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1905
Zachary Arash Carstairs was Cirenworth Hall’s most adorable resident. Ever since he had learned to walk, he had been quite the little hellion, toddling from room to room in the enormous palace and wreaking havoc on the Carstairs’ family goods. Matthew thought this quite funny, and appreciated having a child to corrupt who was a bit older than his sisters were. The twins had not yet outgrown squalling in their cradles, and Matthew eagerly awaited the day that they would develop something of personalities for him to jibe with.
He hoped they would have half the personality as Zachary did.
“I do not see,” Alastair said in a grim voice, “why you must invite yourself here consistently. What is in this for you?” He looked at Matthew with exaggerated impatience.
“Well, for one thing, you invited both me and Oscar, so you’ve no leg to stand on here. For another, I get to teach Zachary all sorts of amusing games. Remember the one where I taught him to play God Save the King by banging a wooden spoon on the bottom of a pot? Only while you were looking after him, of course. He has remarkable situational awareness for a child who still must pull himself up on door handles every time he wishes to wander about.”
“Is that what that was?” Thomas interjected mildly. “I just thought that you demonstrated being as obnoxious as possible, and he followed suit.”
“As a sort of woeful role model?” Alastair looked curiously at Thomas and popped a blackberry into his own mouth.
“Yes, precisely,” Thomas said. Humming his agreement, Alastair fed him a berry, too.
Matthew rolled his eyes. “Angel, this gets worse and worse. Not only does Tom malign me, cruelly and viciously, but you train him to do so by feeding fruit out of your hand? Horrors.”
“That’s rather rude,” Thomas informed him mildly. “I’ve learned to malign you all on my own.”
“Backstabbing Judas,” Matthew said, but there was no malice in his voice. He reached out to take a blackberry from Alastair’s bowl, but his friend slapped his hand away. This was rather unkind, in Matthew’s opinion. He suspected that Alastair would give Thomas as many berries as his absurdly big heart desired. “In any event, you must admit that my presence is good for Zachary on one front.”
Alastair raised a magnificent eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Matthew nodded toward Zachary, who lay on his tummy in the grass beside Oscar. The golden retriever panted while the young boy pulled himself over his fuzzy stomach. He latched onto him as though he were a sort of canine pillow, Matthew thought. It really was quite amusing. And all was well, as Oscar seemed to enjoy this and continued to flop over so Zachary could pull lightly at his fur again. They went round and round like that as Zachary giggled, a seemingly endless loop of fast movement.
“I did say that we should get him a dog when he turned six,” Thomas said.
“You said when he ‘learned to say the word dog,’” Alastair corrected. “He has done so already.”
“And yet, Oscar is more than enough for now,” Thomas argued, and Alastair reluctantly nodded.
Hearing his name, Oscar shot up, licked Zachary on his smiling face, and moved over to sit beside the group. Matthew reached out and scratched him behind the ears, and the large dog laid his head down on his paws beside him. He looked up at his human companion beseechingly, as though asking for a treat that Matthew unfortunately did not have. “I have nothing for you, you beautiful beast,” he said, rubbing at his dog’s neck.
Oscar whined.
“I, on the other hand, do have something for you, hound,” Alastair said, feeding Oscar a blackberry. He gobbled it up gleefully and rolled over so that his head rested on Alastair’s knee. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you? It’s a wonder that you’re Fairchild’s.” He fed Oscar another berry.
“Hey, now. Why does everyone besides me get blackberries?” Matthew narrowed his eyes at Thomas, who he thought he had the best chance of persuading to share. “I do think that as the harbinger of Oscar, I ought to be allowed at least half that bag of fruits.”
“I’ll give it to Oscar,” Alastair said.
Thomas nodded. “Yes, that’s sensible. After all, Matthew once called Oscar an ‘extension of his very self.’”
“Rather dramatic, but I cannot say that I do not understand. If I had such a friendly pet that was constantly joined to me, I too may consider him a fifth limb of sorts.” Alastair’s voice was contemplative, approving.
Matthew scoffed. “Me, dramatic?”
Zachary crawled over and, resting his head on Oscar’s large body, poked Matthew on the knee. “Yes.”
Thomas snorted a laugh.
“Oh, he’ll say yes to anything,” Matthew said, waving off the child’s assessment. “Zachary, do you want some pudding?”
