The upper corridor was long and wide and they went slowly, like invalids. Had anyone seen them, Alice in her oilskin coat, both hands clutching at her ribs, and old Mrs. Harrogate in her widow’s weeds with her swollen eye and her bandaged ear, they might’ve stared, or laughed; but there was no one, no one at all to see, and the two women shuffled instead through the badly lit hallway, every second sconce snuffed out, past the closed doors and along the dark wood wainscotting, until they came to a turning, and a wide staircase that descended down. She heard the distant voices of students, along the halls, the sound of running footsteps. But the interior of the manor seemed, she thought, larger than it should be. There were just too many doors.
“Because it is built beside an orsine,” said Mrs. Harrogate, watching her from the corner of her good eye, gauging her reaction. “I am impressed; most don’t notice it so quickly. It can be quite disorienting for some. There was a woman here whom it used to make physically ill.” She raised an eyebrow. “The building is indeed larger inside than out. Cairndale Manor is a liminal space, a conduit between worlds. Here, the world of the living and the world of the dead touch.”
Alice gave her a strange, uneasy look, but said nothing.
The stone staircase descended. A stained glass window drenched their faces with a bloodred light. Its panels showed the lives of the sainted dead.
“The orsine, Miss Quicke, is the last passage between those worlds. There were others, once; but Cairndale is the only orsine that remains active. It is our task, here, to contain it. It is Dr. Berghast’s task. The orsine must be kept closed, you see.”
“Why?”
“Or the dead will come through,” said Mrs. Harrogate simply. “The dead, and worse.”
Alice raised a skeptical eyebrow. It all sounded mad to her. “I guess it’s a good thing you keep it closed, then,” she muttered.
“Cairndale has always been here,” Mrs. Harrogate continued. “The original structures are old, far older than you can imagine. It was a monastery once. You can see the ruins still, on the island in Loch Fae. You have seen it? From your balcony? The land was sold by its order centuries ago to the first of the talents, a man who claimed for himself the title of lord and constructed the manor as you see it around you now. He was the first of his kind; but when he learned there were others like him, he determined to establish a refuge for them. Ah. Here is his likeness.” She stopped in front of a smoke-darkened portrait. Dark eyes stared out from a face now long-dead. “The property has been added on to, of course, first as a hospital for the poor, later as a sanatorium, now as a clinic. Or, at least, this is how we have wished it to appear. But in fact it has always just been a sanctuary, for its resident talents. Most of them are old now, too. You will see them, some of them, when they come out of their rooms. The ones who wish to be seen, that is. In recent years, it has also become a kind of … school.”
“For the children.”
“Yes. There are twenty-one of them now. As they come of age, some leave, of course. They must learn to control their talents, to focus them.” She paused. “This must all seem rather strange.”
Alice let her gaze drift upward, to the ancient candle wheels suspended from the coffered ceiling. “Stranger than what?”
The older woman smiled and went on. “There are fewer than twelve old residents here now,” she said. “Excluding Dr. Berghast, and his small staff. The children are kept in small groups, taught by a few teachers only. They are … discouraged from intermingling. Dr. Berghast believes it best to keep their intimacies limited.”
“Why?”
Mrs. Harrogate shrugged. “He does not explain his reasons. Not to me.”
They came down into a grand entrance hall. Leather armchairs arranged around thick Persian carpets in each corner, immaculate, empty. A huge stone hearth, unlit, in the rear wall, and on either side, doors opening into shadows beyond.
“Meals are served through here, Miss Quicke. And here is the smoking room, for gentlemen only.”
Alice snorted at that.
“Quite,” said Mrs. Harrogate. “I expect a scandalous visit would give the older residents much to discuss. To your left is a passage leading to the little classroom where Charlie and Marlowe will study. It is run by Miss Davenshaw. She is strict but fair. Most of her instruction, however, is given in the outbuildings. It is of a more … practical nature. You are welcome to walk the grounds, but do not approach those buildings, Miss Quicke. For your own safety.”
Alice gave her an irritated look.
But if Mrs. Harrogate noticed—and she did, Alice knew, she noticed everything—still, she gave no indication. She just interlaced her fingers, nodded grimly. “You will have more questions, of course. Dr. Berghast will send for you when you’re stronger.”
Just then there came the sound of running footsteps, and an ancient oak door across the hall was thrown open, and a girl with a long braid flying out behind her ran through, in a blur. Right on her heels came Charlie, long-legged like a camel. When he saw Alice he stopped, stared. For an instant he looked, she thought, almost happy, almost like the young man he could have been, in a different life, a different world.
And then, behind Charlie, straggling and trying to keep up, a smaller figure burst through, black hair tousled, shirt untucked, little arms plowing the air. Marlowe.
“Alice!” he cried. “You’re awake!”
He ran to her, and she felt her legs give out.
“Oh thank God,” she whispered. And pulled him fiercely into her arms, feeling the small good warmth of his little body.
* * *
It was late when Margaret Harrogate crossed the wet courtyard at Cairndale and entered a nondescript door in the east wing. She was thinking about Alice Quicke. Her head and her ear were hurting again, and she pressed a hand against the bandage as if to contain the ache. She walked quickly through the rooms, their furnishings shrouded in white sheets, drapes closed against the world. At a thick oak door, she knocked twice; a voice answered; she lifted the heavy iron ring, twisted it sideways, and went in.
A reek of dust and spices and moldering earth. Only Dr. Berghast liked it here. This was the institute’s old storeroom. There were long metal shelves filled with jars, their labels yellowed and faded, and little wooden worktables pushed up against the walls, with old-fashioned weights and measures and scoops of various sizes.
She found him gazing out the window at the rain. When first she’d met him, his hair had been black as a raven’s wing. Now, white hair fell long over his collar. His still-powerful hands were clasped behind him. The knuckles of his fingers looked swollen and protuberant, like knots in a tree. But he was still strong, broad-backed.
“I have been thinking about the creature you were bringing me,” he said, not turning to look at her. “The litch, who was thrown from the train. Do you believe he is dead?”
“No,” said Margaret, surprised. “It would take more than that to kill him.”
“Can he be found?”
“It would not be easy.”
“Nothing worth the doing ever is, Mrs. Harrogate.” He turned and looked at her. His face was unlined, the face of a younger man. “And how is Miss Quicke?”
“It’s too soon to tell,” Margaret replied. “I informed her about what happened to Mr. Coulton. Perhaps I ought to have waited. When you see her, she will ask you about Adra Norn. What will you tell her?”
Dr. Berghast smoothed his beard with his palm. “I will tell her the truth,” he said slowly, “or what I know of it.” His eyes glittered like gray stones. “Alice Quicke’s role in this is far from finished. Will she do for our purposes, do you think?”
Margaret, standing, thought about it.
“She isn’t ready,” she said. “But she will be. Have you seen the boys yet?”
“Not yet. Soon.” Dr. Berghast studied her carefully. “You do know who he is, the little one?”
Margaret nodded.
Berghast tapped his thumbs over his interlaced fingers, brooding. “The boy has come back to me,” he said, with a quiet satisfaction. “As you said he would.”
There was something in his face, a dark hunger, and seeing it Margaret felt a shiver go through her.
18
THE YOUNG TALENTS