Brendan Hennessy ended up hanged in Newgate for his growling and biting, and maybe Eliza would end the same way. But it was worth the risk, for Owen’s sake.
She seized hold of Miss Kittering’s shoulders, ignoring the young lady’s indignant squeak. “You’ll close your mouth and listen, you will. You’ve gone and sneaked out, without your mother’s permission, and her with no idea why … sure I could spin her such a tale, it would turn her hair white. A spiritualist meeting, it could be—even a secret lover—”
Miss Kittering went even more rigid. She might not want to marry that baron’s son, but if she lost her reputation, she’d be lucky to get any marriage at all.
“Or,” Eliza went on, before the girl could find her tongue, “I could be telling her something more respectable. It won’t save you the thrashing, and that’s the truth of it—but ’tis better than you’d have otherwise.”
The girl licked her lips again. She had no ability to hide her nerves; how had she evaded her mother’s control for this long? “Why … why would you do that?”
Thank Heaven for sheltered idiots, who don’t see a chance for power when it’s in their hands. But Miss Kittering didn’t know Eliza had told her own lies tonight; she was entirely vulnerable.
Eliza showed her teeth in a smile, and not a friendly one. “Because you’ll be helping me in return, you will. I—”
She didn’t get a chance to say anything more. The servants’ door opened to reveal Ann Wick, bracing a bin of refuse against her hip. The housemaid gaped at them, and Eliza seized Miss Kittering’s arm once more, stepping behind the young woman to hide Ann’s borrowed dress. With an effort, she summoned something more like her usual false demeanor. “She followed me,” Eliza said in a brisk tone, dragging the girl down the stairs. “Heard my mum was sick, and wanted to help; but as soon as she came, I turned around and marched her right home again. We shouldn’t bother Mrs. Kittering, I think, Mrs. Fowler can tell me what to do with the silly chit.”
Miss Kittering, blessedly, had the sense to keep her mouth shut.
The Goblin Market, Onyx Hall: April 11, 1884
Under the cool glow of a faerie light, the carte de visite in front of Dead Rick assumed an otherworldly aura. Who the stern-faced woman depicted in it was, he had no idea; it didn’t much matter. Her image fascinated him. The photograph was shoddy work, nothing to the sharp detail of a daguerreotype, but that very vagueness allowed him to spin a hundred stories about her. She was an upper-class wife, devoting all her time to the pressing question of what pattern her china should bear. She was a suffragist, campaigning to extend the vote to women. She was a frustrated bluestocking, more interested in books than a lady’s pursuits.
All he knew of her was that she was real: that she had lived, and sat for a photographer’s portrait, and given the resulting cards to her friends.
Proof of her existence. I should be lucky to leave so much behind.
The stone of his hidden refuge trembled faintly beneath him. A train, perhaps, or just one of the periodic tremors that shook the Onyx Hall. Dead Rick held his breath, waiting to see if it would grow stronger, but after a few seconds it subsided. As if the tremor had been a bell at the door, the voice spoke.
“What have you learned?”
Dead Rick stuffed the carte de visite into his waistcoat pocket and pushed his back against the wall. Even though he’d summoned the stranger, burying the bone near the pavilion in the old garden, it still made him uneasy to have anyone else sharing this space. Even if that someone else was just words in the air.
He said, “I knows a few things. But afore I go telling you anything, I need some proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That you can get my memories back.”
The silence that followed sounded a great deal like a suppressed sigh. He could hear the stranger’s irritation echoing in his next words. “Haven’t we been through this before?”
“You told me something I didn’t know, and I think it’s true. But there’s lots of ways you might ’ave learned it. That don’t mean you can get my memories back. Do you know where Nadrett keeps them?” Dead Rick’s crossed arms were pressing in hard enough to make his ribs hurt. “Do you even know what they look like?”
