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Hobbes glanced inside the room. The madwoman was now dancing around, smiling and cackling as the flames grew higher on Rochester’s bed.
“If she doesn’t arrive soon, there won’t be a page one hundred and eighty-one.”
Grace Poole caught his eye again and fixed him with a baleful glare.
“She will save him as she has before thousands of times, as she will again thousands of times. It is the way of things here.”
“Yeah?” replied Hobbes. “Well, things just might change.”
At that moment the madwoman rushed out of the room and into Hobbes with her fingernails outstretched. With a maniacal laugh that made his ears pop she lunged at him and pressed her uncut and ragged nails into both his cheeks. He yelled out in pain as Grace Poole wrestled Mrs. Rochester into a half nelson and frogmarched her to the attic. As Grace got to the door she turned to Hobbes and spoke again.
“Just remember: It is the way of things here.”
“Aren’t you going to try and stop me?” asked Hobbes in a puzzled tone.
“I take poor Mrs. Rochester upstairs now,” she replied. “It is written.”
The door closed behind her as a voice shouting “Wake, wake!” brought Hobbes’s attention back to the blazing room. Within he could see the night-robed Jane throwing a jug of water over the recumbent form of Rochester. Hobbes waited until the fire was out before stepping into the room, drawing his gun as he did so. They both looked up, the “elves of Christendom” line dying on Rochester’s lips.
“Who are you?” they asked, together.
“Believe me, you couldn’t possibly begin to understand.”
Hobbes took Jane by the arm and dragged her back toward the corridor.
“Edward! My Edward!” implored Jane, her arms outstretched to Rochester. “I won’t leave you, my love!”
“Wait a minute,” said Hobbes, still backing away, “you guys haven’t fallen in love yet!”
“In that you would be mistaken,” murmured Rochester, pulling out a percussion pistol from beneath his pillow. “I have suspected something like this might happen for some time.” He aimed at Hobbes and fired in a single quick movement. He missed, the large lead ball burying itself in the door frame. Hobbes fired back a warning shot; Hades had expressly forbidden anyone in the novel to be hurt. Rochester pulled a second pistol after the first and cocked it.
“Let her go,” he announced, his jaw set, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
Hobbes pulled Jane in front of him.
“Don’t be a fool, Rochester! If all goes well Jane will be returned to you forthwith; you won’t even know she has gone!”
Hobbes backed down the hall toward where the portal was due to open as he spoke. Rochester followed, gun outstretched, his heart heavy as his one and only true love was dragged unceremoniously from the novel to that place, that other place, where he and Jane could never enjoy the life they enjoyed at Thornfield. Hobbes and Jane vanished back through the portal, which closed abruptly after them. Rochester put up his gun and glowered.
A few moments later Hobbes and a very confused Jane Eyre had fallen back through the Prose Portal and into the dilapidated smoking lounge of the old Penderyn Hotel.
Acheron stepped forward and helped Jane up. He offered her his coat to warm herself. After Thornfield H
all the hotel was decidedly drafty.
“Miss Eyre!—” announced Hades kindly. “My name is Hades, Acheron Hades. You are my respected guest; please take a seat and compose yourself.”
“Edward?—”
“Quite well, my young friend. Come, let me take you to a warmer part of the hotel.”
“Will I see my Edward again?”
Hades smiled.
“It rather depends on how valuable people think you are.”
30.
