage driver had stopped to rest the horses and water the shrubbery. That was when Branwell had noticed the figure standing on the side of the road: a somber-looking elderly gentleman with a top hat and a cane.
Alexander, of course, had known immediately that the man was a ghost. But squinting out into the foggy night, Branwell had called out, “Oh, hello, sir. It’s quite cold tonight. Would you like to come inside the carriage to warm yourself?”
The ghost floated in and sat across from Branwell. (Which, unfortunately, was right next to Alexander. He considered saying something then and there. He should have, really. But by then Branwell was already engaged in a one-sided conversation with the ghost.)
“I work for the Society. Normally it’s all very hush-hush, but you look trustworthy,” said Branwell.
Alexander dragged his hand down his face.
“I don’t know if you’re aware,” Branwell continued. “But you are in the presence of the star agent of the Society, Mr. Alexander Blackwood himself!”
Perhaps Branwell wasn’t so bad.
Branwell pointed at Alexander and grinned. “He’s a ghost hunter extraordinaire. No ghost is safe around this guy!”
And that’s when, as they used to say, the dung hit the crosswind.
The ghost stood, his translucent body expanding to fill the carriage.
“Um, sir, are you all right?” inquired Branwell.
The ghost opened his mouth and a stream of flies buzzed out. Alexander had to confess he’d never seen that before. Then the ghost sprang through the roof of the carriage and into the driver’s seat. He let out a bone-chilling cackle. The horses reared and bolted, taking the carriage with them. Alexander and Branwell attempted to climb around to the driver’s seat, but then they hit a pre-Victorian pothole. And that’s how they ended up clinging to the back of the carriage. And now you’re caught up.
“I can help you, sir,” offered Branwell even as his fingers began to slip off the railing one by one. “I can give you a boost.”
“No! God, no! Under no circumstances are you to ever give me a boost.” With renewed determination, Alexander tried again (by himself) to get to the roof of the carriage. This time he succeeded, only to crash through the fabric that was stretched over the top. Now he was in the runaway carriage. Which was only slightly better than hanging off the back of it.
But how to stop the ghost? Good question.
At that moment, the carriage struck a pre-Victorian speed bump, and an object from the floor of the carriage smacked Alexander in the head.
It was a cane, he ascertained when he woke up moments later. Oh, how embarrassing. He was never going to tell Branwell about this.
A cane. Neither he nor Branwell used a cane. What was it doing here? It had come in with the old man. But it was obviously real. He could only hope it would work as a talisman.
Alexander grasped the cane and climbed through the hole he’d so conveniently made for himself in the top of the carriage. He glanced back. Branwell was still dangling from the rail.
“Hello, sir!” Branwell almost waved but then remembered he was hanging on for dear life. “Don’t worry about me, sir! I’ll wait here.”
Alexander nodded and then turned to the ghost, who was still laughing manically and goading the horses. Alexander brandished the cane.
“You, sir, are hereby relocated.”
Bop.
Somehow they reached London alive.
Most people probably would have been quite impressed by Westminster, which housed the Society headquarters. After all, it was where Parliament ruled the kingdom. It was a grand sight, and a privilege to be there, Alexander supposed, but to him, the headquarters was simply his second home.
So Alexander rarely stopped to take in the glory, because he came here all the time, but we’d like to pause a moment and paint the picture for you.
Imagine an enormous stone palace with square towers, round towers, and elegant peaks. Add a couple dozen archways on the first floor, and even more windows above, and a few chimneys with smoke trickling into the blue sky. Now surround all that majesty with a cobblestone sea and horse-drawn carriages, and you have the House of Lords and Commons.
All in all, it was a very fancy place. We hope you’re impressed.
Back to Alexander.
He just strolled through all of that, like it wasn’t a big deal. He went through the secret halls, gave the password to the doorkeeper, and headed into the great library where Sir Arthur Wellesley kept his office.
Usually, he arrived with a smile on his face, but today his head hurt and his nose was still a bit raw and sniffly. And usually Alexander had succeeded in whatever task he’d been given. This time, shamefully, he’d failed. Oh, sure, he had the pocket watch and the teacup and a random cane containing the ghosts he’d captured, and they could be safely stored away in the collection room, but he had not persuaded Miss Eyre.
He knocked on the door and then entered the library to find the Duke of Wellington and Mr. Mitten—the Society’s former liaison to the king—engaged in a conversation by the fire.
“My boy.” Wellington stood, not bothering with a formal greeting. “Come in, come in.” He shot a glance at Mr. Mitten, who got up and started for the door.
Alexander nodded. “Good day, Mr. Mitten.”
“Good to see you, young man. I swear, you’re the spitting image of your father.”
People said that sort of thing to Alexander regularly, and it made his heart squeeze every time. “Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Mitten smiled and was out the door.
“I’m glad to see you’ve returned. Have a seat.” Wellington motioned to the chairs by the fire. “I’ll call for tea.”
Alexander smiled gratefully and pretended to study the spines of books while Wellington ordered tea. Then, when his mentor returned, they sat together.
“Now”—the duke leaned back in his chair—“tell me about our new agent.”
“Branwell is perhaps one of the most enthusiastic agents I’ve ever met,” Alexander said carefully. “His desire to learn and succeed is unparalleled.”
Wellington nodded slowly. “Enthusiasm and desire to learn are well enough. Tell me about his capacity for such success.”
There it was. This question was the reason Alexander had sent Branwell back to his flat, once they returned to London, rather than bringing him to the Society headquarters.
