"And now that I think about it," she went on, "why didn't you throw one of those fireballs at the thug, Ham? You could have saved yourself all those bruises."
Jack fingered his swollen lip. The cut above his eye had closed, but it still looked raw and would be for some time. His knuckles too were grazed and must be sore.
"That's a good question," I said to Jack. "You threw one at Tate, but not Ham. Why?"
"It would set his clothes alight and burn him," he said.
"So?" Sylvia said. "The man was horrible. He doesn't deserve our sympathies or your consideration."
"You think that now," he said. "But if you were the one inflicting the fireball and you had to watch a man burn alive, would you think the same then?"
"Yes."
He shook his head and turned to the window. From the distant gaze reflected in the glass, I guessed that he wasn't actually seeing any of the scenery that slipped past. "It's the screaming that gets to you first," he said. "Even a man as large and strong as Ham has a high-pitched scream when his skin is exposed to intense heat. After the screams comes the smell. Burning flesh has a distinctive odor, Syl. It's not very pleasant. You wouldn't like it."
She fell silent and pulled the collar of her new fur coat closed at the throat.
"I saw someone burn to death once," he went on. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."
"You, Hannah and Tate can't burn though, can you?" Sylvia asked.
Jack shook his head. "I know I can't. Hannah? Did you feel anything in there? Did your skin hurt?"
I shook my head. "I felt nothing on the outside, only the inside when Tate touched me." The memory of him stroking my face made me want to scrub myself clean again. There had been no desire in the touch, not the sort between a man and a woman, but it had been filled with a kind of longing that I'd never seen before and had not known could exist. "He was boiling. To me he felt hotter than the fire."
Jack leaned forward and lifted a hand. He stroked a strand of my hair that had fallen out of the pins and dangled near my face. Although I instantly warmed, there were no sparks. It seemed it was only actual contact between us that produced those.
I smiled and he smiled back. "Thank you for rescuing me," I said.
"My pleasure." He continued to stroke my hair. I liked it, liked him near me, but it took every ounce of self-control not to lean into that hand and feel it cupping my cheek, caressing my lips.
Sylvia, not looking at us, shuddered. "Thank goodness Tate's gone. Finally we can resume some normalcy at Freak House."
"Normalcy," Jack said with a lopsided smile. "Is that what you're calling it now?"
CHAPTER 15
Langley met us in the courtyard on our arrival. He sat in his wheelchair, his hands folded in his lap. Bollard stood behind him, staring straight ahead. When we strolled up to them, Langley's hands moved from his lap to the wheels as if he would push himself forward, but quickly returned to his lap again. He scrutinized each of us in turn before finally settling on Jack's swollen lip.
"You're back," was all he said. "Tommy told me you were successful in your endeavors."
"Oh Uncle, it was awful!" Sylvia bent down and hugged him. It was awkward with him sitting, and she seemed not to know where to put her arms. Langley was equally ill at ease. He patted her back as if she were a puppy that had just fetched his slippers for the first time.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks then went to move away. He caught her hand and kept her at his side.
"It's cold out here," he said. "Mrs. Moore will bring tea to us in the parlor. Tell me everything there."
He continued to hold Sylvia's hand as Bollard wheeled him inside. He must have been concerned after all and relieved to see us again. The only time I'd seen him outside, or indeed downstairs, was on the night of the fire. Neither his old room nor his new one were on the ground floor. He must have seen us coming up the drive and had Bollard bring both him and the wheelchair down to meet us. My eyes pricked with tears, until I realized that he hadn't been eager to see us again, only his niece and nephew. Or perhaps only Sylvia. Aside from frowning at Jack's cuts and bruises, he'd not paid his nephew much attention.
We sat in the small parlor that we'd been using since the night of the fire. It no longer smelled musty. A low fire warmed it, keeping the chill out of the air I suppose, although I'd never known what a chill really felt like. Some of Sylvia's paintings now decorated the walls and her embroidered cushions sat plump and inviting on the sofa. Tea arrived shortly after us, brought in by Tommy, not Mrs. Moore. It was odd to see him all stiff and formal again. Aside from a quick glance at each of us, he resumed his blank, footman's gaze. I found it most irritating.
"It's good to see you, Tommy," I said, smiling. "Have you suffered any ill effects from the fire?"
"No, Miss Smith."
"I thought we agreed you would call me Hannah now."
He splashed tea over the side of a cup and looked at Langley. "I, uh, don't feel right calling you anything other than what's proper."
"I agree," Sylvia said. She lifted her chin, but it didn't hide the quick glance she shot at Tommy and the slight blush to her cheeks. "Whatever transpired in London should remain there."
"How can you say that?" I said. "The four of us formed a bond at Tate's factory. You can't deny it."
"She'll try her hardest," Jack muttered.
"Circumstances in London were...unique," she said. "Never to be repeated. Besides, just because we all endured a nasty experience together doesn't mean we can allow social mores to lapse. I know you don't fully understand the importance of keeping everyone in their place, Hannah, having lived your entire life in an attic among a total of two people. You'll simply have to trust me. It's important. Isn't that right, Uncle?" She faced her uncle, but her gaze slid between him and Tommy.
The footman was too busy pouring the tea to notice, but he did seem more rigid than usual.
"Social order is everything," Langley agreed. "The opposite is chaos."
Behind him, Bollard's nostrils flared. Tommy left, carrying the tray with him.
"Tell me what happened," Langley said. "Tommy informs me they arrived before you, Jack. Where were you?"
"I'd gone to the Harborough constabulary immediately after leaving here," Jack said. "I had to wait for that fool of an inspector to return, and then I wasted more time trying to convince him to come with me to London. He refused." He shook his head. "I wish I hadn't bothered."
"You tried to do the right thing," I said. Sylvia and I had already told him so in the carriage when he spoke of his reasons for his delay, but he hadn't accepted it then and it still seemed to rankle now.
"I went to the Hackney Wick authorities as soon as I arrived in London," he went on. "There was no point confronting Tate without a witness. I had to wait at the police station there too, and then when the inspector did return, I spent some time apprising him of the case against Tate. He agreed to come with me, albeit reluctantly."
"It was a good thing he did," I said.
"When we arrived, we heard noises coming from the factory. The fire had already taken hold, and Tate..." He swallowed heavily and looked at me.
"Tell me about the fire," Langley asked.
"Tate started that," I said. "He accidentally emitted sparks from his fingers. You didn't tell us he was a fire starter too. It would have helped, you know."
"Perhaps," Langley said and sipped his tea. I was reminded of Tate casually drinking tea in his parlor and avoiding our questions. The similarity sent a shiver down my spine.
"That's why he wanted Hannah, isn't it?" Jack asked. "Because he's a fire starter too and he wanted to...study her." From the lack of shock on his face, I suspected he'd been thinking about it the entire journey home. As had I.