Worlds of Ink and Shadow Read online

  Charlotte looked back at Mary Henrietta, trying to see her through Zamorna’s eyes, trying to be sure she was flawless in every way. “The dress should be violet,” she said. “And more . . . diaphanous.”

  Immediately, Mary Henrietta’s dress changed from green to violet, the fabric so sheer and fine she seemed to be swathed in mist.

  “Yes. Perfect.”

  Charlotte moved back toward Mary Henrietta and climbed up onto one of the high-backed chairs behind her, wanting to see every passion that crossed Zamorna’s face.

  “The duke looked over at his wife, catching her eye,” she said.

  Immediately the scene began again with all its noise and bustle and laughter. Men finished their bows; ladies lowered their fans and smiled. Zamorna and Mary Henrietta both looked up at the same time. Charlotte held her breath in anticipation. Across the room, the husband’s eyes met his wife’s . . .

  “Mary Henrietta Wellesley radiated grace and beauty . . .”

  Charlotte kept her gaze fixed on Zamorna, waiting to see his face change, waiting for the vast depths of his affection to sweep over him. From her vantage point on the chair, she could almost pretend he was looking at her.

  For a long moment Zamorna and Mary Henrietta regarded one another. Then the duke nodded to his wife and went back to his conversation.

  No, Charlotte thought.

  Mary Henrietta turned back to her companions. “Excuse me. What were you saying, Ambassador?”

  Charlotte sat down on the gilded chair. A stiff breeze swept through the room, rustling the curtains and the ladies’ gowns. Charlotte put her arms around her shoulders, chilled, as if the damp gust had come all the way from Yorkshire. Now when she glimpsed her hero through the crowd, his face seemed waxy and unreal, lacking any true life.

  Over the years, Charlotte had given Zamorna many love interests, each more beautiful, virtuous, and devoted than the next. Once, she had been satisfied with these romances—thrilled even—but now . . . now she was beginning to see that she had never sparked true feeling in Zamorna, true fire. In fact, none of her characters came fully to life, not like people in a real book, not like—she hated to admit this—Alexander Rogue sometimes came to life on Branwell’s pages.

  But there was no wonder in her failure, she told herself. She was no author. She was simply an eighteen-year-old girl from Haworth, England, a girl who was destined to be a governess someday soon, and probably an indifferent one at that.

  Perhaps I am only playing with the world’s most exquisite set of dolls, she thought. Perhaps it was time to put her dolls away.

  BRANWELL

  BRANWELL BRONTË WAS IN A PART OF VERDOPOLIS that Charlotte never wrote about, far from the Tower of All Nations and the Duke of Zamorna’s mansion house. Here the shabby wooden houses were crammed together, and refuse lined the streets. He turned down a narrow alley where a rough-looking fellow with a clay pipe was slouched against a wooden door. The man tipped his hat to him, but there was something insolent in the gesture.

  “In the secret meeting rooms of the Elysium Society,” Branwell said under his breath, “Alexander Percy, Earl of Northangerland, also known as Alexander Rogue, was plotting his latest outrage.”

  He crossed to the wooden door, whispered a password to the man with the pipe, and entered.

  In stark contrast to the outside of the building, the inside of the Elysium Club was splendid. The walls were covered with red velvet and gold. A fountain surrounded by ferns gurgled in one corner. There were no windows, and Branwell doubted any of the red-eyed men hunched over glasses of gin or sitting around the gambling tables knew if it was night or day outside. These were gentlemen of wealth—there were numerous silk cravats and gold-tipped canes in evidence—but many had a somewhat sinister air. To be a member of the Elysium Club, one needed to be worth at least five thousand a year—and to have slain a man.

  Branwell handed his hat and coat to a servant and glanced around, the smoke thick enough to make his eyes sting.

  “Lord Thornton,” said the barman, sliding a glass of undiluted brandy toward him across a mirrored bar. Branwell gave a nod and drank it down. Here in Verdopolis he was no longer a poor parson’s son; he was Lord Thornton Witkin Sneaky, rich young reprobate. Unlike Charlotte, though, Branwell didn’t change his appearance when playing a character, and so Lord Thornton looked like himself—with a few slight differences.

