Chapter 11
Mercury was very close to resigning himself to never sleeping through the night again.
As he sat at the table in the breakfast room the next morning, he came to the conclusion that he needed to also let go of the possibility of passing a peaceful morning.
Both the Padmores and Mr. Sappington found him there and launched almost immediately into a very one-sided discussion with him.
“We spoke about it at length last night,” Mr. Padmore said, “and my wife and I would like to trade the Cream Canary rather than the Other Hand.”
“That can be done,” Mercury assured them before taking a bite of his toast.
“But the ghost we would like to trade for isn’t—” Mr. Padmore looked to his wife.
“You don’t—” She also hesitated.
Time was of the essence here. Rather than allow them to circle the topic endlessly, he simply jumped in and addressed the matter. “After last evening, I suspected you were considering how well-matched the Other Hand is with Professor Daskalov.”
The Padmores nodded in near-perfect unison.
He looked to Mr. Sappington. “And I suspect the ghost you wish to swap for is Signora Bellona.”
“Yes,” Mr. Sappington said. “But I am not a ghost broker. I cannot trade the Professor to the Padmores.”
“You don’t need to.” Mercury took a sip of tea. “I will swap Professor Daskalov for whichever of my ghosts you have chosen. Shortly thereafter, I will swap the Cream Canary for Professor Daskalov.”
“That sounds complicated,” Mrs. Padmore said hesitantly.
“For me, it is. But the only difference you will even notice is that the trades will take longer than they would otherwise.”
“How long?” Mr. Padmore didn’t seem upset, simply curious.
Mercury wiped his fingers on his napkin. “I cannot say with perfect precision—there is some unpredictability in the process—but likely a day or two.”
They all nodded.
“Gather the ghosts being transferred and meet me in the library.” Mercury stood. “We can begin immediately.”
But a hitch in the plan quite suddenly occurred to him. There was an aspect of Mr. Sappington’s decision that he was likely not fully aware of. Mercury wasn’t actually obligated to speak with Mr. Sappington about the matter, but his conscience wouldn’t allow him to move forward otherwise.
“Before we start the process,” he said, “I need a moment with Mr. Sappington and Signora Bellona. Just the two of them.”
The Padmores agreed and slipped from the room.
“Is something amiss?” The young artist watched Mercury with palpable uncertainty.
“No. I would simply feel more at ease knowing you were in possession of a particular bit of information before agreeing to this exchange.” Heaven knew it was something Mercury wished he had known before trading for the Signora.
He guessed correctly that the ghost in question was in the north sitting room. She regally welcomed them and seemed genuinely happy to see Mr. Sappington.
I am likely about to ruin the perfect solution to my very prickly problem. He wrapped his hand around the iron key in his pocket. He wouldn’t go back to being the mistreated orphan he’d once been, but he also wouldn’t let himself become as cruel and selfish as those who had imprisoned him there.
“Signora,” he said, “I was struggling this morning to remember which of Scarlatti’s operas is your favorite.”
The question appeared to both offend and excite her. And, just as he’d assumed she would, she launched immediately into a very loud, very ill-executed performance of the aria “Figlio! Tiranno! O Dio!”
Mercury heard ghostly groans from beyond the room during the exceptionally brief moments when she paused for breath. He didn’t dare even look at Mr. Sappington.
The performance ended and the room—the entire house it seemed—descended into complete silence. Mercury waited for Mr. Sappington to either revoke his interest in the would-be prima donna or simply run from the room.
“Griselda,” Mr. Sappington said. “That might be my favorite of Scarlatti’s operas as well.”
Mercury’s head snapped in his direction. There was no horror or suffering on the man’s face. He didn’t look ready to bolt. Of course, there also was no indication that he thought Signora Bellona’s performance had been . . . good.
“She sings often,” Mercury said. “And usually at that volume and”—he turned more directly to Mr. Sappington, placing his back to the Signora, and lowered his voice—“with precisely that sense of pitch.” He gave Mr. Sappington a pointed look.
Understanding dawned in his eyes. Mr. Sappington stepped closer to the Signora. “I haven’t heard you sing since I’ve been here.”
She sniffed. “Not all the guests at Aventine Manor appreciate opera. I sing for my own enjoyment, not the entertainment or approval of others.”
