In the Shadow of Blackbirds(52)

“I told you before, brothers fight. That’s just how it is.”

“You’ve destroyed his work. He called you violent and a fraud.”

“I called him meddlesome and spoiled. It’s all a matter of perspective.”

“I’m going to see if Aunt Eva needs anything—”

He clasped my elbow before I could step past his big feet. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. I just want you to help him. Please, Mary Shelley. Put him to rest.”

“Why do you even care?” I asked. “You were never nice to him.”

“That doesn’t mean I want him to suffer. He was just a kid, for Christ’s sake. He …” Julius’s voice cracked, and grief’s sharp sting overpowered the ice-cold numbness on my tongue. “He did a stupid thing by running off to war when he could barely even put up a fight here at home.” He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, and I could feel his battle against tears in his squeeze of my arm. “Jesus, look at me.” He shook his head and let out a pained laugh. “Who knew that little pip-squeak of a brother would ever make me cry?”

I removed his hand from my elbow with a delicate motion. “I am trying to help him. If you have even the smallest inkling why he thinks birds were killing him overseas …”

“Germans shot him. There were no birds.”

“But something terrified and hurt him before he died. And I bet he won’t ever leave this earth until he understands what happened to him.”

“He died in combat. What more does he need to know?” Julius pulled his handkerchief out of my hand and wiped his eyes.

“Maybe he’s like Hamlet’s father’s ghost, needing justice for his murder.” I rubbed my arms to fight off an outbreak of gooseflesh. “I still think he may have been a prisoner of war. He seems mistreated—tortured.”

The taste of Julius’s grief dissolved in my mouth, replaced by numbness again, as if he were retreating from pain.

“What else could possibly help him feel at peace, Julius?” I asked. “You lived with him all his life. What do you think I could do to convince him to move on?”

Julius lifted his lashes and regarded me with his deep brown eyes. A strange look of serenity washed over his face, and his breathing softened. “I just heard him.”

“What?” I cocked my head and listened for whispers, but I heard only Aunt Eva’s footsteps bustling around upstairs. “Are you sure you didn’t just—”

“Mary Shelley …” Julius took me by the elbow and guided me down to the rocking chair. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “He said … he knows you threw that photograph into the bay.”

I froze.

Julius leaned close, his forehead a few short inches from mine. “He said he wants another picture of the two of you together. Before he goes. That’s what he needs.”

“How … ?” I swallowed. “How do you know I threw that photo in the bay? Did Aunt Eva—”

“He just told me. You shouldn’t have done that. It upset him. He thinks you don’t want to remember him.”

“No … he doesn’t think that. It’s those birds—”

“He wants a photograph.”

I searched Julius’s face for signs of trickery, but he kept his eyes on mine. His stoic expression showed me nothing.

He gathered both my hands in his freezing palms. “I’ll capture you together one last time. I’ll give you a copy of it to keep somewhere special. And then you can tell him good-bye.”

“But …”

“Mary Shelley.” He smiled in a pitying sort of way. “What did Stephen want more than anything else in the world? What made his heart beat fastest?”

My face flushed. I turned my eyes toward the floorboards. “To be as skilled a photographer as his father.”

“No. You know that’s not the right answer.” Julius nudged his knee against mine. “He wanted you.”

I shut my eyes to stave off more tears.

Julius bent close again, his breath brushing against my cheek. “He doesn’t want you to ever forget him.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Help him. With a photograph. Invite his spirit into another picture with you. Prove you’ll always remember him.”

“But … he hated spirit photography.”

“Please, Mary Shelley.” Julius strengthened his hold on my hands. “I just need one … last … picture.”

I looked him in the eye again, and this time I saw something wild and unstable staring back. “Wait …” I squirmed. “What’s all this about, Julius? Why are you really here?”

“It’s about you helping Stephen and me get out of that godforsaken place.”

“How could one photograph get you out of that house?”

“I’m going to send it to a contest. A scientific publication is looking for proof of the existence of spirits.” His eyes gleamed like a child’s on Christmas morning. “And they’re offering a prize of two thousand dollars for solid evidence.”

“No.” I pulled my hands out of his. “I’m not helping you get any money.”

“I’d give you a fair percentage of the prize money if you brought him to me.” He clasped my shoulder. “I bet we could produce solid evidence—a photograph of Stephen that would make the judges’ scientific eyes pop with fear and awe and respect.”