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chronic-ghost · 2 years

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He regarded you with light disdain but also something that resembled weariness, a tiredness that didn’t seem to fit the wealth exuded by his clothes. He carried something, some sadness.

The spirits whispered, shellshock. And then, heartbreak.

But you shook your head.

“Mr. Catledge, please be careful.”

Title: a brief, fragmentary, and most imperfect record of specters few have seen

summary: late summer. 1927. The absurdly wealthy Catledge siblings return to Pittsburgh after the older brother suffered heartbreak after a particularly public end to his engagement to the medium, Sophie Baker. They return quietly and Brice hopes that the monotony of embracing his father’s company can bring some stability back to his life. Until a girl from nowhere emerges from the smoke of a train and quite literally falls into his arms — and immediately predicts his untimely murder. Despite his insistence that he is done with pretty mediums, she comes with her own secrets he can’t seem to ignore. Is this girl the real thing or just another con artist? And if she really can see the dead, what will she see in him? Will she be one of the few who can see his specters for what they really are?

pairings: Brice Catledge/Reader

category: M/F

rating: M

archive warning: depictions of violence, tw for discussions and depictions of domestic abuse/violence, survivor’s guilt

tags: reader has psychometry, references to WW1, 1920s tennis matches, cable girl adventures, meet cutes at the train station, library sex, making out on beaches, angst but happy ending!

playlist for the fic: the ghost of you

fanart for the fic: thank you 🤯 to @aherdofbees for this BEAUTIFUL PIECE!

(AO3 Links: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9)

Read the next chapter below!

Chapter 9: aris moriendi

T W O W E E K S A G O

The fire crackles behind the thick metal grate, the arch of night just beyond its midpoint outside the crimson drapes. On the oak desk, the tumbler’s nearly empty, the ice melted and whiskey watered down beyond recognition. Were it not for the faint flicker of flames, the room would be in total darkness.

He sits and stares and knows it’s becoming an obsession. In the light of day, he would not call it that. Even now that word is wrong, but in the spiral of darkness his mind follows, it’s the only word that lingers there. Drawings of her have now grown so numerous, they liter the floor. The latest hovers in the flames, her smile, her cheeks consumed by a faint red edge before transforming into black ash.

It’s not obsession, he muses. He knew what that felt like and this isn’t it. Sophie was obsession, infection, an infestation – and this girl was none of those. No, instead, it is an external force drawing him to her, instead of internal. Like space dust attached to a comet, he feels dragged along by something greater than himself – something that humbles him and makes him feel more powerful than any creature alive. His chest roars with it.

In some way, he knows she feels it too. Haunted by inevitability.

In one of his better moods, his father had taken the family to the British Museum when he was just a child. While Caroline had shown interest more in the anatomy wing, he had been taken with great fascination by a giant, smooth circle made of stone. The whole thing was concave, the very center disappearing into a small hole, and with a free shilling from his father, he watched with rapturous delight as the shilling spun round and round, whistling as it went, down the sides until it looped tightly before disappearing entirely.

The effect itself was marvelously entertaining, but when a second shilling was added, his child's mind almost couldn’t comprehend: no matter when a second coin was added, no matter how long they raced in parallel, they would also disappear together.

Ghostly ashes of a dozen sketches curl up beneath the fire. He thinks about those coins and the duality of physics, long into the night. Long after the fire swallowed up the logs and died, satisfied and full. He remembers the loops, the shrill rush of the metal against the stone, the blur of children’s hands as they lunged forward to try and snatch the coins as they spun. But they missed each and every time. Each and every time, the coins spun and spun and spun until they overlapped, their ringing loud, and consumed each other, a single silver blur where once there were two.

*~*~*

N O W

It was nearly two in the morning when the party on the island finally came to a close. After some lazy packing that consisted mostly of smaller items being thrown into anything that could carry them and every open champagne bottle was raced to be finished, Caroline had taken the wheel of the boat and drove them back to the mainland. In a monumental act of self-discipline, she had stopped imbibing hours ago, seemingly content to dance and eat and drink nothing heavier than water from the metal pitchers. She was still red-faced, though more from the sun than being a giddy drunk, as she announced that it was time for the magic to end.

“We, unfortunately, all must wake up from this lovely dream!” The crowd of beautiful people at her feet groaned and booed. She nodded sagely. “Yes, yes, it is quite terrible, but we tempt the eye of the gods if we misbehave too long without reprimand. We must not burn too hot or bright lest we burn out!”

“Impossible!” yelled one of the redheads spread out beneath a white towel over the sand.

“Tis true, my loves!” Caroline scolded, her beauty only magnified by the light of the lanterns on the cooling sand, the echo of waves adding music to her voice. “Wake up and face the consequences.”

Consequences, you thought darkly as the spray of foamy water brushed over your face as the boat raced along the black waves. What did Caroline Catledge know of consequences?

