With Fate Conspire

  It was better for her health than any spa could have been. While the mead from which the Goodemeade sisters took their name might not be able to cure everything—a pistol ball to the head, for example, was beyond its powers—Louisa felt worlds better after downing a mug with unladylike enthusiasm. Mortals could keep their foul-smelling and fouler-tasting patent medicines; she would take faerie mead any day, and twice on Fridays.

  Some of the effect, she admitted privately, might be credited to her surroundings. Brownies were very, very good at creating comfort, and the sisters had spent several hundred years perfecting it in their hidden home. Louisa was convinced the sisters had invented the notion of stuffing chairs hugely full of padding long before mortals ever thought of it. Rose House always smelled of good, clean things, herbs and flowers and fresh-baked bread, with never a hint of the coal-smoke stink of the world outside their door. And the hospitality, of course, was unmatched. But even had Rose House been a dirty hole furnished only with benches and rushlights, Louisa would have basked in its shelter. Some deep-seated part of her soul still could not quite believe that she was safe in the mortal world; spending so many days there without pause had set her skin to crawling with nervousness.

  All of which the Goodemeades, with their splendid care for others’ well-being, seemed to sense. They held their questions back until Louisa had finished the mead and gave a satisfied sigh.

  Then Rosamund pounced.

  With the flat, disbelieving tone of one who knows the answer and does not expect to be surprised, she said, “What have you done?”

  She had the decency to refrain from using a name. The sisters were far from stupid; undoubtedly they remembered a certain human girl who came to a few meetings of the London Fairy Society, and spoke to a certain faerie after the first one. They probably even knew that faerie had come to the meetings in hope of something particular, and it wasn’t just bread. Rosamund might not be able to see the face that lay behind the changeling’s mask, but that wasn’t necessary for her to guess what name that face had formerly borne.

  But the woman who was now Louisa Kittering would not have been able to answer to that name, not without losing what she’d gone to such great lengths to gain. So, in gratitude for Rosamund’s discretion, she answered as meekly as she could. Not the question itself; that too was dangerous. Instead she addressed Rosamund’s actual concern. “It’s the only way I could see to stay. It isn’t enough to have a mortal who regularly tithes bread; that person could die, or go away, and besides, eating too much of their food is dangerous, even when it has been tithed. What kind of life would it be anyway, with no more shelter than what you can put in your mouth?”

  Gertrude spoke with obvious sympathy. “You didn’t want to leave London.”

  “That doesn’t justify—”

  Rosamund snapped her mouth shut on the words that almost came out. Louisa hastened to add, “She begged me for it! The girl had a wild spirit; she felt trapped in her life, doomed to a future she didn’t want, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to go through all that running away would require. They would have tried to hunt her down—likely succeeded—and in a way, I suspect she was too soft-hearted to inflict that wound herself.”

  “So instead you’ll do it for her.”

  Louisa shrugged, seeing no point in denying it. “If I choose to vanish—” She said if, but meant when. The notion of protecting Myers from Nadrett, once in her mind, had not left; she might not even wait for her face to heal before seeking him out. Who knew but that Nadrett might snatch him, while she waited around for the bruises to fade? “I’m far better able to escape their hunt than she was. And I do not care if I cause someone heartache.”

  “That’s the problem,” Rosamund said. “This is how it always goes with this kind of thing; the ones who suffer are the family. They don’t understand what’s happened, and you can’t explain it to them.”

  Gertrude laid a hand on her arm. “Rose, two souls have been made happy by this—yes, perhaps other souls have been made unhappy, but from the sound of it, that would have happened even if everyone stayed where they were. The girl is free, and—”

  She paused, looking at their guest, who gave the name by which they must call her now. “Louisa.”

  “Louisa is safe.” Gertrude fixed her with a sharp look. “The girl is safe, too, I hope. Does she have money?”

  “Yes. It’s real, too.” Taken from the sale of her better jewels. The absence of which was covered for now, but eventually the deception would be found out. Louisa had half-considered blaming it on the mad Irish maid, but the notion pricked her conscience—and reminded her of why she’d come. It wasn’t to hear a lecture from the Goodemeades.

