Acoustic Shadow

Prologue

The lightning was helpful only in that it gave Jack a brief glimpse of the examination hall. The small lamp on his desk showed him nothing past the first few rows, though it was enough to easily catch mistakes on the papers, half read, half graded. The lamp dimmed briefly, calling Jack's attention to it until, under his withering stare, it decided it would remain for now. One more crack of the lightning though and Jack was sure it would extinguish itself and run out of the cavernous Oxford hall, far from the stone-walled fortress that prided itself on keeping the brightest in and the dimmest out. Except for tonight, he thought ruefully. It was quite the reverse. He glanced up through the windows high above the mahogany paneled walls where the rain-speckled street lights hit the massive stone that forbid more than a foot or two of light from creeping in. He bent his head back over his papers quite used to a world in reverse after last year.

At least he wasn't alone, he thought. He'd seen Tyler studying him from the farthest row in the hall fifteen minutes ago when quick flashes brought forward the dark shirt, the dark hair, then the silver emblem of his secret society. Surely he couldn't have been waiting to see if his degree was going to be awarded with honours, Jack thought. Even here among the brilliant, there was no one his equal and he knew it. No, he was waiting for something else. Jack let him wait. He was in no mood to match wits with anyone unless it was her. Jack paused to rub his thumb over the large glittering object near his hand on the desk and decided to put it away lest the lightning catch its fire and draw the attention from his curious onlooker in the hall.

A deafening crack rattled the walls and Jack and Tyler were plunged into darkness together. Jack looked high up into the direction of the windows, but the street lights had gone, and he was alone except for Tyler, who was still out there somewhere, though the last crack showed a snapshot of him beginning to move far around the last row. Jack fumbled inside his desk until his fingers touched the small candle in a cheap glass holder.

It's a gift for you, Jack, Tub piped up near their last day in Maryland together. Your eyesight is so poor in the dark, and anyway, it's better to light a single candle than to…

Yes, yes. Jack had cut off his young friend so used to quoting poetry before he betrayed any emotion. It's a poor poem, Jack lied to him.

Yes, and a poor candle too, but I'm a man of no means. A poor player… Tub's lost voice was still trying to say goodbye, but Jack hurriedly silenced it by fumbling in his top drawer until he found the matches from the Old Inn Door. Jack paused before striking the match wondering why Tub even liked candles. He saw perfectly well in the dark. The back of a chair rattled from somewhere near the fifth row and Jack peered out into blackness, but saw nothing. On edge, he struck the match and touched it to the candle already halfway burnt down. Stormy England was no match for it. It would burn its last tonight.

Good night for it, isn't it sir? Jack jumped at the angular face right in front of his.

Tyler! Jack snapped angrily. Damn you! What the hell do you want?

Conversation, Tyler whispered over the desk as though he really meant to say conspiracy. It's such a good night for it, he smiled. Don't you think?

Jack shook the match sending up a plume of smoke between them. Lucky for you I didn't ask for a simple definition of 'good' on your final, Jack set the candle next to his papers. I think your answer might have frightened me.

Tyler smiled at the man who frightened half of the Oxford students he tutored. He would have frightened them all except the female half was in love with him. With Jack's jet black hair, deep blue eyes, sharp features, and six-foot-four frame, not all the women went to his lectures for their love of literature. My answers shouldn't frighten anyone. They're always drawn on facts, Professor Elliott. And it's a good time for a story, Tyler proved his point by citing obvious evidence, because of what day it is, Tyler looked around at the dark chamber, or night rather.

What night is it? Jack asked.

Tyler walked around bravely to Jack's side, his footsteps echoing off the distant walls where the rain beat like a steady hammer to gain admittance. Tyler sat uninvited in the stiff wooden chair beside the desk. Yes, I've noticed you've quite lost track of time ever since you returned from America. Tyler studied his favorite professor, the only one he really admired, not because of their friendship—Jack wasn't friends with anyone as far as he could tell—but because of his mind, more brilliant than his own, and like a thing, which if untethered from its small Oxford desk, could be…Tyler cocked his head as the word dangerous came to mind, and suddenly Tyler became nervous. He'd never get what he came for if Professor Elliott's mood went sour as he could see it was quickly becoming with Tyler's mention of the Professor's absence in America.

It's the summer solstice, Tyler supplied the missing information happily as though Jack had just asked him a hard question in a tutoring session. The longest day of the year.

So?

So, Professor, it's a good time for stories. You know, druids, Stonehenge that sort of thing.

The tip of the candlelight caught the full scorn of Jack's sneer. Then your interests, unlike your test answers, aren't based on facts, are they Mr. Dorn? Sounds more like you've come here in the rain tonight to discuss fire juggling and sun worshipping sheet wearers.

Facts are stubborn things, Professor.

If you want to quote John Adams, the history department's down the hall. Jack's pen pointed towards the door.

Tyler was dismissed, but rather than leave he struggled for another plan of attack, but he had to be quick. The next instance would bring Jack's fiery temper. He stood up and lightly touched the side of Jack's desk with his fingertip. The boys wouldn't suffer failure tonight, and he'd been arrogant enough to brag he could get Professor Elliott to tell him. Standing here before him though, all thoughts he'd hatched earlier had taken flight.

I don't have a story for your club, Tyler, Jack resumed writing.

Another flash of lightning revealed young Tyler's pale surprise. The club was a secret to all but its members. Or so Tyler thought. Jack registered that Tyler was searching his own brilliant mind for answers, but Jack knew he would find none, and would hate being outdone almost as much as he did. In another hour the society that dealt in mystical stories would meet somewhere in Oxford, but the president of the club couldn't deliver on his challenge.

Have you marked my exam yet, Professor Elliott? Tyler asked stiffly.

Yes.

Then the year has ended, sir. You're no longer my tutor I mean, or one of the professors marking my final.

