Hunting: A History

By Edmond Shadwell

If Found, Please Return to: Trenton Wilkes.

10 May, morning. — I'm reluctant to leave the Hudsons, even though Naomi assures me they can look after Marjorie just fine on their own. Except that's not what I'm worried about — it's that I can't go back home to Father. Now that I know everything we witnessed last night was because of him, and that he's willing to use another man's daughter for an evil purpose, I can't look at him, let alone be in the same room.

"Langdon?" Naomi finds me in their front hallway, staring at the door. "Are you all right?"

"Will she be?" I ask, without turning around.

"We're hoping she will, yes. All she needs is rest."

"I cannot believe this is all Father's fault." I scowl at the door. "Why not use me?"

Naomi sighs heavily. "Hunting is a man's world, Langdon. Run by them, created by them, manipulated by them. Women are nothing more than objects to be used."

I flash back to the sight of Marjorie last night, bathed in sweat and crying out, gripping the table each time her body lurched of its own accord. She hadn't been able to hear any of us, lost in a world of pain. Father probably would have taken some grim, sick pleasure out of watching her, begging to be released from the torture.

"I wish it were not true, believe me," Naomi goes on. "I am the only female hunter I know about. There are things that I do that most women would find disreputable at best and scandalous at worst. Those things would have never even crossed the minds of the Sellings to teach Marjorie. All they find her good for is marrying into a respectable family and bearing their heirs."

"I mean what I said last night," I say, after a long silence. "I cannot let Father have her. If she becomes my intended...or my wife, he will use that as an excuse to double down on her."

"Remember this, Langdon." Naomi's hand lands softly on my arm. "Do not make the mistake of trying to push her away to protect her. You know as well as I do that she is in as much danger no matter what."

I nod, but say nothing. She has practically told me there is nothing I can do, and that frustrates me.

When I arrive home, I find things are no better. Because making a social call to my father is none other than Augustus Selling himself. My fists curl. I want to ram one into his face for being a bystander to Marjorie's agony, and for putting her through it again and again.

"Langdon, my boy," he says, standing from his chair when he sees me. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," I answer, and I see Father's eye twitch at my rudeness. I hardly care.

"Took quite a beating last night," he says, grasping both my shoulders and looking me in the face. The fact that he got away unscathed makes me even angrier. "I did not realise Zora would set the vampire on you."

I glance over at Father, but his face is impassive. I wonder how much he already knows — or if he's seen one of those blood-binding rituals for himself and is aware of exactly how they happen.

"I'm no worse for wear than the others," I say. Although beating off my best friend as he tore handfuls of my hair out had taken a toll on my mental state.

"Good, good." Augustus claps my shoulders a little too hard. "I hope it didn't scare you away. That is not how things are usually done."

"Isn't it?" I ask, and even though that draws a sharp look from Father, Augustus doesn't seem ruffled in the least.

"No, dear boy. Not at all. Except it appears I may have to speak with Zora...she lost control, no doubt of it. I believe she may have caused undue suffering on my niece's account."

Undue suffering. That's an understatement. The possibility of Marjorie not making it through the night had hung over our heads the entire time.

"Trenton, I must go," he says, releasing me. "Your son has given me much to think about. I suppose we will see each other soon."

With that he gives us a bow and leaves. I about-face and make for the stairs, but Father's voice snares me before I can get there.

"Stop a moment, Langdon," he says.

I do, wheeling around on my heel.

"When you told me you were going to the Guild, you did not say you were going to see a blood-binding ritual." He says it offhandedly, almost casually.

"No, Father."

"Did you not think it pertinent for me to know?"

"If I'd told you, you would have said no."

He busies himself with his pipe for another moment. Then: "I hear you were not alone, either. Those Hudsons were with you, is that right?"

"Yes, Father."

"I've already told you they would bring nothing but trouble," he says, pointing at me with his pipe. "Did the boy give you that black eye?"