  The brownie sisters had dwelt in London since time out of mind; indeed, since before Islington had been a true part of the city. Their distance from the Onyx Hall meant fae did not visit them as often as they used to—the journey to Islington was fraught with peril, for an unprotected faerie—but they still kept abreast of rumors and gossip, by what means Louisa could only guess. If they could not answer her question, they would find someone who could.

  Rosamund was muttering darkly about the odds of a sheltered girl from the better classes surviving on her own in London. When she paused to draw breath, Louisa broke in. “She went freely, but I’ve come across a rumor of another who didn’t. Have you ever seen a boy who looks like this?” From her pocket she produced a battered, ill-quality photograph, showing a woman seated with three children. “Or heard of anyone called Owen?”

  Both brownies frowned over the photograph, identical furrows appearing in their brows. “Welsh?” Rosamund asked.

  “Irish, I think. At least, the maid who assaulted me was.”

  Gertrude’s honey-brown eyes widened. “A maid did that to you? I assumed it was L—the girl’s father!”

  “She was a strong maid,” Louisa said sourly, putting the photo away. More like a woman boxer. “She, er…”

  While she paused to frame her next words, Rosamund came to her chair, and beckoned with one peremptory hand. Louisa bent obediently and let the brownie’s gentle fingers probe her bruises. When Rosamund let go, she said, “She suspected me for what I am, and tried to trick me into saying things I shouldn’t. When that failed … I’m not even certain she was trying to drive me out; she may not have had any particular purpose in mind, except to vent her spleen upon me. But she shouted a great deal about someone she called Owen, and how she wanted him back.”

  Looking to her sister, Rosamund said, “The bombings?”

  “Oh!” Louisa said, startled. “I hadn’t thought of that. It would make a good deal of sense. Do you know who’s helping them?”

  Gertrude tapped one plump finger against her lip. “Eidhnin and Scéineach … Bonecruncher, though you didn’t hear that from us; Peregrin would kill him if it came out he’s been working with folk in the Goblin Market, even for a good cause … Nadrett supplies the dynamite, but only because he can profit from it. We suspect Valentin Aspell is behind it all, though there’s no proof.”

  “Which almost is proof,” Rosamund said, returning to her chair. “No one else is half so sneaky.”

  Louisa frowned. “Why should Aspell be so helpful? You can’t tell me he cares about the Fenian cause.”

  Rosamund was shaking her head before Louisa even finished. “The Fenians are just a useful cover, a way to act in public without drawing attention. For Bonecruncher, anyway—the Irish fae see it differently, of course. Remember, some of those bombs have been on the underground railway. They can’t destroy the tunnels themselves, not with how alert the police are—but the hope is that it would stop, or at least slow down, the plans to finish the Inner Circle.”

  The ring of iron that would destroy the Onyx Hall. Aspell had gone to prison for being a traitor, but he at least claimed he’d been trying to save the palace. Maybe there was some truth to it. “Did they carry off any of the Irish mortals? Bonecruncher wouldn’t, I suppose, but Aspell mig
ht.”

  Rosamund spread her hands helplessly. “I’m sorry. It’s terrible to say this, but there are so many mortals caught in the Market nowadays, we don’t know who they all are.”

  Which meant that if Louisa wanted to know, she’d have to go below once more. With a guilty start, she remembered that she’d promised Dead Rick she would come back, even try to help him get away from Nadrett. There was a dearth of young men in her new life that might be persuaded to change places with a faerie, though. Perhaps she could convince the Goodemeades to divert a few pieces of the London Fairy Society bread from Hodge to Dead Rick; that would be better than nothing.

  Well, it wouldn’t kill her to walk into the Onyx Hall; it wouldn’t even endanger her safety as a changeling. She just couldn’t answer to anyone who guessed her old name. Dead Rick might not be the cleverest faerie there, but he would sort that out soon enough.

  As for what she would do when—if—she found this Irish Owen … Time enough to decide that once I’ve located him. The maid might just have been deranged, after all.

