Alice had left for London a week before, in the early gloom, under a reef of red clouds in the east. She’d held Marlowe, held Charlie, while Mrs. Harrogate watched impatient from the footer, her veil at her face, her eyes hard as marbles. After that it was just him and Marlowe, just the two of them. Things between them turned more tender, tender the way a bruise is tender, tender like there was a deep ache inside it all and to touch it was to be reminded of the hurt. Komako and Ribs would show them around, and sometimes the pudgy Polish boy, Oskar, too, with his white-blond hair and his deep shyness, and his wet fleshly giant copying his every gesture. But Marlowe kept close to Charlie all the while, closer than usual, pulling his chair very near when they ate in the dining hall, climbing up into Charlie’s bed after the lights were extinguished, that sort of thing, exactly like what a kid brother would be like, and Charlie was grateful for it. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have to be alone.
But one night, after Alice had left, Charlie awoke and saw Marlowe silhouetted at the window seat, his knees folded up to his chest, his face turned to the gloom.
“What is it?” whispered Charlie. “You get a bad dream?”
The boy looked at him, his dark eyes soulful. “I heard horses.”
Through the open window, Charlie heard it too: the faint whickering of horses. He got out of bed. Their room overlooked Loch Fae and the dock and the dark island out there with the twisted silhouette of the ancient wych elm. There was nothing to see though; Cairndale’s courtyard was on the other side of the building, below the girls’ quarters. In his nightshirt, Charlie shivered and folded his arms.
Marlowe chewed at his lip. “Where do you think Alice is right now?”
“In bed. If she’s got any sense.”
“Charlie?”
“What.”
“Do you ever wonder how things could be different?”
“Sure.” He sat down beside him, sighed. “But that kind of thinking is crazy-making. It doesn’t help. You want me to get you a glass of water?”
But the boy folded one foot over the other, itching, and wouldn’t be distracted. “I mean, what if Brynt hadn’t taken me in? Or if she’d run from Alice back at Mr. Fox’s? Or if Alice hadn’t got me out of that hotel before Jacob Marber got in? If you just make anything just a little bit different…” His soft face was troubled. “Do you think we’re supposed to be here? Is that why it is the way it is?”
“Not everything’s got a reason for the way it is.”
“My mama used to say, ‘There’s always a choice.’ Brynt said it too. But it’s not true, is it? We never chose to come here, not really.”
“I did.”
The boy thought about it. “Because of your father,” he whispered.
Charlie nodded. “Not just that. But, yeah.”
“Are you going to show Miss Davenshaw the ring? Maybe she can tell you what it is.”
“That’s a secret, Mar. Okay? I need you not to tell anyone about it. Not yet.”
“Why?”
But Charlie just sighed heavily. “I don’t know,” he muttered.
The night was black in Marlowe’s blue-black eyes and he blinked his long eyelashes and then he looked up at Charlie. He looked at him with a deep pure trust. “You know what, Charlie? I’m glad all those things happened the way they did,” he whispered. “I’m glad because you’re here with me now.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Charlie. He gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Except to get you a glass of water. You go on back to bed, now. I’ll be right back.”
He went out into the corridor, silent as smoke. The wall sconces had been snuffed. There was a cut-glass jug of water on a pier table at the far end for all the boys to drink from and a tray of glasses overturned on a dish towel, but the jug was empty. Charlie thought about it and then padded on down the cold hall and turned left, into the corridor where the girls slept. A second table stood there with a jug half-full and it was while he was pouring out a glass in his nightshirt and bare feet that Charlie looked out and saw the carriage.
The window faced the courtyard. A carriage had stopped near the entrance to the east wing. There must have been a light burning below, for a red glow reflected dully in the windows and Charlie could clearly make out the drawn curtains, the brass door latch, the footer unfolded beneath the door. Black wood siding glimmered in the shine. Otherwise, all was darkness and gloom. Its side lanterns were shuttered, its horses nickered softly in their traces.