"If you must know, it was actually Cornelius Selling. He deserved it."

Father's eyebrows go up. "Did he, now?"

"Yes. He was being a bigot."

"I see," Father says, although I don't think he does, not really.

"He lets that happen to his sister, Father. He lets his parents and his uncle torture her. And he does nothing. Nothing."

"It is not torture if they can't feel it," he says callously. "I am told the girl does not feel the bind's full power."

"She did, last night. It nearly killed her, Father. She was begging to be freed from it. Pleading."

"The sedative was not strong enough."

"I cannot believe you," I hiss. "She is a human being, not your plaything. If we ever do marry, I'm going to take her away from this place. From all of you."

"You are not going anywhere," Father snarls, suddenly on his feet.

I belly up to him, only half a head shorter than he is. "Watch me."

Then I spin on my heel and leave the room. I don't care what he thinks, he can't keep me here. Not that I'd want to stay.

—

11 May, afternoon. — I'm off to the Hudsons' as soon as lectures end for that day. I've stopped going to Father's office lately — not only because of what I know about him, but because I can't stand to look at him.

When I arrive, it's Naomi who answers the door. She looks tired and dishevelled, her hair escaping its chignon in every direction. She still gives me a hug, however, and a relieved smile.

"It's good to see you, Langdon," she says, once she's shown me inside. "How are you feeling? After...everything?"

"Better now," I say honestly. Considering I'm not speaking to Father at all anymore.

"Why don't you come in here? I've just made tea."

I follow her into the sitting room, where Wells sits across from his father in the armchairs by the fireplace and Marjorie is on the couch, blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her legs curled under her. But it's Wells who sees me first, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"Wilkes?"

"Hello." I raise my hand in an awkward wave.

That makes Marjorie turn too, with a weak smile. I round the couch to sit down next to her, and she looks over at me shyly.

"Are you all right?" I ask her. She looks tired and wan, and I can see red rimming her eyes, as though she hasn't slept a wink.

"Yes," she says softly.

Naomi flits around us, topping up teacups and checking on Marjorie and Mr Hudson, who watches me with wary eyes. None of the hostility is there from our first meeting, which I'm grateful for. And when she darts back into the kitchen, I inch closer to Marjorie.

"I'm relieved that you're here," I say, when she glances at me out of the corner of her eye. "It was so uncertain you would survive, but now that you have..."

She lays her hand over mine. "Thank you," she says, barely above a whisper.

I pick up her hand and kiss her knuckles, and ever so slightly she squeezes back. "Have they been taking good care of you?"

Marjorie nods. I notice she still wears the same white dress as the night before, the streaks of blood across it now a dark brown.

"None of her family's been round to check on her," says Wells, and I hear a note of sadness in his voice. "I don't think they've even tried looking."

"Mother will," Marjorie says, then sags back heavily into the pillows as if the effort of talking takes too much energy.

I believe her. Mrs Selling was relentless, sending Giff after us and using his reflexes against him to prevent our escape. I'm still sore from his pummeling.

"We've got to do something about your father, Wilkes," says Wells. "He'll keep on causing things like this if we don't."

I glance over at Marjorie, who bites her lip and drops her eyes back to her tea. "What do you suggest?"

"I was hoping you had a suggestion." Wells shrugs.

But I'm at a loss. Father is diabolical to the core, that much is evident. And he has finally found a way to use Giff against me. All I can think of is keeping Marjorie hidden, but then of course, another victim would be selected and everything would continue.

"No," I say, truthfully. "I don't."

Naomi comes back then, stopping in our tracks when she notices our expressions. "What's happened?"

"Any plans to bring down Trenton Wilkes?" Wells asks her.

She sighs. "Wells, you know I can't just..."

"Our history," croaks a voice, and it takes me a moment to realise it's Mr Hudson who spoke. "The past can ruin him."

