“So be it,” he said at last, turning around. “And did our friend here offer any insight into where Jacob bloody Marber might be found, now? If he weren’t in Natchez or anywhere on the way back, why was he asking after my destination? Where’s he gone to, Margaret?”
She watched him closely. “Don’t you know?” she said.
And then a flicker of understanding crossed Coulton’s face. “The circus lad,” he muttered. “Marlowe.”
Margaret smoothed out her black skirts, interlaced her fingers before her.
“He wasn’t coming for Charlie at all,” he continued. “It was always Marlowe.”
“And if he hasn’t found him yet,” said Margaret softly, “he will soon.”
* * *
When it was time, Margaret led Coulton and the boy down to the cellar. Through a thick unmarked door, down a second passageway, damp and dark, through another locked door into an ancient room. One wall was stone and buckled and looked so old it might have been in use in the time of the Romans. The cellar was deep and had no windows. In this room Margaret examined the new children, had done so for years. Coulton didn’t think it necessary this time.
“The lad’s a haelan, Margaret,” he’d told her earlier, “there’s not much to examine. I saw it with my own eyes. Plucked a blade right out of his own forearm and cut a man’s throat with it.”
But haelans were rare, she knew, and there were varied degrees of skill, and it was best to determine such things for herself. She unlocked the door, lifting the lantern high. The examination room was soundproof, its ceilings and walls and even the porcelain tiles underfoot painted white; there was a drain in the floor, like in an abattoir. She’d been preparing for days now for Coulton’s return and had set up a little table near the door with various sharp implements under a white towel, and a little red box, covered by a sheet, in the far corner. In the middle stood a sinister chair, positioned over the drain, with iron manacles screwed into its armrests and its legs. Its purpose was fear, not pain. Fear could be a useful trigger for latent talents.
Charles stopped in the doorway. “Mr. Coulton?”
He sounded frightened.
“Aye, lad, go on,” said Coulton. “You ain’t in any peril. I swear to it.”
Margaret ushered them in, brisk, stern, rubbing her arms for the damp. That was the one thing about the place she’d been unable to change. A nice little stove glowing in the corner, that would just about do it. Might even be useful, too, for burning.
“Now, Charles,” she said crisply. “What has Mr. Coulton told you? Have you been informed about Cairndale, its purpose?”
When the boy said nothing, only glanced nervously across at Coulton, she frowned in displeasure. It was Coulton’s job to prepare the kids, wasn’t it?
“Cairndale Institute is a refuge, a place of safety for people like you, a place where you’ll learn to harness your talent. It is run by a man named Dr. Berghast. If this test goes as I expect it to, you’ll be meeting him soon. But first, I must confirm what it is you can do. Is that clear?”
He blinked slowly. There was a careful intelligence in the boy; he would do well, indeed.
“I won’t be put in irons,” he said.
“You will,” she replied. “The restraints, Charles, are for our safety, not yours. Why would we bring you all this way, only to make you suffer? You must see that would make no sense at all.”
The boy looked at the chair, looked at her, hesitated. Then he sat. Coulton squatted next to him and fastened the irons with a little key, turning each little lock twice. He left the key standing in the second lock and gave the boy a nod. Then he stepped noiselessly back.
“Mr. Coulton tells me you are a haelan. That is the name for what you can do. It is a rare talent, but you are not alone. There are others. How old were you when you first knew what you could do?”
Charlie wet his lips. “My mama said I just always could do it. She said it wasn’t a thing to show anyone. She said keep it safe, keep it secret.”
“Your mother was a wise woman. How many people have seen you do it?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Harrogate.”
“But many, you would agree?”
The boy nodded.
“I’d say a good dozen in Natchez alone,” Coulton interjected. “All them what were present at the execution.”
“Ah. But they won’t believe what they saw,” she murmured. “They’ll find some explanation; they always do. It’s no obstacle. Tell me, Charles. How many people have you killed?”