A Curse of Ash and Iron

Prologue

1869 – Seven years earlier

Gray light filtered through the high windows of the third floor hall. Ben tiptoed across, though he really needn’t have bothered—the carpet was thick, the rain pounding, and the argument downstairs loud. He wasn’t exactly allowed on the third floor, but that had never stopped him before. Tiptoeing was just habit.

He pushed open one of the doors and peered inside. The only eyes that returned his gaze belonged to the collection of stuffed bears and porcelain dolls arranged around the small table in one corner of the nursery, in the middle of their perpetual tea party. They all seemed to give him the same accusatory stare, which, when combined with the dim light and the sounds of the storm, made him shiver. He never liked being alone with Ellie’s menagerie; he got the distinct feeling they moved on their own when he wasn’t looking, and talked about him behind his back.

Ben.

The whisper tickled the back of Ben’s neck, and at first he was afraid that one of the dolls had called. Then he realized it had come from behind him. He pulled his head from the nursery doorway and turned around. He didn’t see anyone, so who had called? A ghost, perhaps? A Fae spirit? Another shiver ran down his spine at the thought. No matter how many times his mother told him that bogeymen, ghosts, and fairies were only real in storybooks, he took no chances. He kept still as stone and waited to see if the voice would call again.

Ben. Over here.

Only his eyes moved, searching the gloom. Thunder rolled above his head, which did nothing to discourage the idea that something otherworldly called him. Then he spotted a small, pale hand emerging from the partially open attic door. One finger beckoned him forward. For a moment Ben was sure it was the hand of a ghost, and the look on his face must have given him away, because a familiar giggle snuck from behind the attic door.

Ellie! His shoulders slumped as the fright whooshed out of him. He tromped across the hall. What are you doing?

Hiding.

From what?

The sound of two women’s voices floated up the stairs, sounding like screech owls fighting over a squirrel. A baby’s cry mixed with the shouting—Ben’s little brother, Harry, not two years old, howling from his playpen. Ben had no idea what the argument was about; he had run as soon as the yelling started. This was not the first time he had heard his mother’s voice raised to the level of a train whistle. Yelling like that, in his experience, was usually followed by throwing things. He wanted to be well clear if she got her hands on one of the cast-iron frying pans.

Hiding sounded like a good idea.

The attic door swung open, and a small, dark-haired girl in a crisp and frilly blue dress appeared. She beckoned him again.

Come on, quick.

As soon as Ben came close enough, Ellie clamped her hand around his wrist and dragged him up the dusty stairs to the dustier attic. A candle sat in a silver candlestick at the top of the stairs, its light guiding them like a Christmas star. The rain was louder up here, pounding against the peaked roof, shutting out all other sounds. Ellie scooped up the candle, holding it at arm’s length so that the tiny pool of oily light fell over the silent specters of sheet-covered furniture, old steamer trunks, a wardrobe, and moldering dressmaker’s dummies.

Although it looked like a hodge-podge of junk, there was an order to everything that only Ben and Ellie understood. They had spent weeks quietly arranging the junk, choosing the best of the furniture and placing it in the center of the room, where they had made a clearing. It was lined with an old threadbare rug, the loveseat and chairs gathered around a chipped marble-top table. They spent many afternoons here, playing games and making up stories. The space was stifling in the summer and freezing in the winter, but it was theirs and theirs alone.

Ellie picked her way through the clutter, her feet finding the winding path that led between strategically placed items. She had to release him when they came to the place where the only way forward was to crawl beneath a stack of precariously arranged books piled atop an old ironing board that was laid across a gap between two trunks. Ellie had gotten the idea for the crawlspace after reading Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. She called it their rabbit hole.

They emerged in their little oasis, tucked away behind years of forgotten things, and Ellie set the candle on the table. Then she began pacing. There was only room for three or four good steps, but she took every inch of it, spinning on her heel to go back the way she had come.

Ellie, what is it? Ben flopped onto a moth-eaten armchair, chosen for its squashy, comfortable cushion. What’s wrong?

Ellie stopped pacing and looked at Ben. The flickering candlelight reflected her eyes, and Ben’s stomach flipped. She looked as if she would burst into tears at any moment, which frightened him. She didn’t cry often. Ben thought it was brave of her not to cry at the drop of a hat, like some girls did. Even though lately she had plenty of reason to cry, she hadn’t—at least not in front of him.

Are you missing her?

