A Calm Before the Storm Read online

  Also in the DARK IS THE NIGHT series

  A LIGHT AMONGST SHADOWS

  A HYMN IN THE SILENCE

  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 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: Natalie Andrews

  Cover design by x-potion designs

  Interior Design by x-potion designs

  First Edition December 2018

  A CALM BEFORE THE STORM

  Kelley York

  Rowan Altwood

  Keep me close to your chest,

  You are the more to my less.

  —Alex Condliffe

  The violin is old.

  Well, to be quite honest, the knowledge I possess about musical instruments can be summed up by saying that they’re made from wood and they sound pretty when played by anyone with even an iota more musical talent than myself.

  But this violin looks old.

  The edges are a bit worn, a few nicks along the body, but it’s polished to a beautiful shine and appears to be well-loved, well cared for.

  It’s also thirty-five pounds and that is significantly more money than I have on my person right now. Or…ever.

  Still, I’ve passed this same violin a dozen times over the last month, and every time, I stopped and studied it in its shop window and thought to myself, That instrument would be exquisite in William’s hands.

  I’ve never actually heard William play the violin, but I know that he can. I’ve sat and listened to him at a piano before—we were blessed to have one in the common room our fourth year at Whisperwood, and during our brief holiday at his home one summer—but I’m afraid a piano is even further out of the realm of possibilities for me to provide as a Christmas gift.

  Besides, how lovely would it be for him to have something he could bring with him on jobs away from home? Even to Miss Bennett’s? Violins are significantly more portable than pianos, and William loves to play music. Says it relaxes him. The poor darling could use a bit of a pick-me-up right about now and…

  …And.

  I am running myself in circles about all the reasons why I ought to buy the bloody thing when the fact of the matter is that I cannot.

  We were paid handsomely for our work by Lord Claude Wakefield. Although we certainly spoiled ourselves on our holiday to Paris, William—ever the pragmatist—insisted we take care with our spending and set some of it aside for safekeeping. A brilliant suggestion, seeing as not long after we returned home, we had to dole out a hefty sum on some roof repairs to ensure the rain stayed outside where it belonged. Our savings now are rather pitiful, and even if they were not, William wouldn’t be pleased at me dipping into them to buy him a Christmas gift.

  Sighing, I take a step back from the window and turn to head off down the road. It was William’s insistence that we not exchange gifts this year, and I had reluctantly agreed, only because I hadn’t wanted to push the issue and upset him. He’s in a delicate state right now, and if a present was not going to bring him cheer, what would the point be in getting it?

  A couple streets further on, I fetch myself a few biscuits and a cup of cocoa from a bakery, and then make my way back to Miss Bennett’s. I’d have got her something, but she’s not fond of sweets. The red curtains are drawn across the window when I arrive, which is my sign not to go bursting in through the front door because she has customers. Instead I slip around the building and allow myself in through the side door, into the kitchen, and have a seat at the table to enjoy my snacks. It’s a treat to myself for completing a job all on my own. Maybe a last meal because dear William will murder me when he finds out I’ve been working without him.

  The sound of hushed voices from the other room is familiar. A woman crying. Miss Bennett speaking, soft and reassuring. So, a meeting with the dead it is. She can’t guarantee that they’ll see their deceased loved ones if they don’t already possess some kind of talent for it, but Miss Bennett is a natural at conveying messages. Where William and I struggle to get answers out of the spirits we interact with, she seems to command their focus and attention enough to get the job done.

  Frankly, had she been with us in Buckinghamshire, our work would have gone far more smoothly. I might even have been able to refrain from taking a bite out of William. Not that I prefer to think on that, if only because I am still uncertain what I think about it or how deeply my guilt runs.

  I wait until I hear the scraping of chairs against the floor, the front door opening and closing. Only then do I get up and wander to the kitchen doorway, slouching against it with my cup in hand. “Another busy day, is it?”

  Miss Bennett is pushing the curtains aside, peering through the window at the snowfall beyond it. “It’s Christmas Eve. Always is this time of year. More deaths in the winter, people feeling sentimental and lonely… Job went well?”

  “No troubles,” I hum, finishing off the last of my cocoa. “I don’t suppose any more have come in.”

  “You’ve only been gone since this morning, James.”

  “Is that a…?”

  “That’s a no.” She smooths a hand down the front of her skirts and takes a seat at the table, snuffing out the candle burning at its centre. “William is going to be cross with me for sending you off on your own, you realise.”

  “Quite. But dear William is also concerned about money, of which we aren’t getting enough of if we aren’t working.” I shrug. “I’ll not take on anything I can’t manage on my own.” Were Virgil not so busy and Lady Adelia not so far away, I might have asked one of them to come along. Of course, then I’d be splitting my payment.

