Page 82 of Blackwicket

“I think Mr. Nightglass wants one.”

I made a heroic effort to keep my expression neutral.

Of course, William was involved. His father, Grigori, had been urging my mother to build him a Narthex for most of my life, yet she’d rebuffed him repeatedly, arguing she didn’t know how. He knew, or at least suspected, there was one in Blackwicket House, but he could never get inside. Back then, the house was wary of everyone my mother invited across the threshold, protecting itself and its inhabitants. We’d neverneeded to lock windows or doors like I’d been compelled to do last night. I’d checked each latch and lock before going to sleep, a room away from Jack.

I found no reason to lie.

“A Narthex is a portal between here and Dark Hall, a sort of doorway only certain people have a key to.”

“Curse Eaters?”

“Yes.”

“What’d they do there?”

Steal children.

“A lot of things.” I avoided details because I was woefully uninformed. By the time I’d been old enough to know about them, the halls were empty, doorways shut tight. Curse Eating families no longer moved freely, and the original purpose of the hallways was lost, leaving me to experience it only through my mother and my lonely solo jaunts. “Mostly, they used it to gain access to powerful magic. It helped repair the curses people brought to them.”

“How hard is it to make one?”

“Very,” I replied, cautious, knowing if I asked why he was so curious, he’d likely shut down, just as he did whenever I brought up the subject of other children in Blackwicket House. “It takes years, and a single person couldn’t do it alone.”

“Could you let Mr. Nightglass know that?” Jack asked, pretending to be half absorbed in the book. “When he comes to get me?”

“Why?” I couldn’t avoid being direct any longer.

“Cause I overheard him telling Coppe he wants me and Thea to build one. That’s why he’s been making me eat so many curses. Says it’ll make me stronger, so it’s easier for me. But maybe if you tell him how hard it is, how long it takes, he’ll change his mind.”

“Jack…”

“Please? It’s like when I wanted to have a funeral for my bird, Pips. Mr. Nightglass was mad at me and didn’t want to do it, but he got convinced when Thea talked to him. He apologized and everything, and was nice for a while.”

I recalled the small box Jack had brought with him to the funeral home, how afraid he’d looked.

“Why was Mr. Nightglass angry with you?”

Jack’s fingers fanned the page corners of the book in his lap.

“He wanted me to practice pulling magic off something. You know, not curses but the fizzy stuff that’s inside everything. He told me to use Pips, but I was scared it would hurt him.” His eyes grew teary. “Mr. Nightglass said if I didn’t do it, he’d kill Pips anyway. So, I did.”

“And Pips died,” I said gently, and Jack dissolved into fresh tears. Inspector Harrow’s advice had done its job, because Jack didn’t resist them. I hurried to his side, kneeling to pull him against my shoulder, where he collapsed.

“I’m so sorry, Jack. It wasn’t your fault.” I rested my chin on his head.

I paid no mind to how long we remained like that, allowing myself to imagine how satisfying it would be to remove William’s eyes and shove them down his throat.

“Eleanora.”

I lifted my head to find Inspector Harrow in the parlor doorway, still wearing his coat, his quick nod toward the hall a signal that I should join him.

Jack had sat up to see who’d arrived, sniffing and drying his eyes.

“Be right back,” I assured him, but he rose with me.

“Actually, can I go to my room?” He asked.

“Of course.”