Naomi's brow furrows. "How do you mean, Papa?"

"My letters, Juliette," he says. "You kept them, remember?"

The three of us exchange glances. It's certainly a start, at any rate.

She sighs. "Where are they, Papa?"

"Your secret spot, I know not to look there." He waves a hand, batting away an invisible insect.

"My father..." Marjorie says, sitting up just slightly. "He won't...mention it."

"Must be sensitive," I say, and she nods in agreement.

"Wells..." Naomi appeals to her brother. "I didn't even know Mama had a secret spot, let alone where it is..."

"I might have an idea," says Wells, standing from his chair. "Wait a moment. I'll go look."

Then he's sweeping out of the room and I hear him taking the stairs two at a time.

"The baby, Juliette," Mr Hudson murmurs softly. "The baby is crying again."

I stay next to Marjorie while we wait, and Naomi fusses over her father, who continues to mutter nonsensically about a baby.

"Your eye..." Marjorie says quietly, when I look over at her. She reaches up to brush my cheek with two fingers, just the barest touch of a breeze. "It still...hurts?"

"A bit," I answer. "Although I must admit not as much as your hand must have."

Another faint smile, the same one I saw when I first arrived. "Not so much....Father always uses...a sharp blade."

I catch her bandaged hand as she lowers it. "At least now we match."

She leans forward and gives my cheekbone a light dry kiss. "Both from...my family."

"Mine is not that much of an improvement, believe me."

Wells comes back just then, tossing a fat stack of envelopes down on the table in front of us. We both jump and spring apart.

"Are you two lovebirds finished, or shall I leave you alone to keep going?"

Marjorie blushes and says nothing, and I feel my ears similarly start burning.

"Wells, don't taunt them," Naomi chides gently.

"I found Mother's letters," he says, indicating the envelopes, tied together with brown string. "This wasn't even all of them. Two more stacks after that one."

"Your father must have been besotted with your mother," I say. I can only imagine it. I know nothing about how my father met and married my mother, or how they ever spent enough time together to produce me.

"According to Augustus Selling, he was," Naomi says. "They all were."

Wells sighs. "His comments were bordering on lecherous. I'd hardly say that's a basis for love."

"Uncle Gus...is a womaniser," Marjorie says, matter-of-factly. "Everyone knows..."

"No surprise there," Wells says.

"So what are we looking for?" I ask, nodding back at the letters. "Something to prove my father is inherently evil?"

"That boy Trotter," croaks Mr Hudson. "Always called him Trotter the Rotter for a reason."

"That's a fitting name." Finally Wells cracks a smile.

"His blood is black," Mr Hudson goes on. "Positive it is."

"Again, no surprise." Wells resumes his seat, then indicates the stack. "Who wants to go first?"

When none of us move, Naomi lets out an exasperated sigh and kneels down to untie the string. She peels the first envelope off the top, flicks the flap up, and slides the letter out. I see slanted writing that appears to be all curlicues and flourishes spooling out across the page, so ostentatiously flowing I don't know how Naomi can even read it.

"You were a bit full of it, Papa," she says. "Writing like this."

"It's how I write," Mr Hudson insists.

"What does...it say?" Marjorie pulls her blanket closer around her and leans forward.

Naomi clears her throat and starts from the top.

"First of September, eighteen-seventy.

"My dearest Juliette,

"Here we are at the beginning of my last year at the Institute, and already I miss all the time I would like to spend with you. Your coming-out ball was lovely, and I am simultaneously astounded and honoured that you selected me, out of all your suitors, to court. At least we will be rid of my bullies, Trotter and Wilkes, and we may go about our lives again."

"Hang on a moment," I say, stopping her. "Mr Hudson...did my father truly bully you terribly?"

"I was small and skinny as a boy," says Mr Hudson. "Of course he did."

