The next day, Starling was still mulling over how she would bring this about when a serendipitous opportunity presented itself. Dorcas still refused to go anywhere near Jonathan Alleyn, so Starling continued to see to his rooms. The day had dawned overcast, and drizzly. Viewed from the upper storey of the house, the city and the river valley were cloaked in mist and murk. Still, Starling saw Jonathan flinch as she threw open his shutters. He was tall and lean; long cheekbones in a fox-like face with a pointed nose and an angular jaw; long fingers, furrows across his forehead. He had dark brows above dark, watchful eyes, and his hair, greasy and knotted, grew in unkempt waves down to his shoulders. He had slept in his chair again, fully clothed, and he hadn’t shaved for days. There was a letter in his hand. One of Alice’s, Starling guessed at once. Her heart gave a funny little jump in her chest. The paper was old and rumpled, torn at the edges. He’d been sleeping with it clasped to his chest, as if for comfort. Beg her all you want, Starling thought. It’s too late. She can’t forgive you now, and neither will I. Jonathan stared at her for a minute in apparent confusion, and she braced herself, but then his head fell back against the chair, and his eyes slid away, fixing on the window glass.
‘Get out. Leave me be,’ he murmured.
‘Your breakfast is on the table behind you,’ said Starling, knowing he would not touch it. He rarely ate anything before noon, sometimes nothing until dark fell. Sometimes nothing at all, all day.
‘Leave me be, I said.’ His voice was cracked and hollow.
Starling drifted away from him to the fireplace. She swept out the cold ashes, laid in kindling and fresh coals, and relit it. There was a smashed glass on the floor by his desk, and she swept that up too, and only realised, as she was ready to leave the room, how quiet and kind to him she was being. It’s the letter, she thought at once. When he took Alice’s letters out of whatever secret place he kept them, it was like some trace of her came into the room; some ghost of her came into Starling’s heart, laid soft fingers on the hurt and the anger, and gentled her. No. I will not be gentled. She ground her teeth together and called to mind the reason why Alice was not there herself, to make everyone more gentle: the fact that Alice was gone. The thought cut her, and reopened the wound from which her bitterness flowed. She turned and looked at the top of Jonathan’s head, just visible over the back of his chair. His arm had flopped to the side now; Alice’s letter dangled precariously from his fingertips. If he lets it drop, like something of no import, then I will kill him here and now. But Jonathan did not let the letter fall.
Starling took several slow steps towards him. She could tell from his breathing that he was drowsing again, and she listened for a while because there was something pleasing in the sound – its simple rhythm; its vulnerability. He murmured in his sleep, his voice deep and indistinct at first, then rising to sound pitiful, frightened, almost childlike. Cautiously, Starling moved to his side. His head had lolled forwards, chin to his chest. She knelt down to look into his face, and saw his eyeballs switching to and fro beneath the lids. There was a crease between his brows and his breathing was faster now, less even. He dreams. He dreams in fear. She found herself leaning closer and closer to his face, fascinated. His lips moved, not quite giving shape to the sounds in his throat. What do you see, Mr Alleyn? What do you see that frightens you so? He gave a low moan then, and his hands jerked up, clenching into fists. Alice’s letter was crumpled between his fingers, and Starling stared at it, wondering if she could prise it free without him realising. She reached for it, pinched it and pulled gently, but Jonathan held it fast. Holding her breath she pulled harder, but the paper would not come free.
‘No!’ Jonathan cried out, and Starling was on her feet and backing away from him in an instant. But he was sleeping still. ‘No,’ he said again, in that high, plaintive voice. ‘No, no, no… I never meant to. I have… I have…’ His eyes had flickered open a fraction, showing a ghastly sliver of white. His mouth moved constantly. ‘There is blood! There is blood…’ he muttered, and then moaned again, a sound of intense anguish.
‘Yes,’ Starling whispered, suddenly cold right through to her bones. ‘Yes, I know. There is blood on your hands.’ At the sound of her voice Jonathan flinched, and shifted in his chair. His eyes stilled, and he said nothing more. Sleep easy while you can, for I will find a way to prove your guilt.
It wasn’t the first time she’d heard Jonathan talk that way. Sometimes, when he’d been drinking or had one of his headaches, he seemed to fall into a kind of waking trance, and would speak to people who were not in the room, as though he heard questions in the empty air. A lot of what he said – most of it – made no sense at all. But sometimes he would say something chilling, something that reeked of guilt and violence; and when he did Starling was reminded of the moment her suspicions became certainty, after Jonathan came back from the war for the final time, in 1812. That was three years after Alice’s disappearance, and no one in the house at Box was allowed to say her name. Jonathan lay in bed for several weeks with his leg all bandaged and stinking, and would see nobody.
Starling was a servant in that house, nothing more; she had to adjust herself – her feelings and her behaviour. She could not just speak to Jonathan, as once she might. When she thought of the smooth, bright face she’d glimpsed when first she saw him, she could hardly believe that this ravaged, hollow-cheeked creature was the same man. Eventually she found a way into his room, and she was incautious, and hadn’t yet learnt to be wary of his rages. She rushed right up to him, took his hand unguardedly and begged to know if he’d had word from Alice, or planned to search for her now his leg was healed. Jonathan pulled his hand away and dealt her a blow across her face that laid her flat out on her back, dazed and stupid. He was calm as he did it, all empty-eyed and absent. From then on she knew she would have to be more subtle if she wanted to glean anything from him; she knew he was not the same man she had known, and she began to fear what he was capable of.
And then, one day not long after that, she took a jug of warm spiced milk to his room and found him panting and sweating at the pains in his head, pacing the room, gripping his skull with both hands and muttering a steady stream of nonsense. And she heard him say it. She heard it for the first time, and she turned as cold and unfeeling as ice, all over. The crash of the milk jug as it hit the floor brought another servant running, and brought Jonathan wheeling towards her, teeth bared in the incoherent fury of his suffering, and all dissolved into chaos and strife for a while. But she had heard it, clear as day. She had heard him say it. She is dead. Oh God, she is dead. Starling did not sleep that night – did not even close her eyes. The long, empty hours distilled all her fears and confusion into a cold, hard conviction. She knew that Jonathan Alleyn was her enemy.
From then on, she tormented him in any way she could. She found a thousand little ways in which to make him suffer, to madden him, to prevent his rest. For why should he rest, when she could not? Why should he rest, when Alice was stolen and gone? She worked to make him betray himself; she worked to make him confess, and unmask himself to the world. And when he did neither of these things she worked on, ever on, driving and provoking him. Years later, when he attempted to take his own life, she had the chance to let him die. She could have made an end to it, but when the moment came she saved him. She stopped him. Death would be a relief, after all – it would bring rest. And she would not let him rest.