In an AU where magic is both real and cripplingly expensive, Sir James Ross attempts a sort of séance, hoping for one last chance to speak with his long-lost friend. Implied James Ross / Francis Crozier.
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“His name was Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier,” said Sir James Ross, in a dull and miserable voice. Then, “I called him Frank.”
It was a dark, quiet room, and it smelled faintly of cinnamon. Ross felt a tremendous sense of uneasiness, but he did not let it show in his face.
Septimus Hornby was sitting across from him, and he looked precisely as the paintings in his parlor would have you believe. He was short, and somewhat heavy, with good teeth and a long nose and eyes as white as the belly of a fish. He wore black, and the bird- Missy, Ross thought, reminded of an article he had read in one of Lady Jane’s periodicals- was there on his shoulder, fixing Ross with a sharp, inquisitive stare.
“I am sincerely sorry for your loss,” said Mr. Hornby, in a quiet, American-accented voice. “I recognize the hypocrisy inherent in my saying that, as without your loss, I would be out of a job. Please excuse me,” he added, after a moment’s silence. “A joke, to lighten the mood.”
Ross swallowed. “I think I’d rather get on with it, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Hornby. “Of course.”
He held Ross’ gaze very well for a blind man. Ross blinked and looked down at the table, feeling a little ill. He did not want to be here; no, he wanted to be here more than he had ever wanted anything in the whole of his miserable life. He thought of the hour he’d just spent sitting patiently in Mr. Hornby’s parlor, looking at the paintings depicting various scenes of tearful reunion. One of them had been a child’s drawing, displayed in pride of place in a little golden frame. The girl had drawn herself with a scribble for hair and a smile too big for her head, and Mr. Hornby with a round body and sticks for legs, and two fat drops of blue paint for eyes.
Ross had felt something twinge in his heart at the sight. He wondered who it was the girl had spoken to. Her father, perhaps? An uncle? Someone with blue eyes, who she must have loved very much.
“I will need to hold your hand for eleven minutes precisely, to align our Intentions,” said Mr. Hornby. Ross took a deep breath. He held out his hands, and Mr. Hornby took them in his own. Ross shivered as his Intention began to discover Mr. Hornby’s substantially stronger one, and his skin prickled with gooseflesh.
As they sat there in silence, Ross’ mind invariably turned to the money. It had been an extraordinary sum, far more than Lady Jane had raised for their miserable failure of a rescue operation, yet she had used it to buy him an appointment with Mr. Hornby without an apparent second thought. “None of that, James, if you please,” she had said, when Ross tried to protest. “It is a gift.”
Mr. Hornby’s services were employed so rarely, expensive as they were, that there seemed to be no one in all of London who did not know that Lady Jane had paid to see him, and had now paid for Ross. He had seen the effect that her audience with Mr. Hornby had had on her. The way she smiled again, the way her grief had eased. Anticipation trembled in his heart.
Mr. Hornby’s eyes seemed to stare straight through him, bone-white and sightless. Ross thought of the stories he’d heard, and of the first-hand accounts he’d read in the papers. He imagined Lady Jane sitting here in his stead, her heart in tatters but her face the very picture of dignity, watching as Mr. Hornby’s eyes rolled back in his head to reveal the hazel eyes of her long-dead husband looking out at her. He thought of Sir John’s voice in that mouth. Did she smile, then? Did she weep?
Mr. Hornby’s hands were smooth. His nails were clean. I am not ready, thought Ross with a lurch of fear. He was not ready to see those eyes roll back, revealing the dull blue eyes he so desperately wished to see. He was not ready for that rough, halting brogue. He was not ready.
He was trying to remember what he was going to say, the speech he had been rehearsing in the carriage on the way over, when Mr. Hornby let go of his hands. “Eleven minutes,” he said pleasantly. “Are you ready to begin?”
God, thought Ross. Oh, god. Damn Mr. Hornby and damn Lady Jane and damn me worst of all. Let him rest. Let him be.
“Yes,” he said.
Mr. Hornby nodded. Missy flew from his shoulder and settled on her perch in the corner, ruffling her feathers in a prim sort of way. She watched with an air of cool distain as Mr. Hornby sat up in his chair and laid his palms flat on the table. He closed his eyes.
The room grew very cold.
Ross’ heart was in his throat; suddenly, he could not think what to do with his hands. He wished for a moment that Mr. Hornby had continued to hold them. He felt terribly, terribly alone.
Mr. Hornby tilted his head from side to side as though easing a kink from his neck. His breath came slowly and regularly. Ross watched as the color drained from his face, then returned to it. He felt Mr. Hornby’s Intention expand to fill the room, making the house groan and settle.
Shortly thereafter, Mr. Hornby opened his eyes. He seemed to stare at Ross with two narrow, white slits. Then he closed his eyes again. Ross shrunk down in his seat like a boy anticipating a birching, and wondered if all men felt so small in the presence of magic.
“I. . .” Mr. Hornby’s brow was furrowed. Ross heard his teeth grinding together. Missy let out a shriek. “No matter,” said Mr. Hornby. “I will go further in.”
There was nothing Ross could do but sit patiently and wait for it to be over. He struggled to remember what he was going to say. Frank, he would say. All other words had fled him.
Mr. Hornby let out a long, low growl in the back of his throat. He leaned forward very suddenly, planting his elbows firmly on the table and burying his face in his hands. After a moment, he looked up. “What do you mean by this, sir?” he said. “I perform this service at great personal expense, and I do not do it for free.”
Ross did not know what to think. “I. . . beg your pardon, sir?”
“I can find him in neither Heaven nor Hell,” said Mr. Hornby. There was a note of bitter accusation in his voice. “I cannot find him anywhere. You make a mockery of both me and my profession, sir. The man is living.”
Ross stared at him for a long moment. Then he felt both grief and rage threaten to consume him; something vitally important seemed to snap in half inside of him and he began to shake, trembling with the threat of violence. His mouth opened and closed, struggling to find words.
“You bastard,” he croaked. “You son of a goddamn whore.”
Mr. Hornby’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Ross stood up so suddenly that his chair screeched against the floorboards.
“I have nothing to say to you,” he said in an unsteady voice. “You are a fraud and a charlatan, and you prey on the desperate and grief-stricken. What did you say to Lady Jane to convince her, hmm? What is the trick with the eyes?” He laughed a short, sharp laugh. “You could not even pretend with me. You did not even try.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Hornby, rising. “I tell you-”
Ross struck him hard in the mouth. Mr. Hornby reeled, his arms jumping to shield his face, and Missy shrieked wildly and flew at Ross, tearing at his face, his hair, but before Ross could beat her back, Mr. Hornby hissed, “Missy,” and Missy retreated at once to sit upon his shoulder.
Ross was breathing heavily, his fists clenched at his sides. “How dare you,” he spat. “How dare you make excuses for yourself by pretending that he is not. . .”
He could not finish. Instead, he spat at Mr. Hornby’s feet and left, slamming the door behind him.