It would be so easy for someone to play him. Dead Rick almost wished the stranger had never come to offer him hope; it made it that much harder to endure his life under Nadrett’s heel. Hope kept him from sinking into the blinding embrace of despair. It meant he had to keep fighting. But he couldn’t make himself give it up, and anybody who knew that could use it to lure him into damn near anything.
The voice was silent for long enough that Dead Rick wondered if it had been a bluff after all, and so easily called. Then came the answer: “Pieces of glass.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, before any tears could escape. It didn’t stop his ears, though, and the memory of sharp, shattering sound. When Nadrett wanted to punish Dead Rick, or just to remind him of the chain around his neck, he broke one of the stolen memories. The wisp of light that escaped was too vague for any detail to be made out, but it carried something—not quite a scent—that told Dead Rick it was his own.
Lost forever.
Through his teeth, he asked the question that really mattered. “Do you know ’ow to put them back?”
This time, the hesitation was much briefer. “No.”
Dead Rick slammed his hand against the floor, hard enough to bruise. “Then what fucking use are you to me?”
“I can get them away from Nadrett; surely that is some use. And it may be I can help you discover how to return them to their rightful place. Once they are in your possession, many things become possible. Now, do you have anything for me?”
The skriker drew a series of breaths, each one deeper than the one before, shoving his knotted emotions out of the way. “You ain’t given me nothing yet. I already knowed about the glass, so you tell me something else. Something I’ve forgotten.”
The annoyance was much more distinct now, but Dead Rick didn’t care. “Are you going to haggle every time we speak? Never mind; I’m sure I know the answer to that. Very well … something you’ve forgotten.” The stranger paused, then said, “You were once a faithful Queen’s man.”
It wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Lune, the Queen of the Onyx Court: he didn’t remember her, but he’d heard stories, even in the seven short years since his mind was wiped clean. How she’d won her throne from the cruel Queen Invidiana, centuries past. How she’d battled a Dragon to save London, twice. How she’d struggled to hold the Hall together, in the face of human destruction.
Noble stories, that all ended the same way: But that was a long time ago. However great a Queen she’d been in past ages, she was gone now. “Me, a courtier?”
“I never said that. Merely that you served her on several occasions—her, and the Prince of the time. And not because they held your leash, either.”
It was like their first meeting, when the stranger had spoken of those mortals as Dead Rick’s friends, the boy he’d stolen, and the girl who damned him for it. A Queen’s man. Against his will, the concept wormed its way under his skin and lodged there, irritating and impossible to ignore. A master—or rather a mistress, and a changing series of masters, the Princes who ruled at her side—more worthy than Nadrett. The stories spoke as much of Lune’s flaws as her virtues, but at least she had some of the latter. More than he could say of his current master.
“Is that why you’re doing this?” Dead Rick asked, the sudden thought dragging him up from the depths of his own mind. “Not the bit where you find a passage to Faerie—the bit where you tear down Nadrett along the way. Is it for ’er sake?”
The voice answered with cold disgust. “No. I do not serve the Queen.”
Which ruled out him being the Prince, even if Dead Rick believed that cockney sod could speak like such a gentleman. “So all you’re after is profit.”
“Is that a problem?” the voice asked, c
almly.
His immediate reaction was suspicion—but that was just reflex, born of living in the Goblin Market. Once I’ve got my memories, I can do whatever I like. If I stay, this bastard might demand somebody’s firstborn child in payment for going to Faerie … but I know Nadrett would. And so long as there’s two of them selling, there’s a way to pit them against each other.
Many things became possible, once he had his memories back.
“Not a problem,” Dead Rick said, “if you can give me some proof you ain’t just spinning lies.”
The reply had the unmistakable sound of being delivered through clenched teeth. “More damned haggling. What proof do you want? The Queen, on a platter?”
“If you know where she went, sure—but I was thinking of somebody who knowed me. Before.”
“That will be dangerous,” the voice pointed out. “Nadrett has gone to some effort to cut you off from the life you had before. If he discovers you talking to an old friend, I will not be blamed for the consequences.”