“Well, sir.” Alexander hated giving Wellington bad news, but Branwell had almost gotten him killed. Twice. He could still see the boy clinging to the back of the carriage, his red hair flapping in the wind. “He struggles.”
Wellington frowned deeply. “Am I to take it that you do not view Branwell to be a competent agent?”
Alexander shifted. “Perhaps more training.” Lots more training. Years of it. Unfortunately, there were only a few people in the Society who could train a new seer, and Alexander was one of those.
“More training.” Wellington narrowed his eyes. “Tell me the truth, Alexander.”
How frustrating that Wellington could always see right through him. “I’m afraid I don’t believe Branwell will ever become a proper agent of the Society, even though he seems a decent fellow. He has shown little improvement.”
“That’s most unfortunate.” The duke seemed genuinely sad about it. “I’d hoped Branwell would prove a fine agent, but it sounds as though I was right to be uncertain.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something about Branwell you should know, Alexander. Something I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to be honest with me about the boy’s progress.”
“Sir?”
“Branwell is—ah—” The duke glanced at the floor. “Well, the boy doesn’t know this, so please do not tell him, but he is my sister’s son. She married poorly, you see, and this is the result.”
Oh.
Alexander’s redheaded menace of an assistant was Wellington’s nephew, which meant two things: (1) Alexander was immediately a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty bit just a smidge jealous. And (2) he needed to find something nice to say about the boy. Fast.
“He tries very hard,” Alexander blurted. His face went hot with embarrassment. “I’ve never met someone so enthusiastic.”
Wellington just sighed. “What about when you went to the school to recruit Miss Eyre? How was his behavior then?”
“I left him at the inn when I went to Lowood. I couldn’t predict what he might say to Miss Eyre, and I didn’t want to risk his”—Alexander winced—“enthusiasm causing her to refuse my offer.”
“A wise choice. The most important thing is finding a new seer, especially if Branwell isn’t going to work out.”
Alexander winced again. “About that.”
Before Alexander could admit the ugly truth, the tea arrived.
Alexander took his teacup, warming his hands on the ceramic while the fragrant tea steeped.
“When will Miss Eyre arrive?” Wellington asked.
“She won’t.” Alexander slouched a tiny bit. “She declined.”
“How could she decline?” Wellington shook his head. “Tell me exactly what you said to her.”
Recounting the conversation was easy. It had been so completely baffling, the way she adamantly did not want to join the Society. “She said her life’s dream is to become a governess. After that, she refused to see me, though I went back to the school several times.”
Wellington frowned. “Well, you tried. At least you took care of the incident at the Tully Pub. I suppose that went well enough.”
In spite of Branwell, yes. But . . . “There was something a little strange about that.”
“What is it?”
Alexander tried to recall exactly how it had happened. “In the pub, when Miss Eyre first appeared, the Shrieking Lady reacted . . .”
“Yes?” Wellington prompted.
“Oddly.” It was just so unusual, Alexander could hardly find the words. “The ghost immediately stopped shrieking and began”—he shrugged—“hugging her?”
“Hugging Miss Eyre, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I know it sounds bizarre. But that is what happened.”
Wellington leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “That is interesting. Did anything else happen with Miss Eyre in the presence of ghosts?”
“Come to think of it, the ghosts at Lowood kept asking her for skin-care tips.”
“Ah.” The duke stroked his beard. “Tell me, Alexander, have you ever heard of Beacons?”
The word was familiar to Alexander, of course. The definition and whatnot. But he sensed Wellington meant Beacon (capital B) in a specific way. “No, sir.”
Wellington nodded. “We haven’t had a Beacon since you were small. You wouldn’t remember, I suppose.”
“What is a Beacon?”
“A Beacon, my boy, is a seer with, shall we say, extra abilities. Our previous Beacon could command ghosts with a word. From what I understand, ghosts often comment on the Beacon’s attractiveness, as though there’s some sort of supernatural glow about them, visible only to ghosts. The Beacon was an invaluable—you might say necessary—part of what we do here.”
“We haven’t had a Beacon in years, though?” Alexander frowned. He’d always tried so hard for the Society, but now he learned he would never be enough, no matter how much he gave?
“Oh, we can function without a Beacon, Alexander. We have been functioning quite well, as you know. Considering that our funding has been slashed and we have so few seers . . .” Wellington took a sip from his tea and stared across the room, deep in thought. “The Society is in trouble, my boy. More trouble than I wanted you to know about. The continued existence of the Society depends upon seers like you. And this Miss Eyre, if she is indeed a Beacon. We need her to join us.”
A chill ran up Alexander’s spine. “Sir?”
“Promise her whatever you must. Better pay. Better lodging. We need a Beacon.”
“Sir, I know there aren’t many seers at the moment, but we still have Mr. Sussman and Mr. Stein. They’re both fine agents—”
“They’re dead.” Wellington sat up straight and placed his teacup on the tray once more. “They’ve been killed in the line of duty. It’s just you and Branwell now.”
What a sobering thought.
“You must persuade Miss Eyre,” said the duke. “She could be the key to restoring the Society to its former glory.”
Alexander drained his tea and stood. “Then I shall return to Lowood at once.”
The duke nodded and shook Alexander’s hand. “I know you won’t fail me again.”
“I won’t, sir. You have my word.” He departed, having completely forgotten to turn in the ghost-filled talismans in his haste. Oops.