Technically, Jack answered. Your paper is still within my reach though. Jack registered something indefinable on Tyler's face but kept writing. You weren't thinking of something daring like telling me off after what I've put you through over the years, or perhaps a little fire throwing like your druid friends? Jack mocked him.

No, Tyler gathered up his nerve. A wager. There, Tyler thought unbelievably. He was going to put everything he had on the line to get it. His only reward for what he was about to do was a small admiring flicker in Professor Elliott's eyes.

Slowly, Jack put his pen down. What's your wager then, Mr. Dorn?

My degree for a story. Tyler braced himself.

A story for your club? Jack searched Tyler's eyes. Surely that's not worth your degree.

No sir. Not just any story. We want your story. The boys want me to get it. What happened to you this past year? Something happened. Something very drastic. You're not... Tyler added nervously. You're completely different.

In exchange for what?

Ask me one question. If I get it right, I get the story. If I get it wrong… Tyler considered the consequences and decided to say it quickly, ...you can fail me. No degree awarded.

Jack laughed out loud. You're either really sure of yourself or you want that story pretty badly. Anyway, I can fail you right now if I want to. Jack picked up his pen, appearing disappointed with the wager, and Tyler fell silent but refused to leave while Jack marked another paper like he was alone. Finally, Jack murmured, Tyler, are you a religious man?

Tyler cocked his head, not expecting that question. Well…I…never have been able to prove or…or…disprove the existence of...

JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION! Jack suddenly shouted, his head jerking up. Or don't answer it. But don't give me a treatise on religion!

Yes sir, Tyler breathed, getting more nervous. I am. I guess you could call me spiritually minded.

Doesn't go well with your club, you know, Jack scoffed.

I don't think mysticism flies in the face of God, Professor Elliott.

Jack thought of the past year and wanted to tell Tyler just how wrong he was, but instead he silently studied Tyler's face very carefully. Here's your question then. Answer it correctly and you'll have your story, or don't at your own stakes.

Tyler braced his damp hands on the chair where moments before he'd been a young man from Oxford about to graduate with top honours no doubt, his dazzling paper nestled safely in a stack of others with red, angry slashes.

What do the words, 'No more sea' mean to you?

What? Tyler, who'd been arrogant with his wager moments before, shot a stunned look at his Professor. From the chapter of Revelation, you mean?

Well done, Jack threw back. You know where it's from so you're halfway there. Yes, that's your question. For a moment the air hung suspended between them, and Jack thought for one hopeful second he might have his answer at last. He hoped for blissful resolution. He begged for sleep. He prayed Tyler's answer would pour just a little light into his dark abyss. Yes, he wasn't a hopeful man, but at that moment he would make room for it.

That's a trick, sir….an unfair question, Tyler protested. There isn't a man alive who knows the meaning of Revelation!

Jack let out his breath at once, angry at it all. You didn't ask for rules! You asked for a question! And since I don't have my answer, your wager is over. Jack dismissed Tyler, who stared in shocked disbelief. All his long years at Oxford were over in a moment's foolishness. His only consolation was that he didn't see Jack's hand reach for the stack of papers. Yet.

Give me context! Tyler desperately threw out the words he'd heard Jack use a million times in tutoring sessions.

What? Jack looked up at Tyler.

Context, sir. Tyler waved a worried hand, then paced back and forth in front of his desk mimicking Jack in front of a nervous student. Where does it fit into your story? You can't pluck a fish out of the ocean and expect it to live very long! Place an object back where it belongs! Tyler's eyes locked with Professor Elliott's.

There is no context! Jack's temper broke again, waving him away. There is no beginning, middle, or end! My story has no rationality, nothing that makes sense, and certainly no tidy ending for your brilliant dissection, at all! If there is a theme, it is only madness and circles and a place where the living won't stay living and the dead won't stay dead! I am tortured by it all! The candle flame bent low with his tormented outburst and Jack's blue eyes blazed a warning.

Tyler straightened, refusing to lose ground. A challenge then. In the telling of it, and the meaning of it. A few twists maybe, but surely your own story doesn't throw you—a man who doesn't need a flashlight to find his way out of Homer. Really, you disappoint me. Tyler braced himself, caring deeply he'd lost his footing. And with Professor Elliott of all people.

For the moment though, Jack's focus wasn't on his student, but rather on Tyler's essays that he'd graded earlier that night. Brilliant stuff really. Bloody brilliant. No scholar in the world could have written an analysis half as well. Jack managed to keep his face perfectly expressionless while he eyed Tyler critically as he had all year. His tall frame was all stubbornness, all curiosity, all brilliance, all thirst, all poetry, all science. Only ten years separated Jack from Tyler. Otherwise they were the same. Ten years plus the past year though, which made them vastly different people. In spite of being president of a secret society that dealt in the mystical, Tyler was still completely certain about what was normal. For now.

Come on, Professor! Tyler begged. All stories interest me. It's my curse. True stories or ones that seem so true they might as well be. I'm open-minded, Tyler added, and fair. What category does your story fall under?

A true story that won't let anyone come near it, Jack answered cautiously. A true story that won't let you dissect it with your facts, no matter how open-minded you are. Your famous classroom skills won't come in handy here, I'm afraid.

Tell me anyway, Tyler countered, unable to resist a challenge. Let me help you. What harm is there? Outline your characters.

Jack dropped his pen flat on his desk and rubbed it across its surface as if he were drawing out old friends, brothers and lost aunts, from the wood grained lines. And indeed, under his stare, they did take shape and spring out and he looked away quickly before she appeared—she who begged for his lit candle tonight with her wide pale green eyes. Well, there's me, Jack quickly delayed her entrance, and now you, he looked straight at Tyler, since you've forced a part for yourself.

Tyler released a barely audible sigh of relief, and again sat down next to Jack, noticing him strangely lose a beat for some reason. Good, good, he prodded cautiously. Seems a short playbill though. Aren't there any others?

