She knew it sounded mad. She met Coulton’s gaze and saw his expression darken.
“You’re serious. To the institute? What the devil for? Can he even pass through the wards?”
She set the candle down in its dish and glanced out into the hall to be sure the boy was nowhere near and then she clasped her hands in front of her. “He’s our only direct link to Jacob. We’d be foolish not to use him.”
“Use him how? He’s just a dog off its leash.”
“He can be rather talkative for a dog, Mr. Coulton. He’s already offered some interesting insights into Jacob Marber. For instance, it seems Jacob left him here in London with a task. He has been searching,” and here Margaret lowered her voice, “for a keywrasse.”
In the silence that followed, Coulton scratched at his whiskers. “Well … that doesn’t sound … good,” he said slowly.
She watched him. “You have no idea what that is, do you?”
“None at all.”
“A weapon, Mr. Coulton. A very powerful weapon. It would be of great consequence to Jacob, should he acquire it. Needless to say, he will not succeed. Especially with his loyal Walter locked up at Cairndale. Besides,” she added, “I rather expect Dr. Berghast will want to examine Walter in person.”
Coulton massaged the meat of one hand, working its fingers in a fist. “Aye,” he said reluctantly. “What’s that you been feeding him? It isn’t tar? Where’d you get a twist of the poppy?”
“I have my resources, Mr. Coulton. The same as you.”
“We should just kill the bugger right now.” He leaned over the unmoving form of what had once been Walter Laster. “If we even know how to do that. You got to dig around in there, cut out the heart. Isn’t that how it goes?”
“You’re the one who knows about litches. You encountered one before, didn’t you?”
Coulton grimaced. “Aye. Years ago, in Japan.”
“How did you destroy that one?”
“It weren’t me what done it. It were the litch’s maker.”
“Mm. We could ask her.”
Coulton sighed, and for a moment she saw in the candlelight the compassion that was in him, that was a part of him, that he hid with his gruffness. “It were a terrible thing, Margaret,” he said, “what happened there. I wouldn’t want to ask the poor girl. She don’t need to go through it all again.” He went to the window and lifted the gauzy curtain and stared out at the encroaching dark.
“So be it,” he said at last, turning around. “And did our friend here offer any insight into where Jacob bloody Marber might be found, now? If he weren’t in Natchez or anywhere on the way back, why was he asking after my destination? Where’s he gone to, Margaret?”
She watched him closely. “Don’t you know?” she said.
And then a flicker of understanding crossed Coulton’s face. “The circus lad,” he muttered. “Marlowe.”
Margaret smoothed out her black skirts, interlaced her fingers before her.
“He wasn’t coming for Charlie at all,” he continued. “It was always Marlowe.”
“And if he hasn’t found him yet,” said Margaret softly, “he will soon.”
* * *
When it was time, Margaret led Coulton and the boy down to the cellar. Through a thick unmarked door, down a second passageway, damp and dark, through another locked door into an ancient room. One wall was stone and buckled and looked so old it might have been in use in the time of the Romans. The cellar was deep and had no windows. In this room Margaret examined the new children, had done so for years. Coulton didn’t think it necessary this time.
“The lad’s a haelan, Margaret,” he’d told her earlier, “there’s not much to examine. I saw it with my own eyes. Plucked a blade right out of his own forearm and cut a man’s throat with it.”
But haelans were rare, she knew, and there were varied degrees of skill, and it was best to determine such things for herself. She unlocked the door, lifting the lantern high. The examination room was soundproof, its ceilings and walls and even the porcelain tiles underfoot painted white; there was a drain in the floor, like in an abattoir. She’d been preparing for days now for Coulton’s return and had set up a little table near the door with various sharp implements under a white towel, and a little red box, covered by a sheet, in the far corner. In the middle stood a sinister chair, positioned over the drain, with iron manacles screwed into its armrests and its legs. Its purpose was fear, not pain. Fear could be a useful trigger for latent talents.
Charles stopped in the doorway. “Mr. Coulton?”
He sounded frightened.
“Aye, lad, go on,” said Coulton. “You ain’t in any peril. I swear to it.”
Margaret ushered them in, brisk, stern, rubbing her arms for the damp. That was the one thing about the place she’d been unable to change. A nice little stove glowing in the corner, that would just about do it. Might even be useful, too, for burning.
“Now, Charles,” she said crisply. “What has Mr. Coulton told you? Have you been informed about Cairndale, its purpose?”
When the boy said nothing, only glanced nervously across at Coulton, she frowned in displeasure. It was Coulton’s job to prepare the kids, wasn’t it?
“Cairndale Institute is a refuge, a place of safety for people like you, a place where you’ll learn to harness your talent. It is run by a man named Dr. Berghast. If this test goes as I expect it to, you’ll be meeting him soon. But first, I must confirm what it is you can do. Is that clear?”
He blinked slowly. There was a careful intelligence in the boy; he would do well, indeed.
“I won’t be put in irons,” he said.
“You will,” she replied. “The restraints, Charles, are for our safety, not yours. Why would we bring you all this way, only to make you suffer? You must see that would make no sense at all.”
The boy looked at the chair, looked at her, hesitated. Then he sat. Coulton squatted next to him and fastened the irons with a little key, turning each little lock twice. He left the key standing in the second lock and gave the boy a nod. Then he stepped noiselessly back.
“Mr. Coulton tells me you are a haelan. That is the name for what you can do. It is a rare talent, but you are not alone. There are others. How old were you when you first knew what you could do?”
Charlie wet his lips. “My mama said I just always could do it. She said it wasn’t a thing to show anyone. She said keep it safe, keep it secret.”
“Your mother was a wise woman. How many people have seen you do it?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Harrogate.”
“But many, you would agree?”
The boy nodded.
“I’d say a good dozen in Natchez alone,” Coulton interjected. “All them what were present at the execution.”
“Ah. But they won’t believe what they saw,” she murmured. “They’ll find some explanation; they always do. It’s no obstacle. Tell me, Charles. How many people have you killed?”
He looked quickly up. “Missus?”
“Killed, Charles. How many?”
His voice was small when he answered. “Two, Mrs. Harrogate, ma’am.”
She clicked her tongue. He was lying to her, of course, she could see that writ clearly in his face. The powder she’d fed him hadn’t yet taken full effect. No matter. She was pleased by the lie, pleased to see the shame he felt when he spoke of it. She’d seen too many kids in that chair, hurt over and over by the world, until their hurting and their being hurt no longer seemed shameful at all. Those were the ones that worried her.
She crossed the room, her black skirts swishing on the whitewashed floor. She picked up a long surgical knife from the table near the door. “Does it hurt, Charles? When you heal yourself, I mean?”
“Yes.” The boy paused. “It’s like my insides are on fire.”
“I must see it for myself, you understand,” she said. “I must cut you now. But I would like your permission.”
His eyes were clear. “Yes, ma’am. You can do it.”