“I cannot imagine you are one to sing when doing so would be inappropriate—in a gallery or a closed carriage with others or whilst attending an actual opera.”
She perked up. “Do you plan to attend operas during your European journey?”
“I do.” He smiled. “And attending operas with one who will thoroughly enjoy the experience would be remarkable.”
“Yes, it would,” she firmly declared.
Mr. Sappington looked back at Mercury. This was the perfect opportunity to simply shrug and say that the man had been warned. But he couldn’t feel entirely confident that the man truly knew the situation.
“She will sing often when there aren’t others around. Often.”
“I don’t mind,” he said. “Enthusiastic creativity is inspiring, whether expertly executed or not.”
“You are certain?” Mercury pressed.
“Entirely.”
Had he truly managed this? The Cream Canary would be staying. Both his clients would be leaving pleased with their swaps. And he’d managed to do it without tricking Mr. Sappington or leveraging marital disagreements among the Padmores.
Most importantly, he’d managed it in time to save himself from the whisper the Cream Canary was struggling to hold back.
“Well, then, Signora.” Mercury gave a crisp nod, tucking his relief behind his usual confident composure. “It appears you are making a return visit to the Continent.”
The Padmores, the Cream Canary, Mr. Sappington, Professor Daskalov, and Signora Bellona joined Mercury in the library a quarter hour later.
Tacey asked if she could be present as well, and no one objected.
Of course, no one but Mercury understood that her request was the result of more than mere curiosity.
She needed to learn to broker ghosts, and watching Transferals would help with that.
Mercury had just finished writing out the agreements between himself and Mr. Sappington and between himself and Mrs. Padmore. Once they had both signed, Mercury did as well, and they were ready to begin.
“This will be a little different from previous Transferals you have participated in,” he reminded them. “From your perspective, both trades will seem to occur simultaneously, though they won’t in actuality. And, as I have warned you, it might take a couple of days—perhaps even more.”
“We understand,” Mr. Sappington said. “I believe we are all eager enough for these swaps that two or three days longer will be well worth the wait.”
It would feel like simply a wait to them.
But those two or three days would be very hard on him.
Transferals took a significant physical and mental toll on the broker.
Balancing two transfers, maintaining the delicate balance of shifting the Professor’s attachment from Mr. Sappington to himself and then to Mrs. Padmore, all while releasing his attachment to Signora Bellona and creating a new attachment to the Cream Canary, would be more exhausting than any Transferal in recent memory.
Still, he didn’t mean to drag his feet.
He started by asking the questions he always began with. “Signora Bellona, are you pleased with this Transferal and willing to move forward with it?”
Mercury had already explained to the ghosts involved that when he asked them the initial question, they needed to give a verbal yes or no. The people involved set in writing their intentions, but not all ghosts could use a pen. Mercury never left room for misunderstandings.
“Yes,” the Signora said.
“And Professor Daskalov, are you pleased with both of these Transferals and willing to move forward with them?”
The Professor nodded solemnly. “Yes, I am.”
Mercury turned to the third of the ghosts. “Cream Canary, are you pleased with this Transferal and willing to move forward with it?”
She nodded but didn’t speak.
Mercury stepped up to her. Gently, he said, “Your answer does have to be verbal.”
Again, she nodded silently.
He hadn’t expected hesitancy from her. She was, for him, the most crucial part of this swap.
She absolutely had to agree or everything would fall apart.
But he had never and would never attempt to coerce any ghost or person to move forward with a Transferal with which they were not completely comfortable.
“Come talk with me a moment,” he said, waving her to the side. When they were sufficiently separated from the others, he continued in a very quiet voice. “Do you not wish to continue?”
She pressed her lips together, fusing them a little. Tension rippled off of her.
“I won’t force this on you,” he said, pushing back a surge of budding panic. Lud, he needed her to agree to this. “I won’t coerce you into this Transfer or into making Aventine Manor your home.”
“I want—” She tensed her mouth once more. Then, through tight lips, she said, “I want to proceed.”
“Then what has you so on edge?”
She closed the gap between them, standing so close that, were she a person, he would almost certainly feel her breath on his face. And, were she even four inches closer, she would begin passing through him. In a nearly silent voice, she said, “I have remembered where you come from.”
