Page 17 of The Prestley Ghost
“We’d still need some sort of anchor, though. Something physical.” John eyed the book, which Charles had slid onto a side table. The cover had some rain-splotches, but no real damage. “The question is, what?”
“Wait.” Charles’s head hadn’t caught up yet. Unlike his heart, which was spinning. “We could…what? Bring him back?”
“Well, not in that original body, unless you’ve discovered how to reverse fifty years of decay. And maybe not exactly a—a body, I think he might be still sort of an ethereal existence, but probably enough that he’d exist and walk around and talk to people. It’s what we’ve been working on, as far as the theory. But it’s never been done, and you’d need an object as an anchor, plus a good medium who’d be willing to be tied to that anchor—as a model for living existence—and a spirit thatisn’thomicidal or vicious, is mentally coherent, and has both the desire to stay and the will to focus on that.” John paused. “So…quite possibly, yes. But you’d need that anchor and you’d both need to be willing.”
“You…I asked you for help, and you…”
“It’s not an easy answer. I don’thavean answer. I’ve got a theory that we were planning to leave theoretical forever. But.” John’s smile emerged and lingered, in his eyes, around his mouth. “You asked for my help. And you care about him.”
“I do,” Charles whispered. “So much.”
“I’d like to meet him. I know you said he needed to rest,but perhaps tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Charles said. All he’d had to do was ask. He’d had John at his side instantly; he’d had Alex, earlier, a strength when he’d needed to fall apart. He had people who wanted to help. The thought lay like lace over old gravestone marble, delicate, incongruous, a fragile gift resting there. “I would like that.”
* * * *
Tomorrow proved cold but not rainy; the sun had come out, a low amber orb amid autumn-bronzed trees and village lanes and grasses, a world made of the scents of hay and the spice of apple cider, the gathering of pumpkins and the thin busy rustles of rust-colored leaves. Charles tried to suggest they wait to put plans into motion, despite his own pounding heart, because he did not want slippery ice and he also wanted Alex to have some time to recover. John shook his head, found the cane, and insisted on opening up the church doors and being present, not giving any sort of sermon—it was a Friday, in any case—but hearing troubles and giving advice, for a few hours.
Charles settled into a pew. Watched. His brother was so good at that: caring for people. Being heroic, even when Miss Primrose attempted to flirt with him, and the butcher simply wanted to complain about a neighbor’s fiddle-playing. A life, quiet and domestic. A home, here in the village. Not avoiding family gifts or notoriety—using it when necessary—but building something new.
John thought they could do this. Perhaps they could. He had an unaccustomed sensation like hope, in his chest, and it wanted to lift his feet.
After John was done being responsible, they went out to the churchyard, together.
Alex’s gravestone hadn’t changed; it stood in gracefulexpensive lines near the tree, striped today with bone-pale sun. John leaned weight on the cane, not too badly. “I expect he’s tied to a certain geographical area? Here, and the site of his death, and probably some radius around that.”
“He said he hasn’t gone far, so possibly?”
“Usually it’s one or both of those. If this works, he won’t be. But he will be…somewhat tethered to you, and whatever you’re using as an anchor. He can go places and come back, but I suspect a large distance would feel…uncomfortable. Easier to snap.”
Charles would not want a large distance. Charles would ensure that Alex had a home. He nodded.
“Of course I say this as if I know what I’m talking about,” John said. “Theory, remember.”
“But you think it’ll work.”
“What will?” said Alex’s voice, weary and light and pretty, at his elbow.
Charles spun that way. “You’re here—you’re all right, you—”
Alex mostly was: not as cleanly outlined as usual, a bit more transparent, but all present. His mouth held that wonderful smile. “I’m here.”
“Er,” John said, “I take it that youarehere, Alex, since my brother’s having raptures of delight, but I’m not a medium, and you’re not visible.”
“Oh!” Alex said, “sorry!” and very clearly, at least to Charles’s gaze,madehimself more substantial: thicker color, more opaque, blocking some of the tree behind him. Effort, Charles thought. When there was a cost. “Better? Apologies, you must be John—oh, sorry, dreadfully informal, I wasn’t very good at formal even when I was alive—sorry, I’m Alexander Leonfeld, er, never actually Viscount Foxleigh, since I, well, died before I could inherit. And then Charles found me, and talked to me.”His voice was anxious, polished and properly audible but more fluttery and rapid than usual.
Charles took his hand. That was real, if cold, and possible. “Are you nervous?”
“I’m meeting your brother!”
“Don’t mind me,” John said, “I like people who make my brother smile. I’m used to ghosts. And I’ve got some ideas.”
“Er…” Alex looked between them. “Ideas?”
“For you,” Charles said. “For us.”
* * * *