I say nothing. I know the others look at me the same way now, always with a few mates following me everywhere I went and looking down on the younger students. And they know I'm the headmaster's son, just as my father was. They think that gives me a certain level of privilege and immunity, but it doesn't. It's the same kind of thought process I had, I realise, about Marjorie.

"May I continue?" Naomi asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Wells answers for us. "Go on."

"It may not surprise you, my dear Juliette, that I have developed a particular dislike for the way they do things here. They expect to turn out hunters who are all the same — exact copies of each other. I know for a fact that this approach is not realistic. I have an affinity for hunting ghosts and spirits, as you know. And yet my fellow student Augustus Selling has absolutely no affinity for anything except his lessons and has never passed a practical. But the Institute expects us all to know the same things and have the same skills.

"You must think me arrogant for saying these things. And perhaps I am. I am expected to finish at the Institute and follow a certain path. Go to a Guild or a university. Any other route is unacceptable for a Venator. Except what I really want to do is hunt ghosts. Spectres too. Maybe a ghoul or two if I'm lucky. And if I start my own ghost-hunting business, I would ask you, as my wife, to be a co-founder and co-owner, because I would not want it another way. Some of us have set paths, my darling, but I am glad mine is not. Until the end, my dear, I am, faithfully, Your Timmy."

We glance at one another, expressions unreadable.

"Not too condemning, is it?" Wells says eventually.

"Being a bully is not exactly a crime," I point out.

"Papa, you really were a know-it-all," Naomi says, turning to her father. But he's fallen asleep, snoring softly. So it appears that line of inquiry is over for the day.

—

Later, evening. — Marjorie is right about one thing: sure enough, as we help Naomi prepare some supper, the doorbell rings. Once, and then two more times, very insistently, before Wells can get there and open the door. Outside stands Mrs Selling, in another dress of the very latest fashion, this one a dark burnt orange.

"Mr Hudson," she says, with a curl to her lip that makes me think she believes that address is not deserved. "I hear my daughter has been convalescing here."

"Yes, she's in the sitting room—" Wells starts, but she brushes past all of us on her way in, without being invited. We have no choice but to follow, and I feel very much like we're the executioner's squad, abetting this woman's reign of terror.

"Marjorie," Mrs Selling snaps, making her daughter start up from the armchair she'd been sitting in by the fire, wrapped in the same blanket from a few hours ago. I see a pure, bald terror cross her face — a deer staring down the barrel of a hunter's gun.

"Mother...?" she says softly, shocked as well as frightened.

"Good to see you on your feet, my girl," says Mrs Selling, walking straight up to her and seizing her wrist. I see Marjorie wince. "What is this on your hand?"

"To stop...bleeding, Mother." Marjorie bites her lip as her mother turns her hand over, inspecting it closely.

"You are nearly a young woman, not a little girl," hisses Mrs Selling. "You do not need this coddling."

"I know, Mother." Her eyes turn downward, cowed.

"I expect you back home by tomorrow morning," says Mrs Selling sharply. "Clean and dressed properly. You are not a harlot. And you must bathe while you're at it. You smell like the men's clubs your father so enjoys frequenting."

Then with that, Mrs Selling turns on her heel and sweeps out again, without another word. Marjorie stays standing, her clenched fists trembling and her toes curling against the rug. To my utter surprise it's Wells who recovers first, crossing the room to Marjorie and wrapping her tightly in his arms. She buries her face in his waistcoat front and clings to him, still trembling.

"That woman is a terror," says Naomi, glaring after Mrs Selling.

"She certainly has done nothing to endear herself to anyone," I agree.

"Mother will not believe whatever...I tell her," Marjorie says, partially muffled by Wells's waistcoat. "She never does..."

"Augustus Selling was going to have a word with her," I say. "I suppose he has not done that."

"Or he has," Wells points out, "and this is how she reacted."

"I suppose I should...go have a bath..." Marjorie pulls away from Wells suddenly, looking embarrassed. "Mother said I offend..."