Ellie shook her head. I miss her every minute of every day. But that’s not it.

So, what then? Something your stepmother did? He stood up and slipped his hand behind her ear. I thought we had decided she’s a ridiculous troll. You are the princess of this house, and she can’t do anything about it.

When he pulled his hand out again, a penny had appeared in his fingers. The trick always made Ellie smile, even if she had figured out how it was done after only the fifth time he had performed it for her. But her face remained all downward lines, her worried gaze boring into him.

You’re my very best friend, aren’t you, Ben? she asked, as if the sun coming up tomorrow depended on his answer.

You know that I am. What kind of a silly question is that? Ben was confused and a little insulted. They had been best friends for years, even though Ellie’s governess, now her stepmother, often stated that it was inappropriate for a girl of Ellie’s status to fraternize with a common boy. That was part of the reason they had made their hiding place in the attic. Neither of them cared a whit about common or rich or any of it. They had both decided it was stupid to not talk to someone just because how much money they had in the bank or didn’t, or if they rode in a carriage or walked. Why was this coming up all of a sudden?

And you’ll be my friend always? No matter what happens?

Ben’s insides turned icy. Do I really need to say it?

Ellie’s eyes pleaded. Please.

Of course I’m your best friend. We’ll be friends until we’re old and gray and have no teeth left in our heads. It was a pledge they had made up years ago, repeated often and usually accompanied by giggling at the thought of the two of them in their old age, gumming their food while they sat in matching rocking chairs. Ben felt a smile creep onto his face, but there was no laughter from Ellie.

Promise me you’ll remember? She wrung her hands, then grabbed both of his and held on as if she were hanging from a cliff. Swear you’ll never, ever forget! Even if we live on opposite sides of the world, and don’t speak for years and years, promise you’ll still be my very best friend.

"Of course I won’t forget! Ellie, will you please tell me what is going on? Are you going somewhere?" The idea popped into his head that her stepmother and father had decided to send her away to some snooty boarding school far away where he would never see her. His insides quivered like cold gravy. He gripped Ellie with as much force as she gripped him, so that even a hurricane couldn’t tear them apart.

Thunder rolled again in the form of stomping footsteps below, followed by angry voices. You have been dismissed, and you will leave immediately. There was a dangerous edge to the unmistakable shriek of Ellie’s stepmother. If you do not leave I will call the police to have you bodily removed from my home. It’s time you learned to respect your betters.

You may have the power to toss me out, Olivia Banneker, but you will never be my better. Ben’s mother gave as well as she got when it came to attitude. Respect is earned, a lesson you should have taught yourself.

Ben could barely hear Olivia’s reply; it was so low it was almost a growl. "You will get your brat and leave my home this minute. And do not expect me to supply you with references to your next employer, you spiteful woman."

Oh, I’m spiteful, am I? Ben’s mother’s voice was just this side of shouting. "Don’t worry, I would never dream of asking you for anything. Ben! Ben, come here this minute! And you never, ever call my child a brat. He’s better behaved than half the ungrateful spawn of your so-called ‘better class’. I only wish I could take sweet Ellie with me, and away from this house."

Ben gasped as he realized what was happening. He gripped Ellie’s hand tighter and saw the tears begin to run down her cheeks. She had known, and that’s why she had dragged him to the attic.

Don’t answer, she said in a damp whisper. If they can’t find us, maybe they’ll give up looking and you can stay. You could live here.

It was a desperate wish. Ben’s mother would never give up, would never leave him behind, even if he begged her. And as much as he loved Ellie, he didn’t think he could bear to be separated from his mother, brother, and father. He would miss his home, so different from this big house full of fancy things. It was almost as much a home to him as his own little one in South Philadelphia, but only because of Ellie.

His mother called again, and it was all he could do not to return the call as he struggled between Ellie’s pleading face, and the automatic pull of his mother.

Benjamin Grimm, if you do not appear before me this very instant, you are in for the beating of your life!

Ben was not frightened by this threat; his mother was full of bluster but would never really beat him. At least, not terribly. But he would take the paddling, because he could not abandon Ellie.

The shouting came very close to the attic door, and it was Ellie’s turn to gasp.

We forgot to lock the door!

The knob rattled and the door flew back against the wall, banging louder than the thunder. Ben and Ellie turned their heads toward the sound and froze.

