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

she was there, sitting at her dressing table and drowned in pale green light. The woman’s black eyes made her look like a sea creature.

Eleanor brandished the letter at her. ‘Is Mr Pembroke still alive?’

The black-eyed woman smoothed out her skirts. For the first time Eleanor realized that they were not floral, but patterned with something very like flowers. She tried to focus on the design, but it made her head hurt.

‘You seem upset,’ the woman said. ‘Why? I granted your wish.’

‘No, you didn’t!’ Eleanor hissed. ‘I asked for money, and—’

‘And you have it – legally, even if you cannot access it. But my dear, wishes can only take you so far. Seventeen-year-old girls do not have access to their money in this day and age. Did you really expect me to change English law overnight? Your faith in me is sweet.’

Eleanor slammed the letter down on the dressing table. ‘I expected you to kill him! You cheated me!’

The black-eyed woman gave her a smile. It was an empty, dead thing.

‘If you want something, my dear, you must ask for it. Do not talk to me of cheating; you knew what you really wanted when you wished for money. You wanted him dead, but you could not bring yourself to slide in the knife. I may not have given you what you wanted, but I did give you what you asked for.’

Eleanor seethed. The black-eyed woman was right. She should’ve known better than to trust in the wishes. They were poison.

‘Couldn’t you have chosen someone else?’

‘You make the wishes. I carry them out. Do you have any idea what that means? Do you know how hard it is to look into the morass of the future and shape it to your demands? By all means, give me your suggestions; perhaps I can improve upon my method!’

In the soft, green light the black-eyed woman looked embalmed. She was motionless. When she took a step forward, Eleanor flinched.

‘If you want him dead,’ the black-eyed woman said, silkily, ‘make another wish. Speak the words aloud. I will kill him, if you ask me to. I will even let you witness the granting of your next wish. I know how you hate him, my dear. Should you like that?’

‘No, thank you,’ Eleanor whispered.

‘Then do not question my methods, child. I granted your wish; ask no more of me.’

She vanished. Eleanor was left staring at an empty chair and her tangled bedsheets. She slumped onto the bed and put her head in her hands. They were soft and white now, thanks to diligent work with bear’s grease and lemon juice. Lady’s hands. Not the hands of a murderer.

She had not killed Mrs Cleary. The black-eyed woman had done that, and Eleanor had had no say in the matter. How could that make her a murderess? She hadn’t wanted Mrs Cleary to die. Mrs Cleary had cut Eleanor off, true, but she would have come around eventually. She wouldn’t have left Eleanor all her money if she’d truly wanted nothing more to do with her. Eleanor hadn’t even asked for Mr Pembroke’s death – all right, she’d wanted it, but she’d been wanting it for years and that hadn’t made her a murderess.

She was not the same as the black-eyed woman, Eleanor told herself. They were entirely different kinds of being: one human, one very much not. Why was Eleanor surprised that her wish had been misinterpreted?

Besides, she thought, as she got to her feet, what else was she supposed to do? The world around her was a sharp and vicious thing. Beggars died drunk in the gutter, children contorted themselves sweeping chimneys and froze selling matches, maids were raped by their masters and thrown out on the streets. Eleanor had been granted the power to change those things. One word and the beggar would find a home, the child could go to school and not to work, the maid could have vengeance on the master. Was she really supposed to sit around and watch that happen to her friends when she had the power to save them? Surely it would be another kind of murder to do nothing, knowing what horrors they would face. And at least now she had the power to help without resorting to a wish – or would, once Mr Pembroke was dead.

Eleanor had smoothed down her bedsheets before she realized she was not supposed to make beds any more. Still, it had helped her put her thoughts in order. Now, at last, she knew what she had to do. The only question that remained was whether she was brave enough to do it.

If Eleanor wanted to go into mourning for Mrs Cleary, she would have to write to Mr Pembroke and ask him to release the funds. The realization made her feel sick. Eleanor made herself a black armband instead, and felt ashamed every time she tied it on. The black-eyed woman had used Eleanor’s wish to kill Mrs Cleary, and Eleanor couldn’t even mourn her properly.

There was a knock at the door. Eleanor didn’t bother getting up from her writing desk. It would only be another ghoulish visitor hunting for gory details. She’d told Bessie to turn all callers away.

The drawing-room door opened and Bessie walked in, her eyes gleaming. ‘Inspector Hatchett, miss.’

Eleanor got to her feet as the Inspector ducked through the door. Why was he here? What could he want? She plastered on a smile and tried to keep her nervousness from showing.

‘Inspector! Do sit down. Bessie, I shan’t be needing you any further.’

Bessie slammed the door behind her as the Inspector sat down. Eleanor had no doubt that her maid was eavesdropping.

‘Miss Hartley. You are still Miss Hartley, I presume?’

His eyes flickered to her hand. She was still wearing her gloves, fingers slathered in bear’s grease. He wasn’t to know she had no ring. It might be easier to lie, but God only knew what she would do if the Inspector asked