"Nonsense," Naomi scoffs. "If she even had an inkling of what you'd been through, that would be the least of her worries. But unless you would like help..."

She shakes her head. "I can manage."

Then she's gone, feet padding quietly up the stairs. Wells glances between us, running both hands over his hair. Something in Naomi's expression must irk him, because he finally says, "What?"

"I've never seen you hug anyone but me," she says, shrugging. "That's all."

Then she too is gone, and we're left alone.

"You're not much of a hugger, I gather?" I ask.

"Naomi has called me...prickly," Wells says.

"Your exterior is certainly hard."

His brow furrows, and his green eyes darken. "It has to be."

I know what he's getting at, although I have never portrayed it to the world myself. I know others see me as untouchable, spoiled, even entitled. I already have an outward appearance pre-formed for me, with no effort on my part.

"I don't think you're prickly," I say. "At least...not always."

"You're the first to say that about me." He tugs at his waistcoat.

"I mean it, though." I take a step closer to him, and I hear him inhale sharply. "What I just saw...it means you do care. And your heart's not made of iron."

"Did my sister tell you that?" he asks, his voice rasping.

"She may have."

"Boys!" Naomi calls from the kitchen. "Supper's ready!"

I look away from Wells, towards the kitchen. "Well, we'd better—"

"Wilkes, wait." He catches my arm as I turn from him. Then his other hand comes up to fully cup my cheek, and within a second his mouth is angling against mine.

The feel of his lips on mine awakens so many sensations I don't know which to pay attention to first. There's a fluttering in my stomach, an expanding in my chest, a tingle across the back of my neck, heat shooting down into my abdomen. I catch the front of his waistcoat and pull him close, kissing him back. His hands move, so he grips my head between them, and his fingers plow into my hair. I hear myself groan at the feeling and press my mouth harder against his.

"Wells, did you hear me? I...oh, sorry..."

We pull apart and let go of each other so suddenly it's as if something's forced itself between us. Naomi's standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and lips parted slightly.

"Did I...interrupt?" She glances between us.

"No," I say quickly, although I want to say Yes, you did, because that was the best kiss I've ever had. "We were just...we were..."

"We may have been...caught in the moment," says Wells. I see him rub the back of his neck.

"In a moment, certainly," Naomi says, but she doesn't seem at all surprised that she's walked in on us. "Shall I go away and let you continue?"

I look over at Wells, but he's chosen to keep his eyes on the floor. "We were...er...just coming."

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Yes, of course you were."

Then she turns on her heel and walks back into the kitchen.

"She didn't seem surprised in the least," I say, although I am — mostly by her reaction.

"Reckon she sensed it was going to happen soon," Wells says. "Left us alone on purpose."

"She would do that?" I hear my surprise clearly.

"My sister's a master at good timing," he says. "I expected nothing less, to be honest."

I nod, but say nothing. It feels like a whole world of possibility's opened up in front of us—one that I can't wait to explore with him.

—

13 May, morning. — Seaton and Isham notice my elevated mood right away. Considering the last time I saw them, accusing them of spreading a rumour they knew nothing about, it makes sense.

"Well aren't you a little ray of sunshine this morning," says Seaton, when I give him a grin and a punch on the shoulder in greeting.

"What's the story, then?" Isham asks. "I swear, if you get to graduate early, I'll belt you right here and now."

"I'm just having a good morning," I say with a shrug. "Is that so unusual?"

"For you?" His eyebrows go up. "Yes."

"Wilkes, you sod!"

We stop, nearly to the Institute gates, and turn around. Quincy Grafton's striding towards us, sly grin on his face. He's never willingly spoken to me on school grounds, being the son of a real aristocrat.

"Quinny?" Seaton says, shading his eyes. "What the bloody hell—?"

"We did it, mate," Quinny says, bypassing both my friends and slinging an arm around my neck. "We've both secured our future."