“Yes,” Zachary replied.
Alastair rolled his eyes. “Zachary, do you wish to have steamed broccoli?”
Zachary made a face. “No.”
Alastair shot Matthew a superior look.
Zachary, apparently realizing that the broccoli was an empty threat, turned back to look at Oscar. Thomas was petting his lower back in that way that he liked, and the baby’s eyes brightened with sheer joy. It reminded Matthew immediately of the stripes of his sister Cordelia’s delight, and his heart warmed. He reached out to pat Oscar on the nose, and the hound let out a soft, trusting noise.
“I think he feels at home here,” Matthew declared. “And so, it seems that I must frequent these grounds.”
“God help us,” Alastair said, and Thomas the traitor smiled slightly. “Soon Zachary will be tying all my shoelaces up into horrendous knots.”
“Now there’s an idea that I never would have had on my own.” Matthew tapped at his head with one finger. “Thank you, Alastair. I will be filing that one away for the future, which now looks brighter than ever before.”
Thomas side-eyed Alastair, who blanched. “Sorry, joon,” he said, plucking a blackberry from the bag and putting it into Thomas’s mouth as an obvious peace offering. Matthew rolled his eyes at the hideous display.
But as for Oscar…
Well, he did not seem to think it hideous. Instead, with Zachary firmly gripping the back of his fur, he snatched the entire bag of berries up from Alastair’s lap. The large dog made off with it, running across the vast grounds of Cirenworth steadily enough to keep Zachary secure while still moving quickly. “Well, perhaps I needn’t teach Zachary to terrorize you any longer,” Matthew said with a laugh. “It seems that my wonderful, well-learned dog will so well enough at that in the coming years, eh? You’d best watch out.”
And, if Oscar and Zachary divided up all of Alastair’s blackberries at the other end of the lawn, none of the three men minded. They were too busy laughing.
2011
Cirenworth Hall was a home with many admirers. Its sprawling, multi-acre grounds with lush gardens and ornamental sculptures were, after all, beautiful. But, it seemed to Kit, the palace had no greater fan than that of the ghost golden retriever that ran freely across the property. Kit was growing fond of him, that dog that had clearly died long ago; he was an excellent playmate, always happy to chase sticks about even though his phantom mouth would not close around them. He also seemed partial to flopping over onto his back when Kit got near, exposing his stomach in what was clearly a demand to be pet by a sycophant. Amused, Kit would mime petting his bright-yellow belly, and the dog would pant heavily and happily as though experiencing the sheer joy of being alive.
Kit supposed that the dog’s name was Oscar Wilde. After all, the tarnished metal that he wore on his bejeweled collar boasted this name, telling Kit that he was OSCAR WILDE, HERO DOG.
Kind of a weird name, but hey. Kit had found a lot of weird things around Cirenworth. There was a collection of daggers that the Tower of London’s royal collection could only have dreamed of, a whack-ass gun that he’d dug up from a coffin in his backyard. There was a book of fancy poetry about some guy named Alastair Carstairs, written in the strong leftward slant of someone who’d clearly taken good care of the compass-embossed leather cover.
Kit didn’t know what made this Oscar Wilde dog especially heroic, but he appreciated that someone loved him well enough to give him such an expensive collar. Even after all this time, it still sparkled under the sunlight. “You’re a good boy,” Kit would say, pretending to pat his little ghost head. “Aren’t you? Were you always a good boy? Or were you a hellion like Church when you were alive?”
The ghost dog tried to lick Kit’s face, and Kit smiled widely. He loved animals.
(He’d only ever met one person who loved animals more than he did, but he tried not to think of Ty. Oh, he tried so hard not to think of Ty, whose face haunted his midnights as he turned away followed by Livvy’s ghost.)
And, because he loved Oscar Wilde the dog even more than most animals, Kit would try to play with him every day. But he still sat there at the end of the garden, looking out into the distance as if waiting for something- or someone- to come home.
Kit was sort of puzzled by this. After all, that dog’s human had probably been dead for years.
But one day, he figured it out.
-
Kit had been sitting in the library that Tessa loved so much, shoving manga onto the new shelf that he’d insisted they install in the corner. As he stuck one of many volumes of Sekaiichi Hatsukoi onto the highest shelf where Jem and Tessa wouldn’t find it, a flash of movement caught the corner of his eye from outside the window.