No. A pained expression crossed Jack's face that Tyler had never seen before, not even when a student's answer had greatly grieved him, insulting both himself and the ears of his beloved poets as he would say.

Well, forgive me then, Tyler continued on, if I make your story better by introducing a little fire. With that Tyler slid his hand over the drawer that Jack had closed moments before the lamp went out, and opened it slowly until, in the candlelight, the dark sapphire blazed. Beautiful piece. I've never seen its equal. Where did you get it?

I stole it. Jack answered matter-of-factly. From the queen.

Of England? Tyler looked at him askance.

No, from the queen of France.

Tyler sighed, looking a little relieved. Well, I should really thank you for that. My mother dearly loves the Queen, and I'm afraid if you stole it from her I'd have to act all outraged, call the police, and take the failing mark rather than go home and face her. Tyler smiled before he turned more serious. Are you're wanted for it?

No, Jack said. I'm wanted for murder.

For a moment Tyler halted, then said with a nervous laugh. So early and yet I've already found motive.

So early and you've found nothing but the entrance into madness.

I made it through years of having you as my tutor, Tyler said straight-faced. I shouldn't think it too hard to maintain my grip.

Jack shook his head. Tyler wasn't sure whether it was a warning to him or a refusal to go any further with the story. Jack's blood was up, he could see it. Jack listened deeply to the voices in the wind and Tyler saw him slipping too far away as Jack murmured, Tyler...

No, professor, let's begin. Tyler quickly called him back. It's a short night and we have far to travel. Tyler pointed to the jewel incongruently placed next to ordinary pens and pencils. Look at this, Tyler started. Offhand I'd say that this jewel is worth more than what you and I have put together. Tyler didn't mince words, though Jack already knew how well off Tyler was from the cars he drove and the way he lavished money on women. This, Tyler said, was obtained by you at a great price, he hesitated, "financial or otherwise." Tyler decided not to press the legality of it, and instead waited for confirmation.

You have no idea.

And you haven't sold it yet so you aren't in possession of it for the money.

No.

So then, you must be holding it for someone…special?

Jack wouldn't confirm that, but Tyler understood his silence. That she's worth much more to you than this priceless brooch is starting to become obvious, Tyler hesitated. So I'm going to guess that this isn't your story at all…but hers.

It's not my story, though I've lost much. It was always her story because she lost… Jack couldn't finish that.

Tyler swallowed and leaned in close. Start there then, Professor. Bring in the woman who wore this brooch.

Which one? There were two.

I only want to talk to the one you loved. Tyler was very interested in that too.

I knew them both, Jack hesitated and added reluctantly, and I loved them both.

Well, Tyler raised his eyebrows, caught off guard once again. He didn't know Professor Elliott was capable of loving anyone. It's going to be an interesting night then. Do call them both in.

Only one would answer. The other has been dead for over a hundred years.

But you said you loved them both.

And you said you were open-minded.

True, but both of them should at least be alive! Tyler held out his hands. Ok, forget it. Start with the one that's living and we'll work backwards. Either describe her to me or lead me to her. In medias res, Tyler hurried on. In the middle of things.

Jack looked down at the brooch which, besides his tortured mind, was the only tangible, unimagined link he had to the past year. He closed his eyes for the long night. This way then, Miss Shaw.

Chapter 1

Tub tried one more time. This way, Miss Shaw. Peering over the long staircase, he imagined he looked like one of the gargoyles hanging off of Notre Dame that Jack had used in his stories sometimes. Briefly he wondered if he opened his mouth like one of them, what might gush out—vomit, after what he'd witnessed this past week—or all of Frederick's rain which could drown even a house this big. In all his twelve years he'd never seen this much rain, though in the past few days the Weather Channel had warned everyone these storms were coming. He wasn't sure about the rest of Maryland, but after the nasty death of Lucy Caldwell, the sinful town of Frederick had it coming at least. Tub delivered that stern proclamation the way he always did—in biblical terms—death by deluge.

Despite his urgent whispers, Miss Shaw hadn't budged from the cavernous hallway beneath him, at least not from the Tyne's great floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror hanging there. The boy had ceased to pay attention to the massive antique the way the docents had working there in the Historical Society, but tonight the powerful mirror drew in Miss Shaw the way it must have all the party guests in 1860, the year Broderick Tyne's mother hung it. It wasn't the raft she was looking for, Tub knew, though Miss Shaw stared at it like a floating buoy in the storm. Nor was this house, nor was her house. Unlike Jack, he didn't have all the answers, but even he knew he had to get tonight over with, then get Miss Shaw back up to New York before something happened to her in that house of hers the way it had to Lucy Caldwell.

Her slow pace wasn't helping his big plan, and despite the fact that Tub was already in love with Miss Shaw, he felt really put out. Even in the dark, Tub could see her reflection better than she could, and could have told her she was still beautiful, even after the worst day of her life. He was sure that Jack would think so too if she'd only hurry it up. Chastising himself that none of his thoughts fit in well with the Psalms, he wondered what Reverend Sheehan would do. Snap on Marge's desk lamp for her probably. The reception desk next to her was, after all, the only thing he was allowed to touch on the whole first floor of the Victorian mansion. Only Jack and Queen Victoria herself could have marched through the red velvet roped off rooms without the head docent, Mrs. Quesenberry, screaming bloody murder.

Tensely, he clutched the railing and watched Miss Shaw slowly lift a hand to her throat where, like Jack, very few words had passed all day. She was fragile, Tub noticed, breakable like himself. Jack had taught him great escaping words of poetry to bolster him, give him confidence when he needed it. She, as far as he knew, just had her lab coat. It was powerful enough, Tub guessed, when she had it on. With that, people weren't likely to mess with you, and it could add up to a lot of confidence she'd really need in a few minutes. She'd sped all the way down from New York wearing one a few nights ago, but had yanked it off in agony when she'd just missed the ambulance, and Tub never saw it again.

