The Face in the House

41

Malcolm watched Poole work. Things were different since they learned about William's death, and Poole's involvement in it. Still, Malcolm found himself in the laboratory, with the butler that wasn't a butler, the man that wasn't a man.

Things were different, but in a lot of ways, nothing had changed.

The rhythm of Malcolm's heart still sped up when Poole was near. His eyes still followed him as he moved lithely, almost floated, throughout the lab. His hands still stubbornly reached out to touch his arm, to pull him close.

Poole was laser-focused on his work, preparing the lab for the very thing Malcolm returned to Thornewood to do. They were going to save Owen. They were going to bring him back. The reminder of Poole's past failings nagged at the forefront of his mind.

He had killed William Allan, his partner, his friend, his lover. Poole hadn't been able to bring him back. What made him so sure this would work for Owen?

All these weeks of experimenting, of research, of preparation . . . and what if none of it really mattered? What if Poole's science or magic or whatever combination he used was a fool's errand against a force much bigger than any of them? Poole spent hundreds of years trying to bend this force to his will, and there was still so much about it that he couldn't explain . . .

It was bad enough that this was their only option. He couldn't force Owen to stay at the house, no matter how much Malcolm wanted to. What was worse, was that when Malcolm looked at Poole, despite all the evidence against it, he trusted him.

But there were things he needed to know.

"What happened to the maid?" Malcolm said.

Poole looked up at him, startled by the suddenness of the question.

"Miss Isabelle," Poole said, grimacing. "She was my first human success."

"You mean, you brought her back? Like you . . . like Owen?" Malcolm asked.

"Precisely," Poole continued. "Isabelle died of the same toxic fumes that killed William that night. When I discovered her hiding place, she had been dead for hours. I'd been working over William's corpse, trying desperately to free his soul, to bring him back to me, but . . ."

"It didn't work," Malcolm whispered.

Poole nodded. "To this day, I still don't know what I did wrong . . . when I discovered Isabelle's corpse, I did the same procedure on her, almost as an afterthought."

"And she came back?"

"Yes. We never spoke of it. She was suspicious of me, and avoided me whenever she could. I didn't realize until many, many years later when she began to fade into the shadows, that she never knew."

"She . . . didn't know?" Malcolm was lost.

"She didn't know she had died. She lived like she always had. She went through the motions of her life like a ghost in a storybook. It is . . . one of my many regrets."

They lapsed into a heavy silence, before Poole continued.

"That was why I . . . stole from William's family. I had to keep the house, to protect Isabelle. She was bound to the house, she physically couldn't leave it."

Poole's face was composed, but his eyes were oceans of pain and regret. For the first time, Malcolm saw the years within them, and the inhuman nature of his form. The way he stood too still, the way he moved just slightly too fast, the way gravity seemed to have no effect on him. All the years, all the betrayal, all the heartbreak and isolation and death . . . it clung to him like a dark aura. Poole was not human, Malcolm realized. Not anymore.