  Miss Bennett sinks back in her chair, scrutinising me in that way she does that makes me squirm inwardly. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

  I roll my gaze ceilingward, where it’s much easier to locate a lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the fact that it’s not like you to leave his side when he’s struggling. Yet here you are, snapping up every little scrap you can for work.”

  Oh, it was far easier to put one over on this woman before she’d come to know us so damned well. I sigh, pushing away from the doorway and shuffling over to fall into a chair across from her. “It’s not just his usual downs this time. He’s gone off his laudanum. Completely. There’s just…a bit of an adjustment period, is all, and so it’s a bit worse than usual.”

  She frowns. “You’re avoiding him?”

  “What? No! Goodness, no. Christmas has always been his favourite holiday. He loves the trees, the gifts, the food, the traditions. And he’s been so melancholy that I thought…” I gesture widely at nothing in particular, letting her fill in the blanks.

  “You thought if you had money, you could give those things to him.” She considers, lips pursed. “You realise the best thing for William when he’s like this is simply you being near.”

  “I’m not ce
rtain he even notices when I’m gone right now,” I admit with a wry smile. And while it might sound self-pitying, it’s not far from the truth. For the last month, William has scarcely got out of bed any more than I force him to. He hardly eats. Spends most of his days sleeping. It breaks my heart to see it, and the countless times I’ve nearly left the house with every intention of finding the nearest chemist to purchase a bottle of his medicine…

  But this is what William wanted. Perhaps what we both wanted. If no line can be walked where he can medicate himself without it causing problems, then he felt this was the better alternative. I can hardly say what’s best when I don’t know what it’s like for him, so all I can do is to support his decision and be there to hold his hand through it.

  “Besides,” I continue, “I know I’ve found him the perfect gift. I thought if maybe he had something to do, something to occupy himself with that he enjoys—other than me, that is.” I wait for her to smile or chuckle at my joke, but she only stares at me, expressionless, and I wrinkle my nose in a pout. “Then perhaps it would coax him out of this slump he’s in.”

  Miss Bennett sighs heavily through her nose, diverting her gaze as she drums her fingers upon the table. She’s thinking about something, thinking whether or not to share those thoughts with me, which means she might have an idea. I lean my elbows on the table, peering at her hopefully.

  Eventually, she relents. “Fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Fine, I said. I had another job offer in yesterday, for myself, but they wanted me to come to them and I wasn’t comfortable with it. Go with me and I’ll split my fee with you.”

  My eyes widen. Miss Bennett doesn’t leave her flat for work. Ever. It was the entire reason she brought William and me on to work with her; it proved beneficial for the both of us. She didn’t have to turn away clients, and we got paid coupled with the experience of learning from her as we went. “What do they want?”

  “A séance. Nothing out of the ordinary, but I’m unfamiliar with the space. I don’t know who or what occupies it.” She glances about the room, her eyes settling on figures that even I cannot see, despite all my practise and heightened sensitivity to spirits.

  I can’t help but grin. “Michael can’t come with us, then?”

  The look she gives me is unimpressed.

  There are several spirits that reside here in Miss Bennett’s company, she’s told us. None of them are malicious. If anything, they seem to linger here because they’ve been dead so long that they don’t remember who they were, where they came from, or why they’re still lingering so close to our realm of existence. They aren’t even capable of communicating, really.

  But they protect, Miss Bennett says. Michael in particular has been a fierce protector of this flat for a few years, having frightened off several twisted spirits. I consider him to be our guard dog, of sorts.

  As enticing as her offer is, however, I wring my hands together atop the table. “I cannot ask you to put yourself in an uncomfortable position for my sake, Miss Bennett.”

  “It would be more for William’s sake, wouldn’t it?” She pushes her chair back and stands. “I’ll get my shawl. Fetch your things, and we’ll be on our way.”

  The word of God is a powerful tool against the dead. I accepted this fact without question, although William, ever the sceptic, had wondered aloud why that was. Much to my chagrin, Miss Bennett had shrugged and said she didn’t know, but that—while bible verses, holy water, and crucifixes had proven to be immensely effective—they were not fool-proof. She hypothesised that only those who believed in the Lord in life were affected by His influence after death.

  At the time, I had laughed nervously. Then William’s going to be an unstoppable force when he’s dead.

  And then, as my expression fell, William had rolled his eyes and remarked, You just made yourself sad thinking about things, didn’t you?

  I thought about this little lesson as we walked across town because, Miss Bennett kindly explained, the woman we were going to see was very much a non-believer and as such, it might be worth expressing a bit of caution when dealing with whatever spirits we might encounter there. It’s only a theory of hers, of course, an explanation for why my preferred methods occasionally don’t work.

  The terrace home we arrive at is old, even by this neighbourhood’s standards. It could use a fresh coat of paint and repairs. Even one of the upper storey windows is in need of replacement. Standing there in front of the house, Miss Bennett looks to me expectantly, and a crawling sensation makes its way down my arms.