Miss Shaw stared at her wet tangled hair that was as wild as the storm outside. Her body swayed a little like a hollow dandelion stalk caught in an unwelcome gust, and Tub was unable to fathom the meeting with Jack upstairs. He'd known Jack for a whole year, but understanding his mood was like measuring the wind. The problem was there were so many things that perturbed it. As of that morning, when Tub had taken careful measurements, Jack's mood was already blacker than the sky outside. Unlike the rest of the town, Jack hadn't even bothered to show up at Lucy Caldwell's funeral. If Miss Shaw swayed now like a barely surviving dandelion, whatever hopeful seeds still left clinging to her were about to spin off like tiny parachutes in Jack's merciless winds. Her season was nearly done.

Miss Shaw! Tub couldn't stand it another second. You asked to meet my…guardian…tonight! Tub begged for God's forgiveness in case that guardian part was a lie. But really, even through her red, puffy eyes, even Miss Shaw could see his father was too drunk to care where he was tonight, or that Jack had never been designated as anything other than—Tub stopped to wonder what he and Jack were. Friends seemed like a stretch but Jack did allow him to spend the night sometimes when his father was drunk. On those nights they'd lit candles and told stories. That might count as guardian.

At last Miss Shaw dropped her hand, but not because of Tub's insistent begging. She dropped it because of what she saw in the mirror. She was demented. Her hands trembled. She'd inherited it from her aunt. The real reason she'd even bothered to stop and look in the mirror qualified as that, didn't it? Broderick Tyne was a phantom. You didn't comb your hair for a phantom; pull a soaking dress from your clinging legs just because you were in his house tonight hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Her raw emotions from the day gnawed a tiny honest hole through her nice, careful façade and for once she was uncharacteristically blunt. She was not here to meet Tub's guardian. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, still not feeling quite ready though. This was the one moment she'd imagined her whole childhood.

Haven't you ever been here before? Tub could see her hesitant step and quickly he rushed down to help her. Your aunt worked here for years and you never…? Well…never mind… here. Tub started to hold out a red-freckled hand, but wasn't sure how to touch a woman this beautiful. Reverend Sheehan had let him usher in church sometimes and he knew how to take an old hand, but this was very different. Embarrassed, he turned and simply patted his shoulders, feeling shorter and fatter than he usually did. His father didn't call him Tub for nothing. He sighed, wishing he'd never gotten himself into this mess, and wondered how to approach a subject as complicated as Jack in the time it took to climb a staircase. Jack was in a rage. He wouldn't be miraculous. He wouldn't tell them stories. But he could, Tub prayed uselessly, if he chose to. By the time they reached him, they could be in the eye of him where it was all power and deadly calm, where the vortex of him was simply amazing. But Tub felt Miss Shaw's cold, timid hand touch his shoulder. No. It was done. Together their small train climbed the long staircase, and Tub wasted no more words after that, but uselessly pointed left when they reached the top.

My guardian's in there. Tub tried to make it sound grand like he was so important he needed a father and a guardian all in the one lifetime. Expectantly, she turned. Her heart, already beating faster from the long climb, beat faster still though there was nothing where Tub pointed but a closed door next to a smallish brown plaque labeled Staff Only so curious tourists wouldn't mistake it for part of the tour.

Tub slumped when Miss Shaw turned away from the brown plaque towards the engulfing dark room next to it in the farthest corner. Mesmerized, she stared at it until finally in dry, whispered words, she spoke quickly before she changed her mind. Do the docents ever light a candle and put it in that window there? With a hand as trembling as her voice, she pointed silently to the dark room.

Candle? Tub whispered in agitation, trying to recall all the horrible anniversaries of this house and wondered which docent would be crazy enough to light a candle there to celebrate it. No ma'am. He frowned both at the strange question and because the room was Broderick Tyne's. Tub knew everything there was to know about the Civil War Major even down to the point where the docents consulted him on it. Why? he asked, suddenly hopeful. Have you seen something?

Quickly Charlotte caught herself, remembering that Tub Richardson was nothing more to her than an extremely precocious red-headed boy who'd walked Aunt Lucy's dog, Chester, every night in exchange for Lucy's home cooked meals. She'd only met him today at the funeral. Quickly retreating from her reckless bravery, she shook her head no. It was a marvelous testament to her self control, she complimented herself, that she could actually be standing here after a lifetime of imagining and still ignore her deepest calling—the nightly candle she'd seen lit here as a young girl, then again the night her aunt died, when she'd raced down from New York moments too late. In her tormented mind, that candle seemed not only connected to all her romantic childish fantasies, but also to her aunt's death somehow.

Tub shrugged, finally deciding that Miss Shaw had only seen Jack's candle lit sometimes just before he told them stories. It depressed him really. He'd liked to have added something new to his weekend ghost tour. Truth was that unless he used the recent sightings of Miss Shaw's aunt, Lucy Caldwell, his tour was getting a little stale. He and his friend Oscar could have really used a new sighting from an out-of-towner.

All hope gone, Tub put a determined hand on Jack's door as Charlotte used the growing light from the opening doorway in a last ditch effort to peer inside the Major's bedroom and capture any miracles she could, but the darkness only seemed to intensify. Feeling vastly disappointed that even her one great moment of childhood fantasy could not save her, she turned her back on Broderick Tyne, just as she caught sight of Tub's guardian through the open door.

He sat with his back to them staring vacantly out of the window onto Church Street in the direction of her newly inherited house across the street. The small flickering candle in the windowsill—newly lit for she hadn't seen it there earlier—announced their presence with a hasty dip from the quick rush of air and illuminated his dancing shadow on the far wall. His outline remained rigid, like his strange demeanor, and she only saw his black hair that gleamed wet in the candlelight like he'd been out all night in the pouring rain. He sat with his hands clasped tensely in front of him as though he knew perfectly well he was being stared at, but wasn't quite ready to turn.