  “Have you seen . . . ?” he began. The barman jerked his head to the back of the room.

  Alexander Rogue was draped lazily over a chair like a black lion, smoking a cheroot. He was long and lean and not particularly handsome—drink and evildoing had weathered his face, as had two years of piracy on the high seas—but he had a presence that commanded attention. As always he wore plain black, but the diamond earl’s star at his breast marked his class—that and a certain haughtiness to his gaze.

  “Thornton,” Rogue called without getting up, “settle a bet. S’Death says I have orchestrated eleven kidnappings in my lifetime, but I aver it was an even dozen.”

  Branwell approached the table where Rogue sat with a fiendish-looking old gentleman. His name wasn’t really S’Death. He was Mr. R. P. King, Rogue’s right-hand man, but he gave off such an impression of wickedness that he was nicknamed for the blasphemy. He was very short and squat but rather spry for a man with such an ancient face. His twisted features were like something one would find in the bark of a tree or the grain of a wood panel, and yet his hair was flame red—obviously dyed. He was known to be one of the richest men in Verdopolis, though how he came by his wealth was a dark mystery. His accent proved he was not born to it, but no one dared ask.

  “We count your wife in the tally, I suppose,” Branwell said, as a servant brought him a chair.

  “Zenobia? Of course. It’s how we met.”

  Branwell sat down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully—one of the slight differences to his appearance was that in Verdopolis he had an excellent beard. “And do we reckon the Hawthorn sisters as one or two?”

  “The twins!” Rogue said, and he brought his hand down on the table with a thump. “Ha! I do believe we forgot those harpies.”

  S’Death was jotting down names in his little black book. “Eight, nine, ten . . . damn and blast! It is thirteen. Neither wins.”

  There was a pile of banknotes on the table, which Rogue divvied up between them. The older man seemed to watch a little sadly as Rogue’s portion disappeared back into his jacket pocket.

  “Is it kidnapping then?” Branwell asked. “Or shall we attempt another bank robbery?”

  He could have made this decision himself, of course, but unlike Charlotte, he liked to let his plots go where they may. He found that if he stood back a little, Rogue almost seemed to choose for himself.

  His villain took a pull of his cheroot. “Ah, the youth of today are so energetic, S’Death.”

  He snapped his fingers, calling for spirits, and at once a waiter appeared with a bottle of brandy and three glasses. Rogue poured two glasses and took the bottle for himself. “What’s the use of coming up with a magnificently wicked plan when it is sure to be foiled by that Casanova in silk?” Branwell knew he was talking about Charlotte’s hero, the Duke of Zamorna. “You heard he thwarted my scheme to fix the Verdopolitan horse races?”

  Branwell nodded. This had been the plot of one of Charlotte’s stories. “Perhaps an overthrow of the government then?”

  “Been done,” said Rogue with a sigh, taking a draught. One of his character traits was that he drank almost constantly but never appeared to be drunk.

  S’Death made a clicking sound with his tongue, shaking his head. “Such an excellent scheme it was, too, assassinating the entire Verdopolitan parliament at once.” He put his hand to his breast. “It breaks my heart to think of them all downing glasses of punch at Zamorna’s party tonight.”

  “Party?” Rogue and Branwell said at once.

  “You hadn’t heard? He’s having a grand party at Wellesl
ey House.”

  So Charlotte has finally managed to come up with an ending for her latest story, Branwell thought.

  “Seems a bit of a snub that you and the countess weren’t invited, Rogue,” S’Death went on, “what with the hostess being your daughter and all.”

  “A snub indeed,” Branwell said.

  Mary Henrietta Wellesley was Rogue’s child from a previous marriage, and many of Charlotte’s recent stories had made great use of this. I love you, Zamorna, but it can never be, for you are the enemy of my wicked father. Oh sorrow! The couple seemed to be settling into the dullness of domestic bliss now. Branwell was tempted to enliven things by having Rogue break into the party uninvited, but Charlotte would be livid if her happy ending were spoiled. He needed a moment to think through the best course of action.

