Safe. Charlie Ovid felt safe.
It was a peculiar feeling for him, safety, a kid who’d been stolen away to a fog-thick city by a mysterious Englishman with a gun and there, for God’s sake, stalked by a monster. And yet he did feel safe; he slept that long first night at the institute in a narrow room with a slanted ceiling, Marlowe in the bed next to his, and the horror of their flight out of London faded like a dream. And all the menacing worlds he’d known—the sweltering prison in Natchez, the sun-drenched fields of cotton in the Delta, even the murky streets of Wapping at night, all of them—felt very far away.
Safe. That was the wonder of it. And so, on that first morning, when Charlie woke to hushed voices, to girls’ voices, he wasn’t afraid; he didn’t leap to his feet, doubling his fists; he just lay groggy and still under the blankets, and tried to hear. They were two and they were talking about Marlowe.
“You reckon it’s true, then?” whispered the first. “The shining boy? It’s really him?”
“I expect so.”
“Huh. Ain’t much to look at, is he?”
“This coming from you?”
“Shh. He’s like to hear you.”
“Miss Davenshaw said they found him in America, however he got there. And this other one too. She said their train was attacked by Jacob Marber and they fought him off. He fought him off. Again.”
“She told you all that?”
“Yes.”
“She don’t tell me that much. Why don’t she?”
“You have to ask that? Really?”
A muffled snort, like a laugh. “Hell. They could’ve been found in the bloody arctic, wouldn’t make no difference. No way old Jacob’s done with them.” A rustling, as the girl drew near. “Aw, Ko. Waked this one up now, you did.”
Charlie cracked an eye. The room was filled with daylight. His tongue felt thick and he worked his jaw a moment, gulping air. He saw Marlowe asleep in the next bed, twisted in white sheets, his little trustful face smoothed in sleep, and then he raised his head and saw the girl.
She’d perched herself up on the narrow writing desk, so that her legs dangled free. She was maybe two years older than him, dressed in a plain gray pinafore. She wasn’t white; he’d seen Chinese workers in the rail yards in Natchez and there was a likeness there, maybe. She had a slender face, wide shoulders. Her long hair was black and shining and had been plaited in a braid that fell all the way to her waist. She wore black kidskin gloves with the fingers cut out. Her eyes were as black as her hair. He’d never seen anyone like her. He realized he was staring and a heat came into his cheeks and he looked away.
“I knew you weren’t sleeping,” said the girl. “You’re a terrible faker. Do you always pretend to sleep, so you can spy on a girl?”
“I, I never…,” he mumbled. “I mean, it’s not…”
“So you’re Charlie Ovid,” she went on, unimpressed. She looked him up and down. “I thought you’d be older. I’m Komako.”
Uneasy, Charlie glanced around. He couldn’t see the second girl. “Who were you talking to?”
The girl Komako’s face took on an innocent look. She tugged at her braid. “Hm?”
“Just now. I heard you. There was someone else in here.”
“In here?”
He blinked, suddenly unsure.
But just then the air shifted beside his bed, as if the gloomy light itself, spilling in through the window, was rippling.
“Boo!” whispered the second girl, into his ear.
Charlie nearly fell out of his blankets. He scrabbled backward against the headboard, staring at the emptiness, his heart thundering in his chest. There was no one there.
“Aw, I’m over here, Charlie. No, here.”
He turned his face from side to side, wild-eyed, like he was going crazy. Like he’d hit his head on the train and now he was hearing voices.
But the voice was real. “You ain’t crazy,” it said. “I’m what they call invisible, like.”
Slowly he reached out a hand. It brushed only air. “Are you a … a ghost?”
Komako screwed up her face. “She’s a talent, Charlie. Like all of us.”
“The name’s Ribs,” the voice said cheerfully, several feet away now. “But you got to keep quieter. We ain’t supposed to be in here. Ain’t proper, like. Miss Davenshaw’d skin us alive, she known we was in here. So is that really the shining boy? The one what fought Jacob Marber off an lived, like?”
“Uh,” said Charlie. “Yeah—?”
“Wait. You don’t know who he is? Ko, he don’t even know.”
“Your little friend there is famous,” said Komako. “Everyone thought he was dead.”
“Famous?”
Komako shrugged. “Sure. He’s the shining boy. Stopped Jacob Marber from killing everyone here at Cairndale five years back. He was just a baby. But he disappeared, got stolen away.…”
Charlie glanced over at Marlowe, still sleeping. He was still sleepy and trying to make sense of what the two girls were going on about but it was hard, he was confused. They seemed to be waiting for him to say something more, so he said, “Who’s Miss Davenshed?”
“Davenshaw. Our governess. She ain’t all bad.” The invisible girl, Ribs, made a clicking noise with her tongue. “You’ll meet her soon enough. Go on, tell us: What were he like, on the train? Jacob, I mean.”
“How’d you know about the train?”
“Aw, everybody round here knows. It’s all anyone’s talking about. Hell, Alfie in Mr. Smythe’s class was takin wagers on it. You was on that train, yeah? You did fight off Jacob?”
Charlie wrapped the blanket around himself, sat up. “Marlowe did it mostly. Marlowe and Alice. I never did much.”
“Well, you didn’t die. That’s something.” Komako dropped to the floor, her long braid swaying, and she walked over to Marlowe’s bed. “He’s a little one.”
“Yeah.”
“How old is he?”
“Eight.”
“Seems about right.” Komako’s face had a strange expression on it, part angry, part sad. “We don’t have any little ones here. Not as young as that.”
The mattress creaked beside him; Ribs had sat down. “Well, he’s one of us again. And you is, too.” She dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper. “So. What do you do, what’s your talent, then? You ain’t got a flesh giant under the bed now, do you?”
“Uh … what?”
“He doesn’t know what that is,” said Komako patiently. “You’ll meet Lymenion soon enough, Charlie One-of-Us-Now. Though he’s kind of … gross.”
“Aw, he’s cute, Ko.”
“He’s not cute. Even Oskar doesn’t think he’s cute.”
“I, uh … I heal,” said Charlie quietly. “I’ve always done. I don’t ever get hurt, or killed, or anything.”
Komako’s dark eyes studied him. All at once he felt a sudden sharp pinch on his forearm, and he yelped. “Jesus! What’d you do that for?”
“You said you don’t get hurt,” Ribs complained.
“I get hurt. I just heal.”
“Oh.”
Komako was grinning. “Ribs can be kind of literal, sometimes,” she said. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen a new haelan here.”
“What kind of a name is Ribs, anyway?” said Charlie, glowering.
“A fine one, is what kind,” Ribs’s voice replied. “Charlie’s a name for a bloody horse, so what’s it to you?”
Komako seemed to be enjoying herself all of a sudden. “It’s Eleanor Ribbon, actually. But she’ll do worse than pinch you if you call her that.”
Charlie was still rubbing at his arm when the bed creaked. It was Marlowe, sitting up in his nightshirt, rubbing at his eyes with his little fists. He looked around at them all and smiled a sleepy smile.
“Hi,” he said shyly.
* * *