You're late you know, he finally spoke in a jagged voice full of deep injury. Slow, he said bitterly, even for you. He stared out the window pulled free of the lace curtains that would have prevented much of his view of her house and the tall-spired church just next to it for which Church Street was named. But Charlotte got the feeling that had the curtains been shut, he would have stared right through them anyway. Immediately, she felt even stranger being here in this house, if that was possible.

At last, getting no answer, he slowly swiveled round in his chair and his flaming blue eyes lit immediately not on Tub, but on her, as though she was the cause of all his anger, which was as apparent as the storm behind him. At once his eyes narrowed as though he'd braced himself for this one moment, but it had not fully worked.

The dim lamp on the table revealed an exquisitely handsome young man in his early thirties whose finely cut features may as well have been marble, beautiful but cold and untouchable. Only his eyes which seemed like Arctic blue ice were restless, though keen and narrowed as though they were searching for sleep, but could find none. Even denied sleep as they seemed to be, they impatiently devoured her, not as any other man would, who would take in a woman this beautiful one feature at a time, but snapped her like a cold photograph which he'd hold later when he'd ponder the meaning of her. Though his glance was merciless and brief, he clearly noted her long black hair, streaming wet like his own, her exquisitely angular face and high cheekbones, her conservatively dressed but voluptuous body, her unmistakable elegance. He only flicked another questioning glance at her wide tormented green eyes, and frowned impatiently as though he hadn't yet fathomed their meaning, but, like the candle in the next room, she wondered if she'd imagined that too.

Tub looked at Miss Shaw, and then turned to face him. I was at the uh… Tub lowered his voice to a whisper so Charlotte wouldn't hear, …you know, funeral.

I know where you were, Jack's voice snapped, halting her timid approach. Half the town's there apparently. He said it with a fuming anger that shocked Charlotte, plunging her into a familiar inner room of her own every bit as icy as the one she'd just passed.

Tub cut him off before he said much more, which Tub surely feared he would do. Tub was used to Jack, but not this woman, who Tub adored already. Jack, this is Charlotte Shaw. Lucy Caldwell was her aunt you know. Tub frowned disapprovingly as he caught sight of the half empty glass on Jack's desk.

Charlotte braved another hesitant step for Tub's sake, praying Reverend Sheehan's earlier warm embrace would last the night while Jack rose slowly from his chair until he reached his full six-foot-four height. He said nothing and offered her nothing, not his hand, not his words, not even a token condolence for her aunt, which, though she realized now would have been unfelt, crushed her like her aunt's last phone call. He simply stood there very erect in his expensive, crisply pressed white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. An ice blue tie that matched his eyes hung loosened at the collar but with a quick tug of it, she noticed, he could have easily passed in any high society party Mrs. Tyne might have thrown downstairs.

To escape the scathing silence, Charlotte forced her attention to the room, noticing a bookcase, too ornate for the otherwise drab office which contained hundreds of small volumes. She caught the names of some old poets, their presence completely at odds with everything else, which was all metal and memos and maps. For some odd reason she wanted to run her hands over the old volumes, beg them for words of comfort, feverishly turn page after page of them for solace when she really knew so little about poetry. Her field was science.

When Charlotte finally turned back to him, she didn't know what he found so interesting. She only knew that one more gaping minute passed before he held out an open hand towards the front of his desk where a small gray metal chair waited on her, meant for a stepstool maybe, but not for long company or warm chats. Above it on the wall was an oil painting that didn't keep company with the other happy portraits lining the hallway downstairs. It was of an old, offensive looking white-haired man frowning down from his antique frame. Underneath his disapproving portrait, as though he pointed to it with his gold tipped cane, was the small lettered inscription, Elias Livingstone. Charlotte loathed Mr. Livingstone immediately, though they were both quite alike. They were both very old and frilly, she with her Victorian manners and he with his deep lines and ruffled nineteenth century shirt; and his scowl matched hers perfectly tonight all of which got them quickly ushered up to the most hidden part of the dark mansion like no one in the whole world knew what to do with either one of them. Unhappily she took her seat beside him.

Jack's our new town historian, Tub rushed to fill in the awkward silence. Well not new, exactly. He's been here a year. He took Jeremy's old place.

Charlotte recognized Jeremy's name but only because of the bizarre story surrounding it. She'd never met the former town historian but had heard that Jeremy helped Aunt Lucy excavate her back yard before he was shot and killed in some sort of bizarre accident at the Antietam re-enactment last year. It had been in all the papers. But neither Jeremy's death, nor the fact that her aunt had actually paid the last town historian to dig in her back yard for lost Civil War valuables, made sense to her and she and her sister Marley decided some time ago it was the early beginnings of her aunt's eccentricity. She was always sure to put Aunt Lucy's dementia nicely. A nice facade was, after all, her most treasured asset. It made her look normal, hid the fact that she fit in almost nowhere, and she was determined to keep it up no matter how much bitterness she had to swallow for it.

Slowly Jack took his seat, and nervously Charlotte shifted in the chair opposite him reaching for her polite words, which were as automatic as breathing. Where did you live before you came here? When you spoke, I thought I detected a slight British accent, Mr.— ?

Jack tilted his head, his eyes never leaving hers. Easton, he lied, never fully getting used to hiding his real identity, or to being addressed as something other than Professor Elliott from someone sitting on the other side of his desk. Do you know I've been here almost a year and you're the first person to have noticed that?

Really? Charlotte continued. It's actually quite pronounced.

Jack lowered his eyes which were half covered in darkness. You're quite correct. I'm over here from England, though I was born in the States.

What made you go to England?

I was summoned there actually, Slowly, Jack turned to the window sill to get the candle and placed it directly in front of her. Its dipping flame gleamed directly in her eyes until she wondered if he could already see right through her nice wall. By the palace, he continued. Seems I have some royal blood in me. A long lost son of a long lost king. The inheritance was staggering.

