Chapter Nineteen

Edward Leland approached the door.

His father had taught him many things as a child, and one of his most important lessons was this: every man should have a private place in their house. A space that was solely theirs, in which the contents of their hearts could be hung up on open display.

And this was his.

He unlocked the door and stepped forward into the dark. The room was large and almost entirely empty. He stood a little way past the threshold. The light from the corridor behind cast his shadow over the polished wooden floor but failed to reach the blackness at the far end. There was a window there, but it was boarded over with planks. It had been a long time since this room had seen daylight.

Almost swallowed by the dark, a large plasma screen was mounted about halfway along the wall, surrounded on either side by rows of shelves. The shelves contained his personal collection, amassed over many years. It spanned decades and was probably the largest of its particular kind in the world. There were old reels of film here; spools of slides; VHS tapes; CDs and DVDs in clear plastic cases. The footage they contained had been gathered from war zones and security cameras and police lockers.

And some of it, he had created himself.

He closed the door behind him. The room became black, and he stood still for a few seconds, enjoying the dark and the silence. The sensation was like being in a void. Closing his eyes made no difference, and his body felt weightless and unreal, more spirit than flesh. He walked across, his shoes tapping on the floor, taking precisely measured steps that left him close enough to the screen that, when he reached down, his hand found the controller on the floor by his feet.

A press of one soft button and the screen came to life.

He put the controller down again, turned around, and walked toward the center of the room. The footage behind him was silent and grainy, but bright enough to cast a deformed shadow against the opposite wall. He stopped in the center, then turned to face the screen. Flickering light played over his face, as though the images were being projected directly onto his skin. In his head—either despite the quiet or because of it—Leland imagined he could hear the same rattle of old film that sometimes accompanied the nightmare about Nathaniel.

After a moment, he held his left hand up before him, then reached forward with his right, turning it at the elbow, as though to cup a ghost standing before him. He took a long, slow breath. And then he moved.

Left foot stepping a short, elegant distance forward.

Right following it, but out to the side.

Left sliding in to join the right.

In the absence of music to guide him, he counted the beats in his head. One, two, three. Then he switched his weight, sliding his right foot back and reversing the process—one, two, three—his body moving gently up and down with the motion, keeping his elbows up and maintaining the frame that held his invisible partner.

He had learned to dance when he was young. Due to Giles Leland's wealth and standing—the circles he moved in—it was something that had been expected of Edward, alongside the usual piano lessons, tutorials on the correct use of cutlery, and all those other matters of meaningless social etiquette. He remembered the childhood sessions with the private tutors Giles Leland had paid for. The women who had avoided his gaze and always felt stiff in his arms, as though he frightened them in some way.

The angels he had danced with in the years since.

But mostly, he danced alone.

Left foot forward again.

He kept the plasma screen as his line of focus for several repetitions, and then began waltzing slowly and methodically around the empty room, his feet sweeping over the floor, the light from the screen flickering across him.

One, two, three.

And then, as he turns once more, the darkness of the room swirls into ribbons of golden light, and he feels a presence in his arms.

It is July 3, 1976.

Edward Leland is dancing in the gilded ballroom of a hotel. It is a random event in the social calendar, held because it is always held, but it is attended by the kind of politicians, businessmen, and low-ranking royalty that it pays to share space with. The chandeliers above are bright and glittery, and the air is filled with music and the tinkle of crystal glasses. Around him, a sea of black suits and expensive gowns.

One, two, three.

Or at least that's the idea. Except that the woman he is dancing with—a rather plain woman named Eleanor—cannot dance. She keeps misplacing her feet, and he isn't sure whether that's from a lack of training, too much champagne, or a combination of both. She has been displaying an interest in him that, at least right now, is not reciprocated, but when she asked to dance he found himself unable to say no.

One, two—

"Ow," Eleanor says.

He has trodden on her toe. They pause for a moment, then she pats him reassuringly on the arm, as though it is he who made the mistake. A few seconds later, they resume, falling back into synch with the men and women dancing more effortlessly around them.

"Are you okay?" she says.

"Of course."

"You seem distracted."

"Not at all."

He is distracted though. As they dance—the one, two, three in his head now also a silent, teeth-gritted countdown to Eleanor's next misstep—he is looking around the room and scanning the crowd.

Searching for the other reason he is here tonight.

Charlotte Mary Cooper.

The first time Leland had seen her was at a black-tie dinner. Charlotte had been in her early twenties at the time. She had arrived wearing an elegant red dress in which she seemed slightly ill at ease, as though she had not yet grown fully into her skin. But there had also been a confidence that belied her years and lack of social polish, and it was that, along with the more obvious fact of her beauty, that had quietly bewitched every man at the table that night. Leland had not spoken to her, but he had been unable to take his eyes off her. And as he had stared at her, he had felt something click into place inside him.

Charlotte Mary Cooper didn't know it yet, but she belonged to him.