Hopefully, nothing.

Nothing at all, you begged to an indifferent universe – neither she nor her brother would ever know how close you got to destroying their lives, if there was any kindness in the elementary make up of this existence. Because the instant you touched land, you decided firmly and resolutely, you would disappear from their lives. Consequences from Tom be damned.

And it seemed Brice knew it.

He said nothing when you walked back to the party silently, over the hill and down the dark lane back to the beach. You couldn’t quite look straight at him, out of fear of what you might say or do, so he did it all for you. He pressed the cup of his hand gently around your wrist and when you allowed that, he slid forward and held your hand. Held it, then squeezed it the longer you let him touch you. Like a fire consuming treeline after treeline, he touched more and more of you until, as the boat carried the party home – its passengers sun-warm and skin flushed with the bubbles of champagne – he folded himself around you where you stood at the bow of the boat, in the darkness of the night. He pressed a worried kiss to your hairline as if he knew you would float away the moment he let go. Fear never made him frantic, as though speed would only burn the matchsticks faster, but instead more assuredly, his movements weighted and steady. To smother and embrace.

Despite the wind, the air was thick with words he didn’t say and words you couldn’t bear to hear.

Your skin went colder and colder the longer the boat soared across the black lines of water, the moon bright and prying as if the party was in fact being watched by some otherworldly being. Soon your cheeks began to sting and your teeth chattered and Brice lended more and more of himself to you; both arms around your shoulders, his chest, his hips, all aligned with yours as more and more of you turned to cold stone.

You were jostled, a grim awareness of touching land again, then a bustle as you were transferred from the boat to a warm car, the dull echoes of the party all around you and yet nothing affected you. Nothing made its way in until it was too late.

You blinked and the smell of algae was replaced with pine and gravel. From water went rolling hills and the spark of the city in the distance, until the road ran long and dark and the drive went into the countryside. To an earthy grave.

Through all of this change, through your skin melting from porcelain to ivory to steel, finally back to flesh in the back of this warm, dark car, his hand never left yours and it was this, amongst the rush and crash of chaos, amongst the years of hiding and the loneliness of being misunderstood, you finally could tell him.

“Brice,” you murmured against his shoulder, now covered in dark blue wool instead of a wetsuit. His breathing changed slightly, as if waking up from a shallow sleep. “Brice. I have to tell you something.”

“What is it, darling?” Where the moonlight did not fall, where your lap and his must have been but instead were intertwined in the darkness, you felt him gently squeeze your hand where he held it in his.

With a deep breath, you searched for his face, then his eyes, his features smudged in the absence of light. He smelled faintly sweet, the ghost of champagne smearing the inside of his mouth, and of lake water, of comfort and warmth. You wanted nothing more than to curl up inside him, inside that broad chest, and tell him because there would be consequences – of this you were absolutely sure – but at least you would have the strength of courage on your side to look him in the eyes and tell him every horrible thing you had done, were about to do but your love, your undying love stopped you because even putting him in an ounce of pain, you’d rather be boiled alive.

Swallowing and sitting up out of his arms, you took his sleeve between your fingers, wondering if there would be any sense to what you were about to say or if it would just come out in a triumphant stream like a fire hydrant with the cap knocked off.

You opened your mouth –

And a strange noise came out of it.

“We’re here, Mr. Catledge,” said the cabbie. The car slowed to a stop and the noise continued, grew louder.

For a single moment that seemed to stretch on through time and infinity – a moment that was forever perfect and still and uninterrupted or tarnished – the mansion behind you lit up Brice Catledge, his face achingly, hauntingly beautiful in the golden luminosity. Every dark line of his lips, every generous curve around his nose, the fine hairs of his brows, the lush pink of his cheeks – it was all incredibly yours if you could just take it. And in the center of this face, this angelic face, he stared straight ahead at you, with nothing but adoring love beaming from his gaze.

Love in that moment was as palpable as moonlight. As if designed by magic.

And then came the eclipse.

“Strange, isn’t it, Mr. Catledge. That the police should be here so late.”

The car door opened, the siren still screeching behind you, and you almost tumbled onto the ground, were it not for Brice grabbing your forearms.

His shadow was unmistakable, though you had only caught it once before. In the grimy shadows of a room in the basement of the police station.

“So glad you joined us here, miss,” Detective Robinson said, his voice as heavy as concrete. “Makes things easier. You’re under arrest.”

*~*~*

The vaulted ceiling of the foyer had never been so bright, your eyes fluttering to adjust from the darkness outside to the intense white light, as if you were under the pointed and unforgiving gaze of a doctor’s operating theater. One of the bully police officers behind you harshly knocked against your shoulder the instant you had taken a second to let your eyes adjust. Keep moving, his scowl seemed to say, as if you were some sort of flight risk.

