My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(14)
This was bad. Alexander had to get the spirit under control before anything worse happened. The living couldn’t usually tell what the dead were doing—not unless they were like him—but when spirits became emotionally charged, the boundaries of what was possible shifted.
“Why do you care so much about which cup it was?” asked a dead student.
“Because.” Alexander seized one of the potentially poison-bearing cups and tapped Brocklehurst on the forehead with it.
The ceramic went right through.
Everyone was staring. The living were clearly questioning their faith in his ability to deal with ghosts. The ghosts of students past just frowned and muttered that it was rude to put things through ghosts. And Mr. Brocklehurst himself just seemed confused.
“Don’t do that again.”
Alexander did it again, this time with a different cup. Again, though, it had no effect.
“If you would all be so kind as to leave the room,” Alexander said to the living students and the teachers. Clearly, this was going to get ugly.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” said one of the students.
“No one does,” replied Miss Temple, nudging the student toward the door. “But I think we should leave.”
“Why are you hitting me with cups?” Brocklehurst’s face and neck turned red, in spite of the fact that he was dead and didn’t have blood anymore. “I demand that you stop!”
Alexander did it again with a third cup.
Nothing.
Maybe it wasn’t a cup, then. But he’d been so certain. Of course it had to be a cup, didn’t it? What if it had been the cookies? He’d have no clear talisman. It could be a spatula, a mixing bowl, or even the oven.
As Alexander reached for a fourth cup, Brocklehurst lashed out and struck a painting off the wall.
At once, screams filled the parlor. The ghosts stayed in place, but the living moved toward the exit at top speed.
Brocklehurst, for his part, threw more things onto the floor: cups, pens, books.
Alexander had to act quickly. Brandishing the fourth cup, he pursued the angry ghost.
“Stop hitting my head with cups!” screamed Brocklehurst.
“Not until I know which cup it was!” Alexander tried again, and this time the ceramic thudded firmly against the ghost’s forehead.
Immediately the ghost of Mr. Brocklehurst was sucked into the teacup. The ceramic trembled in Alexander’s gloved hands, like the ghost was struggling to escape.
“Please work,” Alexander whispered. And then there was a flash of light and the shuddering stopped. He’d trapped Mr. Brocklehurst.
Carefully, he wrapped the teacup in a scrap of burlap. Handling these talismans was a delicate business, and why he always wore gloves: touching a talisman could lead to possession by the ghost trapped within. Society agents always wore gloves, to be safe.
“Are you going to make any arrests?” Miss Bront? asked, returning to the now-empty parlor.
Alexander shrugged. “My job isn’t actually to solve murders. I capture ghosts. Though sometimes that involves solving murders. I just didn’t need to this time.”
Miss Bront? pressed her lips together. “Mr. Blackwood, are you going to relocate the other ghosts in Lowood? I imagine there are a lot after all these years.” There was a look in her eye. A sadness, as though she’d lost people she cared about.
Alexander shook his head. “I can relocate any the school finds troublesome, but to relocate them all would take a lot of time and it’s not strictly necessary, unless the spirits begin causing problems.”
The girl’s shoulders relaxed. “No, no. I mean, unless they want to go with you. But perhaps they’re happy here. Even though they’re dead.”
“Perhaps.” Alexander’s encounters with ghosts were rarely happy ones. People never called him because of friendly ghosts.
“Well, good day to you.” Miss Bront? pulled out her notebook and wandered away, busy with whatever story she was telling now.
Alexander just hoped it wasn’t a romance.
Back at the inn, Alexander pulled out a pen and slip of paper to send a note to the Duke of Wellington.
Sir, I’ve encountered a seer. Her name is Jane Eyre. Unfortunately, she has declined my initial offer to join the Society. I will endeavor to persuade her. —A. Black
When the ink was dry, he sealed the paper closed with a drop of wax and secured the note to a pigeon’s ankle. Soon, the bird was off to London and the Society headquarters.
Alexander had dedicated his life to the RWS Society at the tender age of four, when three important things had happened: (1) His father was killed. (2) He gained the ability to see ghosts. (3) The Duke of Wellington took him in and began training him to become the best agent the Society had ever seen.
This was where the side business came in. Yes, Alexander was the star agent of the Society, and usually that was good enough for him, but his father hadn’t just been killed.
He’d been murdered.
This meant that Alexander’s side business was actually the revenge business, though to be completely honest he had just the one customer: himself.
For fourteen years, he’d been working toward avenging his father’s murder, but he didn’t have much to go on at the moment, only the fuzzy memories of a frightened young boy. Which made revenge quite difficult. So he poured himself into his day job at the Society, tracking down troublesome ghosts, reading newspapers in search of new recruits, and generally trying to keep the struggling Society on its feet.