A Shimmer in the Night

  Also in the DARK IS THE NIGHT series

  A LIGHT AMONGST SHADOWS

  A HYMN IN THE SILENCE

  A CALM BEFORE THE STORM

  Also by Kelley York and Rowan Altwood

  OTHER BREAKABLE THINGS

  Also by Kelley York

  HUSHED

  HOLLOWED

  SUICIDE WATCH

  MADE OF STARS

  DIRTY LONDON

  MODERN MONSTERS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018-2019 by Kelley York and Rowan Altwood. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the authors.

  www.kelley-york.com

  Edited by Ainsley Gray

  Cover design by x-potion designs

  Interior Design by x-potion designs

  First Edition January 2019

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1 - AFTER

  2 - YEAR 2

  3 - AFTER

  4 - YEAR 3

  5 - AFTER

  6 - YEAR 4

  7 - AFTER

  From the Authors

  “If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”

  –Oscar Wilde

  The letter arrives at the Alexanders’ in the early hours of morning. I’m mid-meal, mouth full of eggs, when Preston’s father rises to answer the knock upon the door. When he returns and offers the envelope to me, I take it—purely out of reflex—but the idea that anyone would write to me when I’m away from home is bewildering.

  Since graduating from Whisperwood, the only person I receive letters from is Preston. And seeing as I’m currently sitting across the table from Preston himself, who is watching me in curious concern, I don’t immediately know what to expect. It doesn’t even dawn on me that I ought to be worried.

  At least, not until I open the telegram.

  Your mother has fallen ill.

  It’s from Maddie, our servant and Mother’s good friend. My stomach lurches, and the cutlery in my hand clatters to the table as I push back my chair.

  Perhaps it’s an over-reaction, immediately packing my belongings and requesting Preston to bring me into town to catch the next train home. I was scheduled to remain at the Alexander farm for another two weeks, merely enjoying the fresh country air and the company of a family I’ve come to know and love like my own.

  At the station, Preston touches my arm, brows knit together. “You’re sure I can’t come with you?”

  “Your sister’s birthday is tomorrow; I’ll not have you missing it on my behalf.” I give him a smile, reassure him that all will be well and—Mother’s illness permitting—I’ll return as soon as I’m able.

  The entire ride passes in a blur. The smell of smoke from the train burrows into every fabric of my clothes and into my hair. It’s only a three-hour trip once the engine is moving, but time crawls by at a snail’s pace. To step into the station without Mother there to greet me is an unsettling feeling, and it solidifies the sensation of dread in the pit of my stomach.

  I take a cab home, too anxious to navigate the busy city streets with my luggage, and too eager to see Mother’s face. A thousand questions rush through my head: how sick is she? Has a doctor been to see her? Has Father come calling to check on her, to ensure she’ll be well? Is Maddie there with her, awaiting my return? The two spend much of their time together. Surely, she’s been at Mother’s side through all of this.

  Our house is hardly the largest or grandest, but it’s nothing like the rundown apartments with two, sometimes three, families occupying a single residence in the worst parts of Limehouse, where the sounds of screaming, sick and hungry infants never cease, and the roads smell of sweat and smoke and excrement from a dozen households sharing the same privy. Walking those streets was a sharp reminder of what life would be like for Mother and me should Father ever decide to withdraw his financial support from us. Life is not easy in London for anyone with skin even a remotely different shade than an Englishman’s.

  Upon opening the door and stepping inside, I feel as though I’ve entered another world altogether. Gone are many of the paintings that lined the front halls. The silver has been taken, and the beautiful chaise longue in the sitting room has vanished. Other things are either missing or being placed into trunks and crates by men I do not recognise, and not a one of them so much as pauses at my entrance.

  I don’t see Mother nor Maddie anywhere.

  I take the stairs two at a time, having to skim past two men stomping down the steps carrying more crates. It’s on the first floor that I hear voices coming from Mother’s room. My stomach turns, an ugly, sick feeling rising within me at the thought of some stranger daring to step foot in her private quarters. I shove the doors open wide, making no effort to be quiet about it. Let every person in the bloody house know that I’m here.

  Standing near Mother’s desk are two more unfamiliar men, well-dressed, thick moustaches, bowler hats, and notebooks in hand. But it’s the man they are speaking with that commands my immediate attention.

  I may never have met my father in person before, but I know him when I see him.

  Every muscle in my body goes rigid in tension, years of habit and lecture about the importance of not setting foot in his path instilling fear in me now.

  Franklin Hale is a handsome but imposing figure. He stands no taller than his companions, but it’s the manner in which he holds himself, shoulders squared and head held high, that makes him appear larger than he is.

  He turns and looks me over once, and he must recognise me, because he inclines his chin to the others. “That will be all for now. Start with the artwork, if you would; I already have potential buyers interested in some of the pieces.”

