Page 18 of Grave Expectations
"Well?" Gus prompted. "What did she say?"
"Gus," Seth hissed. "That's private."
"I was askin' about the un-private bits."
"She spoke about the amber pendant," I told them. "She said I should wear it at all times." I mentioned how she'd commissioned it, and why, and how to release the imp from the amber. "The words must be spoken in French while I wear it."
Lincoln withdrew his hand from mine. "The creature sounds too unpredictable. We can't risk it escaping."
"She wanted me to steal it back if you didn't return it to me."
He refilled my teacup and handed it to me. "Research it further. There might be something in the library."
"You've read every book in the library and you have a fantastic memory. Do you recall reading about an imp?"
If he heard the challenge in my voice, he gave no indication. "All sorts of creatures are mentioned, but nothing trapped in amber. Perhaps that's a new technique."
"Very well, I'll see what I can find." I didn't tell him that I would have it back, one way or another. If my mother thought it important then I would wear it. I didn't want to argue with Lincoln. Not when everything was so lovely between us.
Lincoln finally gavein and allowed me to go to the prison with him after I caught him at a rare weak moment—he was in the middle of kissing me.
With my back to his door, his hands on my waist, I gently pushed him away and simply told him I was going too. With a resigned sigh, he said, "I suspected as much."
What followed was a list of rules, most of them boiling down to staying vigilant and staying close to him. I did as told because his commands were entirely sensible—and he said please.
The entrance gate of Surrey House of Correction rose out of the landscape like a grim, austere medieval castle presiding over its subjects. Lincoln and I were shown into the governor's office in the heart of the complex. The prison was designed like an octopus with four tentacles; the central office windows overlooked each yard between the tentacles. A smattering of prisoners huddled in the corners out of the wind, but otherwise the yards were barren.
"He's in the infirmary," Governor Crease said upon our inquiry. "You can't visit him." He was a tall, imposing man with impressive muttonchops and moustache but no beard. Small, round eyes peered back at us with intense focus that seemed to be searching our souls for our crimes.
Lincoln passed a fat envelope across the desk. Crease peered inside and, without so much as a blink, opened the top drawer of his desk and dropped it inside. He locked the drawer with a key that he slipped into his watch pocket.
"I'll have one of the guards escort you."
A few minutes later we were shown into another building that reminded me of the wards at the Bedlam asylum. Men dressed in shapeless, drab prison garb lay on beds divided into two rows. There were no blankets to cover them and no nurses to tend to them. Some watched us warily, but others were either asleep or too sick to open their eyes.
Only one guard stood at the door. He directed us to the bed three down on the left. It took me a moment to recognize the figure lying there, curled over and clutching his stomach. Holloway was so changed. He'd lost weight and the usually neat man had grown a patchy beard. Without Macassar oil, his hair hung loose and lank past his nape. The blue spidery veins on his closed eyelids stood out alarmingly against pale, glistening skin.
"Holloway," Lincoln said. "Are you awake?"
The man I'd affectionately called Father for thirteen years, and less affectionately for another five, cracked open his eyes. Whatever ailed him clearly didn't affect his mind because he took us both in then grunted.
"The devil child." His voice was as fragile as the rest of him. "Come to take me to the pits of hell?"
"You're not dead yet," I said, feeling bold now that I saw how sick he was. I thought I'd feel anger and hatred, but I felt neither of those. Indeed, I felt nothing for him except a small kernel of nostalgia that took little effort to quash.
"What do you want?"
The prisoner in the next bed began coughing uncontrollably. The warden and other prisoners took no notice.
"Sign these papers." Lincoln produced a folded document from his inside jacket pocket. He'd come prepared.
"What papers?" Holloway asked.
"Charlie is going to wed."
Holloway pushed himself up on his elbow with effort. I stepped forward to help him, but he flinched and gave me a look of such horror that I hung back. "She needs my consent." He chuckled and lay down again. "How ironic."
"Sign it," I said, "and I will be out of your way forever. You'll never have to see me again."
