With Fate Conspire (28 page)

Yet the maid—Hannah, that was what the girl had called her—must have had some reason for waltzing about the room with furniture. And Louisa had heard cautionary tales of fae, innocents less familiar with the mortal world than she, caught by such tricks, forced out of their changeling roles and back to whence they’d come.

She was not surprised to find, as she swung her legs out from beneath the bedclothes, that her feet were trembling. So were her hands. That had been one of the oddities of her new life, discovering that cold bothered her as it never had before; but this was nerves more than chill. For all that her changeling state protected Louisa more than mere bread, she felt naked, exposed,
vulnerable
. This was no brief masquerade, a glamour thrown over her faerie face and discarded when it was no longer needed. She had taken over the life and name of the girl who was once Louisa Kittering, and until she managed to break free of that young woman’s ties, it meant subjecting herself to the constant scrutiny of those around her.

She was only safe so long as they didn’t know what she was. The Goodemeades and their mad plan to come out of the shadows looked a good deal less appealing, now that she stood to lose very directly by it. Then
everyone
would know how to recognize the signs of faerie things. As long as they remained ignorant, though, she remained safe—and
free
.

Gloriously free! Louisa could not help but grin at everything around her, from the pictures on the walls to the brass knobs of her bed, as if she’d never seen any of it before. The touch of her bare toes against the floor steadied her after that fright, and she bounded over to the window to peer out at the street below.

A carriage rolled by, bearing on its doors some peer’s coat of arms; she could not make it out from up here, and likely wouldn’t have recognized it anyway. She’d thought to go along with Mrs. Kittering’s plans and marry that baron’s son, the one with the absurd name—or perhaps someone even more highly placed. Taking on a human life didn’t mean giving up all of her faerie charms, after all, and the glittering beauty of the
haut ton
did have its appeal. But wedding a peer would limit her freedom too much, unless she kept her husband continually enchanted; and besides, Louisa had never desired to be a faerie bride. She’d known such a creature once, a nymph who left her husband after he struck her three times, and didn’t see the point.

No, she would not marry. There was no need for it anyway. Once she was settled into her new role, she would cut her ties with this family, and go wherever she liked. After Frederic Myers, perhaps. He had a wife in Cambridge, but surely it wouldn’t take much to change that, especially if Louisa Kittering suddenly discovered a mediumistic talent and began channeling the spirit of Annie Marshall. She even looked a bit like the dead woman, if she turned her head to the right angle; Myers had sneaked glances at the girl all through that London Fairy Society meeting, back in March. Now that the face was
hers,
she could make use of that.

Silly fool,
she chided herself. This was her escape from Nadrett, so that she no longer depended on his shelter and bread. She’d known from the moment she saw Myers at the meeting that spending time around him would be … unwise.

But just because Nadrett thinks he
might
have another use for the man later on, doesn’t mean he will,
whispered the part of her that had grown tired of caution and control.
With your help, Myers could even take steps to protect himself. Wouldn’t that be better than leaving him in danger?
She stood with one foot in each world now; why not make use of that? She could do anything Louisa Kittering could, and more.

But a glance back at the door sobered her. That freedom was hers only so long as she
was
Louisa Kittering. One direct admission of her true nature, and the bond would be broken. Which was hardly a concern in the ordinary way of things—but what of the maid?

There were other ways to force a changeling out. It all depended on how strong the maid’s nerve was.

Louisa tried to recall what the girl whose place she’d taken had said about the maid. A prying sort—and Irish; yes, now she remembered. Irish, though hiding it, which might explain why her mind went to fae. Louisa shuddered. They had harsh ways of dealing with changelings in Ireland.

Biting her lip in thought, she went to sit in front of the grate, staring at the coals glowing softly in their harmless iron nest.
The Goblin Market answer would be to dispose of her.
It wouldn’t even be hard; servants vanished all the time, with little or no explanation. Fetch a will-o’-the-wisp from the Onyx Hall and lure Hannah Whoever over the rail of a bridge, or into the path of an omnibus. Easy and sure.

But she’d taken on this life precisely to get away from the Goblin Market—that, and to stay in London, when the Onyx Hall finished its collapse. It would be a poor escape if she brought all those habits of thought and behavior with her.

So what, then?

The door opened. But the woman who came in wasn’t Hannah; it was some other maid, and she stared wide-eyed at Louisa—who realized she was on her feet with her hands raised in defensive claws. She lowered them hastily, and assumed an expression that implied they’d never been raised at all, that she
certainly
hadn’t been on the verge of attacking the maid.
It will take more than a new name to banish my Goblin Market habits, I suppose.
“Yes? What is it?”

The maid, a slump-shouldered woman with a nose made florid by drinking, gave an awkward curtsy. “I’m here to help you dress, miss.”

“Oh.” Now Louisa felt even more foolish. She couldn’t get used to all these people about, waiting to help her. In the old days, before the Onyx Hall reached its present degenerate state, she’d been a minor member of the court, and then of course she’d had servants. But the menial work—the lacing of her stays, the cleaning of her shoes, all the little tasks—had been handled by creatures so small and mindless they ranked one bare step above furniture in her notice. Humans relied on people for these things, and Louisa kept being surprised by their presence. “Pick out something—no, never mind; I will do it myself.”