Already Tub saw her turn to him for help. He's messing with you Miss Shaw. Cut it out Jack. If it's any consolation he only messes with people he actually likes, at least that's what I tell myself. Tub shot him a look that begged him just this once to straighten up and be polite. Still, Jack hadn't thrown her out yet which was something. If Jack didn't want you there, he'd never waste time like this.

So after you gathered all your inheritance, what brought you here? Charlotte struggled to continue, though she already felt out of her depth. It could hardly interest you after the palace.

Frederick history, Jack answered flippantly. Turns out I have a fascination for it. And now you, Miss Shaw, Jack turned the tables. I know you're from New York but I'm sensing a little of the French in you—the way you dress, your impeccable style, the way you hold people at a distance while you demand their full heart, and the way you already want to slap me. Jack smirked.

That doesn't necessarily make me French, Charlotte dragged her gaze away from his mesmerizing eyes towards the window behind him where she wondered if he'd seen the ambulance take her aunt away, heard her running down the street too late to save her and more than anything else why, since both he and her aunt worked together at the Historical Society, he hadn't even bothered today.

True, Jack ignored her glance out the window. But there's something in your accent too. Something quite regal.

Charlotte wondered how he knew she was from New York if he hadn't known Aunt Lucy all that well. I'm afraid I can't claim royal lineage like you. I've never been called to France either by the court or peasant relations.

Jack raised an eyebrow, challenging that. It must be in your blood, then. I hear your French accent as clearly as your hear mine.

If I have an accent, it must be a mixture of New York and Maryland. My aunt raised my sister and I here in Frederick after my parents died, though we both live in New York City now. For years I lived right across the street there. Charlotte nodded towards the window behind him. Practically my whole childhood was spent staring up at this mansion. She left out the part about the candle in the room next to his, and especially the part that she was convinced as a child it was the ghost of the dashing Major Tyne her aunt had described so beautifully for her once.

Jack watched the light and dark shadows war with each other on her beautiful face, and cataloged the sudden shift in her mood as she spoke about this house and hers together. After a long pause Jack took up his drink again. Your aunt did a remarkable job of raising you. Forgive me for not coming to her funeral. He took a long sip and brought it down heavily on top of some papers, not caring that they got wet. I've been to far too many funerals lately.

His words, meant to be some sort of apology she guessed, stung her like a hard blow. She heard her aunt lumped together with an annoying appointment he couldn't quite make and now perhaps felt some guilt about. You didn't know my aunt that well perhaps. Charlotte was still nice.

Jack paused. I knew Lucy.

His answer held all the warmth of her medical colleagues on grand rounds and she swallowed hard, edging dangerously closer towards tears again which would have seemed so horrible in his company. He wasn't exactly the famous Reverend Michael Sheehan, who though very young and too handsome for a minister, knew a thing or two about comforting the grieving today. Again she called on the very last of her composure like calling for weary reinforcements that barely bothered to show up for a lost battle. Then at least I'm glad to see her death hasn't caused you much suffering.

Jack smirked, pivoting back towards the window, and resumed staring out at her house again. All times I have suffered greatly, Miss Shaw, both with those who loved me…and alone.

Tennyson's Ulysses! Tub breathed a sigh of relief that he might break a little tension here. That's seven, isn't it Jack? Tub pointed a finger at Jack who was in some kind of state beyond just liquor. Tub hoped to cajole him into a better mood for Miss Shaw's sake. Only three more quotes and I get a free dinner anywhere I want, right Jack? Tub turned to Charlotte. Jack throws out quotes and if I can get ten of them right he gives me a free dinner anywhere. I'll need a few more dinners now that Miss Lucy's dead. Tub wanted to slap a hand over his mouth, mentioning her dead aunt like that. Without turning Jack quickly covered for him, caring more for Tub's gaffes than his own.

Do you know poetry, Miss Shaw? Jack called over his shoulder. I saw your interest in my books earlier.

His back seemed to tense as he waited, like his whole body demanded an immediate answer. She wished to say she didn't know it whatsoever, nor cared to, but shocked herself by replying, I love hearing poetry, Mr. Easton. But I can't say I know it all that well. Or understand it.

Then you don't own it truly. It doesn't call to you.

She stole a look out into the dark hall where she could almost see the dancing flame of the poetic Major and hear silent leaps of beckoning laughter before again turning towards his cold, tensed back. Can't something call to you without the slightest bit of your understanding?

Again Jack slowly swiveled round in his chair until he caught her eyes which, like his own, were so full of aching injury. Oh…most definitely Miss Shaw. Jack studied her keenly with an expression that Tub had never seen before. To Tub it seemed like he wasn't breathing. But to Charlotte it seemed like he'd already judged her and found her lacking, and out of habit, four years of college and three years of medical school, she bravely tried to prove herself in front of him.

I never knew poetry, but I used to love stories. Her words, sounding very courageous to her shy ears, tumbled out in stark contrast to his dark, listening gaze. My aunt said I used to use her herb patch as a stage and stamp her sage in some indignant passage of some fairy tale or other.

For a fleeting moment, Jack pictured her sad, drowned hair caught up in braids flying back in fabled winds, and he pictured her unguarded and passionate without her weighty, practiced politeness. And do you remember any now? he ventured, the smallest stirring of something in his cold heart that was so used to pure hatred, not a fluttering that was akin to laughter.

Again, his overwhelming desire to hear her answer left Charlotte feeling flustered and lacking as though she'd just been called on cold by an attending physician she was trying hard to impress. None, she lowered her eyes in easy defeat, quickly retreating into the safe arms of science. I use sage wisely now instead of stamping it. I study it…as…as a sort of medicine. Discoveries have shown that sage may help with dementia. Her voice caught at that word again.

