Page 78 of Blackwicket
“I bet you don’t cry,” Jack grumbled, before breaking down, his soft sobs drifting to meet me in the hall. My vision blurred, and I leaned forward enough to see that Jack had curled into a trembling ball, his knees tucked near to his face, while the Inspector sat close by in the chair he’d taken from the desk.
“No,” Inspector Harrow said, placing a hand on the child’s head. “But I’m a weak man, Jack. You don’t want to be like me.”
I waited a moment longer in the corridor so it wouldn’t appear I’d been listening. When I entered, Inspector Harrow sat back, giving me room to drape the blanket over Jack, a modest bit of shelter from the world. The boy stirred from his position, gazing at me with puffy eyes, his auburn hair a chaotic mess, sticking straight up at the crown of his head.
“When I was little.” I took a seat again on the edge of thebed, far enough so he wouldn’t feel crowded by a stranger. “My mother would weave her magic into my quilt to help me sleep. If you’d like, I’ll do the same for you.”
When Isolde had stopped being aware of us, I’d attempted to replace her magical comfort with my own, enchanting fibers of my quilt, only for the magic to escape. I’d become so disheartened, I’d stopped trying. I hoped I wouldn’t fail now.
“Guess so,” he said, wiping his face vigorously with his hands as though he could erase his sorrow with enough force.
I explained the importance of intention, giving direction to power so it knew what form to take, what task to perform. I repeated my mother’s words about how vital practicing magic to create beautiful, useful, comforting things was.
“Why?” Came Jack’s question, echoing the one I’d asked many years ago.
“If we show magic how important it is,” I said. “How much it means to us, maybe it’ll come back.”
I’d believed these things until my mother’s death, when my grip loosened on the hopes of childhood. But for Jack’s sake, he needed to feel they were true. It would give him a shield against the troubles awaiting him as a child of Dark Hall. A flimsy one, perhaps, but far better than none. My power was pliant from use, no longer rigid and difficult to control, and unlike in my youth, what I wove into the fabric, between each weave and weft of thread, remained secure, glinting like a field of fireflies in summer.
The joy on Jack’s face would be a lasting memory, but short-lived, quickly becoming forlorn.
“Fiona did this for me, too. I guess you both learned it from your mom.” Fresh tears filled his eyes.
“Did you spend a lot of time with Fiona?” I asked, struggling not to sound too desperate for the answer.
Jack nodded, “Are all the toys still upstairs?”
“They are.” I stopped, cleared my throat, “It’s a mess right now, but they are.”
“I liked coming here, but Mr. Nightglass stopped letting me.”
“Why?” I inquired, tucking the blanket around his shoulders to soften the difficult question.
“Fiona was sick, he didn’t want me to get sick too. Then she died.”
Instinctively, I rubbed his back, wishing I could ease the pain in his voice, knowing it would remain for a long time.
“Were there other kids, Jack?” Inspector Harrow asked, “Other children like you here at Blackwicket House?”
The question put him on his guard, his face growing slack, two spots of red forming on his cheeks. “Don’t know.”
A lie.
“Why don’t you try to sleep?” I replied before Inspector Harrow could ask anything else.
He didn’t reply as he tucked himself deep beneath the enchanted blanket, his eyes trained on the wall.
“Do you want someone to stay here?” I asked.
“No.” Came the sullen response.
We’d pushed too far.
“If you need anything…”
Before either of us could move, Jack spoke, words muffled by the sheet.
“I changed my mind. Stay ‘til I’m asleep? Both of you?”