“I don’t care.”
A note of amusement. “So the dog has begun to recover the pride he once had. If you believe I will be patient until you have had your confirmation, you are wrong; tell me what you know, and I will make arrangements.”
He was unlikely to get anything better. Dead Rick slid one hand into his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out the carte de visite. The stranger couldn’t see him, but he held it up anyway, studying the woman’s face once more. “Rewdan was bringing compounds in for Nadrett. Faerie chemicals, not the mortal kind. I asked around, and found out they’re used for photography.”
“Photography?”
He’d been hoping the stranger might see meaning in that, but judging by the surprise in the voice, the hidden speaker was as confused as Dead Rick. “So they say. I guess there’s faerie cameras?”
“In the Galenic Academy, yes … mortal techniques cannot capture our images properly. Issues of light.” Dead Rick wished, not for the first time, that he could see his ally’s face; he would have dearly loved to see the stranger’s expression as he paused for thought. “Are you certain this has something to do with a passage to Faerie?”
Not in the slightest—but he wasn’t stupid enough to admit it. “I ain’t ’eard about nothing else.”
As if musing to himself, the voice said, “Some sort of optical trick, perhaps?… I will look into it. Can you get anything else from Rewdan?”
“Not since Nadrett shot ’im.”
“Ah. Then we will have to proceed on our own. What were the compounds?” Dead Rick named them, and the voice made a thoughtful noise. Then he said, “I can’t keep sending you to the pavilion; someone will notice. Next time, leave a bone near the monument to past Princes, at the other end of the garden. And if I need to contact you, I will put my own sign there, by the flame that burns in its base. A spill of ashes. Keep watch for it.”
Dead Rick nodded, then remembered. “And you get me somebody who knowed me.”
“Yes, yes, I haven’t forgotten.”
Again, no farewell. The voice simply fell silent, and did not speak again. Dead Rick leaned his head back against the stone and thought, Good. Because while you look into this photography business, I’ll be looking into you.
Cromwell Road, South Kensington: April 12, 1884
Tongue stuck firmly in the gap in her teeth, Eliza bent over the brush in her hands, giving the floor of the water closet the hastiest scrub she could without risking Mrs. Fowler thrashing her for it later. The housekeeper was out this morning, which meant everyone was being decidedly slower about their work—everyone but Eliza, who was determined to finish quickly so she could sneak off and talk to Louisa Kittering.
Miss Kittering had been confined to her room, with only the barest contact permitted. Ann handed trays of bread and tea through the door, and Eliza went in long enough to clear away cinders from the grate, fill the lamps with paraffin, and gather up dirty laundry, but all of this happened under Mrs. Fowler’s disapproving eye. She’d had no chance to finish the conversation they’d begun outside the house, after the London Fairy Society meeting.
That was good enough. Eliza sloshed a bit of clean water from the sink to rinse the floor, mopped it up, wiped the tiles dry, and hurried to the servants’ stair. If she was quick about returning her supplies to the basement, she could be out again before anyone thought to question what she was doing next.
A lovely and plausible hope that was dashed when she reached the bottom of the stairs. Almost every single maid and footman in the house was gathered there, gawping and whispering amongst themselves.
Apprehension gripped Eliza’s heart. Had Miss Kittering done something else foolish? If she’s gotten herself banished to the countryside …
It might not be Miss Kittering at all. But a heavy dread had settled upon Eliza, making her go forward, to where Ann Wick peered up at the ceiling as if she could see or hear anything from the floors above. “What is it, Ann?”
Sarah, the little scullery maid, answered before anyone else could, her face bright with curiosity. “A police constable! Come to talk to Mr. Kittering. I wonder if—”
“You shut your mouth,” Ann said, interrupting her. “It isn’t our place to be speculating about the master’s affairs.” But there was no conviction behind it, and she kept looking up.
The word police had made Eliza’s skin jump, as if she’d been splashed with cold water. “Scotland Yard sent a man here?”