"What are you on about?" Isham asks him, then to me, he says, "What is he on about?"

"A little birdie told me, Wilkes, that you're the frontrunner of Miss Marjorie Selling's future suitors. That a courtship is inevitable."

"Oh...er..." I haven't even thought about it since we spoke last. "Yes, I suppose...you've heard right."

"Fair play, Wilkes." Quinny gives my shoulder a good punch. "And I've just earned Lord Bedford's good graces, therefore Harriet is within my reach now. Perhaps when we've both made those courtships official, we shall attend Society events together, eh?"

"Yes, perhaps," I reply, but my mind's not on it. I know we would make a good match, Marjorie and I, and I know we can become a united front against our parents. Yet all we would ever be is friends. We do share a common bond that would undoubtedly lead to a deep emotional connection. But that is not love, and it could never be.

"Only a few more months, old boy," says Quinny, as if we've been friends for years. "Eighteen for both of us."

I can only nod. It's a little-known fact that Quinny and I happen to share the same birthday — the eighteenth of July. We are as different as two boys our age can be, and yet there is that one day that binds us together. I have no doubt I'll be seeing him again, possibly at Harriet's coming-out ball, or maybe Marjorie's.

Just then, the bell rings, two strokes — the five-minute warning for the start of classes.

"Bugger," Quinny says, letting go of me. "I've got to get halfway across campus. Have to dash."

Then he's off at a run, his schoolbag bouncing against his back. Isham comes up next to me, and we watch him go until he disappears around a corner.

"So Marjorie Selling, hm?" he says. "Even though she's related to your bully?"

"I never said I was courting him," I grumble. Although I know I'm going to hear that from everyone from now on.

—

Later, afternoon. — I make sure Cornelius is off to his extracurricular training before I depart the Institute for the Selling residence. Theirs is a detached town house in the Hyde Park Corner neighborhood, in the Georgian style. I see their name carved into the portico above the Greek-revival-style facade, and I have to wonder how they can stand to be among all this gentility when there is abject poverty right on the other side of the Green Park.

"May I ask who is calling, sir?" says the maid who answers my knock and I've greeted her.

"Langdon Wilkes, miss," I answer. "To see Miss Marjorie Selling."

"Of course, sir." She bobs into a curtsey as she opens the door wider for me. "I will tell her you've come, sir."

Then she scutters off. I look around the entryway as I wait, taking in the chandeliers, the paintings, the chequered floor, and the freshly painted walls in a cheery yellow. Another thing that seems to not fit with the blood-binding rituals. Barbarism disguised as progress.

"Langdon?" Marjorie's soft voice comes from the double doors to my right, startling me.

"Hello," I say, when she's waved me inside. "I wanted to see how you were faring."

"I'm better," she says, with a demure bow of her head. I notice her colour is improved, even though she's still quite pale, and when she glances up at me, I see the slight pinkness around her eyes — as if she hasn't had a sound night's sleep since the binding. She probably hasn't. "Effie's bringing tea...if you'd like to sit for a while."

"How are you feeling?" I ask her, when we've sat — opposite each other, I notice, on separate couches. "Truly? I'm not asking just to make conversation."

"My strength's nearly back to normal," she says, after a moment. Her hand is no longer bound, and I see her wince when she closes it into a fist. "But my body still hurts. Aches, you could say. Especially...here."

She flattens her hand over her stomach.

"You vomited," I say. "A few times."

"Did I?" She swallows hard. "I don't remember."

"That's a good thing, in my opinion."

Effie comes bustling in with a tray laden with tea settings. She fusses about, pouring and asking us anxiously how we take it. It's enough to make Marjorie gently but firmly shoo her out.

"She always worries about how I might make Mother angry," Marjorie says with a distracted note in her voice, dropping another sugar cube in her tea and stirring it delicately so the spoon never touches the sides of the cup. "What she doesn't know is that I've already done that."

