The Shadow in the Glass JJA Harwood (book recommendations for young adults txt) 📖

She shouldn’t have brought up Mrs Pembroke, it had only made him upset. He left before she could apologize again.

With Charles gone, it was back to work.

There were floors to scrub, tables to polish, carpets to beat and cushions to cudgel into plumpness. There were grates that needed black-leading, laundry to put away, dead mice to dispose of, their heads still in the traps. There were herbs to pick, boots to clean, coats that needed to be hung out to dry. And now, there were fires that needed to be lit, even though the sun had set and every part of her ached.

She went into Mr Pembroke’s room and lit the fire, trying not to look at the empty birdcage looming ahead of her. The room was thick with his scent – brandy, stale sweat, and the tang of something that might have been old vomit – and she thought she might drown in her own disgust. She put his clothes back into the press without a twinge of fear. For once, Mr Pembroke had restrained himself; Aoife had not cried in weeks. He took his meals in silence whenever Eleanor waited at table, watching her pour every glass and serve every plate. Sometimes she would turn her back and stir his drink with a spoon, and watch the sweat bead across his forehead when she handed him his brandy with a smile. She never actually added anything, but seeing his eyes flicker from the glass to her hands lit her from within.

When she left, she caught a glimpse of several empty bottles clustered like flocks of pigeons. Laudanum, port, crystal decanters lying on their sides, and empty plates she could not remember being sent up to his room. Eleanor gave a vicious grin. He was avoiding her. Good, she thought. Let him see how it was to be afraid for once.

There was nothing like that in Charles’s room. It was calm, quiet – and cold, because he always insisted on keeping his windows open during the day. His clothes had been neatly put away, and all the things on his washstand were lined up with military precision. He had a set of well-used clothes brushes and a neat square of cloth folded on top of the clothes press. Eleanor knew she shouldn’t be surprised – he didn’t have a valet to keep his clothes clean, of course he had to do it himself – but she hadn’t known he’d made such a habit of it.

Eleanor knelt by the fireplace and stacked up the kindling. Her hands didn’t look like they belonged to her. She imagined peeling them off to reveal a pair of neat lady’s hands, plump and white and unscarred.

She struck a match. It guttered out.

It ought not to matter. Hands were hands. The most important thing was that they worked. But that was it. They worked, and anyone could tell by looking.

She struck another match, which broke in half.

She was lucky that was all her hands gave away. By rights they should be twisted claws, thick with blood, or the haggard and veiny hands of a witch. She’d killed people with a word, and when she looked in the mirror there was no sign of it on her face.

She had taken so much from so many.

Eleanor tried to strike another match. She went too fast, and smacked her wrist on the iron grate.

So much had been taken from her, too. Her innocence, her future, her soul. What would she be without it – what if it was already gone, and the black-eyed woman had lied? Where did she even keep it? Eleanor had seen a few anatomical diagrams and knew that every organ had its function: the brain housed thoughts, the heart pumped blood, the lungs breathed air. None of the clever medical men who’d written finely illustrated books had ever found the thing that housed the soul. What if it was never there at all?

The door clicked open. ‘Eleanor?’

She lurched to her feet, matches spiralling to the floor. Charles stood in the doorway, immaculate in snowy white and gleaming black. Everything about him seemed shiny and soft, and everything about her seemed shrivelled and shabby next to him.

She curtseyed, reflexively. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘I’ll have the fire lit in a—’

‘You’re upset.’

‘No, no, it’s the smoke—’

‘From an unlit fire? Come, now. What’s troubling you?’

‘Nothing.’

Charles shut the door behind him and set down his candle. He’d loosened his collar, and she could see the shape of his throat, the bulge of his Adam’s apple.

‘Do sit down, Eleanor. Let me light the fire.’

Even as she told herself not to, she was handing over the book of matches. Charles’s hands were steady, and the fire was soon blazing.

‘I haven’t done that since school,’ he said, straightening up, ‘although we only ever set fires to burn away cigarette packets and punishment slips, beasts that we were. You’re quite sure you’re all right?’

For a moment, she considered explaining, but then she pictured the look on Charles’s face and pushed the thought away at once. ‘It’ll pass.’

‘Well, this may help to hurry it along. I have something for you. Close your eyes.’

She did, and a small metal disc was pressed into her hands. When she opened them again, she saw a small white tin, decorated with fine blue flowers clustered around the words ‘Hyssop’s Hygienic & Soothing Lotion, London’.

‘It’s for your hands,’ Charles explained, a blush crawling up his neck. ‘They always look so painful. Not that they aren’t lovely hands, of course …’ He blushed. ‘But I thought …’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s the least I could do, after all you’ve done. You’ve been an angel.’

They were standing very close together. His candle was burning low, and the fire did little more than turn darkness to dimness. It made him shine. Polished buttons glinted. Pearlescent silk glowed. Even his bandages were the colour of a sunrise on snow. This close, she could see how the lines around his mouth deepened when he smiled,