“Not yet. Soon.” Dr. Berghast studied her carefully. “You do know who he is, the little one?”
Margaret nodded.
Berghast tapped his thumbs over his interlaced fingers, brooding. “The boy has come back to me,” he said, with a quiet satisfaction. “As you said he would.”
There was something in his face, a dark hunger, and seeing it Margaret felt a shiver go through her.
18
THE YOUNG TALENTS
Safe. Charlie Ovid felt safe.
It was a peculiar feeling for him, safety, a kid who’d been stolen away to a fog-thick city by a mysterious Englishman with a gun and there, for God’s sake, stalked by a monster. And yet he did feel safe; he slept that long first night at the institute in a narrow room with a slanted ceiling, Marlowe in the bed next to his, and the horror of their flight out of London faded like a dream. And all the menacing worlds he’d known—the sweltering prison in Natchez, the sun-drenched fields of cotton in the Delta, even the murky streets of Wapping at night, all of them—felt very far away.
Safe. That was the wonder of it. And so, on that first morning, when Charlie woke to hushed voices, to girls’ voices, he wasn’t afraid; he didn’t leap to his feet, doubling his fists; he just lay groggy and still under the blankets, and tried to hear. They were two and they were talking about Marlowe.
“You reckon it’s true, then?” whispered the first. “The shining boy? It’s really him?”
“I expect so.”
“Huh. Ain’t much to look at, is he?”
“This coming from you?”
“Shh. He’s like to hear you.”
“Miss Davenshaw said they found him in America, however he got there. And this other one too. She said their train was attacked by Jacob Marber and they fought him off. He fought him off. Again.”
“She told you all that?”
“Yes.”
“She don’t tell me that much. Why don’t she?”
“You have to ask that? Really?”
A muffled snort, like a laugh. “Hell. They could’ve been found in the bloody arctic, wouldn’t make no difference. No way old Jacob’s done with them.” A rustling, as the girl drew near. “Aw, Ko. Waked this one up now, you did.”
Charlie cracked an eye. The room was filled with daylight. His tongue felt thick and he worked his jaw a moment, gulping air. He saw Marlowe asleep in the next bed, twisted in white sheets, his little trustful face smoothed in sleep, and then he raised his head and saw the girl.
She’d perched herself up on the narrow writing desk, so that her legs dangled free. She was maybe two years older than him, dressed in a plain gray pinafore. She wasn’t white; he’d seen Chinese workers in the rail yards in Natchez and there was a likeness there, maybe. She had a slender face, wide shoulders. Her long hair was black and shining and had been plaited in a braid that fell all the way to her waist. She wore black kidskin gloves with the fingers cut out. Her eyes were as black as her hair. He’d never seen anyone like her. He realized he was staring and a heat came into his cheeks and he looked away.
“I knew you weren’t sleeping,” said the girl. “You’re a terrible faker. Do you always pretend to sleep, so you can spy on a girl?”
“I, I never…，” he mumbled. “I mean, it’s not…”
“So you’re Charlie Ovid,” she went on, unimpressed. She looked him up and down. “I thought you’d be older. I’m Komako.”
Uneasy, Charlie glanced around. He couldn’t see the second girl. “Who were you talking to?”
The girl Komako’s face took on an innocent look. She tugged at her braid. “Hm?”
“Just now. I heard you. There was someone else in here.”
“In here?”
He blinked, suddenly unsure.
But just then the air shifted beside his bed, as if the gloomy light itself, spilling in through the window, was rippling.
“Boo!” whispered the second girl, into his ear.
Charlie nearly fell out of his blankets. He scrabbled backward against the headboard, staring at the emptiness, his heart thundering in his chest. There was no one there.
“Aw, I’m over here, Charlie. No, here.”
He turned his face from side to side, wild-eyed, like he was going crazy. Like he’d hit his head on the train and now he was hearing voices.
But the voice was real. “You ain’t crazy,” it said. “I’m what they call invisible, like.”
Slowly he reached out a hand. It brushed only air. “Are you a … a ghost?”