My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(24)

“I left him at the inn when I went to Lowood. I couldn’t predict what he might say to Miss Eyre, and I didn’t want to risk his”—Alexander winced—“enthusiasm causing her to refuse my offer.”

“A wise choice. The most important thing is finding a new seer, especially if Branwell isn’t going to work out.”

Alexander winced again. “About that.”

Before Alexander could admit the ugly truth, the tea arrived.

Alexander took his teacup, warming his hands on the ceramic while the fragrant tea steeped.

“When will Miss Eyre arrive?” Wellington asked.

“She won’t.” Alexander slouched a tiny bit. “She declined.”

“How could she decline?” Wellington shook his head. “Tell me exactly what you said to her.”

Recounting the conversation was easy. It had been so completely baffling, the way she adamantly did not want to join the Society. “She said her life’s dream is to become a governess. After that, she refused to see me, though I went back to the school several times.”

Wellington frowned. “Well, you tried. At least you took care of the incident at the Tully Pub. I suppose that went well enough.”

In spite of Branwell, yes. But . . . “There was something a little strange about that.”

“What is it?”

Alexander tried to recall exactly how it had happened. “In the pub, when Miss Eyre first appeared, the Shrieking Lady reacted . . .”

“Yes?” Wellington prompted.

“Oddly.” It was just so unusual, Alexander could hardly find the words. “The ghost immediately stopped shrieking and began”—he shrugged—“hugging her?”

“Hugging Miss Eyre, you say?”

“Yes, sir. I know it sounds bizarre. But that is what happened.”

Wellington leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “That is interesting. Did anything else happen with Miss Eyre in the presence of ghosts?”

“Come to think of it, the ghosts at Lowood kept asking her for skin-care tips.”

“Ah.” The duke stroked his beard. “Tell me, Alexander, have you ever heard of Beacons?”

The word was familiar to Alexander, of course. The definition and whatnot. But he sensed Wellington meant Beacon (capital B) in a specific way. “No, sir.”

Wellington nodded. “We haven’t had a Beacon since you were small. You wouldn’t remember, I suppose.”

“What is a Beacon?”

“A Beacon, my boy, is a seer with, shall we say, extra abilities. Our previous Beacon could command ghosts with a word. From what I understand, ghosts often comment on the Beacon’s attractiveness, as though there’s some sort of supernatural glow about them, visible only to ghosts. The Beacon was an invaluable—you might say necessary—part of what we do here.”

“We haven’t had a Beacon in years, though?” Alexander frowned. He’d always tried so hard for the Society, but now he learned he would never be enough, no matter how much he gave?

“Oh, we can function without a Beacon, Alexander. We have been functioning quite well, as you know. Considering that our funding has been slashed and we have so few seers . . .” Wellington took a sip from his tea and stared across the room, deep in thought. “The Society is in trouble, my boy. More trouble than I wanted you to know about. The continued existence of the Society depends upon seers like you. And this Miss Eyre, if she is indeed a Beacon. We need her to join us.”

A chill ran up Alexander’s spine. “Sir?”

“Promise her whatever you must. Better pay. Better lodging. We need a Beacon.”

“Sir, I know there aren’t many seers at the moment, but we still have Mr. Sussman and Mr. Stein. They’re both fine agents—”

“They’re dead.” Wellington sat up straight and placed his teacup on the tray once more. “They’ve been killed in the line of duty. It’s just you and Branwell now.”

What a sobering thought.

“You must persuade Miss Eyre,” said the duke. “She could be the key to restoring the Society to its former glory.”

Alexander drained his tea and stood. “Then I shall return to Lowood at once.”

The duke nodded and shook Alexander’s hand. “I know you won’t fail me again.”

“I won’t, sir. You have my word.” He departed, having completely forgotten to turn in the ghost-filled talismans in his haste. Oops.





SEVEN


Charlotte

Charlotte woke in the dead of the night to find a strange boy sitting on the edge of her bed. (Don’t get too excited, dear reader—it was only her brother.)

“Bran,” she gasped, sitting up so fast she nearly cracked heads with him. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t a brother stop by to see his favorite sister?” he whispered.

She forced herself to remain stern. “Not at an all-girls boarding school,” she admonished. “If Miss Scatcherd sees you here, we’re dead.” She glanced down the long row of beds at her two sleeping sisters. “Am I truly your favorite?”

He grinned and pushed his mass of unkempt red hair out of his eyes. “Actually my favorite sister is Anne. But you’re a close second.”