Blast.
“I am trying very hard not to let that slip from me, but it is so difficult not to.”
And with that, he understood. Her clipped answers and tense posture were not a reflection of unwillingness to be swapped but evidence of the effort needed to protect him.
“Once you are attached to me,” he said, as quietly as she had been speaking, “the secret will, apparently, not try to force itself to be spoken.”
“I am—counting on that.”
“This transfer is complicated,” he said. “And your attachment, of necessity, will be the last to fully form.”
“Let us not delay any longer,” she pleaded.
He nodded. “I will do this as fast as I can.”
“Thank you.”
They returned to the others.
“Let’s begin.”
Mercury took several slow, deep breaths.
He cleared his thoughts and forced his mind to focus on his attachment to Signora Bellona.
This was the bit that was, thus far, proving impossible to explain to Tacey.
The connection a person had with his or her ghost was very real, but it wasn’t tangible.
It was simply part of him, almost like a memory that tied him to a particular ghost. And, once he found it, he had to begin letting it go.
Perhaps it was fortunate his brokering lessons with Tacey hadn’t yet reached the stage of letting attachments go. Finding the connection was tricky, but releasing it was painful.
He searched through the threads tying him to his ghosts until he found the Signora’s. It resided in the idea of her singing. Not a memory of it. Not a particular song. Simply . . . the idea. Focused. Felt.
For him, releasing a connection felt like a cocoon opening. It was somehow both a beginning and an ending. He pictured that now. Singing. A cocoon opening. Singing. Opening.
A rush of loneliness washed over him. In talking with other brokers and hearing the Scholar’s academic explanations, Mercury had learned that every broker felt that when transferring a ghost. Loneliness. Everyone. Every time.
He didn’t like it. He’d spent so much of his life agonizingly lonely. Feeling it again and again, every trade, every swap, was agonizing. Yet, it was a necessary pain.
He held his hand out. The Professor passed his ghostly hand into Mercury’s. A new attachment began wiggling and searching inside of him for connection. It formed not in his mind or heart, but in something far more like his soul or his essence—the deepest part of who he was.
He waited, focused, and braced for the attachment to begin taking hold. It always hurt, but it was a pain he couldn’t physically locate.
So much about this was inexplicable. Little wonder he was struggling to teach Tacey to become a broker.
The familiar sting nipped at him with the thought of the Professor sitting with Baby Blue.
He had a memory of a thought and the pinprick of a thread beginning to form.
Mercury took just a moment to concentrate on where it was.
He would be building and releasing it at the same time. That was a tricky thing.
He pulled his hand free of the Professor’s, then held it out to the Cream Canary. The process repeated again. A ghostly hand through his. An attachment searching for its home. Pain. Loneliness.
Mercury breathed tightly. He dropped his arms to his side. “I will inform all of you when the Transferals are complete. The process is a difficult one for me, so I may not see much of you in the meantime.”
They expressed concern but also gratitude as each made their way from the library. Only Tacey remained behind.
“I remember how tired you were last time,” she said.
“This will be worse. The next couple of days will be . . .” He was struggling even to have a conversation. This Transferal was requiring a great deal of concentration. Two transfers meant twice the focus, twice the pain, and twice the loneliness. He was fighting not to feel almost desolate.
Torturous. That’s what the next couple of days were going to be. And, as always, he would endure his torture alone.
Tacey hooked her arm through his, startling him, and pulled him gently from the library. “Don’t give a thought to where we’re going or what you need to accomplish. I will see you settled where you can be comfortable; then you needn’t sort any of that out.”
“You . . . you mean to look after me?”
“I mean to ease your burdens in whatever way I can.”
Just don’t leave me to bear it alone. But he had never begged for company or support. He wouldn’t do so now.
Simply walking was proving difficult. The burden of a double Transferal was more than just emotional. His body felt pulled and twisted. Painful. Heavy.
He let Tacey guide him, grateful she kept their pace slow.
He hardly noticed where they went and was actually a little surprised when he found himself in his favorite sitting room, snugly wrapped in a light blanket in his favorite chair.
The agony of releasing two ghosts was still heavy and sharp, and he still felt the crushing weight of loneliness.
But he wasn’t entirely alone.