Chapter 16 Theodore Daye
Insomnia once again settled behind Leena’s eyelids.
It had been one week since the events at the cottage, and the days since had passed slowly. She’d seen death before—multiple times, in fact—but never had such a direct hand in it. Her skin still smelled of burial.
In the rare few hours when she was not busy looking after Rami, she could not find rest. She searched for a way to stop her consistent deliberations.
Amid the usual assortment of ghosts that lingered around her in the late hours, Leena paced, she read, she even sewed—anything not to face how skewed her life had become.
Why, Leena thought with a groan, pricking her finger for the fourth time, did his voice and shadowed face keep finding a home in her late nights?
But, of course, she knew. She knew exactly why.
She was contrite—and her contrition would not allow her the respite of sleep.
She had given him little choice that night but to help her bury the young man, threatening him with the one thing he wanted: finding Lord Avon’s ghost.
And she did not need to be a palm reader to be able to see, with sharp clarity, that burying the body had pained him.
Speak, he had said.
The methodical, detached way he had dug, the grinding of his jaw and the untethered look in his eyes spoke of a wound he was resurrecting alongside the thick, iron-rich earth.
Giving up with disgust, Leena threw her embroidery onto the bed, instead choosing to vigorously brush her hair for the third time that night. She stared at the mirror without seeing her reflection.
It was no wonder the look he had given her as he’d told of the boy he had buried at twelve spoke of laceration.
She’d forced a confession from him, just as she had seen him do to so many of his customers. The only difference was that all of his customers came willingly, lined up for hours, and knew the price they had to pay, yet their reward was ample.
That night, St. Silas had paid the price without the reward. And that was what troubled her—the fact that she’d taken the choice from him.
It made matters worse that the ghost of the servant-boy—the very same one she’d acknowledged in Orley’s office—had begun to follow her.
He stood by her bed, watching her from outside the salt circle.
That first night, it had been him, the weeping cobbler, and an old woman whose clawed hand begged for offerings.
The second night, it had been only the servant-boy and the weeping cobbler.
The nights after that, it was only the servant-boy.
His twitchy, gaunt face molded into a smile of greeting every time Leena stumbled out of bed, and she stared in amazement at the emptiness of her room.
“Are you keeping the other ghosts away?” Leena asked in awe.
He bowed, as if she was a lady and he was her servant.
“How do you do that?” she begged. “Can you teach me?”
He pointed toward his chest and nodded, then pointed toward Leena and shook his head. She understood. He could better control the dead because he was one of their number. Leena, who was still living (even though she didn’t always feel like she was), could not choose her hauntings.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, feeling slightly deflated. “Will you keep the other phantoms away from me at night?”
Leena had asked this without any hope, as the ghosts never did what she wanted, so was startled when the servant-boy nodded. She stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest.
“Thank you,” she said haltingly. She had never thanked any of her phantoms before. He even turned around when Leena dressed—unlike a few of her leering ghosts, who forced her to change while under the covers, stripping her of her dignity.
This morning, she had a sudden desire to humanize the ghost, so she did something she’d never done before. She asked for his name.
She found yesterday’s newspaper and ripped out the margins, quickly writing the letters of the alphabet in as big a font as she could within the tight space.
“Point to the letters and tell me your name,” Leena told the boy, hoping that he knew how to read.
The ghost furrowed his brows, his lips mouthing the letters as he painstakingly pointed them out. It was clear he knew how to spell his name and very little else.
Theodore Daye.
Leena smiled. “Thank you, Theodore Daye.”
Suddenly shy, the ghost dropped his gaze, tugging at the collar of his livery.
“How do you know Mr. Orley?”
A shivering fear transformed Theodore’s face, and he backed a step away.
Leena understood.
She thought of Orley and Mrs. Van—their creeping long hands, their expanding eyes, their overwhelming presence—so inhuman, so other.
It had become an obsession of hers, even as she spent her time tending to Rami alongside Mrs. Van.
The housekeeper had proved to be an essential asset in the sickroom.
Her knowledge regarding herbal remedies far superseded Leena’s own, and they spent the long hours boiling broths and preparing poultices.
A tepid understanding had arisen between them.