It was, of course, Oscar Wilde. Hero dog. But that wasn’t all.
There was also a blond boy outside in the yard. He looked eerily familiar, but that wasn’t what made Kit squint when he looked out at him. He seemed a little translucent, like Oscar Wilde did… a ghost, Kit realized, setting down his manga and moving closer to the window.
Oscar Wilde ran toward the boy and knocked him over – apparently ghosts were able to touch each other. Kit hadn’t known that. He filed the information away, thinking it might be useful for when he encountered Livvy again. But when the boy turned toward the window, his olive green eyes meeting Kit’s, Kit realized that he was still staring. Most people couldn’t see ghosts; it would make sense that this weird kid, in his period-drama getup and shimmering rings, would be puzzled by a living person staring at him.
The guy narrowed his eyes, still scratching Oscar Wilde’s head. Kit, feeling a little caught out, waved slightly.
The boy waved back, but it wasn’t your ordinary friendly wave. It was a sort of ‘come here’ gesture – or ‘come hither?’ Kit wasn’t really sure how old the ghost guy was. People looked the same to him in Reign as they did in Downton Abbey. And because he was a little nervous that this dude was some old British prince’s friend or something, he shuffled his way out to the front door and made his way into the gardens.
Oscar Wilde perked up and raced toward Kit, who stood standing during the moment of impact that had knocked Downton Abbey guy over.
“Well,” said the blond boy in a distinctly British accent. “It seems that I’ve stumbled upon someone who can see me. Are the boundaries between the living and the dead blurring woefully? Are worlds colliding? Or are you simply a garden-variety Herondale?” He paused, and Kit dimly processed the guy’s theatrical air. “If you’re a Herondale, I suppose I’ll have to tell Jamie when I go back. Angel, is there not a bet that I haven’t lost since ascending from this mortal plane?”
“Uh,” Kit said. “Maybe?”
“It was a rhetorical question,” the boy said. “I’m Matthew, by the way.” A beat passed. “Well, don’t look all agape at me! You must have inferred by now that I’m the caregiver and companion of this beautiful beast.”
Kit blinked slowly, once. “Matthew?” He recognized the name.
Matthew smiled, a grin as bright as the summer sun shining on his ghostly blond hair. “Indeed,” he said.
“Matthew Fairchild?”
“I do suppose that I might grow used to my name being spoken in such a reverent manner,” the boy said, but there was an undertone of laughter in his voice. “As Oscar likes you, and you seem to appreciate the aesthetic beauty of my name, I have also decided to like you. Tentatively, at any rate. What might I call you?”
“Kit,” Kit said. “Kit Herondale.”
“Ah, well, now I owe two of my friends inordinate sums of money. James, and Christopher. Have you any relatives named Thomas that I should keep an eye out for? Or,” he spoke in an irritated tone, “Alastair?”
“No,” Kit said, “but I definitely have a book of poetry about an Alastair. The dude who wrote it rhymed his name with “wing-black hair,” which I thought was pretty funny.”
“Seems that you’ve appreciated some of Thomas’s poetry,” Matthew said. “That will surely be good news to deliver, at any rate. Though perhaps I oughtn’t say anything. I don’t wish for Alastair’s head to get bigger than it already is.” Matthew’s eyes narrowed as Oscar ran in circles around both of them, a pretend stick in his mouth as he herded the blond boys closer together. “Kit – might I call you Kit?”
“Yeah?”
Matthew laughed brightly and attempted to clap Kit on the shoulder. His hand moved right through his arm, but Kit thought it might be rude to point that out. “Well, Kit, I am glad. I can see we are getting along swimmingly, even if I shall need to use my ghostly powers to wipe your memory clean of this encounter so you don’t tattle about my visits to Aunt Tessa.”
“Ghosts can do that?”
Matthew laughed, clearly choosing not to answer the question. “As we are friends, Kit, I really must ask you a quick question. Please don’t take offense, but what are you wearing?”
Kit glanced down at his oversized Par Avion T-shirt and ripped jeans. “Uh… clothes?”
Matthew shook his head disapprovingly. “They’re horrid,” he said.
“Thanks, asshole,” Kit said, because he definitely hadn’t asked for the ghost’s opinion.
