He could just see Marlowe, staring down the monster. He was clutching the glove in front of him. His little shoulders were squared for a fight and despite everything Charlie knew about his powers, the kid looked defenseless in front of the monster.
“Imagine, finding you here,” the man murmured. “Of all the places. Forgive me, we have not properly met. Jacob Marber, at your service.” At that angle Charlie couldn’t see his face, could only see the back of his black hair, the scruff of his thick beard. He kept raising one hand to his face, as if to hold his cheek closed. There was something wrong with its skin; the shadows across his knuckles were crawling.
“I wouldn’t have found you either, if you had not used your … gift last night. It leaves a trace, in this world. Like blood in the water. Was it the spirits that attacked you?”
The boy hadn’t taken his frightened eyes off Jacob Marber. Charlie’s hands were trembling so badly he could barely make them into fists. He knew if he didn’t leave soon, if he didn’t get back through the orsine soon, something bad was going to happen to him.
“A strange place, this Room. Do you feel it?” Jacob Marber continued. “It is … protected. Hidden. You and I, we can find it and enter. But the drughr, she cannot come in. Nor can the spirits. Nor can your good Dr. Berghast, of course.” He paused, set his hat back on his head. He was standing over the mummified body and he made a small noise, as if his wounds pained him. “This poor fellow must have crawled in here for refuge,” he murmured. “What happened to his hand, I wonder?”
Marlowe pulled the artifact behind his back but it was too late. Jacob Marber curled his hand outward and a fine black tendril of dust curved around the boy’s arms, wrenching his hands free. Jacob Marber took the iron-and-wood glove and examined it and then, to Charlie’s surprise, he gave it back.
“Dr. Berghast sent you to retrieve this, I presume?”
When Marlowe didn’t answer, the man resumed his pacing. Now Charlie saw his forehead was covered in scratches, his coat was torn at the shoulder. There was mud on his trousers.
“Do you know what that is?” he demanded. “What it will make possible, what Berghast will do with it? No, of course not. You would not take it from this room, if you did. And not only Berghast. She would wish me to bring it to her, also.”
The floor creaked softly under his weight. Charlie was desperately trying to think of something to do. He had the element of surprise. He could leap at Jacob Marber, push him out of the broken wall. Maybe. But would a fall hurt such a monster?
Jacob Marber was speaking again. “You are angry with me. I daresay you might even hate me. Do you wish me dead?” Charlie knew he had circled the room and was facing his way now and he dared not peer around the door lest he was seen. “You believe you understand what you are fighting for, what you stand for. You believe you know your place in all this. But you are mistaken, child. Dr. Berghast is not your father. Not your real father.”
“I know,” Marlowe whispered. “He told me.”
“Ah.” Jacob Marber sounded like he would say something more but then decided against it and sighed and scraped his boots through the broken masonry. When he spoke next his voice had changed, softened. “I knew you once, long ago. Before you were called Marlowe. Did he tell you that?”
Charlie risked a glance. Marlowe was nodding angrily.
“What else did he tell you? Did he tell you I killed your mother? That I wished to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe him?”
“You killed Mr. Coulton. You kill lots of people.”
“Ah. Sometimes it is necessary, if the one wishes to save the many.” He was grim, quiet. He took something out of his pocket, turned it in his fingers. A key, carved of the same black wood as what plated the glove. “I did not kill your mother, child. And I did not try to kill you. Henry Berghast has made me a monster, he has tried to destroy me. But I am not what he says.”
“I don’t believe anything you say,” said the boy.
Jacob Marber’s face twisted. “It doesn’t matter. Truth is truth. Whether it’s known or not.”
Marlowe lifted his chin. “Are you going to kill me?”
“What nonsense is this? Kill you—?”
Marlowe glared.
“I’ve only ever wanted to keep you safe.” Jacob Marber raised a regretful eyebrow. “Oh, child, what have they told you? What must you think of me?”
“What about New York? When you came after me and Alice?”
“Alice…” He was quiet a moment, brooding. When he spoke next his voice was softer. “I knew Henry had found you. Using his glyphic, I presumed. I knew you were being taken to him. I had no intention of harming Alice Quicke. But I couldn’t let her take you.”
The man seemed almost gentle. Almost.
Charlie knew what he had to do. He’d seen how carefully Marber had put that strange key into his frock coat. If he could do the mortaling, as Miss Davenshaw had tried to teach him, he might perhaps extend his arm far enough to pick the bastard’s pocket.
He closed his eyes, steadied his breathing like he’d been told. But there was something, a fear, a loneliness, that kept rushing in, distracting him, and when he opened his eyes nothing had changed.
He couldn’t do it.
Very near to him, Jacob Marber ran a hand over his beard, smoothing it, careful with the long gash in his cheek. Then he clasped his hands in the small of his back and turned and looked out the ruined wall at the city and the gray mists beyond. Charlie shrank back, his heart pounding.
“I was trapped in this world for years,” Jacob Marber said quietly. “I learned to live here. I know it better than any living creature ever could, and yet I scarcely know it at all. You cannot imagine what it was like. I knew that there was a doorway—the orsine—but I could not use it. Henry Berghast kept it shut from me.”
“You betrayed him. It was your doing.”
“Mm.” His shoes clicked through the rubble. “I was young still when the drughr first came to me. She offered to bring me through, into this world, to look for … someone. To help them. She needed my help too, you see.”
Just then Charlie saw, at the edge of the balcony, an iron rod. Very slowly, very quietly, he leaned out and lifted it clear. It was long and thin but sharp on one end. He gripped it tight in one hand, the knife in the other.
“My brother died when we were children. We were twins. I was told by the drughr that I could see him again, that I could help him, here, in this world. If I grew powerful enough, I might even bring him back. But I was deceived. For years we wandered through this city, looking for my brother, trying to find any trace of him among the spirits. What do you see, London? For me, it is Vienna.” He frowned. “It was lonely, and I grew strange, having no other living soul to talk to. Only the drughr, who was with me often, and with whom I grew … close. And she came to confide in me, and that is when I learned how much she hated the world of the living, how hungry she was to devour the talents. It consumed her.”
“Did you find him? Did you find your brother?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t Bertolt. Not anymore.”
Marlowe was quiet.
Jacob continued. “My brother came to me three times, here in this world. I sat at the edge of the orsine, pleading that it be opened. All Berghast had to do was let us through. It would have changed everything. But he did not; and my brother’s memory of me faded. And then it was too late.”
“Is that why you hate him?”