  “A cry of ‘I’m ruined’ rang out in the smoky hall,” Branwell said under his breath.

  “I’m ruined!” someone cried.

  A man at the other side of the room lurched up from one of the gaming tables, scattering a deck of playing cards to the floor. He pulled a gun from his jacket pocket. The barman ducked behind the bar, and all the gamblers hid under tables—all except Rogue and Branwell, who stayed where they were, and S’Death, who turned in his seat with interest. Great wealth was often won and lost at the tables of the Elysium Club, and the old blackguard liked to keep abreast of whose fortunes were high and whose had fallen.

  Waving the gun before him, the man stumbled to the gentlemen’s lounge in obvious distress. A moment later a shot rang out.

  “Another suicide,” S’Death said with a hint of repressed glee. He took out his black book, turned over a few pages, and shook his head. “Oh, but there’s a pity. He owed me a thousand.” He licked a stub of a pencil and carefully crossed out the man’s name. “At least he didn’t do it right in front of the bar like the last one. They were cleaning brains out of the chandeliers for days. Remember, Rogue?”

  Rogue gave a bored shrug, then stubbed out his cheroot into a jade ashtray.

  “You know,” Branwell said, “the more I think of it, the more I agree with S’Death. Zamorna’s snub must not go unanswered.”

  “I’m two steps ahead of you, boy,” Rogue said.

  “Ah,” said S’Death, “I know that look. You intend to make another attempt on the parliament?”

  “No,” answered Rogue. “They’re not the true enemy, are they?” He rose from his chair. “It’s time we got to the root of the problem.” A feral grin spread over his face. “I fear my poor daughter will have to buy herself some widow’s weeds, for tonight we kill the duke himself.”

  Branwell struggled to keep the shock from his face. He did love to vex Charlotte, but he hadn’t planned this. A nervous giggle escaped his lips. Rogue and S’Death were both staring at him, waiting for his opinion.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  EMILY

  EMILY,” ANNE SAID QUIETLY, “WHY EXACTLY do we want the crumbs off their table?”

  Emily was rifling through the papers hidden in the secret place under the floorboard, Charlotte’s tied neatly with ribbon, Branwell’s in haphazard piles.

  “What I mean is,” Anne continued, “there is no shortage of reading material in this house. Charlotte is an excellent writer, but Mr. Shakespeare is better, and if it’s Branwell’s wickedness you like, Papa says we may read Lord Byron in moderation.”

  Emily tried to keep her features motionless. She valued her privacy, and Anne’s ability to read a person’s face bordered on the uncanny. “I suppose I simply want to keep abreast of our people in Verdopolis,” she said. This grazed the truth, at any rate. “We helped to create them—the older ones, at least—and I want to see what those two are doing with them.”

  Anne pursed her lips, but Emily, not as gifted at reading people, couldn’t tell if her sister believed her.

  Everything had been different when they were young. Once, all four siblings had crossed to the invented lands together. Together they’d explored worlds inspired by Aesop’s Fables and Gulliver’s Travels and The Arabian Nights. Who could have asked for a better childhood? By the time she was ten, Emily had visited islands inhabited by giants thirty feet tall and had traveled to the moon to speak to the gentle, blue-haired folk who lived there.

  True, it was Charlotte and Branwell who created these places, but they’d been happy to take their younger sisters. In those days, they crossed over by acting out a story, not by writing. All they needed were a few opening words. A door of light would open, one of them would make that mysterious hand gesture, and they would all go through. Branwell and Charlotte never explained how it was done, but Emily had always believed that it was only a matter of time before the secret was revealed to her.

  Then Anne and Emily were cast out. To this day, Emily couldn’t understand why. It was around the time that Charlotte and Branwell invented Glasstown, and she supposed her older siblings simply wanted it all to themselves. By the time it became Verdopolis—a more appropriate name for what was now a glittering city—Anne and Emily had to read their older siblings’ writings if they wanted to know what was happening there.

