Until, of course, that terrible night, when Jacob had returned, and what he’d done to those poor children at the river, and going after that baby like a man possessed, that baby who was here now, improbably alive, grown, the famous shining boy.
Through the glazed windows she could see rain. The daylight in the corridors was dim. They were nearing the schoolroom when Charlie caught up to her, asked about her talent. “You didn’t ever say what you do,” he said. “Your talent.”
Komako studied him. Her covered hand was on the door pull. And then something in her, some stubborn thing, that same thing that pushed everyone away, and that Ribs was always telling her not to give in to, that same unhappy part of her looked Charlie square in the face and saw the openness in him and turned sharply from it.
“You know that thing that attacked you on the train?” she said. “Jacob Marber?”
Charlie nodded.
“I’m like him,” she said flatly.
She didn’t pause to see the effect of her words, didn’t have to. She knew it would be disgust or revulsion or something like it. So she just opened the door angrily, and went through.
* * *
Except it wasn’t disgust, or revulsion, or anything like that. Charlie heard the pain in her reply and knew it for what it was, shame, because he’d felt it too, all his life, and he just felt bad for even having asked the question at all.
The schoolroom might have been the old library once; it was well-lit, with a wall of glass panes at the far end, and bulleted leather sofas arranged under the eaves. As they stepped forward, Charlie felt Marlowe take his hand; then they were walking down between the rows of desks, a mezzanine above them to their left, and walls of books on either side.
At the end, silhouetted in front of the windows, stood a woman. Tall and severe as a slide rule. She wore a floor-length skirt and a white blouse that accentuated her bony frame and she stood to one side of her desk. It was Miss Davenshaw. She turned her face and Charlie saw that she wore a black cloth tied across her eyes: she was blind.
“Mr. Ovid. And young Master Marlowe. Cairndale is most pleased to have you with us. I trust Miss Onoe has shown you the manor?”
Charlie looked uneasily over at Komako. “Uh … a little?”
“I see.” The old woman paused then and turned her sightless face to the wall, listening. “Miss Ribbon,” she said sharply. “It is not polite to eavesdrop.”
“I weren’t, Miss Davenshaw,” Ribs protested. “I swear it.”
“Nor do we lurk, Miss Ribbon. And certainly not in the altogether.” The blind woman walked smoothly to a cupboard under the window and felt around in a drawer there. She took out a folded pinafore. “You will please join us suitably attired, hm?”
“Yes, Miss Davenshaw,” said Ribs meekly.
Charlie watched in wonder as the pinafore floated upward and away, around the standing chalkboard. A moment later and Ribs reappeared, visible now, her face flushed, her bright red hair clawed back off her face. She was smaller than Komako, and freckled, with soft lips. Charlie stared. Her eyes were very green. Beside him, Marlowe stared too.
“What?” said Ribs, narrowing her eyes. “I never growed a second head, did I?”
Charlie swallowed, looked away.
“It’s just … you’re pretty,” breathed Marlowe.
Komako snorted.
Miss Davenshaw resumed her position at the front of the desk, standing. She crooked a finger. “Mr. Ovid,” she said. “Come forward.”
Charlie, uncertain, glanced over at Komako. Beside her, Ribs was grinning, nodding at him. He went to Miss Davenshaw and the blind woman reached out and gently, ever so gently, felt with her fingertips at the edges of his face. Her fingers brushed the bridge of his nose, the hollows of his eyes, they danced along his lips. Her touch was cool, soft, wonderful.
“Now I see you,” she murmured, and there was a kind of benediction in it.
As she did the same to Marlowe, the little one spoke up. “Miss Davenshaw?” he said. “Is Alice all right? I want to see her.”
Her fingertips traced his jawline, up to the shell of his ears. “Miss Quicke is resting, child,” she replied. “You may look in on her later. I am told she is healing well and that it is because of you. Ah, yes. You are a fine young man also. I have wondered all these years what you would grow into. I am pleased to see you are not a monster. You may sit now.”
“That’s a joke,” Ribs whispered to Charlie. “She’s right funny, sometimes.”