  “James?”

  “I feel it.” It’s subtle. A ghost—ha—of a feeling, there and then gone. Once upon a time I’d have attributed it to nothing more than a cold breeze getting under my clothes, but I know better now. Sensing a spiritual energy around a place is more William’s strength than mine, but I’m improving.

  “Good.” Miss Bennett approaches the front door. A maid allows us in, takes our overcoats, and escorts us into a sitting room.

  The woman who awaits us there is quite possibly the oldest person I’ve ever seen. Her tiny frame sits hunched over, white-haired and cloudy-eyed. Her hands are folded atop an intricately carved walking cane, and although I think her vision is not the best, she does lift her head and look our way when we’re shown in.

  “Miss Bennett, I presume. I hadn’t expected you to turn up. I’ve been told you don’t often take work outside of your place of business.” Despite her age, the old woman’s voice comes out smooth and untouched by time. She doesn’t rise to greet us, nor does she extend a hand. Everything about her demeanour is like cold iron.

  “You’ve heard correctly, Mrs. Carter.” Miss Bennett’s smile was unwavering, but I know from experience it’s her best work-smile. The one she has infinite practise at keeping on her face no matter how much she might want to do otherwise. She’s a professional woman above all else. “However, I thought this might be a good opportunity for Mr. Spencer here to learn a few things.”

  As she gestures to me, I take a half step forward and give a polite bow. “Ma’am.”

  Mrs. Carter gives me a brief and uninterested look, and then turns back to Miss Bennett. “My husband died a month ago. I would like to speak with him.”

  Seeing as Mrs. Carter doesn’t seem to have any plans for inviting us to sit, Miss Bennett takes it upon herself to occupy the armchair directly across from her. I remain standing, though relocate to her side with my hands behind my back. She glances at me, then, and I realise she’s waiting for me to do the talking.

  “Ah—Mrs. Carter, can you tell us a little about your husband?” I ask.

  “My William was stubborn as a mule, frugal to a fault. Secretive, too. Why are you smiling, boy?”

  I cough and force my mouth to flatten out again, thinking this lady isn’t likely to share my amusement if I tried to explain. “Nothing. Sorry, ma’am. Please continue.”

  Mrs. Carter scowls but ventures on. “He was very good with investments. The last twenty years, he’s done nothing but speculation and all of this,” she gestures to the house, “came as a result.”

  “Very good. Was there something in particular you hoped to speak to him about? A message you wished to convey? Miss Bennett has only a small window of time to communicate with a specific spirit.”

  “I do not waste my time with idle chatter,” she scoffs, tapping her cane upon the floor. “I have discovered William had withdrawn much of his funds from his bank accounts and stashed the money somewhere, but he never thought to tell his own wife where.”

  That seems…odd. And unwise, if they had any substantial amount in those accounts. “He wasn’t planning on spending it on something in particular, you don’t think? Transferring it?”

  “Did I say as much, boy? If so, I had no knowledge of it. Ask him yourself.”

  I smile my best good-boy smile and remind myself I
am enduring being spoken to like a child for William’s sake. Christmas. Violin. Got it. “Miss Bennett?”

  Miss Bennett receives permission for us to explore the house—escorted, of course—to get a better feel for what might reside there and maybe even to see if Mr. Carter’s spirit will come out to play without the need for a summoning.

  No such luck, though. I get a few inklings of activity in the Carters’ bedchamber, and again in Mr. Carter’s study, but I see nothing of interest.

  In the end, we set up in the sitting room where Mrs. Carter seems determined to remain. The maid closes up the heavy curtains and puts out the gas lamps upon the walls, leaving us in darkness save for the crackling fire and the candle Miss Bennett has placed upon a table between us.

  All of this is familiar; I’ve witnessed her perform summons before. Participated in them, too. She’d been rather unimpressed when I divulged to her that William and I had performed our own at the Brewers’ farm in the Wakefield case, though maybe—just maybe—there’d been an edge of pride in her voice when she’d said, I’m glad you didn’t muck it up.

  The three of us join hands. Mrs. Carter’s is ice cold in my own, and her grip is firm.

  Miss Bennett explains the process, and the rules. No breaking the circle, not until whatever spirits show up are dismissed. Sometimes, not always, something wrong can come through to cause problems, and something about the circle helps to protect us until it can be sent away.

  “If I can contact your husband, I’ll do my best to draw him into me, so you can speak to him directly,” Miss Bennett says. “If not, I can act as an intermediary and relay whatever he wishes to say. Do you have any questions before we begin?”

  Mrs. Carter doesn’t skip a beat. “Let’s get on with it.”

  We bow our heads and close our eyes. But rather than speak, Miss Bennett squeezes my hand and says, “Go on. You’ve done this bit before.”