  But Louisa didn’t think so. Not with those screams still ringing in her ears.

  “Is there anything I can do for you two?” she asked the brownies, gathering the will to leave their comfortable home.

  Rosamund laughed, and it was surprisingly bitter for someone ordinarily so cheerful. “Marry that Watkin fellow, who’s in charge of finishing the Inner Circle, and convince him to stop. Oh, and you only have a few months in which to do it.”

  “If I could, I most certainly would,” Louisa said, the warmth draining out of her. It was all well and good to escape to safety, but the Goodemeades had a way of making her feel guilty for those left behind.

  “Is there an address where we can write to you?” Gertrude asked. “It may be we’ll have something else you can do—and it would be nice to stay in touch, regardless.”

  Louisa wrote the direction on a scrap of paper Rosamund furnished, hugged both brownies, and went back out into the streets of Islington. “Now,” she said to the passing traffic, not caring who stared at her, “I must decide: What do I owe to an Irishwoman who hit me in the face?”

  Nothing. But her curiosity had been roused, and would not subside. Sighing, Louisa went to find the coachman.

  The Goblin Market, Onyx Hall: June 6, 1884

  Nadrett’s boot came down on the back of Dead Rick’s neck, forcing his face sideways, so that his throat was half-crushed against the cold stone. The skriker’s entire body trembled, torn between the need to breathe and the knowledge that fighting would only make his master press harder.

  “I sends you out,” Nadrett said in a dangerously soft voice, “for my own purposes. Not yours. When you don’t return on time, you know what that says to me? It says you’ve taken the good bread I’ve given you, and decided to use it for your own purposes. Which sounds an awful lot like stealing from me, don’t it?”

  Shallow breaths rasped into Dead Rick’s throat. Nadrett had been busy when he returned from the Academy—off fucking some former court lady, according to Gresh, which always put the master in a better mood—so he’d dared to think he might get away with his disobedience.

  He didn’t have that kind of luck. He never had.

  “What, dog, was so very important that you decided it was worth stealing from me?”

  Dead Rick couldn’t answer. The best he could manage was a hoarse noise, some movement of his lips. Nadrett let him suffer like that for a moment longer, then lifted the boot. “Yes?”

  The skriker coughed, then hurried to speak before his master lost patience. “Bread.”

  “I know what you stole from me, dog.”

  “No. Bread. Debts. Tried to get more, to pay a few coves off.”

  Nadrett made a disgusted sound. “’Ow’d you end up with debts? You don’t need no bleeding bread; you never go outside. And don’t I give you everything else you need? Anybody comes to break my dog’s fingers, they’ve got to ask me for permission first, don’t they?” The toe of his boot thudded into Dead Rick’s ribs, and the skriker curled up in pain.

  By the time it faded, Nadrett had stepped away, going to an old cabinet in the corner of the room. Dead Rick looked up, cautiously, afraid he would be punished for doing so. But his master’s attention was elsewhere; he unlocked the doors with a small key from around his neck, then opened them to reveal an assortment of shelves and tiny drawers. This was where he kept minor valuables: bread for his underlings, mortal trinkets, other items for his business.

  A flat piece of glass, rippling with indistinct shapes.

  Black horror rose like bile in his throat. No. He tried to swallow his instinctive whimper—it would buy him no pity—but the sound escaped him nonetheless, thin and weak. Nadrett heard and smiled.

  “Been a while, ’asn’t it? Ain’t brought out one of these in ages. This seemed like a good time; after all, I don’t want you forgetting about them, do I?”

  Dead Rick licked his lips. There was no dignity, no pride; any self-respect he might have gained by talking to Irrith was gone as if it had never been. He cowered on the floor, showing throat to his master, and said the words he knew Nadrett wanted to hear. “Please. Don’t.”

  “You stole from me. You ’as to pay for that.”

  “I won’t do it again, I swear.”

  “But you’ve already done it, dog. That’s all fine and well for the future, but what about what I already lost?”

