Page 20 of The Prestley Ghost
“You’re not alone,” Charles said to him, and held out the ring. In his dirty palm, it matched the unaged version on Alex’s translucent finger. “And we’re your friends. And—and more.”
“You’re everything,” Alex said, sitting on the edge of his own grave, gazing at Charles. “Everything.”
They filled in the grave. John did a small blessing, a gift, a soothing of disturbed earth. They went back to the rectory, and Charles brought Alex’s ring inside the wards, into their home, into the library. Nothing happened for a moment; and then Alex shimmered into view, coat-embroidery swinging, hair gold, eyes bright, face and body like a delicate painting over vellum, held up to light, books and shelves visible through him. The joy in his face matched the feeling in Charles’s chest.
They had dinner, because John insisted: for strength. They set up the ritual space in the library, mostly because it did have the right amount of space and also the journals and records and John’s more detailed research notes if that became necessary. Charles, putting mistletoe—for protection and vitality, both presently desired—into windows, the doorway, thresholds, said, “We’ve got two spare bedrooms, upstairs—if you want your own space—or if you want, for warmth, for…connection…you and I…”
“I like the idea of having a room of my own,” Alex said,thoughtfully, “but just for…I don’t know. Writing. Clothes. I want to be with you. Would you mind sharing?”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” Charles said, and John said, while lighting a candle, “I’d like to point out that I’m happy to conduct marriage services, you know, I know it’s only been a few days, but given that you’re talking about sharing a bedroom, I feel I should at least make the observation.”
“It’s legal now,” Alex said, as if reminding himself. His eyes danced.
“Let’s solve this problem first,” Charles said. “Bringing you back, more or less. Then…then we can talk about plans. Er. If you would like that.” He would, he thought.
Alex grinned at him. “I enjoy the two of us having plans.”
John sighed, a sigh which contained a whole discursion upon flirtation and focus, and lit the next candle. The library kindled to life in candleflame and salt-circles and research and cups of tea.
Almost midnight; and Charles got carefully into the nearly-closed circle, and set the ring down in a twinkle of emerald in front of himself. Alex came in as well, drifting, fingers touching Charles’s arm under a rolled-up shirtsleeve. John closed the circle, and murmured a quiet incantation, Latin and Greek, opening gateways and removing impediments.
The clock began to sound. The halfway point in the night: the moment of change, the witching hour, poised on the edge. With the half-moon beyond, at the turning of the seasons, autumnal and changing.
Charles Hayward, child of passionate scholars of folklore, born with that gift, knew how to talk to the presences at the edges and in the secret spaces. He always had.
He picked up Alex’s ring. It was tangible and heavy. He told Alex to keep touching him.
He began, carefully.
He knew about opening doors, about pushing. He knew about fulfilment, and promises kept. He knew how to persuade, how to speak to a ghost or a haunting driven by need or pain or sorrow. He’d never known exactly what he did, only that he seemed able to hear and to show an answer in turn, like some sort of empathy or absolution: yes, you’ve done what was needed, you may rest. And when he did that, the release, the reprieve—the crack, the open sliver of light—opened up or gave way, and something went, and the pressure had gone, and the world felt right.
He did not want Alex to go. He wanted Alex here. And so he thought about what they both wanted, and needed. Alex loved the world, and had not had a chance to see it all. Charles wanted to give him that. And the answer, the thread of light that felt right, the flowing shining trail of brilliance that opened up, lay in Charles’s own hand.
He was aware that he wasn’t breathing much, that his hands were cold. This space wasn’t meant for the living, not for long. But he knew why he was there.
He could save people. He could help. And this was the right answer, for all of them.
He took Alex’s hand—luminous to him, unseen by anyone else—and wove the long shining tapestry-thread into it. Alex trusted him entirely, and let him work.
He put the other end, carefully, into the emerald: something that existed, that belonged in the material plane, that mingled emotion and solidity.
He pulled a thin thread out of it, as well, and pressed it against his own heart: not to steal life, though that boundary was the tricky part, but to shape a body, the feeling of it, the reality: something not just a stone, and woven out of vital essence.
He knew, in the back of his head, two problems existed. He was growing awfully tired, for one; and also it wasn’t quite aterrestrial body, in the same sense as his own. It was constructed of light and rainbowed opalescent eddies and drifts, pulled into more solidity, given sensations. Alex could likely still choose to walk through walls or swing a foot through blades of grass, and would still be tied to the object and to Charles; but he would exist, he would have weight and substance, he would to all appearances and sensations be human and alive.
Alex stayed quiet, but his eyes held all the eagerness in the world, and a little thrill hummed along Charles’s bones: Alex wanting this, so very badly. Life, and also being touched by Charles.
That made him laugh, and then smile, because yes, because he was here for Alex, to stop all that loneliness; and so he caught all the threaded rivers of light and drew on them and shaped them, until they billowed up into iridescence, so bright, blinding, catching both himself and Alex inside, sweeping them into radiance.
He opened his eyes to the feeling of being flat on his back on the library floor, with an ache in every muscle, a naked warm body sprawled atop his, and John calling his name, hands on his shoulders, apprehensive. The person atop him was also saying his name, fingers touching Charles’ face, hands shaking; long curls of antique gold hair fell forward into both their faces, and Alex’s lips were pink and plush, and those dark eyebrows were tight with worry, and his eyes were huge. “Charles? Please—”
“I’m alive,” Charles said weakly. “You’re naked.”
Alex blinked. Glanced at himself. Laughed, amazed, giddy, relieved. “You noticed.”
“Charles,” John said, helping him sit up, arm concerned at his back. The salt was scuffed; John had dropped the cane. “It was only a second, but—everything lit up, you and the circle, and then—are you all right?”
“Fine, actually.” Somewhat dizzy, exhausted, buttriumphant. He had Alex on his other side, still naked, clinging to him. “You—did that work?”