Woefully, Jack rested his temple on a single fingertip in a gesture Charlotte had only seen the very bored do. If the study of sage caused me to forget such passionate tales, I'd think it far too late to fear something as harmless as dementia and dying. If I were you, I'd start to fear something far worse—dementia and living.

Tub quickly covered Charlotte's gasp, Jack, you've had too much to drink!

I've only had too much when tales and poetry no longer cure ordinary life. Then and only then may you say that.

Charlotte's blood-red face drained with mortified embarrassment and Tub shrugged as if it were all hopeless then. Jack was about to do what Tub knew he'd do all along.

Maybe… Charlotte gathered enough wits to speak, if for no other reason than to defend old fashioned manners which she treasured even if he did not, …maybe having poetry at your fingertips just gives you something to hide behind when more civil words fail you. Jack saw in her sea green eyes a small angry wave break over the high banks of her politeness that she surely meant to have crash down on him. It only managed to make Jack smile as he considered that he was supposed to be reduced to stamped sage while she poured forth her youthful ire that had no more effect on him than a kitten's paw.

Well if you can't use poetry, you sure won't fit in around here. Tub answered for Jack who was strangely silent.

Believe me, Charlotte was thrilled enough to assist in her own banishment, I have no intention of fitting in around here anyway.

Jack cocked his head. Do tell me how you make out with that one. Frederick has a way of embracing its own whether you relish its kiss or not.

I don't belong here! Charlotte was so stunned that for the first time in her life she thought she was nearly shouting. I live in New York!

Not technically, Jack sat forward. Right now you're the sole owner of your aunt's house. The one you grew up in. The one with bedroom walls so high, it was almost impossible for a tiny young girl to climb up and peer out of night after night just praying she'd catch a glimpse of…

Miss Shaw has a sister! Tub quickly broke in. Jack was about to spin off into one of his stories after all, and whenever a story involved the Claiborne house and this one, no matter how romantically they all started out, the murders were always close by. The head docent, Mrs. Quesenberry, always said Jack made them all up, but even so, he could see Miss Shaw couldn't handle them right now.

True, Jack allowed Tub's interruption, but only because Charlotte's eyes easily told him what he was after. But your sister, Marley, didn't get the house now, did she?

Charlotte wanted to run. Clearly Aunt Lucy had already told everyone about her childhood infatuation with the Historical Society and worse—Broderick Tyne. She squeezed her eyes shut praying Tub wouldn't actually tell Jack she'd stopped by the mirror tonight. How do you know Marley? Where did you get your information? Her throat was very, very tight.

Jack smiled, noticing she was more Victorian than this house. It's a small town, Charlotte. That's my first warning to you to remember that.

Charlotte racked her frozen brain. She'd only gotten a copy of the will a few short days ago. Her aunt's house was supposed to be left to the Historical Society, where Lucy had been a docent for years. Instead the will had been changed at the last minute. Charlotte inherited that hateful house and Marley got all of Aunt Lucy's money. The minute she found out she owned that house was the minute she planned on selling it. Why Aunt Lucy had left it to her was more than she could fathom. Her aunt knew how she despised it.

Unchecked, Charlotte sped through last year's nightmare, her aunt's ravings, the imagined noises, the quick downward spiral, her aunt's final phone call screaming that she'd actually seen someone in the house with her, a phantom dressed from head to toe in black— that she was hiding from him in some dark corner. Her final call had sent Charlotte flying out of The New York Hospital right in the middle of her surgical rotation in the most uncharacteristic act of her life. She hadn't even told her attending she was leaving. Her only consolation was that Mrs. Quesenberry said Aunt Lucy was found tucked safely in her bed, not hiding as she'd feared. Charlotte turned away in disgust.

Is something wrong? Jack interrupted smoothly. Tub, pour Miss Shaw a glass of brandy.

Don't be too anxious to give all your booze away, Tub warned sarcastically. It's only nine o'clock and you're only half way to passing out. Tub waved to a well worn sofa in Jack's tiny office, squeezed in out of necessity, as the wind suddenly picked up and harder gales of rain roared at the window behind Jack.

I'd better get more candles though, Tub noticed. This light won't hold long and it's supposed to be like this all week. Tub walked over to Jack's desk and rummaged in his lowest drawer bringing out an inch high candle. This one's almost gone Jack. We burned the candle at both ends, it will not last the night. Tub quoted his favorite poem but Jack didn't seem to care. Tub shrugged and reached back in and brought out a brand new white one. He found the matches and lit the taller candle which covered the three of them in a tiny campfire-like glow.

The lightning thundered again before the room went dark. I knew it! Tub shouted, glad he'd lit the candle. No lights! Tub ran by Jack to look out. Church Street is dark. I'll bet half of downtown Frederick lost power with that one! Tub picked up his phone. Dead. We're stranded. It's lucky all three of us are together tonight. Tub sighed as though somewhere in his mind they were a good fit. It's been just the two of us for so long, hasn't it Jack?

Yes, Jack paused, much too long. But Miss Shaw feels she has to go. Jack said it like it was really impossible though.

Tub sighed, sorry about that. Somehow she made him feel better even if she made Jack feel worse. Well, being here's better than being there, Tub let it slip. How's she going to make it in that house tonight? And with no lights? It isn't fit.

Fit for what? Charlotte's mood teetered dangerously between anger and fear, recalling her aunt's ravings and her own childhood nightmares which, for some reason tonight, Broderick would not rescue her from.

Not fit for a woman with no poetry to hide behind, Jack smiled, reminding her of her earlier insult. It has a curse.

Through the window she could no longer make out her house's dark outlines. I'd be the last person to defend that house. But it isn't cursed, she took up lying to herself again. I don't believe in curses. Charlotte spoke decisively, wondering how long after she'd moved away from that house before she could even halfway speak those words.