But then again, perhaps you were. The emotions had been washed clean from your body and a pounding ache was beginning just above your left eyebrow. What kind of person were you when put on trial?

If it was half the person you were on a good day, then the officer had every right to grip you roughly by the elbow.

“I demand an explanation.” Brice rounded on Robinson the moment he entered the foyer, a finger raised. “You cannot just show up on my property and make outrageous demands.”

If the detective was bothered or ruffled by seeing a man who was moments away from starting a physical brawl, he appeared completely unbothered by it.

“Can I smoke in here?” he asked.

Brice flushed red as Caroline came around the two guards at the front, her hair still windswept.

“You absolutely may not,” she snapped, her eyes red and dry. She made no attempt to be modest and hide her swim pajamas from the leering policemen. “You’re ruining my birthday party.”

You could see the smeared black mascara under and around her eyes. The flush had sunken low in her cheeks and her hair had lost that smooth, glossy shine. She looked wind-swept, a little blurred, but fierce-eyed, as if her eyes were two black stones at the bottom of a rushing river.

You couldn’t even begin to look at Brice. So, as the bright lights adjusted to your eyes, you realized there were more people in the foyer than you originally saw. Your eyes met his moments before he opened his thin mouth.

“Mr. Catlege, Ms. Catledge, I deeply apologize for this intrusion. This was not how I intended for any of this to happen, but these things are outside of my control.” Peeling off the wall like a leech letting go after it had its fill, Mr. Crock slid up next to Detective Robinson. He was grinning in a way that seemed to split the lines on his face wide open, the faint white hair powdering his face like pile on the body of an insect.

“Mr. Crock, what are you doing here?” Brice asked. Despite the redness from the sun, his skin had a damp pallor to it that made your stomach twist.

The grin on Crock’s face slipped, a wholly different expression taking over his lean features. His shoulders hunched a bit, and that waxy mouth turned downwards.

“Oh, Mr. Catledge, none of this brings me any joy to tell you any of this. Please know if there’s anything my family can do for you, just ask.”

Brice’s brilliant beautiful mouth thinned to white line and the muscle in his cheek twitched. For a fraction of a second, you could have sworn his gaze jumped to you before remaining steadfast on Crock, then to Robinson.

“Alright, that’s enough. It’s very late and I’m very tired. There’s only a few hours remaining of my sister’s birthday and I’d like to celebrate it with my family. If you can’t explain why you made such a horrendous claim out on my front lawn, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

While Crock had sobered up, those sickly lips still twisted downwards, Robinson’s expression hadn’t changed. His hands deep in his navy slacks, his salt and pepper mustache twitched once before his steel gray eyes fell on something down the hall, behind the wall, and he nodded.

There was a shuffling, as if clumsy feet were dragged across a marble floor, and three men stumbled out into the foyer. Two of them were exactly like the men at your side: wide, square-jawed, built like pugilists made to fight mountains, and wearing officers' uniforms. Indistinguishable from one another, you didn’t recognize either one, but the third one, the one in between, hand-cuffed and glowering, was –

“Tom,” you breathed and it felt like your last. The air was sucked from your lungs in a single devastating punch. Your two worlds had collided, finally, intensely and sickeningly, and you were standing in the crater, smoke rising from the ground.

You could feel the blood draining from your face.

“Who the hell is this?” Caroline sighed, as if all of this was simply an inconvenience, a stumbling block between her and her plush, feather-down mattress on the second floor.

Brice stared at your husband, more confused than irritated with that straight line between his eyebrows. Oh God, he hadn’t figured it out yet.

Crock slid forward, his eyes downcast. “Sir, madam, if I may, I hope to bring you some clarity, if not peace.” He somehow managed to sound sincerely contrite.

Brice nodded, the corners of his eyes tightening. “Go on, then.”

“As a long time friend of the family and someone who saw your own father as a brother, not only a business partner, I only wanted the best for you Catledge children . . . which is why after learning your new acquaintance claimed to be another psychic, I had her looked into.”

Both Caroline and Brice erupted into outrage.

I thought I told you to leave it alone!

Crock, you have finally gone too far!

How dare you!

You had no right to do that!

“Let him speak.” Robinson cut through both of them without moving in his position. His slate gray eyes were fixated on something on the floor, but his voice was as loud as a shotgun. The siblings stared at him, eyes wide.

Brice swallowed. It was dawning on him that something wasn’t right.

“I know now it was a breach of privacy,” Crock continued, wincing as though burned. “But believe me, I did it with the best of intentions. And you should know I found something. Something you should know. She’s in debt. Massive debt.”

You blinked, slowly as though concussed.

For the first time all night, you really looked at your husband. A purple ring swelling over his eye, his shoulders hunched and hands bound behind him, you had never seen such an expression on his face. It was as if the thing that had been Tom had closed up shop and left the building. There was nothing in his eyes. No fear, no guilt, no sadness, no remorse. He was selling you up the river and he didn’t feel a damn thing about it.

