ES Chapter 2

'What does that mean.'

'It has taken that body—so does that mean Cyrix Etheldore, the body's rightful owner, can never come back?'

'Does that even make sense.'

The evil spirit knew perfectly well the body had a rightful owner. Yet it had the gall to claim the man’s flesh as its own.

She did not know the full picture—why the evil spirit had circled Cyrix Etheldore, what it intended now that it had seized his body—but there was one thing she could state plainly.

This made no sense whatsoever. A wickedness that should never have been permitted to take place.

Ayesha’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

"Leave that body. Right now."

"Why should I? I've been waiting for today a very long time."

The sickroom fire had been stoked hard—a patient's room, the heat kept close to suffocating. And yet Ayesha felt a chill that had no business being there. Cold sweat ran the full length of her spine, a single, slow line.

She could not make herself approach the evil spirit. She could not make herself turn and run. She stood where she was and breathed in shallow catches against the air that kept locking in her throat.

She had told it to leave that body. Boldly enough, she had said it. She had no idea whatsoever how one actually went about removing an evil spirit.

'What do I do?'

'What am I even supposed to do now?'

Because Cyrix's trust in her had been unquestioning and unwavering, Ayesha had never been able to bring herself to tell him the truth.

That she was not a medium.

And she had not believed, either. Not truly. That the day would actually come when Cyrix Etheldore had his body taken from him by an evil spirit.

She had come here posing as a medium, to dig an interesting scoop out of the secretive rumors surrounding House Etheldore. That was all she was. A reporter for a third-rate magazine.

1. The Curse of House Etheldore

"Ayesha, have you ever heard of the tragedy of House Etheldore?"

It was the most sluggish hour after a meal. She had been at her desk, a blank page spread out in front of her, head drooping toward a doze—and the editor had appeared beside her without warning.

"Eth— House Etheldore?"

She hauled herself upright, rummaging through what memory she had.

"Isn't that the family with royal blood from some old dynasty mixed in?"

"That's right. A long time ago now, but they're a distinguished family with the bloodline of a royal house."

"And?"

"There's a very interesting story attached to that family."

"You said 'tragedy.'"

"To that family, it's a tragedy. To us, it's interesting material."

The editor shrugged. Ayesha thought for a moment. Her lips pressed neatly together. She nodded.

'From the perspective of a magazine that made its living selling other people's circumstances—fair enough. The more tragic the story, and the more sordid, the more an article was worth.'

"Ayesha, do you believe in God?"

The topic veered sideways without warning. Ayesha tilted her head.

"God? No."

"Why not?"

"I've never seen one. I only believe in what I've seen with my own eyes."

A short, dry sound escaped the editor.

"Ayesha. Do you know what war caused the most casualties in recorded history?"

"Religious wars. Yes."

"Countless people fought and lost their lives over God. But if God doesn't exist—what on earth did those people sacrifice themselves for?"

"For someone's advancement and profit, using God as the means. God is something human desire created. Before humans existed, there was no God."

"Well, well. I'd no idea our young Miss Journalist was such an uncompromising atheist. Unexpected—but thinking about it, perhaps just as well. At least you won't scare yourself into bolting before you've even started."

Ayesha looked away from him for a moment, her mouth giving its own brief opinion.

'What on earth kind of story required the phrase 'scare yourself into bolting before you've even started'?

And moreover—she went out and found material and filed her copy diligently. The implication was simply rude.'

Ayesha brought the conversation back.

"But you said this was about the Etheldore family. Why did it suddenly turn to God?"

"Because there's a rumor that the tragedy of that family is down to a curse from God."

'A divine curse.'

'Something that belonged in fiction. Not in life.'

But she couldn't let that show in front of the editor—whatever her expression might cost her in terms of where the conversation went next. Instead of asking what on earth that was supposed to mean, she kept pulling the thread forward.

"What sort of curse?"

"Ayesha, how much do you know about the current head of House Etheldore?"

"Nothing at all."

"You must have seen or heard something."

"I did read a piece in the papers recently—that the son had taken over the family. Now that I think about it, it passed very quietly. Usually when an inheritance of that size changes hands there's all manner of noise from siblings fighting over it, but the Etheldore household—"

The young lord of House Etheldore, Cyrix Etheldore, was an only child. There were no brothers or sisters to fight over what was at stake.

"That family is famous for having very few children. Daughter or son—generation after generation, one child, and the succession passes to them alone. No estate dispute, and that enormous fortune comes down intact without being dispersed."

"True."

"Now then—the new lord of Etheldore can't be more than his mid-twenties at most. Which means the former lord would be in his fifties at best."

The editor folded his fingers to count.

"Past the recklessness of youth, not yet sunk into the inertia of old age—with precisely the right accumulated experience and energy to run a family and govern an estate. His absolute prime. And yet he handed that position over to a son barely a few years into adulthood, and just like that, vanished from the historical record entirely."

"And?"

"Ayesha—doesn't it strike you as strange? A man in his vigorous fifties, transferring the family to his child early and stepping aside?"

Well. Strange was not a thought she had had. More precisely: she hadn't had the time for it.

House Etheldore had always been famous for exactly this closed quality—rarely showing itself publicly despite its prominence, little known because of it. They had existed mysteriously for a long time, and the mystery had, by now, become its own kind of inertia. What could some third party say, knowing so little about them? People simply read the short newspaper articles when they appeared and moved on. Where the Etheldore household was concerned, that was how everyone in the world conducted themselves.

"I don't know. Do you have some inside information?"

"Something I came across by chance. Apparently there's no one in that family who lives a normal long life. They either die young—or if they manage to live any longer, every one of them goes mad."

Ayesha stared at him.

"They go mad?"

"Yes. Hearing that, something fell into place for me. The former lord didn't want to pass the family on early. He had no choice. He wasn't sound enough in mind to lead the family and govern the estate."

"...Are you saying there's a hereditary mental illness that runs through the Etheldore line? But I'm not sure what that has to do with a curse from God."

"Finding that out is your job now, Ayesha."

Ayesha said nothing.

'Was he seriously asking her to infiltrate that manor?'

'And by what means, exactly—given how famously closed-off they were?'

"Through various channels, I've heard the family has been quietly looking for a gifted medium."

"A medium?"

This was the problem with a third-rate magazine that scraped its living from sensational material designed to excite the most basic instincts. It kept bringing her things like this.

And yet—if she was asked why she'd taken the job—it was simply the only magazine that had hired her as a journalist.

"Doesn't this feel like a fine opportunity to get close to the Etheldore household?"

"So you're telling me to pretend I can see ghosts? I don't even believe in ghosts."

She didn't believe in God, so there was no reason she would believe in ghosts. The editor was unmoved.

"If it gets us a scoop, we should be prepared to pretend to be possessed by ghosts, not just to see them."

He put his hand to her back and pushed.

"Go on then."

The impoverished little magazine ordered Ayesha on a long assignment, then cited every possible excuse to slash the travel expenses to almost nothing. Pressing for more was out of the question—even she could see the company's finances were too precarious. Covering the shortfall herself was equally impossible: as a junior reporter barely into her first year, her pockets had nothing in them worth speaking of.

In the end, Ayesha put her head down and pushed through it: squeezing into a narrow shared carriage to be jolted by the road all day, snatching a few hours of sleep in some dim, dilapidated roadside inn once night fell—all because the letter coordinating her arrival with the Etheldore household had set a deadline so tight it left no room for even the slightest delay.