“No, no,” Matthew said happily. “I’m sure they’re simply a product of your time. 2014! Such an odd year. I can hardly fathom what your world must be like.”
“Can’t you just, like, astral-project onto Earth whenever you want?”
“That’s not quite how ghosthood works,” Matthew said. “One can make a special trip for an important event- say, Jem and Tessa’s wedding if you’re Uncle Will, or Woodstock if you’re myself and my beloved. I am able to come here because… well.” He indicated Oscar. “Don’t question ghostly matters too much, Kit. You’re sure to get confused. But more to the point,” he said theatrically, “a man can never be overdressed or overeducated, and you certainly seem to have failed at the former.”
“I… what?”
Matthew indicated Kit with a dismissive gesture. “Your ensemble. Fashion is ephemeral, I suppose, while art is eternal, and your entire get-up certainly is not art. Has fashion decayed over time, just as Oscar the man predicted?”
“Are you talking about Oscar Wilde?”
“Yes, my friend. I have tea with him on alternate Thursdays, if you must know.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Delightful chap. But at any rate, please do tell me when the decay of fashion began and sprung the decline of man.”
“My shirt can’t be that bad,” Kit said. “I got it at a Par Avion concert with my friend Dru.”
“What is a Par Avion? Something to do with birds? Never much liked those. Though,” he said consideringly, “it might be amusing to relay your experience to Uncle Will.”
Ignoring this, Kit rolled his eyes. “No, they’re a band.”
“Like Gilbert and Sullivan? Or like The Grateful Dead?”
Kit blinked. “How does someone out of a BBC documentary know about The Grateful Dead?”
“Woodstock, remember?” Matthew looked curious. “What is the BBC?”
“The… British Broadcasting Corporation?”
“Oh. Sounds like a dreadful bore.”
“I like some of their movies,” Kit argued.
“Ah, films. I do hope those have advanced more than fashion rather than decaying into nothingness.”
“Well,” Kit said, just to be horrifying, “I did watch Birdemic: Shock and Terror on YouTube last week. The part where the giant CGI birds came after the nameless couple had sex for the first time was pretty cool, but I think the gold metal goes to the orphans crying during the apocalypse because they wanted a Happy Meal.”
“I certainly know what all those words mean,” Matthew said, in a voice that indicated that he very much did not. Kit couldn’t help it; he smirked a bit. Served this guy right for insulting his fashion sense. “In any case, I suppose I’ll tell both Thomas and Alastair that their favourite art form, like mine, has quite fallen off the wagon. Such a shame. At least it will perhaps irritate Alastair somewhat.”
Kit made a noncommittal sound.
“Well, this has all been well and good,” Matthew said, “but I unfortunately cannot be around such an aesthetically horrible outfit any longer. You, however, seem like quite the nice boy, Kit. It’s nothing against you personally.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a huge snob?”
“Oh, all the time,” Matthew said. “Though they normally are not so direct as all that. Are you woefully to-the-point because you’re an American? Or because you’re from the year 2014?”
“I don’t know,” Kit said.
“Perhaps a combination, then. In any case, Kit, please do take care of my dog. He’s quite the heroic lout, aren’t you, my good boy?” Matthew scratched Oscar behind the ears, and Kit could oddly imagine the way that they had been in life. Perhaps Matthew had sat with his friends in this very garden, a hundred years ago, arguing with that Alastair guy and petting Oscar as he rolled in the grass. Perhaps this had been the site of many treats and belly rubs, beginnings of adventures among a group of rabble-rousers that included Tessa’s son and nephews. Perhaps…
“Wait,” Kit said, just as Matthew turned away. “Can you tell me why Oscar’s a hero dog?”
Matthew smiled, his fair hair a halo around his head. “Isn’t it obvious? Because he’s perfect.” He paused before speaking again. “You ought to give him some blackberries,” the ghost informed him.
And, before Kit could say anything to that, Matthew vanished, his entire phantom form going back to wherever it was that the dead spent eternity.
-
When asked the next day, Kit would say that he had the oddest dream, a mirage of a fair-haired boy who had come to play with the ghost dog that loved him so. Perhaps, if he’d been allowed to picture that nonexistent ghost for longer than a moment, he would have realized how similar their features had been.
But he could not ponder this, because the memory was already slipping away into nothingness.