Jack cocked his head considering that. I believe you only have that option with ghosts truly. If you see one and don't believe in it, you can just walk right through it and no one gets hurt. Curses are a little bit nastier I'm afraid, he smiled. They don't care if you believe in them or not, and there's a little bit of pain involved. He waved his hand. Better leave that little fact out of the realtor ad.

If Charlotte hadn't already worn out all her girlish wishes at the funeral today trying to resurrect Aunt Lucy, she'd have made one more tonight that it was her sister, Marley, sitting here, not her. If Marley had offered to deliver Tub safely into the hands of this— guardian—when his father hadn't shown at the funeral, she'd be sitting with Aunt Lucy's old friends right now getting sympathy and warm plates of food, not reliving childhood nightmares. As it was, his provoking, which he rather seemed to enjoy, drained her famous reserves bone dry until she could see the last of her reinforcements die on the battlefield.

She drew in a long breath then held it, then let it all out again along with the rest of her niceness. Well, I do believe in some curses, she straightened her delicate back. It was my curse to have come here tonight, it was my curse to have met you, and it was my curse to have inherited that house! Why Aunt Lucy ever left me that Godforsaken place is beyond me! I can only attribute it to her growing dementia! Charlotte pushed up from the chair. Lucky for me, I can leave both you and that house, and let you all work it out together!

Jack's eyes followed her. That's the tough part you see. Once you've run afoul of a curse, you can't really leave it. And it won't leave you. Not if you run hundreds of miles all the way back to New York City. Outside the lightning struck too close again and scared the rest of Frederick into darkness.

Tub held up his hands like he couldn't believe the whole night. But dark or not, Charlotte stumbled towards the impassible hallway though she couldn't see the stairs.

Lucy Caldwell was NOT demented! Jack rose quickly before he dared let her try the stairs like her unfortunate aunt. Your aunt was completely normal!

Charlotte looked over her shoulder. Don't. She blinked and steadied her voice to fight the tears. Don't you pretend you even know my aunt! You didn't even come to her funeral today! Don't…please just don't...even speak of her!

Slowly Jack's eyes hardened back into the cold blue glass that had first greeted her. I knew Lucy. What I don't know is why she left you that house.

Really, he just needs coffee, Tub said helpfully to Charlotte. The dark makes him skittish.

Charlotte lowered her eyes and let them rest on his desk that swam in her tears. That's none of your business, she squeaked. I really don't know anyway and the only thing I find odd is—. She stopped short, her eyes blinking at the disorderly stack of papers there on his desk. There, shoved in between them, was the corner of Lucy's church bulletin with today's date. Her breath caught as she noticed his shirt and tie, his jacket hanging neatly on the back of his chair. Somewhere in the crowd, he'd been there today.

Jack caught that and quickly signaled Tub. Here, he clenched his jaw. I'll give you the best guide in Frederick since you feel you have to go. There's no difference between night and day to him. He'll help you across the street. Briskly, Jack walked over and pulled a small threadbare blue book off the shelf. The drink, which fueled his rage at her coming, was now doing its job at her leaving. It had to be that which was wreaking havoc with him tonight, and he could ill afford this now.

Here's a warm bed companion, Jack checked the title of the book by candlelight, his breath coming with sharp edges that cut his throat as he himself called for her dismissal. He handed it to her. A fine book of poetry. Something to hide behind in case the night gets too long and you find yourself needing beautiful words before morning. I find it makes a fine shield. You don't have to understand it, Jack couldn't resist hurting himself further by cupping her hand with his as she took it. You just have to answer it when it calls to you.

A warm shiver ran up her cold hand as he held it, suddenly freeing her mind from the day's deathly grip, and before she caught herself she blurted out the one question to the one person she shouldn't have. "You must have seen… she breathed quickly, for once not caring how she sounded, …or…I mean have you…ever…lit and put that candle just next door?" It was a terrible question, she realized as soon as it was out. And anyway, he was never here before a year ago. Tub had said that quite clearly.

Jack's mercurial mood pivoted quickly, this time towards a faintly mocking smile as he slowly followed Charlotte's eyes over to the next room. What? In Major Tyne's bedroom do you mean?

Yes—no… Charlotte couldn't imagine what had possessed her to ask such a question in the first place. Nothing about it was normal.

Perhaps you'd come quicker next time if you saw my candle lit from his bedroom. He said it like he'd somehow been calling her all along, then smiled, seeming to enjoy watching her blush.

No…I mean…I only thought I saw it there once.

Hmm, Jack paused the way Tub had seen him do before he launched into a fine tale. Late at night I've often heard Major Tyne wandering to the window for a beautiful woman, Jack cocked his head, but he'd only light the candle for Annie Claiborne.

Somehow, just then, he had commanded his tormented mind to judge Charlotte. And when he'd spoken Annie Claiborne's name to her, her eyes had not lied. They weren't duplicitous like so many others here. They'd told him the complete and refreshing truth the whole night. Somewhere in Lucy's ravings, Lucy had whispered the name of Annie Claiborne to her. Charlotte had recognized it just now. And Jack could see from her hatred of her newly inherited house, she had inklings of the darkness but nothing so all consuming that she couldn't still escape it. With her beauty and her innocence, it wasn't even decent to pursue what he was thinking.

But before the door even slammed shut downstairs, he reached for another bottle of scotch. He wouldn't sleep again tonight. And tonight he'd need far more than just poetry to hide from this evil. He poured himself another drink and grabbed it up, spilling some of it on the desk as he swung around before he missed her. With a soft clink on the window, he touched the glass next to his head as he watched Tub lead her back across the street.

Damn you, he whispered, his breath fogging the glass. Damn you. A thousand shards of shattered glass ripped through his bloody nerves. The very sight of her had left him cut to the bone. This cannot happen, he warned himself. He willed her to turn and look at him so he'd change his mind, but she wouldn't. It was unfortunate. The glass in his hand