Ben, are you up here? Feet stomped up the stairs and across the attic’s bare floorboards. They came straight toward where the children hid, and too late both of them realized that the candle had betrayed them.

There you are! Didn’t you hear me calling you? Ben’s mother’s face floated out of the gloom. At any other time it would have been a huge laugh to see her trying to fit her adult shoulders through the child-sized space of the rabbit hole, but all amusement seemed to have been sucked from the world. Their safe place had been invaded. She stood, irritation etched on her face, but as she looked from one child’s face to the other, her anger fell apart.

I’m sorry, Ben. I don’t have any choice. She knelt beside the pair, her full skirt billowing around her. She looked at Ellie and stroked her hair, as if she were her own daughter. I am so sorry that we have to leave you.

But you… can’t go, you can’t. Ellie’s words came out between gulps of air as she fought the sobs that threatened to overcome her.

It’s not fair, I know. First your mother, and now us. But your father is still here for you, my love. You must be brave, now. Be brave and strong, and remember who you are.

She kissed Ellie on the forehead, and as she did she grabbed Ben’s hand and gently slid Ellie’s from its grasp.

No! Please don’t! Ellie cried. Please!

Ben tried to hold on, but his mother grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him toward her. He watched Ellie as his mother dragged him away, tears streaming down his own face.

Ben! Don’t forget your promise!

I won’t! Ellie! He struggled against his mother’s grip, but knew it was a pointless battle. She pushed him down and through the rabbit hole, into the darkness beyond. His best friend was gone, swallowed by the dusty attic clutter.

Chapter I

1876

If Benjamin Grimm’s short years working in the theater had taught him anything, it was that the stage was not all that different from reality. People played their parts in life, just like on stage, at least according to old Will Shakespeare. Pretending was something some people did all too well; like magicians, never revealing their secrets.

Ben had been working for the Walnut Street Theater for over two years, and yet everyone still treated him like a new apprentice. He had spent the entire afternoon rooting through the storage closet in the loft over the lobby, searching for a stupid hat that the Wardrobe Mistress had insisted, in no uncertain terms, existed. It wasn’t until he heard voices in the lobby below that he realized how late it was. He emerged from the closet, hot, coated with dust, and empty-handed. His heart plummeted when he saw the people milling about below.

Damn it, I’m trapped. The stage crew must never be seen, and if he left the loft now, that was a given. The official reason for such a silly rule was that it spoiled the illusion, but Ben thought it more likely that seeing the lowly stagehands would insult the delicate sensibilities of the fan-fluttering, top hat-wearing patrons. Ben snorted a laugh as he imagined himself strolling through the lobby in his braces and shirtsleeves, leaving a trail of dust. While the looks on their faces would be terrific for a good laugh, it wasn’t worth losing his job to see. At least, not today.

So Ben watched the crowd below, debating the best way to get out of his tricky situation.

When a girl he thought he knew entered with the rest of the audience for the evening performance, he leaned on the railing and stared, his crisis forgotten. He leaned over a little further and squinted, but the girl was too far away for him to be sure it was Eleanor Banneker. Memory, or maybe the flickering gas flames that lit the lobby, could be playing tricks with him. No, it was more than faulty recollection or bad illumination that caused him to doubt his eyes. The girl he watched from the shadows wore a lavender and green silk gown that hugged her frame, revealing the curves of a grown woman. It couldn’t be Ellie, then. She would have just turned seventeen, and it was impossible she would look like that.

Ben kept his gaze on the mystery woman and tried to remember how many years it had been since he had seen Ellie, using his fingers to count backward. He remembered the last time with absolute clarity. But time was being slippery with him and he couldn’t remember how old he had been then. Nine or ten? Did that make it six or seven years ago? He leaned over the rail as far as he dared to get a better look. If the stage manager caught him he would get a whipping, which was the price of working for his father.

The girl that might be Ellie turned away from him. Damn it. He still wasn’t certain, and now that the idea it was her had wormed its way into his head, it wouldn’t leave him alone. He dashed to the top of the steps that led to the loft, but she slipped inside the theater with the rest of the audience. The ushers closed the theater doors and Ben had his chance to escape. He raced backstage to his place at the ropes of the main curtain, and made it just in time, ignoring the scathing looks from the other stagehands. Fortunately, his father was in his own place on the far side of the stage, unable to witness Ben’s tardiness.

