C. Archer - The Wrong Girl

"You, Hannah and Tate can't burn though, can you?" Sylvia asked.

Jack shook his head. "I know I can't. Hannah? Did you feel anything in there? Did your skin hurt?"

I shook my head. "I felt nothing on the outside, only the inside when Tate touched me." The memory of him stroking my face made me want to scrub myself clean again. There had been no desire in the touch, not the sort between a man and a woman, but it had been filled with a kind of longing that I'd never seen before and had not known could exist. "He was boiling. To me he felt hotter than the fire."

Jack leaned forward and lifted a hand. He stroked a strand of my hair that had fallen out of the pins and dangled near my face. Although I instantly warmed, there were no sparks. It seemed it was only actual contact between us that produced those.

I smiled and he smiled back. "Thank you for rescuing me," I said.

"My pleasure." He continued to stroke my hair. I liked it, liked him near me, but it took every ounce of self-control not to lean into that hand and feel it cupping my cheek, caressing my lips.

Sylvia, not looking at us, shuddered. "Thank goodness Tate's gone. Finally we can resume some normalcy at Freak House."

"Normalcy," Jack said with a lopsided smile. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

Langley met us in the courtyard on our arrival. He sat in his wheelchair, his hands folded in his lap. Bollard stood behind him, staring straight ahead. When we strolled up to them, Langley's hands moved from his lap to the wheels as if he would push himself forward, but quickly returned to his lap again. He scrutinized each of us in turn before finally settling on Jack's swollen lip.

"You're back," was all he said. "Tommy told me you were successful in your endeavors."

"Oh Uncle, it was awful!" Sylvia bent down and hugged him. It was awkward with him sitting, and she seemed not to know where to put her arms. Langley was equally ill at ease. He patted her back as if she were a puppy that had just fetched his slippers for the first time.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks then went to move away. He caught her hand and kept her at his side.

"It's cold out here," he said. "Mrs. Moore will bring tea to us in the parlor. Tell me everything there."

He continued to hold Sylvia's hand as Bollard wheeled him inside. He must have been concerned after all and relieved to see us again. The only time I'd seen him outside, or indeed downstairs, was on the night of the fire. Neither his old room nor his new one were on the ground floor. He must have seen us coming up the drive and had Bollard bring both him and the wheelchair down to meet us. My eyes pricked with tears, until I realized that he hadn't been eager to see us again, only his niece and nephew. Or perhaps only Sylvia. Aside from frowning at Jack's cuts and bruises, he'd not paid his nephew much attention.

We sat in the small parlor that we'd been using since the night of the fire. It no longer smelled musty. A low fire warmed it, keeping the chill out of the air I suppose, although I'd never known what a chill really felt like. Some of Sylvia's paintings now decorated the walls and her embroidered cushions sat plump and inviting on the sofa. Tea arrived shortly after us, brought in by Tommy, not Mrs. Moore. It was odd to see him all stiff and formal again. Aside from a quick glance at each of us, he resumed his blank, footman's gaze. I found it most irritating.

"It's good to see you, Tommy," I said, smiling. "Have you suffered any ill effects from the fire?"

"No, Miss Smith."

"I thought we agreed you would call me Hannah now."

He splashed tea over the side of a cup and looked at Langley. "I, uh, don't feel right calling you anything other than what's proper."

"I agree," Sylvia said. She lifted her chin, but it didn't hide the quick glance she shot at Tommy and the slight blush to her cheeks. "Whatever transpired in London should remain there."

"How can you say that?" I said. "The four of us formed a bond at Tate's factory. You can't deny it."

"She'll try her hardest," Jack muttered.

"Circumstances in London were...unique," she said. "Never to be repeated. Besides, just because we all endured a nasty experience together doesn't mean we can allow social mores to lapse. I know you don't fully understand the importance of keeping everyone in their place, Hannah, having lived your entire life in an attic among a total of two people. You'll simply have to trust me. It's important. Isn't that right, Uncle?" She faced her uncle, but her gaze slid between him and Tommy.

The footman was too busy pouring the tea to notice, but he did seem more rigid than usual.

"Social order is everything," Langley agreed. "The opposite is chaos."

Behind him, Bollard's nostrils flared. Tommy left, carrying the tray with him.

"Tell me what happened," Langley said. "Tommy informs me they arrived before you, Jack. Where were you?"

"I'd gone to the Harborough constabulary immediately after leaving here," Jack said. "I had to wait for that fool of an inspector to return, and then I wasted more time trying to convince him to come with me to London. He refused." He shook his head. "I wish I hadn't bothered."

"You tried to do the right thing," I said. Sylvia and I had already told him so in the carriage when he spoke of his reasons for his delay, but he hadn't accepted it then and it still seemed to rankle now.

"I went to the Hackney Wick authorities as soon as I arrived in London," he went on. "There was no point confronting Tate without a witness. I had to wait at the police station there too, and then when the inspector did return, I spent some time apprising him of the case against Tate. He agreed to come with me, albeit reluctantly."

"It was a good thing he did," I said.

"When we arrived, we heard noises coming from the factory. The fire had already taken hold, and Tate..." He swallowed heavily and looked at me.

"Tell me about the fire," Langley asked.

"Tate started that," I said. "He accidentally emitted sparks from his fingers. You didn't tell us he was a fire starter too. It would have helped, you know."

"Perhaps," Langley said and sipped his tea. I was reminded of Tate casually drinking tea in his parlor and avoiding our questions. The similarity sent a shiver down my spine.

"That's why he wanted Hannah, isn't it?" Jack asked. "Because he's a fire starter too and he wanted to...study her." From the lack of shock on his face, I suspected he'd been thinking about it the entire journey home. As had I.

Sylvia, however, gasped and almost dropped her teacup. "You think he wanted to dissect her to find a cure?" She turned quite pale. "Now I regret reading that book on biology last year."

"I'm not sure about dissection," Langley said. "But I do think he wanted to use her in some way." He frowned into his teacup. Something troubled him and from the look on his face, I'd wager he'd just thought of something he didn't know the answer to. The scientist in him must hate it.

Jack rose and stood over his uncle, his clenched fists at his sides. When he spoke, it was low and his jaw hardly moved. "You knew Tate wanted to use Hannah and yet you let her come after me?"

"I didn't let Hannah go," Langley said. "She went without permission. In case you haven't noticed, the girl has a will of her own and tends to follow it without thinking things through."

"I resent the accusation," I said. "I would not have gone if I'd known Tate was a fire starter himself." Probably not. Maybe. "Perhaps you ought to keep us all apprised of the villains you've fallen out with, Mr. Langley. Keeping secrets helps no one."

"Are you quite finished?" he said.

I sipped my tea. Jack moved to the window and leaned against the sill. He stared out to the abbey ruins beyond. Perhaps he was desperate to get into the cool air, to exercise the stiffness from his joints and the demons from his mind.