Page 6 of The Prestley Ghost
And flirtation. “So that is what you need, then. To help.”
“Something like that.” A gust of ice touched Charles’s wrist, he yelped. “Sorry,” Alex, said, not sounding at all so. “You should start walking; it’ll be colder up here soon.”
“It’s coldnow. Because of you.”
“And I’m helping.” The cold poked Charles’s arm again. It was not unpleasant. “Come along.”
Charles stared at him, at the path down the hill, at the river-crossing and slippery stones below, and back at Alex. In the fading light, the beauty was an ancient portrait, a classical sculpture, too pale to be human; but the glint in those owl’s eyes was entirely real. And warmer than any spirit had a right to be.
He was tired and perplexed by ghosts and aware of his many failures, and he’d have to try again, both for the village and for Alex’s peace. He knew that John would want to help everyone, and he knew that he needed to be dependable, reliable, good at his primary useful skill. That was what they did: John was the researcher and the clever one and the hero, and Charles was the blunt instrument, because by some horrible luck he’d been the one to inherit psychical gifts, and he would do whatever John asked, from banishings to household accounts to making tea. And maybe someday the guilt would lift from his shoulders, though it hadn’t yet, and he did not expect it.
Alex was a puzzle. A challenge.
Some hauntings were merely patterns, repetitive, going through motions, unable to communicate well; some weremore articulate, specific about their unfinished needs, requiring a chance to tell their story of the finding of a treasure or the carrying-out of a proper burial. Alex could certainly communicate, but seemed disinclined to explain, even if an explanation might help him move on and rest at last. That was not, in Charles’ experience and in their parents’ notebooks, usual.
One more mystery, one more responsibility. But Alex had also made him smile; had made him forget, for a moment, some of the weight. Even more complicated.
Charles did not want to deal with complications. Not this moment, anyway. He wanted, just for a moment, despairingly, to know what simplicity felt like. To enjoy the brightness, when a luscious young man smiled at him and openly flirted with him and offered to walk him home, under a sky like jeweled grey silk.
Alex hadn’t said anything for a second or two, obviously aware of when not to push, which made him even more attractive, aside from the significant fact of not being precisely alive. But he did lift both of those swooping eyebrows, a comment.
Charles said, because he couldn’t not answer, “Well, if you insist; we can try to work out what it is you need, along the way,” and started walking. Alex fell into step beside him, or rather made the motions of steps, edges hazy and indeterminate against the path; and chattered happily about Prestley and the growth of the village over the last fifty years, and the local pride in lace and cider, and the gossip about one of the Academy’s instructors having eloped with a Scottish baron, two years ago: steeped in history, flawlessly delivered storytelling, and not at all personal, nothing given away or revealed.
* * * *
As they came back to the more populated streets of the village, Alex said, “Go in and get warm; I’ll see you later on, perhaps tomorrow,” and became less distinct, more swirled into the wind and twilight. Charles blurted, “Where are you going?” and then winced at himself.
“Oh.” The lines sharpened, came back for an instant; the cold touch against Charles’ hand felt almost like fingers, a quick pressure. “I do sometimes need to…it takes some effort, to hold everything together so coherently. More than it used to; I’m not as young as I was.”
Charles snorted, because Alex was patently young and gorgeous; but then of course Alex had been young and gorgeous for at least fifty years, judging by that coat. “Is that why you come and go? Not just because you sometimes decide to be invisible?”
“Yes and yes. Tell your brother I’ve said hello; he seems like a very kind person.”
“He is.” More so than Charles himself. “Will you—that is, you will be here. If we’re going to try again.”
“To banish me,” Alex murmured, and this time the smile was more sad. “Yes. I’ll find you. Good night, Charles.”
This time he truly did vanish; no faint distortion hung between the edges of the pub and the curve of the lane, and even the air warmed. Not much, because this was still England in the autumn; but Charles knew the feel of a presence, and he was fairly certain Alex had gone.
He wondered where. He wondered whether Alex was, for lack of a better term, well. Effort. Manifestation. Chilly hand at Charles’s elbow over slippery stones. The stones had indeed been somewhat perilous; Charles likely would’ve been fine, but his present boots weren’t made for wet country walks, because he’d stormed out of the house earlier, and the care had been nice. Evidently his ghost liked to know people were safe.
He wondered whether Alex had been that way when alive: caring, laughing, inviting, not shy about interests, kindhearted, vitally real and present and filling up space despite shortness, with that sun-gold hair and gold eyes and tendency to gesture when talking.
Christ. He truly was tired, himself. Alex was not alive and Charles needed to do something about that. Because he’d promised. Because he was one of the few people who genuinely could.
He shut his eyes, opened them.
In the grey-violet coolness of early evening, under a sky full of fraying clouds and tattered stars, he went home. The rectory loomed like a century-old obligation, neat and tidy and too spacious for the two of them, a refuge that needed upkeep and care. John must have been standing at the door, because it opened forcefully before Charles had made it up the last short step. “Where’ve you been?”
“Where’s Thomas? Make him open the door for you. And go sit down.”
“He’s checking the stables and then going home for the night. To his wife. And I can open a damned door for you. Where were you?”
“Out finding your ghost and not falling into a river. Did you eat something?”
“What? Are you hurt? What happened?”
Ignoring this, Charles poked his head into the library, found John’s cane propped against a half-empty bookshelf, returned. “Here.”