“Nothing to fear,” Ned Sayers told her, sidling close. “If it’s burglars they’re worried about, we’ll deal with that right quick. But should you need comforting—”
Eliza tried to sidle away without being obvious, and was helped by Mr. Warren, the butler, who cuffed him sharply. “‘Comforting’ is not what Mr. Kittering pays you for, Sayers. Move along, everyone; Ann is right. This is none of our affair. What would people say, if they saw us hovering about here, like prying little mice? Back to work, the lot of you.”
Grumbling and speculating, the clump of people began to break up. Eliza moved away from the stairs without paying the slightest scrap of attention to where she was going. Her heart was beating double-quick. Scotland Yard, here at Cromwell Road. It might be nothing—burglars, or some difficulty with Mr. Kittering’s business, or a thousand other things that weren’t her concern.
Or it might be a Special Branch man, asking after an Irishwoman with black hair and hazel eyes, answering to Elizabeth O’Malley. Or even a young woman matching that description, without the name and the accent.
I must find out. Her mind began to work properly once more, like a cart getting traction in deep mud. She followed Cook and Sarah back to the kitchen, then stepped into the scullery, where she changed out her mop and bucket for a bottle of ox gall, a soft brush, and a rag. Then she hurried upstairs, to the billiards room.
It was, of course, empty. Eliza had already cleaned the grate that morning, and Ann had dusted the pictures and animal trophies; with the Kitterings’ three sons already married, and Mr. Kittering more often socializing at his club, the room saw only occasional use. Mrs. Kittering would never set foot in such a masculine domain—and besides, at present she was busy answering letters in her boudoir, enjoying her last few minutes of ignorance before someone came to tell her of the damage her family’s respectability was taking from the constable in the house. Louisa was still shut up in her room, and Eliza should have taken advantage of that … but first she had to know what the constable was doing here. Talking to Louisa would do her no good at all if she went to prison ten minutes later.
She dug a small fragment out of the coal scuttle, then went on silent feet to the room’s other door—the one adjoining Mr. Kittering’s library.
There Eliza dropped the coal onto the carpet and ground it in with a merciless heel. It left a gratifyingly black smear. She pocketed what remained of the fragment, then knelt and virtuously began to clean the stain away, every scrap of her attention bent upon the voices comin
g through the door.
“I fail to see what concern this is of mine,” Mr. Kittering said.
Muffled though it was by the door, the peeler’s reply made her spill too much ox gall over the stain. “’Tis a matter of general safety, sir. Sure ye all will rest better once we catch these fellows and get them locked away.”
Spoken in the clear accents of western Ireland, undiluted by a childhood in London. A great many constables came from Irish stock—and almost every last member of the Special Irish Branch.
She wanted to believe this man was the ordinary sort of constable, but couldn’t lie to herself that convincingly. Eliza bit her lip and forced herself to continue working. Mr. Kittering said, “We certainly would be pleased to see Scotland Yard do its job. But what I do not understand is why you’re sniffing around South Kensington. This is a respectable neighborhood; we have no Irish here.”
“Not even servants, sir?”
The vulgarity of Mr. Kittering’s reply would have given his wife the vapors. “Shiftless, filthy lot—kept an Irish bootboy, once, and he repaid us by stealing. Men like you, Sergeant Quinn, are a credit to your race, but regrettably rare. The rest are good enough for simple labor, nothing more.”
“I understand, sir.”
Eliza tasted blood, and realized her teeth were clenched hard on both her lips, as if nailing them shut to prevent any sound escaping. Aye, we’re good enough for my father to lose an arm digging your damned railways—good enough to make your clothes for pennies a day and pick through your sewers for lost rubbish to sell—but no more than that. And if we starve, or our children die of disease, then surely that’s God’s hand at work, keeping the vermin in check. Sometimes I wish the Fenians would blow the bloody lot of ye straight to Hell.