Page 77 of Blackwicket

“Inspector,” I whispered, careful not to wake the boy.

He heeded me, hands still clasped around Jack’s.

“That Drudge would have killed another child in minutes.”

Once I said the words, my greatest fear would become a reality. But there was nowhere to hide from it.

“He’s from Dark Hall,” I said.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I trudged upstairs to the linen closet to fetch a blanket for Jack, burdened by the grim realization that William and the Brom were exploiting him and possibly other children to create a refuge for the wealthy to gorge on magic free from the threat of Drudge. Perhaps their plan involved cultivating a young army of guardians, using them until their magic ran dry. Of course, it’d be practical for Nightglass to keep a Curse Eater to mitigate the side effects of this disgusting ambition, but it was unlikely William was focusing on me as a nurse for those who’d taken on more than they could handle. He was after something else. I was beginning to believe he wanted me to uphold my sister’s legacy of abducting children.

In my ten-year absence, Fiona had evolved into someone I couldn’t recognize, and I was finding it increasingly difficult to justify what she’d become.

A wave of static tingled at the back of my neck as I shut the closet door, the cloying odor of overripe fruit disturbing me. With the blackberry jam in the kitchen gone, I was confused by its presence. Hinges creaked, and I turned to look the length of the hallway, toward the attic door, slightly ajar, revealing the monstrous face of Auntie peering at me.

So this was where she’d been hiding, locked where I couldn’t reach her without significant danger to myself. She’d grown much more unpredictable and elusive than Iremembered. Once, she’d been an oft-present, almost docile entity who visited more and more as Isolde Blackwicket deteriorated, like a nanny stepping in to keep an eye on neglected children. The dark angel of Blackwicket House.

She’d transformed into a source of comfort, a reassurance. I’d fallen for the fables and romantic hues my mother had painted this house and its legacy in, an effort to make our childhood here seem easier, something special rather than the terrible thing it was.

I slammed the closet door, causing Auntie to retreat, bypassing the unsafe stairs to scuttle along the wall.

She was as much a monster as the others, with no heart beyond hurt, existing here because the alternative was worse—Dark Hall, where a shadowy leviathan that devoured curses roamed—curses that could never hope to be healed, trapped in an eternal hell.

I worried about Jack and any other children Fiona had brought here.

As I returned, quilt draped over my arm, I heard talking. Jack was awake, his voice strained and angry.

“I don’t want to eat curses anymore! It hurts, it makes my insides burn. I want to go home.”

“Where’s home?” Inspector Harrow asked, meeting Jack’s anger with assured calm, allowing the storm to rage while offering a safe harbor. I speculated he’d learned the technique from Barrick Harrow, a man who’d adopted a broken Brom child from the street.

“Nowhere,” Jack spat, and the tears constricted his vocal cords. He snuffled. “I hate crying!”

There was a faint breath from the Inspector, a laugh. “Why?”

“Crying never did nothing for nobody,” Jack said. “Just let’s people know you’re soft.”

“Who told you that?”

“Coppe.”

My hatred for the man increased tenfold.

“Don’t let them take the tears from you, boy,” Inspector Harrow said. “They’re yours, something you need.”

“For what?”

“You’re a Curse Eater, aren’t you?”

“I guess. Don’t want to be.”

“Sometimes we don’t get to choose who we are, but a Curse Eater’s a fine thing if you’re a good one.” The cadence of the Inspector’s voice was almost narcotic, a low-pitched rumble of words that never grew too loud, never varied too much in tone, encouraging you to remain still and listen closely to catch every syllable. “To be a good one, you can’t keep the bad feelings bottled up. That’s what creates the curses in the first place. It’s the magic gone wrong with all the anger and fear you hold tight. That’s what the tears are for.”

“What do tears do?”

“I don’t know exactly how they work, but my best guess is they give somewhere for all the hurt to go.”