Ben tried to concentrate, but it was no use; his mind was full of Eleanor. His distraction caused him to run into the lead actress during the first scene change, and he almost missed his cue at the end of Act One. When intermission was nearly over, he peeked out from behind the curtain to try and get another look at his mystery girl.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Hey, Ben, the tapper whispered. Ben looked over his shoulder at a short, stocky man in his early twenties. Ronald, a fellow stagehand. What are you doing? Are you going to help me lift this fly or not? The backdrop weighs a ton, you know. I can’t do it by myself.

Ben waved him away. I’m busy. Go find Artie, he’ll help you.

Ron made an annoyed sound but cleared off. Ben returned to his people-watching. The audience trickled in, and Ben spied the girl in question on her way down the aisle, coming right toward him. His heart gave an unexpected leap and his throat went suddenly dry. It was definitely Ellie. She looked the part of the society girl she was born to be, lovely and graceful; certainly lovelier than the overdressed peacock beside her. Benjamin did a double take when he realized the peacock was Rebecca, Ellie’s stepsister.

Ben remembered little of Rebecca, except that she was a plump little mouse of a girl who rarely spoke. She was still on the plump side, and wore a pained, uncomfortable look along with her emerald evening gown, as if her corset was laced too tightly. The expression was one she had inherited from her mother—Ellie’s stepmother. The woman herself walked behind Ellie, shepherding the two girls down the aisle toward their seats.

Ben stifled a laugh. The old crow had seen the bad end of the years since they had last met, her hair streaked with gray and her skin sagging around the jaw and neck. But her eyes, cold as the Delaware in winter, were exactly as he remembered. He wondered if the second Mrs. Banneker could feel the heat of his glare.

The roar of applause jolted Ben out of his reverie. The lights lowered, he raised the curtain, and the second act began. In-between set changes, he dashed back to his place to look at Ellie. The performance ended, and Ben couldn’t let her go without one last look. He lowered the main curtain, apparently a bit too quickly for the lead actor.

Excuse me, but I was not finished with my curtain call! he shouted at Ben as he dashed toward the stage door. Ben tumbled out onto 9th Street and charged toward the corner. Breathing hard, he peeked around to Walnut Street and the theater’s entrance. A line of horse-drawn carriages waited by the curb, ready to take the audience members home, or to a late supper, or to various clubs to drink bourbon and gin. Ben reached into his pocket, his fingers finding a brass gear—his lucky talisman. He rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb, trying to calm the unexpected swell of conflicting emotions that seeing Ellie had stirred in him—curiosity, excitement, anticipation. Did she still love to sing and dance, or to read everything she could get her hands on? The space of the years between then and now called to Ben, begging to be filled.

He scanned the stream of bodies that emerged from the theater’s polished wooden doors and spilled onto the sidewalk. Ladies pulled their wraps snugly around their shoulders against the October chill, and men checked their pocket watches before buttoning up frockcoats and securing silk top hats. Ben shook his head—they looked like a bunch of overstuffed turkeys ready to roast. He had never been fond of fancy dress, not that he had the occasion or the means to wear any. It looked uncomfortable, and also like it would get dirty easily. Ben was nearly always dirty in some manner, with some speck on his shirt collar or grease beneath his fingernails from working or building something in his workshop.

Ellie, Rebecca, and Mrs. Banneker appeared on the sidewalk, and Ben had to remember to breathe. Ellie’s cloak covered her gown, but she stood tall, moving as if her feet barely touched the ground. She had always been graceful. Dancing lessons, insisted upon by her mother since she was young, had probably helped. Ben smiled as the younger version of the girl he saw before him appeared in his mind, twirling and curtseying in time to her governess’ tapping on the floor with a cane while Rebecca served as her dancing partner. He hadn’t been allowed to watch, of course, and Ellie’s governess would rather have set her hair on fire than let Ben stand in for Rebecca. But he had sneaked a peek now and again, just like was doing now.

Ellie looked over her shoulder in response to her stepmother’s call, and Ben got a glimpse of smooth, unblemished cheek and kind, soft eyes. Ben noticed it again, the same something he had seen in the lobby that made her appear older, more careworn. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he recognized it—he had seen the same look in his mother’s eyes once in a while, when she thought Ben wasn’t paying attention.

He wanted to call out to Ellie, to shout his joy and surprise over seeing her, but of course he could not. The social gap between them was too wide for sidewalk greetings outside the theater.

