She would wager Oskar and Charlie and Marlowe to be with them also. The latter two surprised her, somewhat; she hadn’t thought Komako quite prepared to trust them. Oh, she’d observed Ribs’s mooning about the new boy, Charlie Ovid, and knew Oskar wanted more than anything for a friend; but Komako was stubborn, and independent, and wary. Miss Davenshaw wasn’t worried for their safety; whatever mischief they were getting into, they were more than capable of getting out.
Well.
She got to her feet and rubbed her left wrist with her right hand, thinking. There was, she considered, another possibility: Dr. Berghast. He hadn’t yet interviewed the new boys, and it was just possible he had taken the lot of them aside for one of his chats, in his study.
She went swiftly down the stairs and into the courtyard, tapping her way across through the rain. She passed no one. She knew the way, though she did not often cross into the wing that held Berghast’s rooms and the rooms of most of the older talents. The upper corridor that led to Berghast’s study was punctuated with fire doors, every fifteen feet or so, and all stood closed, so that she had to go slowly and find the doorknobs, and push her way through.
She knocked at Dr. Berghast’s study. No answer.
She tried the handle; it was unlocked. A scent of pipe smoke, coal, the spicy fug of brandy left out. And deeper, under this, a whiff of cracked leather, ink, mud, and stone. It was a room that made her shiver.
“Good day,” she called boldly. “Are you here, Dr. Berghast?”
But only her own voice came back to her, and the hot unmoving darkness. She stepped forward, swallowing. She could smell something else, she was sure of it: the boys, Marlowe and Charlie. Their particular scents. They had been here.
“Boys?” she called. And then, to be sure: “Dr. Berghast? It is Miss Davenshaw, sir.”
But the study was quite deserted. She entered and stood on the carpet feeling the warm air on her face and neck and listening to the sounds of the manor through the walls and floor, the distant movements of its inhabitants. That was when she felt something cool slide past her, a hiss of air, and she turned and went cautiously toward it and found herself at a door in the wall, a door that stood open a crack. She pulled it wide, called in, and her voice came back to her distorted. She could tell from the sound that she stood at the top of a circular staircase and that it descended a long ways. She furrowed her brow. The sensible thing, she knew, would be to turn around and leave. That is what she’d expect her wards to do. Instead, like a foolish student, she started down.
She went quietly, listening all the while. At the bottom of the stairs she found herself in a small antechamber, facing a locked door made of iron. She tapped at it softly, feeling a rising sense of unease. She had never heard of such a place. Cairndale was old, filled with secrets. And so, she thought sharply, was Henry Berghast.
She raised her voice. “Charles? Marlowe? Are you in there, boys?”
There came the quick rapid breathing of someone on the far side. The heavy clank of chains, shifting. Then more breathing.
“Who is in there?” she called, suddenly afraid. “Answer me. Are you in need of assistance?”
But whatever was within had gone very quiet, very still. The breathing, she thought, didn’t sound quite right. It didn’t sound quite … human.
Slowly, in the darkness that was her world, Miss Davenshaw pressed an ear to the cold metal of the door. She leaned in, listening.
34
WORLD MORE FULL OF WEEPING
The city of the dead was quiet. Mist swept the rooftops, rolling heavily over itself.
Charlie, crouched on the balcony, listened as Jacob Marber moved catlike and slow around the Room, circling Marlowe. Charlie wanted to leap out, throw himself at the monster. He had the knife Dr. Berghast had given them to cut through the orsine. And he was a haelan and not easily injured and though he didn’t know the full extent of Jacob Marber’s power he had a pretty good notion that his own body would recover, whatever happened.
But he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just stood listening to the slow heavy footfalls on the planks. He didn’t know if it was fear or something else that stayed him.
Just wait, he told himself. Wait.
He could just see Marlowe, staring down the monster. He was clutching the glove in front of him. His little shoulders were squared for a fight and despite everything Charlie knew about his powers, the kid looked defenseless in front of the monster.
“Imagine, finding you here,” the man murmured. “Of all the places. Forgive me, we have not properly met. Jacob Marber, at your service.” At that angle Charlie couldn’t see his face, could only see the back of his black hair, the scruff of his thick beard. He kept raising one hand to his face, as if to hold his cheek closed. There was something wrong with its skin; the shadows across his knuckles were crawling.