He had taken loans out in your name, you realized in that elegant, glorious foyer. His greed had exceeded far beyond what you had ever expected.

Have you ever thought about doing some good with your gifts?

Hey, my buddy Rob is coming over today, why don’t you show ‘em what you can do, eh?

Oh, doll, I’ve lost my hat. Can you find it for me?

You were ruined. In every sense of the word.

“Gambling debts, a mile long.” Crock went on, shaking his head. “Collectors began calling in early summer. The bank was foreclosing on the house next week. To say she was desperate wouldn’t be justice.”

Next week. Tom’s deadline. Everything lined up. All of it happened without you having the faintest idea.

“Desp– ,” Brice began but then stopped as if his throat closed. He still didn’t see it. “Desperate to do what?”

Crock turned towards him, as if he were the only person in the room, his eyes soft, and you saw how big men like the Catledge elder might have confided in him. “Mr. Catledge, has she asked you for any money?”

The light. The first thing that changed about his face as the understanding struck him, was the light in his eyes.

It faded.

Then he went bone white. The color of teeth.

“Just as I suspected.” Crock nodded sagely, sadly, gleefully. “But it wasn’t going to be enough. She didn’t have the time to ask for all the money required to pay off the debts. Asking for an amount all at once like that would be suspicious. No, a conwoman like her knows when to play her hand and she couldn’t risk it. But she was desperate. Time was short so she had to resort to more . . . aggressive measures. Detective, if you please.”

Robinson glanced up, as though remembering there were other people in the room. His fingers twitched to his jacket pocket, where his pack of cigarettes sat, but he left them alone. Instead, his hand went back to his pocket and retrieved his notebook. He flipped, casually, unhurried, until stopping on one of the last pages.

“At twenty four hundred hours, a Mr. Bramley reported a break-in to the police and five minutes past the midnight hour, a patrol car was dispatched to investigate. Upon arrival, the officers on the scene identified a broken window in the first floor office and the bottom drawer of an oak desk had been cracked open with a crowbar left at the scene. Further investigation of the grounds found the perpetrator hiding in the nearby woods. Perpetrator was identified as Tom Beauford with the evidence still on his person.”

Every muscle in your body locked up. Every breath was low and shallow. The corners of your vision blurred.

You had told him exactly where to find it. It had been your plan but he couldn’t wait. Not with the collectors. Not with the bank calling.

You had told him exactly where to plunge the knife.

“Detective, please show Mr. Catledge the evidence.”

Robinson lifted his gaze and something softened for a moment before he reached back into his pocket for something smaller than his notebook. Smaller than a box of cigarettes.

It arched as it left his hand before landing squarely in Brice’s lap. He caught it and stumbled, as if it weighed a thousand pounds. He slipped on the marble, backwards, until he caught the low wooden bench by the back of the knees and he crumpled onto the flat seat. He stared at the small box as though he expected it to catch fire.

“Further investigation concludes that Tom Beauford is listed in the Hall of Records, amongst birth and marriage licenses, as her husband. Married four years this May.

Robinson dropped his gaze to you and snapped the booklet shut with finality.

And there it was. All out in the open. They had some things right, but the rest of it was wrong. So very wrong, but it was there.

All exposed.

You searched and clawed and begged to find your voice. You swallowed. His name was the first word that came to you.

“Brice.”

He didn’t look up. He just . . . flinched.

“Brice–,”

Crock coughed, a dissatisfied sound. “Now you understand why we arrested her on the front lawn. They clearly are working together to not only rob you of your money, but swindle you of your engagement ring. Now if you’d be so kind as to share how much she asked for and we can add embezzlement charges as well.”

The first sound he made wasn’t a word but a sound, softly, barely audible. Nothing more than a groan, low from the back of his throat, as though something had dislodged with him. A rib. An organ. Displanted. Ruptured.

And then came his words.

“No.” His elbows rested on his knees, his face obscured by his curls. He held the box loosely with his fingers. “No. This . . . came to an end before either of us said anything we’d come to regret.”

Crock tutted then waved at the detective as if he were ordering around a servant. “Well, we’ll address that bit later. But for now, let’s allow the Catledges retire for the evening. Robinson, round up the criminals and take them to the station.”

Thick hands clasped your upper arms and the pressure startled something in you, breaking loose the voice you couldn’t find earlier.

“Brice, please –,” you gasped.

Again, he flinched. The arch of his shoulders went taught, then loosened, then went tight again.

“I don’t want to press charges.”

Crock stilled. Robinson lifted his eyes again. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not . . .” Brice swallowed. Every word he spoke was labored, rough, as though he had to dig it out from the pits of his guts. “Let them go. Both of them. I’m not pressing charges for the break-in or the attempted robbery. I’m – I’m not . . .”