Where is Mr. Banneker this evening? one of the stuffed turkey-men asked Ellie’s stepmother. I’ve not seen him in months. Not working late on a Friday evening, is he? The banks are all closed! He chuckled at his own joke.

Mrs. Banneker stiffened beneath her fur wrap. He is on sabbatical in Paris, Mr. Van Wyck. I thought you knew? Then he’s taking some time along the French coast. We went there on our honeymoon and, ever since, he’s just loved France. The sea air is so good for him, and these city winters are so terrible. She twittered a girlish, high-pitched laugh. Ben fought the urge to vomit. The woman he remembered was neither stupid nor girlish. More like a demon stuffed into a dress.

He was so focused on Mrs. Banneker that he almost missed when Ellie spotted him. Her wide-eyed, puzzled expression shifted to recognition and surprise, and she moved half a step toward him, then stopped. She must have been thinking the same thing as Ben—that she could not just walk around the corner unescorted. But she held his gaze for moment and then glanced to her left and right. Turning herself away from the crowd, she pulled off one of her gloves and shoved it into her reticule. What in the world she was doing?

Excuse me, Ste… ma’am? I seem to have lost one of my gloves.

Mrs. Banneker turned away from Mr. Van Wyck and faced Ellie. Her face puckered for a split-second in irritation, smoothing quickly into a look of benevolence. Lost a glove, my—she swallowed, her lip twisting up as if she had tasted something bitter —dear?

Ellie’s smile never faltered. Yes. I’m such a goose. I must have dropped it inside. I’ll just go and look for it. I won’t be a moment.

She excused herself and walked into the theater, leaving her stepmother standing with her mouth open. Ben remained for a second longer before he realized what was happening and dashed back through the stage door.

Hey, Ben, where ya been? Ronald called out as Ben rushed by. And just where are you going? Just because your dad’s the stage manager doesn’t mean you get to slack off.

Benjamin ignored Ronald and dodged the obstacle course of the backstage area toward the curtain, nearly tripping on an overstuffed chair. The auditorium was empty. The footlights were dark, but the lights from the chandelier above the audience area glowed brightly, the crystal throwing rainbows around the room.

Ellie entered. She stopped for a moment, her eyes wary and her hand against her stomach as if she were holding in her breath.

Ellie? Ben called her. "Ellie Banneker?

Her shoulders relaxed and her breath came out in a whoosh. She paused for another breath before making her way down the center aisle toward Ben. The door closed behind her with a muffled thump, shutting out the murmurs of those who remained in the lobby. The theater dropped into an eerie quiet. Now that they were face-to-face, overwhelming self-consciousness replaced Benjamin’s excitement. He ran his sweaty palms through his hair, smoothing the runaway brown locks his mother would say needed trimming. He was suddenly aware of the way he was dressed—he looked like a ragamuffin compared to the upper-class men Ellie must be used to. Her chestnut hair shone in the light, her green eyes wary but bright. Ben stopped near the first row, a lump in his throat, hoping she wouldn’t notice the scuffed tops of his shoes and his frayed shirt cuffs, and let her approach him.

"Benjamin Grimm? It is you." Her smile widened, and it was as if the curtain had gone up in her eyes. The sadness Ben had seen before lifted, and she became a girl of seventeen. She reached out to him with her bare hand. His nervousness evaporated like morning fog. He wiped his hand on his pants and then grasped hers tightly, catching the slight scent of soap and rose water.

Ben had expected the soft hand of the daughter of a prominent banker; hands used to doing embroidery and playing the piano. But there were calluses on her palm, the nails short and ragged. Her skin was pink and chapped. His expression must have given away some of his surprise, because when he released her hand, Ellie tucked it into the folds of her skirt. I can’t believe that you… It’s been so long, Ben. You’ve grown.

The look in her eyes made Ben decide to keep quiet about her hands. He was glad she had come in to see him. Having spent years under her stepmother’s care, he had worried she might have turned into a snob. As have you, my lady. His grin was large as he bent over in an exaggerated bow.

Oh, please don’t. Ben, stop it this minute. Ellie put her hands to her blushing cheeks, as if trying to hold back her smile.

Ben stood, laughing, and thrust his hands in his pockets. I was hiding in the loft above the lobby and saw you come in tonight. I… didn’t recognize you at first. You’ve, uh, changed. It was his turn to blush again as he remembered what he had been thinking about her curves.

You’ve changed too. She squinted and looked closely