Yet although she was grateful for the housekeeper’s assistance, all her previous misgivings about Mrs. Van still lay like a hard lump in her throat.
In those wakeful nights, Leena thought of the dream she had had—How long must he survive this?
—and she could not shake the feeling that it was essential that Mrs. Van confirmed Leena’s suspicions.
That if the Saint dealt with other creatures, then to be left in the dark might prove dangerous for her and her brother. Especially in her hunt for Lord Avon.
She found Mrs. Van in the kitchen. Leena seldom wandered in there, it being the domain of the stern housekeeper, but it was surprisingly cozier than the unlived-in state of the rest of the house.
The fire in the grate was welcoming, the herbs procured from the market hung by the window wafting scents of lemongrass, and somewhere a kettle had been set to boil.
Mrs. Van was finely mincing roots with an experienced hand. She turned at Leena’s approach and wiped her bony fingers on her apron. Theodore Daye followed closely behind her and planted himself in the open doorway.
“Miss Al-Sayer,” Mrs. Van said, briefly curtseying before adding the roots into a mortar.
Leena smiled tentatively. “Rami’s been complaining that you are going to bully him into good health.”
“It is as the master wanted,” she said, but the corner of her mouth lifted.
“Where did you learn about healing?” Leena asked.
Mrs. Van crushed the roots into a fine paste. “I’ve lived many lives.”
“Any of them good?”
“This one is,” she replied softly.
Leena slid onto a stool and began to peel the potatoes Mrs. Van had left soaking in brine.
“Do you know why Mr. St. Silas hired me?” Leena asked.
The crushing sound of mortar and pestle stopped. “He has not told me. The contract forbids him.”
“Ah, yes, his contracts. How he enjoys those.” The potato slipped from Leena’s hands and the knife almost slid into her bare skin. “Would you like to know why?”
“If you are willing.”
“Will you answer one of my questions in return?”
The kettle whistled.
Mrs. Van seemed to think for a moment. Then she nodded slowly.
“The reason Mr. St. Silas hired me is because I can see ghosts.”
A moment passed. Mrs. Van blinked. Theodore Daye nodded as if he already knew this.
“Ah.”
“That’s exactly how he reacted.”
“And he believes you?”
“I’ve passed his tests.”
“Then it must be so.” Mrs. Van’s long fingers played with a brooch pinned to her lapel. “A long time ago, there used to be many who claimed to be able to speak to ghosts. I’ve never heard of one who is able to see them. Still, I’ll trust the master’s judgment.”
“How do you know him?”
Mrs. Van sighed, and went to remove the kettle from the fire, pouring Leena a cup. “Is that your question?”
Leena nodded.
“I worked for his father, and his father before him…”
They stared at each other. Leena’s heart thudded.
“How old are you?” Leena whispered. The other woman’s face was oddly devoid of wrinkles—stone smooth, but aged in the same way bricks and boulders age.
“Very old, Miss Al-Sayer. Now drink your tea. Your brother needs tending.”
—
Leena could not stop shaking as she went to see Rami.
She couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard, and for one moment she’d desperately wished that Mrs. Van was lying.
Life was tumultuous, and the one surety was that it eventually ended.
To think that a creature like Mrs. Van could live and live and…
It was madness.
Theodore Daye followed her, his ghostly form flickering in and out like a mere trick of the light. It was also madness that Leena could see phantoms. It was madness that the dead did not always die.
She swallowed—but what did that make Mrs. Van?
More important, what was St. Silas dealing with?
Rami was sitting up in bed; he had been given a chamber near her own. The bruises had transformed from a garish purple to a fading yellow. His left eye was still bloodshot, although less so, and he could now open the curtains without wincing at the bright light.
It had been a rough week—and at the worst of it, Rami had cursed her when she’d suggested sending for the doctor.
“No doctors,” he’d yelled on that second night.
His forehead was burning by then and he’d begun to hallucinate, thrashing so violently that Arthur had to be called to restrain him.
Once he was subdued, Mrs. Van had shoveled a sleeping draught down his throat.
Just as Rami’s eyelids became heavier and his words slurred, he had tugged Leena’s arm.
“No doctors…please.” There was such desperation in his voice that she couldn’t refuse.