“Brice.”

But that wasn’t you. Caroline, sun-drenched and narrow, crossed the marble floor, her eyes fixated on her brother, before freezing. She stood mere feet from you.

“How much?”

Crock was losing control of the situation and it was clear he had no idea how that happened. “How much is what, dear girl?”

“How much are the debts?”

“Well over ten grand,” Robinson said. His expression had changed. Curiosity breached his thick brows. Like a shark smelling blood.

“Bramley, my check book if you please.”

In the folds of her linen pants, her fists trembled.

There was a shuffling, the trample of feet, and then the old butler handed over a pad of yellow square notes. The shakes in her hands were gone as she wrote something, furiously scribbling. And with a tear that sounded like the clap of thunder, she yanked the check free and, without warning, slammed the check into your chest with the force of a full shove. You stumbled, your ribs aching, into the two officers behind you.

“Caroline,” you croaked.

You had never seen anger like that before. Never in your parents, or even Tom. It was more anguish than anger. More devastation than ire but it came out just the same.

“Think of it as payment. In exchange, we never, ever have to see you again.”

Sounds came to you as if you were underwater. Distant. Low. Wavering at the edges.

Everything happened so quickly after that.

Robinson peeled off the wall and the officers took you by the arms again. Caroline ran to her brother’s side but the shoulder of the giant man next to you blocked your vision before she got to him.

“No, wait–,” here at the end, you tried to speak. “Caroline – Brice, please let me explain–”

The cold night air hit you like a slap in the face as the officers dragged you out onto the front porch. Your joints felt swollen, numb but you pushed back.

“Stop. Let me talk to him. I need to – get your hands off me – Brice!”

It took the two men, one grabbing your feet and the other holding your chest back to take you to the police car waiting outside. You could feel yourself becoming hysterical but you didn’t care. Couldn’t.

“Put me down! Brice, please, I have to – let me just – let me go!”

The door slammed shut and you scrambled to the window. You fought the door handle but it’d had been locked from the outside. You wanted to scream, yanking furiously, panicked against the handle with a feverish intensity. Your sweaty palms streaked across the window as the car lurched into motion.

“Brice, n-n-no, Brice,” you hiccup, fighting against the restraints. “No, p-p-please, let me out. I can’t do this to him. He can’t think that I –,”

Those slate gray eyes pinned you in the rearview mirror.

“Doesn’t matter what he thinks. He just wants you gone.”

*~*~*

Outside, a storm raged. You sat at the edge of your marital bed, in the house Tom purchased for you both after you had gotten married. It all smelled the same. Same hot patches, and cold spikes in the air. Not thing had changed and yet . . .

Lightning flashed, the sound of thunder shaking the thin walls and copper pipes, the white light spilling over the ridges and valleys of the body next to you. Tom, with his swelling black eye, was silent when the pair of you left the car, silent when he let you both back into the house, silent as you both went to bed and fell asleep. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t touch you. You moved around him, as if you were vapor. As if you were a ghost.

As if you never meant anything in the first place.

His back was to you, obscuring his face, but you don’t sleep next to someone for years and not know when they were awake.

“Tom.” Rain slapped the glass windows, like anxious claws. “Tom. I have something to tell you.”

His body didn’t move, didn’t change.

“I’m leaving you. I’m leaving you and I’m telling you this time because you’re not going to follow me. Do you understand?”

Another thunderclap and you thought you saw him turn but it was just the rain reflecting on the scratchy gray blanket over his shoulders.

“Where are you going to go?” He asked almost softly, almost surprised.

At one point, he knew. And he knew what it meant to take you away from that place. And he knew what it meant to go back.

The door to the phonebooth clicked beneath a grumble of thunder as warm rain poured over the crest of your forehead and down your cheeks, your neck, your shoulders. Hands empty of anything that were yours, you sat down on the concrete step, streaming water slipping off your eyelashes and into your mouth. The night was dark, the torrential downpour obscuring the faint yellow light coming from the windows of the townhouses on the block.

Are you alright? Did you sleep in your clothes?

You can hear Emily’s voice, bright and loud, and there’s such an ache in your chest for the boarding house you nearly stop breathing.

I’ll tell the other girls to say the same, if they see anyone. Come, inside, dinner’s almost done.

You would have given anything to sit at Martina’s table – the smells, the taste of her fresh cooking, the sound of indulgent laughter. Those girls, that place – it had been a refuge, a place of strength when you felt helpless. When you couldn’t imagine your life being any different from where you came.

Now, the memories kept you seated, despite your soaking wet clothes and the wavering sense of drowning beneath the outpouring, kept you from going back into the dark and the gray blankets. You shuddered from the cold and from the ache in your chest.

If things were ever going to change, they had to get better right now, right at this very moment. Whatever was ahead, it was unknown, but at least it wasn’t what was behind you.