"How...was it?" I ask cautiously. "When you...returned here?"

She sighs. "Mother put on a show for Father...saying how worried she was about me and happy that I was home safe and sound. But she took me up to my room later and reprimanded me. Told me I would be severely punished if I let it happen again."

"Has it happened before?"

"My punishment?" She raises an eyebrow at me over the rim of her cup. "Yes. Uncle Gus once suggested they do the entire thing without sedation. I cried from the pain and begged Mother to put me under, just so it wouldn't hurt so much. She did it, but the day after she told me I'd behaved badly and I wasn't allowed to leave my room. I was fourteen then."

I nearly drop my teacup. "You mean to tell me they've been doing this to you for...three years?"

"I have more scars to prove it," she says. "On my arms, where they're easier to conceal. It's only for convenience that they began to use my hands."

"Marjorie..." I realise what I hear when I speak is horror, at her family's treatment of her and the ways that they do it.

"Please, don't feel sorry for me, Langdon," she says wearily. "This is my lot in life. I know I will never be allowed to learn the ways of hunting."

"You can," I say. "I know a woman who can teach you."

"If you're referring to Naomi Hudson, she's already made the offer," she says. "And I've turned her down."

I have to set my teacup down so it doesn't go plummeting to the rug. "Why would you?"

"My mother would punish me if she found out," she says. "And it would be beyond anything I've been through before. If she found out I was learning to hunt...a woman in a man's world..."

"Do you want to learn?" I ask. I realise I've never taken the time to do it before.

"Yes," she says. "I can hear the spirits speaking to me...the ghosts and the spectres. And when my father blood-binds me to them, they show me how they died."

I say nothing. Communication with the dead is a rare ability among hunters. I know most believe it doesn't exist. But then again, there are many things about the hunting world that I don't understand.

"I have a feeling it would hinder my will to kill them, but..." She clenches her fists and winces. "I have heard it may be an advantage as well."

"I have some books," I say, without thinking through it clearly. I'd have to nick them from Father's library, and I know he keeps a meticulous record of everything that it contains. He would instantly notice something missing. "Would you want to borrow them?"

"Langdon..." Her gaze says Yes, yes please. But her voice is a hard refusal.

"I'll disguise it as a social call," I say. "I do hear I have beat out your suitor competition, anyway."

Finally some colour fills her cheeks, a reddish-pink blush. "That makes sense. Both Father and Uncle Gus believe you are the best match for me."

"I thought they might," I say. So I haven't lost favour after all. "I have a book on ghost-communication. If you'd like to start on that one."

"You would do that?" She looks up at me shyly.

"Yes." I nod. I think of Septimus Hudson, forging his own path and bringing his wife along every step of the way. "For you, I would."

—

Later, again, evening. — Predictably, Father finds me snooping in his library after we've finished a silent supper and I excused myself early. I don't know how he can sense I'm in here, but just as I find the book on ghost-communication, the door opens and his shadow, filling the doorway, floods into the room.

"Langdon, what are you doing in here?" He sounds angry, voice edged in ice.

"Just looking, Father." I turn from the shelf to face him.

"How many times have I told you not to come in here?"

"I'm sorry, Father, I was just—"

He steps into the room, murder in his eyes. "Out, boy. Now."

"Father—"

"OUT!" Father roars. "Get OUT!"

I snatch a book at random, making sure he sees it, and march out. The door slams with a boom behind me, and I wait until I reach the landing to look at what I managed to nick.

Hunting: A History. Edmond Shadwell. Bloody hell.

It's only when I make it back to my room that I realise why Father reacted the way he had. My mother had been reading in that library when the vampire broke in and attacked her. He was the one who'd found her, sprawled out on the rug with her throat ripped out and the dead vampire on top of her.

I sit down heavily on a corner of my bed and stare blankly at the cover. It's not the book I promised Marjorie, but until I can slip back in, it'll have to do.