  “Look,” said Anne, smiling. “One of our little newspapers.” She reached into the spot under the floorboards and pulled out a miniature book. The Brontës had made dozens of such things when they were children—little newspapers where they recorded the doings of their favorite made-up characters. Tabby had helped them sew the bindings out of old sugar bags.

  “We’d best hurry,” Emily said, glancing at the desk. “There’s no telling when they’ll be back.”

  Anne sighed and replaced the little book with tender care. She never complained about their banishment from the invented worlds; now Emily wondered if her sister missed them as much as she did.

  “Isn’t it remarkable,” Anne said, “how one can become attached to fictional people?” She looked at Emily with large violet-blue eyes. “The feeling might become quite strong, I expect.”

  The thought occurred to Emily that in some other, very different life, where Anne was not a virtuous parson’s daughter, she might have told fortunes out of a gypsy caravan. “Mmm.”

  “We are so isolated here in Haworth, with no one of our own age to befriend, and the men and woman of Verdopolis are real, in a way. It wouldn’t seem strange to me if . . . someone . . . might even fall in love with one of them.”

  Emily kept herself as still as a rabbit on the moor, knowing that a denial would give her away.

  “And I suppose,” Anne went on, “that Charlotte’s hero Zamorna is very compelling to read about. He’s so . . . dashing. Is that why we’re going to so much trouble?”

  Emily let out a breath, repressing the urge to smile. She replaced the board over the hiding spot and stood up, clutching a selection of Charlotte’s and Branwell’s newer writings to her chest. With her foot she kicked the rag rug back into place.

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  ANNE

  ANNE BRONTË HAD A FANCY, SOMETHING too foolish to ever mention. Sometimes she imagined that there was a tiny mathematician in her mind. He was always busy, this little man, measuring the wideness of smiles, calculating the timbre of voices. He tallied his numbers on an ever-clicking abacus, and occasionally, to her great surprise, he would look up from his reckonings and tell her unknowable things. This person is lying. That person is afraid. Today her little man told her that Emily was keeping secrets.

  “You’re quite certain that all the story papers have been returned?” Anne asked as she laid out the breakfast things.

  “Safe under the floor again,” Emily replied without turning around. She was staring out the window, a bouquet of spoons in her hand. Grasper, the family’s Irish terrier, had his paws on the sill, as if he, too, saw something diverting in the fog.

  “Every page?”

  “Every page.”

  The parsonage was so small that it had been difficult to find a place to examine their stolen p
roperty. In the end they had spent the previous afternoon reading stories in Papa’s study, where the family piano was, taking turns at playing scales so that no one would become suspicious.

  Anne set the family’s plain white china around the little table. One bowl was chipped, and she put it at her own place, turning the flaw toward herself. “And the animals. Have they been . . . ?”

  “All fed.”

  Anne watched as Emily ran a hand over Grasper’s ears, noticing that her sister’s skirts were wet with dew; she must indeed have been outside this morning, feeding Jasper, the tame pheasant they kept in the yard.

  “I didn’t see Snowflake,” Emily added. “But I expect he’s still out murdering things.”

  “And did you . . . ,” Anne began.

  “And, and, and,” Emily repeated. “Don’t we get enough scolding from Charlotte?”

  Anne held her tongue. Emily didn’t deserve harassment; her older sister might be dreamy, but she didn’t shirk her chores. Still, Anne liked to be assured that everything was perfectly in its place. The Brontës had nothing fine—everything was plain and functional—but Anne loved how neat and orderly their home was, especially on mornings like this one, when the fog surrounded them like an endless, gray sea. Somehow order made her feel that no matter what dangers lurked outside, the parsonage was their snug little fortress, where nothing evil could touch them.

  Finished with her work, she looked at her nearly perfect table and refrained from mentioning the missing spoons. Emily seemed to have forgotten she was holding them.

  “What exactly is so interesting out there?” she asked instead, coming up behind her sister.