Soldiers from the war often spoke of a phantom limb, pain existing from a loss of a thing that was no longer there. There was something within you that had been irrevocably severed but you still felt it. There but not there. Even the ghosts in your head never felt this close.

In fact, they had been remarkably silent for the past day and a half. There was space inside your head and for a moment you wished there wasn’t. At least with them, you carried someone with you. At least with them, you weren’t completely alone.

A glistening shadow emerged in the night. A long black car turned round the corner, its lights flashing like the eyes of a snake, and when it stopped by the phone booth, you opened the door and got in.

*~*~*

T H R E E W E E K S L A T E R

Breakfast with your parents was a silent affair.

Outside, birds chirped and the gardener snipped back any fly-away leaves, sculpting perfect hedges – startling in their uniformity. Down the long front lawn, a car rolled by, the tires treading loudly on the gravel as it went by the front iron gates. You waited, your breath in your chest, for your mother to stand up, sigh with the same intonation as a burst balloon, and slam the heavy curtains shut. Too much light was bad for your mother’s condition, the doctor claimed only ever in writing. What that condition was exactly was as much a mystery to you as why she let in so much of the outside world today while she was eating.

Your mother liked the dark, the sounds that muffled things made, and her rituals. Since returning home, you had been expected to respect and immediately become a part of those things and like muscle memory, you eased back into it. Tom had always been so appreciative of how quiet you were. He too didn’t like a lot of noise.

Lost in your thoughts, your hand slipped and the spoon swirling your morning tea clinked once against the side of the tea cup. Like the twitch of a tiger’s tail, your mother’s gaze snapped away from her bloody red grapefruit to you; things that made noise became the focus of her attention.

“Sit up straight, darling, you’re slouching.”

You adjusted in your seat and the dress she selected for you dug into your back.

“What are your plans for today?” she asked and delicately drank her tea, her head balanced on some imaginary level. She asked despite having arranged your tutor herself.

“Etiquette lessons until one,” you said, head down and staring at the single bit of dirt on your mother’s linen table runner. “Then classics study with Ms. Abigail, and finally practicing piano until dinner.”

“Good.” She frowned as her eyes roamed your face, as if picking out a prized cow from a herd. “We shall also have the stylist come by tomorrow. When’s the last time you got a haircut? Your split ends are ghastly.”

“Yes, Mother.” You knew not to eat until she was finished.

She drank from her cup again, elegantly pleased, and she nodded. “Isn’t it lovely that everyone is back home again? It’s almost as if you never left, dear.”

This was how it was going to be. Every day of your life. You were safe, high up in your ivory tower, away from everyone and everything. But that was a prison of its own. A prison you chose and designed yourself.

You purposefully dig the dress into your back. “Yes, Mother.”

Across the table, your father makes his presence known by flourishing the day’s paper and clearing his throat.

“Veronica,” he began, addressing your mother, in his usual bored drawl, “did you hear that that Catledge boy got his car blown up?”

The world lurched and for a moment you thought you were going to projectile vomit across the breakfast linens.

“That’s the second attempt on his life, isn’t it?” He asked of no one. “Quite shocked they managed to miss him again. Surprised the Catledges don’t just go back to Europe until this whole nasty business just blows over.”

You grabbed a fork to steady yourself, to feel something cold over your heated skin.

“What else does it say?” You blurted out. Too much and your chest would explode. “Do they have any suspects?”

Your father’s frown met you over his newspaper, as if just now realizing you were there. He opened his mouth to respond but your mother cut him off.

“Can we not talk about violence at the breakfast table? It gives me such a headache.” And there came the sigh that had been hanging over all morning. “Ah, dear Eustice, my pills, right away.”

The maid stationed at the door silently went out as the housekeeper, Mrs. Winters, came in. She bowed appropriately.

“Ma’am, there’s a doctor MacIntosh here to see you. Says you had an early morning appointment.”

Beleaguered and sighing, your mother nodded as your father folded up his newspaper, expectantly. He stood and helped your mother to her feet.

“Your mother is trying a new doctor,” he said again to no one, but you were the only other person in the room. “This one has some experimental treatment out of Australia.”

Your mouth dried up. No. There was no way. No possibility that it could be –

But that red hair was unfortunately unmistakable. Mac, the very same one as all those Catledge parties, with her tweed jacket, bowler’s cap, and brilliantly intelligent blue eyes. She shook hands with your father first, whose eyes nearly bugged out when he saw a woman in pants, before gently taking your mother’s limp rag of a hand and cupping it over her own.

“Good morning, sir, and ma’am. So sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. But I can assure you and your family that –,” As she spoke, she glanced, full of genuinity, to your father, your mother, and then to you. She stopped in the middle of her sentence, eyes wide as if she had just been slapped.

