The priest had the grace to look awkward. “In the general sense, no, but—he’s made confession, and done his penance. And he wanted to see you, Eliza.”
By then James O’Malley had drawn close enough to overhear. Eliza snapped her mouth shut, too many emotions warring inside for her to be sure what would pop out. Her father was much as he had been when she visited him in Newgate last year: still a big-boned man, though with less flesh on him than before, and his face scarred by a life harder than Eliza cared to think. She knew what trials he’d been through—and she knew they didn’t excuse his flaws. Other men went through as much without becoming drunkards, or beating their wives and children, or falling into a life of petty crime.
That he should stand as Owen’s godfather was unthinkable.
He said nothing, and the silence grew tighter and tighter, until Eliza finally snapped, “Where the devil have you been, then—other than with the Fenians?”
Maggie drew in her breath sharply. James O’Malley’s jaw hardened. But he didn’t growl back, as she expected; he just said, “That’s something we’ll be speaking of later. For now, I think we’ve other things to do.” He paused, his gaze on Owen. “Christ. Something has gone wrong with the boy, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Father Tooley said hastily, “and we ought to take care of that before someone notices what we’re about. Eliza, he needs a godfather, and James says he’s willing to stand for it. Will that do?”
She wasn’t at all sure that it would—but she could hardly ignore the priest when he said Owen needed this. Her answer came out unsteady, but it came out all the same. “It will—but pray God this works.”
In all seriousness, Father Tooley said, “I have been. Come, let’s get started.”
It took all Eliza’s coaxing to get Owen to even approach the steps of the church. The closer they got to the door, the more he fought her, face twisting in apprehension, just as it had before; and Mrs. Darragh was no use, making soothing noises that influenced her son not at all. But finally Eliza got him onto the steps, and Maggie said, “Father Tooley, we bring this boy to be baptized.”
The priest waited, then prompted her with a gesture, but the girl only looked confused. No one calls him by name, Eliza thought. Not anymore. They hadn’t for years—three or four, now that she thought of it. That must have been when Nadrett took it from him.
In a strong voice, she said, “’Tis Owen Darragh they bring.”
Father Tooley accepted that and began. “Quid petis ab Ecclesia Dei?” What do you ask for from the Church of God?
James answered the questioning on Owen’s behalf, giving the short responses in badly pronounced Latin. Then the priest began to cross Owen, first with breath, then with his thumb. Maggie held her brother by the shoulders; he twitched and gasped at each sign of the cross, and let out a wordless, desperate cry when Father Tooley placed his hands upon the boy’s head and began to pray. Eliza bit down on her lip. If prayer alone hurt him like that, what would the blessed salt do?
Owen fought to avoid it, clamping his mouth shut and twisting his head away; mouth set in a grim line, James pried his jaw open with his one hand, while Maggie held her brother and wept into his hair. When Father Tooley set the salt on his tongue, Owen went completely rigid, and Eliza tasted blood—but as James said the last “Amen,” the boy relaxed, his eyes opening once more and his body going slack.
Eliza’s breath was coming fast, but she met Father Tooley’s questioning gaze and nodded. It seemed to have done some good; Owen was silent through the exorcism, through the repeated signs of the cross and the second imposition of hands, Father Tooley praying in a voice that went no farther than their little group, admitting him into the church building. When the paternoster was done, Eliza beckoned Owen from the door, and he obediently followed Maggie and the rest into the nave.
He shivered as he crossed the threshold, but made no other sound. The solemn exorcism, Father Tooley’s spittle upon his ears and nostrils, the renunciation of Satan, the anointing with oil; the interior of the church was lit only by a few candles, and the entire moment had a dreamlike quality that made Eliza hold her breath. Her entire spirit was bent in wordless prayer, as if she could compel Owen into wholeness just by the force of her hope.
This had to heal him. It had to.
Father Tooley changed his violet stole for a white one, shimmering in the darkness, and led their little group to the font. A hand slipped into Eliza’s, startling a little sound out of her, but it was only Mrs. Darragh. The old woman shivered, and Eliza gripped her fingers, taking comfort in the strength that answered hers. “Owen Darragh,” Father Tooley asked, “credis in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, creatorem cæli et terram?”
James O’Malley might not be a religious man, but he never doubted the existence of God the Father Almighty. “Credo,” he answered for Owen, and Maggie with him.
Eliza’s breath came faster and faster as they finished the profession of faith, as Father Tooley asked whether Owen wished to be baptized, and his godmother and godfather answered on his behalf that he did. And then the moment had come, and she stopped breathing entirely.
Taking water from the font, Father Tooley lifted it above Owen’s head. “Si non es baptizatus,” he said, “ego te baptizo in nomine Patris—”
Every hair on Eliza’s arms and neck stood straight up as the priest poured the holy water.
“—et Filii—”
A second dipper of water. Every candle in the church seemed to grow brighter.
“—et Spiritus Sancti.”
Owen drew in a deep, shuddering gasp, the third cup of holy water running over his closed eyes, streaming through his hair and down his cheeks. He straightened beneath Maggie’s and James’s hands, shoulders going back, and Eliza’s skin tried to shake itself right off her body as she felt something go by, banished from the church—and from Owen—by the ancient ritual, repeated in this precise form for hundreds of years.
Holy Mary, Mother of God—please—
Hand shaking, Father Tooley anointed Owen with chrism, reciting the prayer in a near whisper. When he finished, Maggie and James opened their mouths to answer, but another voice spoke before they could.
“Amen,” Owen said.
The Galenic Academy, Onyx Halclass="underline" August 22, 1884
When Dead Rick saw what Yvoir had set up, he almost turned around and left.
The French elf had mostly talked about how they were going to shine moonlight through the translucent plates of his memories, running them one by one past his eyes as if they were pattern cards in a Jacquard loom. He’d spent a great deal of time explaining the principles behind the creation of that moonlight—something about a particular balance of the four elements in what he called a selenic configuration; Dead Rick didn’t understand a word of it—and made one brief mention that the absinthe might have some lingering effects that would take a while to disperse.
He hadn’t said a word about the chair.
It was a thick, blocky thing—heavy, not like the modern, fashionable furniture that sometimes made its way into the Goblin Market, but rather like the oldest pieces, the ones that predated the Onyx Hall itself. No padding softened its seat or back, and along the edges…