Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [128]
“‘Printed for John Williams,’” I read aloud, “‘and Francis Eglesfield, and are to be sold at the Crown and Marygold in Saint Paul Church-yard, 1648.’”
Like many old-fashioned books, this one was luxurious with headings and subheadings and rambling comment.
I carried my prize down the stairs and into Theron’s room, where he was yawning as he reached for a pair of carpet slippers left to warm beside a low coal fire. He appeared rumpled and unrested despite his long nap.
“Look what I have found. Ghosts in containers—is a mirror a container? Spirits that linger near staircases. Classification of spirits.” I deciphered the odd spellings and typeface; soon Saxton came to sit beside me, peering over my arm at the Gothic-letter pages.
“The matter of haunted objects. The matter of spirits who will not allow a painting to be moved. The matter of chimney ghosts. The matter of the same in wells. The matter of grave reflection. The matter of spirit-enchanted pots. The matter of—”
I stopped, my hand trembling.
The matter of grave reflection.
Quickly I turned the soft, rotting pages, skimming a finger up and down the columns of print. “Here! ‘The Matter of Grave Reflection occurs when the image of a Beloved Dead persists in glazed surfaces such as mirrors, metal spoons, glass, perfectly clear ice, butts of water, and such-like materials. Such a seeming-ghost knows no malice or fierceness but the horror of its Presence is highly destructive of daily life. Traditional remedies of the ignorant and afflicted include the withdrawal of the Persecuted to desert places, the abolition of metal from the house, the removal of water barrels to more distant sites, and, among the wealthy, the cessation of bathing in copper tubs.’ ”
Theron let out a cry.
“That is it,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “I am astounded, Hawthorne, that you could lay your hands on anything that might shed light on my private hell. Yet this gives me no ease. I am already in my ‘desert place,’ there to be immolated.”
“There appear to be instructions,” I said, “and we shall try them, no matter how ridiculous. The letters are difficult to make out, and much requires translation to words of today, but we will manage.”
We exchanged a long glance, and Saxton nodded.
“And now let me play the proper host. No doubt the ever-prompt Mrs. Molebury is back and ready to dish up a meal.” He stood up. “Just don’t let the book out of your sight until we know all that is needed.”
Over a repast in the dining room, we did not speak of the mirrors. Mrs. Molebury had concocted a meat pie for us, served along with sweet parsnips and yellow carrots yanked from beneath the snow and dusted with cinnamon and sugar, the homely meal ending with bread pudding and a compote of last summer’s pears that tasted as though preserved with all the sunshine of their days. Saxton partook liberally of Mrs. Molebury’s sweetened boiled drink of cranberries with sherry and offered up many toasts to my ferreting-out skills. He seemed happier than I had seen him heretofore—I supposed that he had been living without hope since his elder brother’s death.
An absurd length of table stretched away from our chairs, and I thought again of Daphne, and of how the room begged for children. Patience Hobbs served us, lighting the candles and coming in and out with dishes prepared by her grandmother. She appeared out of sorts, her eyes downcast, and once we heard raised voices from the kitchen.
“Not a good outing, it seems,” I whispered.
Saxton shrugged. “I’ve never known them to quarrel, not in the two years that Patience has been coming to help her grandmother on the weekends.”
Afterward, we took the volume into the library, where Miss Hobbs attended us with a tray of brandy. If she had been the one to hide the book, she now knew it had been revealed.
“I wonder if I might ask Mr. Hawthorne a question,” she said.
“Certainly,” my friend said, staring in surprise as I glanced up, half in pleasure, half in curiosity.