In the weeks that followed, Leland had courted her patiently and casually. There was no need to hurry. Brief interactions; occasional conversations. When something was inevitable, such approaches were more than sufficient. Even so, Leland had fallen more deeply in love with her each time they met, and although he registered her apparent indifference—the way she might be looking over his shoulder when he spoke; the slight disdain in her voice when she replied—it was of no importance to him. What was meant to be was meant to be. Charlotte Mary Cooper was meant to be his, and so she would be.

As God has written.

And now he sees her.

Charlotte is on the far side of the room, not dancing but standing by one of the buffet tables, a glass of champagne pressed to her chest. By chance, she is wearing the same red dress as the first time he saw her, and she glows so brightly that it seems impossible it took him so long to spot her.

She throws her head back in laughter at something someone has said—

One, two, three.

—and then she is away to one side of him, out of sight now.

He tenses slightly. She has never responded to him like that.

Who is she talking to?

One, two, three.

He finds himself resenting Eleanor's hands on him now, not just because she is not Charlotte, but because it feels as though she is leading him away—holding him back—and he has to resist the urge to turn his head and stare across the room.

One, two, three.

And then there Charlotte is again.

She is still laughing. Beside her is a handsome, smartly dressed man, who is leaning in closer to her than is appropriate, smiling at the reception his remark has received. Leland's gaze moves to the man's face—and then he freezes.

Because even after all these years, he recognizes his brother.

"Ow!"

Leland releases his grip on Eleanor, and the two of them come to a halt in the middle of the room. The sea of dancers continues to swirl around them, obscuring his view of Charlotte and Alan. But Leland can sense the two of them over there, and for a moment he feels as powerless as he did as a child, watching Alan disobey their father and disappear down that corridor.

Eleanor is looking at him.

"I apologize," he says.

"It's all right." She hesitates. "Maybe we should get a drink?"

Leland considers it. He can feel fury building in him.

"Yes," he says. "I think so."

He takes Eleanor home with him that night but feels absent during the sex and then lies awake in the darkness afterward. She snores gently. It feels out of place having her beside him in the bed, to the point that he has to keep reminding himself of her name. It is as though he has woken up in a place he doesn't recognize and which he has no recollection of arriving at.

Something has gone wrong.

For a while, the sight of Alan—rich, successful, and dressed to the nines in finery—is impossible for him to process. It makes no sense. Alan was destined for nothing; Edward for everything. The world has tilted off its axis somehow, and now everything is crooked and sliding. Alan had no business being there at all—and especially no right to be talking to the woman who belonged to Leland. And yet there he had been. And there had been Charlotte, laughing with pleasure at his joke.

Leland rolls onto his side.

It is unacceptable.

It is wrong.

And it is in the early hours of the next morning that the only possible explanation for this wrongness occurs to him. The understanding makes him shiver. He remembers the last time he saw his brother.

You can't do this.

It's not allowed.

And yet Alan had. He had gone into their father's study and taken his sacred notebook. In doing so, he had stolen teachings and revelations that belonged to Leland by right. And while the thought is almost too abhorrent to comprehend, he realizes now that a man prepared to transgress so shamelessly in one way is surely capable of doing so in others too.

First against his father.

And then against God himself.

It is October 6, 2017, again.

Leland turned and stopped.

Lost in his memories, he had not noticed the slight change in the light. The door at the far end of the room was open now, and Banyard was standing there, waiting patiently. The man's face was illuminated by the images flashing across the screen on the wall. The footage was an old black-and-white recording, plagued by static, but that was standard for the quality of home video available when it had been filmed, and the quality was still good enough to see what was happening to the woman there.

Leland maintained his frame, his arms extended.

"Yes?"

Banyard remained impassive. "He has just left, sir."

One of Leland's lawyers.

"And what did he have to say?"

"He can arrange the withdrawal of the funds you requested, but for such an amount, it will be tomorrow afternoon."

It never ceased to surprise Leland how cautious these people could be. They had their checks and their procedures to follow, of course, but the money was such a small amount—next to nothing in the grand scheme of things.

In fact, he had almost felt embarrassed for Christopher Shaw when the boy had named his price for the book. On the other hand, he supposed that made Shaw clever. A reasonable offer was likely to be accepted quickly. And, of course, money had volume. Leland knew from experience that the amount Shaw had requested was the approximate limit of what could be packed into a large briefcase. Bank transfers left tracks and traces, after all; Shaw wanted to be able to sell the book and disappear.

But Shaw did not know the true nature of the transaction. He had no understanding of what had gone wrong.

And no idea what was necessary to put it right.

"That will be fine," Leland said. "Will you take care of the other matter?"

"Of course, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Banyard. Please close the door on your way out."

The man gave a curt nod and did so.

One, two, three.

With a thrill running through him, Leland began dancing again. And as he continued to waltz around the empty room, bathed in the flickering light of the handheld atrocities playing out on the screen, his arms no longer seemed quite as empty as they had before.

It felt more than ever like a ghost was there dancing with him.