  I keep my eyes downcast as the men slip past me out of the room. One of them shuts the door in his wake. I’m now alone with a man that I’m fairly certain resents everything about my very existence, and that earlier fire in my belly has given way to fear and uncertainty.

  “Hello, Benjamin,” he says.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Sir,” I mumble, before pushing my shoulders back and forcing my spine to straighten. I’ll not appear like some weak, small thing in front of this man. “Where is Mother? What are you doing with her things?”

  There is genuine sadness in his face. I note the shadows around his eyes as though he’s not been sleeping well. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Jane died yesterday morning. She’s with the Lord now.”

  Some part of me already knew, yet the words swing into me like a hot iron, straight to my heart and soul.

  I look to Mother’s chair, the one nearest the window, the one where I spent so many afternoons sitting with her for tea and chess. She taught me to write in this home. To play the piano. She taught me the language of our ancestors, although I never had the best grasp of it. It was in this house that she taught me to cook and sew and read, where we recited prayer and she recounted stories to me of China, stories passed down to her from her parents.

  The woman I admired, whom I considered one of my two most important people in all the world, is gone.

  That knowledge carves a deep hollow into my chest. My legs tremble as I move to my chair, opposite Mother’s, and sink down into it. Father takes up residence in her seat, and I bite my lip at how wrong that is,
at how desperately I wish to tell him to move.

  “She’s been ill for quite some time, but I’m sure you knew that.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but not unkind.

  “I… I had no knowledge of that, no,” I quietly admit.

  “She never told you?”

  The way he says it makes me feel so small. I shake my head, studying my hands in my lap. I want to ask why he thinks she would have kept such a thing from me, but I know why, don’t I? Above all else, Mother wanted to protect me. From Father, from the world, from life. Had she allowed me to leave to visit Preston, quite possibly knowing I would never see her again? In this moment, I can’t help but feel angry at her for denying me the chance to say goodbye.

  “And these men,” I finally manage, “where are they taking her things?”

  Father’s steely gaze focuses on me. “These are all belongings I’ve purchased over the years. I’ve given quite a lot to keep your mother happy. Now that she’s left us, there is no reason to keep any of it. Much of it can be sold to the highest bidder. Oriental decor is quite in fashion right now.”

  That earlier, ugly feeling rears its head, burning hotter than before. “Her body is hardly cold, and you’re already concerned with the money you can reap from her possessions?”

  His brows furrow. “They were my purchases. I should hardly think what I choose to do with them now is any concern of yours. Although if there is something sentimental to you here, I would not begrudge you keeping it.”

  “They were hers,” I snap, startled by the venom in my own voice. I rise from my seat, my voice quaking. “This home, these things, they belonged to her, and you have no right to any of them!”

  Father leans back slowly, but his eyes have darkened. “Jane was—”

  I whip around, pointing at him. “Don’t call her that! Her name was Liu Yang! You gave her trinkets and presents. Gifts. That means they were hers, and she accepted them because these bastardised Chinese imitations were the closest she would ever get to seeing her country again. Had you really, truly loved her, you would have given her the one thing she wanted: you would have let her go home. How dare you—”

  “How dare I?” Father lurches to his feet. His arm snaps out, and his fingers grab hold of my chin even as I stumble back in a desperate bid to put distance between us.

  He drags me in close enough that I can smell the brandy on his breath and the bandoline used to tame his immaculately shaped moustache.

  “You,” he sneers, “will watch your mouth, boy. It’s by my hand that you and your mother lived in luxury all these years. It’s by my hand that you had an education at fine schools, so that you might someday be more useful than the opium-dealers plaguing the streets like rats. Even now, I could rightfully throw you out, and I have not because I cared very much for Jane and do not wish to spit on her memory by turning away her only son.”

  A tremor has worked its way through my body. Whether from fear or rage, I cannot be sure. I despise this man. I despise everything he is, everything he has done. Perhaps some would see what he offered to us as charitable. I see it as a man who was unfaithful to his own wife for nineteen years to bed a woman because she was…what, beautiful? ‘Exotic’? Because he thought her to be ‘different than all the rest’ of us? Mother would have been devastated to hear the words coming out of his mouth.

  He’s clutching my face so tightly in his broad hand that opening my jaw to speak hurts.

  “I’m your son, too.”

  Father scoffs, shoving me back with enough force that I must catch myself from tripping over my own feet. “Spout such nonsense all you want, you impetuous brat. Although before you spark my ire, perhaps you should listen to the proposal I have for you.”

  Impetuous. I almost laugh. I’ve been called many unflattering things in my life, but hot-headed has never been one of them.

  When I greet his words with silence, Father continues. “I know of a position at a factory, overseeing shipments. Dull work, to be certain, but modest pay, enough to support a small family.” He strokes his thick fingers over his stubbled chin. “And a potential marriage that could be arranged. I’ve a business partner who has been having a bit of a struggle marrying off one of his daughters. While he wasn’t too thrilled at the thought of pawning her off on an Oriental, he’s getting desperate enough. This offer is my gift to you, and to the memory of Jane. A boy of your breeding could hardly ask for better.”