Your mother, irritated she stopped being the center of attention for a moment, stood up right and looked over her shoulder at you.

“Do you know my daughter, Dr. MacIntosh?”

You both responded; “No.” “A little.”

Mac recovered herself and her smile softened her shocked face. “Only a little. I think we saw each other at a social event, here or there. No matter. Let’s get you situated on the couch.”

You couldn’t stop staring. Mac was in your house. Mac who was with the Catledges’ frequently. Spoke to them. Probably had seen Brice since the car explosion –

Your heart nearly wrenched itself out of your chest and you stood up. All three sets of eyes fell on you and again your mother glared at you for the competition.

“Uh, can I help?” You asked. There came a flicker of understanding in Mac’s eyes, before she turned and patted your mother’s hand.

“What a kind daughter you have, ma’am. If it would be alright with you, I could use some assistance preparing your medicine.”

With a groan as though gripped in the throes of agony, your mother nodded and leaned back on the couch, her hand over her eyes and your father tutted, dabbing her brow with his napkin.

Glancing at the door, Mac picked up her case and motioned for you to follow. Astutely, she walked with ease and knowledge directly to the servants kitchen – a smaller room where servants were allowed to prepare their own meals and eat outside of on-duty hours.

You followed her, your heart in your throat, as she shut the door behind you.

How perfectly stupid you had been. Maybe she wanted you alone to yell at you because of what you had done to her friends. Maybe she wanted to accuse you again of murder, because clearly crime was something you were comfortable with and –

Mac dropped her bag and in two swift steps enveloped you in such a tight hug it made your knees buckle.

“Oh, sweet thing, I am so sorry.”

The heady combination of genuine compassion and sorrow obliterated any resistance you had left and your eyes filled with tears that burst out the corner of your eyes. You tightened your hold on her the harder you cried.

You had cried so much that first week. You laid in bed, curled up, sobbing, feeling as though you were going to choke on your heart. It wasn’t until days later you realized your mother hadn’t bothered you. No one, for better or worse, came in to check on you. It was the nicest thing your mother had ever done.

When you could literally feel your skin drying out from all the tears you shed, you had gone and asked your mother’s handmaid for a new dress and the next morning your mother arrived with an itinerary to keep you busy and that was the end of it. But this – Mac and her kindness and her compassion and her belief in you – this pushed you over the edge again.

“Mac – Oh, God, Mac – what have I done?”

“Shhh, none of it was your fault, lovey.” She petted the back of your head. “I heard all about it the next day and knew it was wrong. The things they accused you of, I knew you couldn’t do it.”

“He didn’t even press charges, Mac!” You sobbed into her shoulder. “Why would he do that if he b-b-believed them?”

Mac tutted and pulled back, offering you a handkerchief from her pocket. She patted your cheek, her blue eyes soft, as you wiped your eyes. “I think the answer to that is a bit more complicated than you might think.”

Your heart dropped, the idea too ridiculously painful to contemplate, but so wonderful you thought you might burst out of your lungs. In your emotional state, the spirits swooped in, chattering and yelling. They had come back full force in the past few days, and you hadn’t even left the room until your mother’s attendant came back with new gloves – the old ones were unwearable, according to your mother. The force by which they pounced made you dizzy and Mac, noticing you swaying on your feet, took you by the shoulder and had you sit at the small wooden table.

“How – how is he, Mac?” You sniffed, shoving off the dizzy spell as Mac got you some water from the tap.

Her face fell, worry shifting to something deeper. “Not good, darling. Not good. Last week I got a call from George, asking if I’d come do a wellness check on him, but when I got there, he refused to see anyone. After that, no one’s been around at all, to see any of them. You drive by, and it sometimes looks like no one lives there anymore. I’ve tried to share ‘round to the gossips that it’s just because of the second attempt on his life, that they’re closing ranks for safety, but . . .”

She returned and handed you the glass. The water looked slippery and thick. You set it down, swallowing dry air in the back of your throat. She sat across from you and rubbed her eyes with her fingers.

“I know all of that was cooked up by that weaslly little Crock. He’s always been a dirty brown-noser–,”

“Mac!”

“Well, it’s true! But, darling, I really must know,” she leaned forward and took you by the hands, “are you really married to that man, Tom?”

You swallowed, then nodded, then shook your head. “I was. My parents and their very expensive lawyer managed to annul the marriage without his signature last week. But it wasn’t difficult, given they could not find any evidence that the marriage happened in the first place.”

“But it was in the Hall of Records.”

“But no license. Nothing with his signature or mine on it.” You shrugged, wiping your eyes with the back of our hand. “I suppose someone recorded it, but apparently it didn’t hold up to legal snuff. It doesn’t matter anyway. Brice thinks my husband and I tried to swindle him.”

Mac sat back, her eyes narrowing. “Does Brice know you’re here? That you’ve left Tom?”