  He was whimpering again, desperately keening, knowing it would do no good. “Please…”

  Nadrett laughed, a soft, cruel sound. “You’re pathetic.”

  A pause. Just long enough for him to start hoping—

  The glass shattered.

  Razor shards rebounded off the stone, scoring Dead Rick’s skin. Physical pain was lost in the anguish that wrenched his heart. Light shone across his eyes for just an instant, like a will-o’-the-wisp; his hand shot out to try and grab it, but the glow slipped through his fingers and was gone, leaving only blood where the glass had cut him.

  Another piece of his past, destroyed. Another piece of himself.

  Gone forever.

  He couldn’t even take strength in rage, for fear Nadrett had more in the cabinet, just waiting to be broken. He just curled around himself, around the pain in his gut, until his master spat, “Get out.”

  Dead Rick went. He crawled, belly low, sick and on the verge of tears. Out the door, then into enough of a crouch to flee the bastards in the outer room, hearing their laughter and mockery fading behind him. Into the warren of the Goblin Market, not caring where he went, so long as it was away; surely there must be some place here that would hide him from everyone’s eyes.

  Rushing headlong as he was, Dead Rick didn’t notice the woman until he slammed into her. He staggered sideways into the wall, regained his balance, lurched onward—and was pulled up short by her words. “Dead Rick!”

  The skriker spun, lips peeling back in a snarl. What in Mab’s name—It was some mortal woman. Obscenely out of place in the Goblin Market, with her silk gown and jewel-pinned hat and unstained gloves; he was surprised she’d made it this far, though if the bruises on her face were any sign, it hadn’t been without trouble. How did she know him? He’d never seen her before.

  No, that wasn’t true. His memory was raw, an open wound, left bleeding by the shattered glass; he remembered her face. Laughing, slack in the grip of opium. She’d been there with Cyma.

  Then he took a better look, and his jaw fell open.

  Her gloved hand came up in a rush, before he could say a word. “Don’t! Think, Dead Rick. You know there are things I can’t say, and it will become very awkward if I have to ignore you saying them for me. But yes—you know me.”

  Cyma. Wearing the face and name of her mortal toy. A changeling.

  With a furious growl, he whirled and began to run again. But she ran after him, calling his name. “Please! I promised I would come back—Dead Rick, wait—what happened? Let me help you!??
?

  Help him. So bloody generous of her, after running off like that. I’m going away, she’d said. He remembered her coy smile, her refusal to say where she was going. Iron rot your soul, Cyma. But she wasn’t Cyma any longer, was she?

  He wasn’t looking where he was going; Dead Rick found himself facing a rockfall, the corridor ahead completely blocked. And that woman was behind him, gasping for breath, one hand pressed to her tightly laced side. That’s what you get for living as a human. Dead Rick spat a curse at her. “Out of my way, bitch.”

  “My name,” the changeling said, in between gasps, “is Louisa. Now. And I promised I would try to help you, Dead Rick.”

  “You can’t fucking ’elp me.”

  He flung the words at her like knives, and she flinched. “I can find a man—”

  “Why—so I can be a changeling? Like that would do me any bloody good!”

  “Bread, then.”

  Another curse. “You’ve got no idea what I need.”

  “Then tell me!” The changeling—Louisa—finally managed to straighten up. “I can’t be much use to you if you don’t tell me anything, Dead Rick.”

  The pain still pulsed inside him, the gaping awareness of void where his self used to be. Before Nadrett stole it and started breaking it, piece by piece. He didn’t care if she was any use to him or not; he didn’t care about anything at all. Nadrett’s blood. Give me that, and I’ll rest easy. But she couldn’t, and so he just wanted her gone.

  Dead Rick spat that last part out, half-incoherent, but she understood. She held out her hands, though, stopping him when he moved to leave. “Please, one thing. It’s small, I promise. Have you seen a mortal who looks like the boy in this photo?”

  He’d been stuck in the dogfighting pit on more than one occasion, not just that fight with Rewdan. Simple boxing matches. One time a yarthkin had caught him a solid blow, right where a drunken goblin had knifed him a few days before.