  I can’t bring myself to look at him any longer. Surely this is some sort of jest. The job in and of itself might not be the worst offer in the world, truly, but the rest… I’ve never given thought to taking a wife, nor do I intend to start now.

  There has only been one person I have ever entertained the notion of spending my years with, and they are certainly not whatever woman Father has in mind for me. I sincerely doubt this poor girl has any interest in being handed off to some boy she’s never met, either.

  “And if I were to want one of your ‘gifts’ and not the other?”

  He frowns. “You would turn down employment?”

  “I would turn down the hand of a woman I do not know and do not love.”

  “She’s a lovely girl. You might change your mind.”

  “I can assure you I would not.”

  Father’s face hardens, and the way he addresses me now suggests he’s reshaping his opinion of me with this new piece of information. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears; surely, he can hear it, too. Does he know? Does he understand what I’m saying without me speaking it aloud?

  After a long spell of silence, punctuated by the ticking of the silver clock upon the fireplace mantel, he turns from me, walking to Mother’s desk and retrieving his top hat. “It would be a snub to my business partner, and I’ll not have it. Either you accept my offer in full, or you see yourself out to the streets. Funeral arrangements have been made for three days from now. I expect an answer by then.”

  The sound of the door slamming behind him reverberates in my bones. I hear him bark orders to the men in the house, instructing them to finish up for the day. I hurry over to lock the door, ducking my head to rest against the worn wood. If I can at least keep them out of this space for the time being, I will have a chance to look through Mother’s most important things on my own.

  Three days, he said.

  I have three days to figure out the rest of my life.

  Whisperwood was further from home than I cared to be. At my previous schools, I resided close enough that I could return home on the weekends if I grew homesick. Mother showed me the paperwork with such cheer in her voice, but I could tell she, too, was lamenting the idea I would be gone from her for weeks on end with only letters to bridge the distance.

  In fact, I attended a day public school not far from home for the last school year, and it put me at home far more often. Something I enjoyed. The sudden decision to send me off to Whisperwood School for Boys had been an alarming and upsetting one.

  It was not a choice either of us made; Father did. Seeing as he was the one funding it—he funded everything in our lives—I was hardly in a position to say no. If I did, if I risked his anger, it would be Mother who paid the price. She was not his wife, merely a mistress who had to bend to his whims.

  And his whim so happened to be getting his bastard son out of the way.

  Mother saw me off at the train station with tears in her eyes but a proud smile on her face. She kissed my cheek and stood, waving, a small speck in the distance, blurred by smoke and eventually vanishing from sight. I leaned out the window as much as I dared, pretending I could still see her there and wondering if she would be all right without me.

  And would I be all right without her?

  Whisperwood was much larger than any of my previous schools. The sheer size of it and the number of students crowded into the foyer was both terrifying and a bit exciting. Surely in a place like this, losing myself a
mongst the crowds would be simpler. Easier to blend in. I thought I couldn’t possibly be the only non-Caucasian there, although a brief scan of the room suggested if there was anyone else like me, I may not necessarily know it at a glance. Even I can pass for an Englishman if no one looks too closely, regardless of whether I want to or not.

  I worried, of course, about how difficult it would be, coming in at the beginning of second year while most everyone else seemed to have been enrolled since first. My roommate was a quiet, skinny boy named Edwin Davies who had, in fact, been there the year prior. He chattered nervously as he unpacked his belongings, asking after my parents, and I gave only the vaguest of answers, uncertain if I wanted to divulge too many details to a boy I’d only just met.

  For the first two weeks, Davies and I occupied each other’s time largely out of our mutual desperation to have friends. He wasn’t a bad sort, really, but we had little in common and I found it difficult to open up to him. He discovered my mixed heritage largely by accident. A slip of the tongue on my part, and he turned to look at me. Really look at me, as though seeing me for the first time.

  It was a look I’d grown used to. Everyone looked at me different when they realised I was not “like them.”

  Whisperwood had not been the first time I encountered a ghost. The first time had been many years before, at a school leagues away, during what felt like an entirely different lifetime. I’d attended a variety of schools in my life, and every one of them contained their own ghosts—metaphorical and literal.

  They frightened me. Not even so much because they were dead, but because only I ever seemed to see them, feel them, and the reprimands I received from teachers accompanied by the taunting from other students made me afraid. For a boy who already stood out amongst those with paler skin and lighter eyes, the last thing I needed to do was draw more attention to myself.

  I don’t know whether Mother believed me, though if she didn’t, she never voiced as much. I could recall her fingers gently stroking my hair, telling me that it might be best if I did not frighten the other children with the things I saw, and that I should close my eyes and ignore them until the visions went away.