You shrugged again and sniffed. “I can’t imagine he would. I never told him about my parents, who they were. For all he knows, we’re blowing his family money on even more gambling. Besides, I don’t know what he would do if he did know, that I was here.”

She watched you, a frown on her face smeared between pity and sorrow. “Like I said, I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

She stood and began to take several vials out of her bag. She traded the liquid back and forth between them before shaking one of them and handing the vial to you.

“Now, give this to your mother three times a day. Should help with the headaches, numbness, and malaise.”

You held it up to the light. “What is it?”

Mac grinned subtly. “Brand new regiment called a placebo.”

You laughed, the sound wet, despite your eyes being dry. She grinned gently, her blue eyes going soft again, as she put a hand on your cheek.

You could almost hear the music, taste the sweet drink on your tongue, feel the rush of bodies on the dancefloor the night of the fundraiser in the garden. You and Mac had laughed for what felt like hours and there was something soothing having her touch you, stand before you, knowing it was all real and not some beautiful dream. You closed your eyes and leaned into her palm.

“Don’t give up, darling.” She said softly, fiercely. “It’s not all lost. He’s grieving because he’s been lied to – they all are – but not by you. He doesn’t want you to give up on him, I know it.”

“Mac, I broke his heart,” you cried, your eyes wet again. “I did the one thing he swore would never happen again.”

“What happened between you two, it takes two people.” Your heart swelled and your eyes opened. She smiled again. “He doesn’t care about the past. Only the future. Only one with you in it.”

“So what do I do, Mac?” You gasped, pleading. The hand that held the tissue shook. “How do I change things?”

“You fight, dear girl. You fight.”

*~*~*

You watched Mac’s car drive away down the lane from your window. The instant she was gone, you yanked off your gloves and strode towards your bed where the doctor’s handkerchief laid. You snatched it up and the immediate force of the psychic connection brought you to your knees. You gasped at the pain of the images rippling through your skull.

Mac picking up groceries from the local boy at her back door.

Mac drinking something of lemon and vodka.

Mac touching the face of a beautiful girl across from her in a dark club.

“No–,” you snarled, clenching the cloth in your hands tighter. “No–,”

Mac blotting the skin of a dying man in his elegant bedclothes.

Mac wiping her mouth after a meal at a hotel on the edge of the ocean.

Mac sitting –

You ground your teeth as you grasped the memories with an iron fist and pulled them back from your skull. They held on in strands, memories and sensations and feelings all rushing to drive a wedge between you and sanity the longer you held onto the cloth.

“NO!”

Your grip slipped and the pain knocked you onto your back.

They had all come true. It was three in the morning on day three of the deluge when you realized every image you had seen the morning on the train platform had come to pass. And they had all involved moments with you and Brice. They had all come to pass. All, except for one.

Mac’s memories were half-formed now, stifled, as they tried to cram their way in. The spirits shuddered and groaned around you, shrieking above the gloom, desperate to be heard.

You focused on one voice, a single voice – a single smell you inhaled on the front steps of a beautiful mansion. In front of a beautiful man.

Lords of England. Cigars. Whiskey. An elegant glass.

You clawed into that memory like it was a lifeline.

Music, then. Soft music played to a woman who meant a great deal to the smoker. A man who by conflicting accounts was either a great man or a great father but he was not both, but still he lingered. Still he watched out for those who he loved – and you knew them – yes, you know his son –

Gasping, head feeling like it was about to split open, slowly you sat up, the handkerchief still clutched in your fist.

The roar of memories slowed as you concentrated on one singular sensation; the Lords of England smoke.

And then a memory of your own.

Soft, brown eyes. A drop of curly hair across a wide brow. A smile. God, a smile that made you light up.

An anchor. Amidst the chaos and the noise and the pain, you had found an anchor.

With a grin, your chest still heaving and your head spinning, you looked down at your hand. Still you held Mac’s handkerchief. There was some noise, yes, but now you could watch her go about her day as though you stood just behind her. Call to you any memory she made while she kept this bit of cloth on her person.

The spirits were quiet, subdued into control. A river running in the back of your mind. You could pay attention to it or not if you wished.

Swallowing, you stood up and got water from the pitcher. Drinking slowly, you checked the locks on your bedroom door again.

With a sigh you tossed the handkerchief on the bed and sat at your desk while you finished your water. When the sweat had cooled, you stood up and prepared yourself for the dark wave to come crashing down. And you would do it, time and time again until you no longer had to drag yourself out.

This time would be different. This time you would practice and practice until you no longer drowned beneath the weight of your gift.

Because you had an anchor.

Because you had him.

Your fingers flinched as you reached out.

Again.

#brice catledge #brice catledge x reader #brice catledge/reader #brice catledge x you #brice catledge/you #hamish linklater #magic in the moonlight

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