She rummaged through the wardrobe, half her mind on which of her myriad of outfits to wear—
It’s morning; I should choose a morning dress; now, which ones are those? It’s been ages since I was able to mind proper fashion
—the other half on the problem of Hannah the maid.

I’ll see to it she keeps quiet,
Louisa decided at last, fingering the sleeve of a dress.
Scare her, if I must. But no sense drawing more attention than necessary, as long as she doesn’t go wagging her tongue where she oughtn’t.

She turned around, garment in hand, and saw the maid’s eyebrows shoot up. Looking down, Louisa found she’d picked up what even she could tell was a ball gown, in eggplant-colored silk. Scowling, she shoved it back into the wardrobe and plucked out something else.
But if she threatens more trouble …

If that happened, then Louisa would have to take steps to remove her. Not deadly ones; having her sacked might do. Or reported as Irish, at which point she’d likely be sacked anyway, and no one would listen to a word she said besides. If that wasn’t enough, there were fae in the Onyx Hall who would help out for a price, making sure Hannah went somewhere very far away, and didn’t return.

There were possibilities. But this much was certain: under no circumstances could the maid be allowed to threaten Louisa’s safety. There was still enough Goblin Market left in her to guarantee
that
.

Riverside, Onyx Hall: May 28, 1884

Coming out of the Crow’s Head, where Nadrett had sent him to question the owner Hafdean, Dead Rick caught an odd scent.

Sour. Sharp. I’ve smelled this before, I know I ’ave—

On Rewdan, the padfoot who’d been Nadrett’s courier from Faerie. Satyr’s bile, Dead Rick guessed; it was a kind of acid. But what in Mab’s name was it doing here?

He stepped warily, following the trail. It led away from people, toward a broken bit of the palace, close enough that nobody wanted to spend much time there. Which made it a perfect place to do secret work—but also to ambush anyone who came looking.
Nadrett wouldn’t do that; if ’e wants you dead, all ’e ’as to do is snap ’is fingers.
Chrennois might be a different story, though.

The light faded fast, but he could feel that the stone around him was mazed with cracks. This part of the Hall, like the Market, lay close to the riverside; that meant both cast-iron pipes and the forward progress of the Inner Circle were eating away at its structure. Dead Rick’s hackles rose. But there was light up ahead—a faerie light—surely that meant he could trust the fabric to hold together a little while longer.

He paused to sniff the air. Nothing. Just dust, cold stone, and the sour smell of bile. No scent of anyone, faerie or mortal. It didn’t reassure him: How had the acid gotten there, if no one had brought it?

Ears and nose could not answer that question for him. Dead Rick crept forward on silent feet and peered around the edge, into the light.

He saw just one faerie light, drifting slowly through the air. Its weak glow illuminated a round chamber, rings of stone benches surrounding a low depression in the center. Dead Rick didn’t know what the place had been originally—some kind of theater? There were no other exits, just the passage by which he’d come. He strained his senses, afraid someone had followed to trap him in this dead end. Again, nothing.

Except the smell of acid.

He glanced back into the chamber. A lighter smear marked the black stone in the center. Bait, he was sure—but damn it, it worked; he couldn’t leave without investigating.

Gritting his teeth, Dead Rick went down the steps between benches, to the floor of the chamber.

“My apologies for the absence.”

He actually leapt into the air, and only just stopped himself from shifting to dog form as he came down. A strangled noise came from his throat, a growl and several different curses all fighting to get out at once. Dead Rick sucked in a huge breath of air, held it, then spat out, “You fucking
bastard
.”

The voice didn’t dispute it. “I’m glad you found—and followed—the hint I left for you.”

Dead Rick swiped at the mark on the stone. It burned his fingers faintly: bile, of course. He wondered where the voice had gotten it. “Where in Mab’s name ’ave you been?”

“Had you not taken to sleeping at your master’s feet, you might have heard from me sooner. But arranging a new location in which to speak required some amount of effort, and time. I take it you have news for me?”

More than a little.
Dead Rick wrestled with himself. Honesty could get a dog killed—but in this case, so could deception, if Aspell decided to sell what he knew. “Secret’s out. I don’t know ’ow, but Valentin Aspell knows we’ve been dealing.”

A long pause. His muscles all tensed. Just because his ally had never presented himself as anything more than a disembodied voice didn’t mean he wasn’t in danger. There might be an ambush here, after all.

“What did you tell him?”

The question was presented far more mildly than he had any right to expect. Still, Dead Rick was careful to say, “I thought you was gone, understand? Tried to signal you for days, got no answer, but I didn’t want to just give up, and this was ’is price for what I needed to know.”

“Spare me the excuses; just tell me what you said.”

So Dead Rick did. Mostly. He left out any hint that he’d been investigating the voice, trying to find out who he was; but as he’d thought before, the information itself didn’t amount to much. “You was right to be careful,” he added at the end, still wary. “Keeping separate like this—I don’t know nothing to betray.”

“How fortunate,” the voice said dryly. “So, you sold me to Aspell in exchange for something about Nadrett. I think it only right I should have a share in that information, don’t you?”

This time Dead Rick answered with enthusiasm, spurred by relief that his ally had not abandoned him.
Maybe ’e’s one of the Prince’s fellows after all. They’re the only ones as play so kind.
“I saw the camera. And the cove using it, too.” Quickly, the words stumbling over one another, he related what Aspell had told him about Chrennois.

His ally seemed far more interested in the camera than the sprite behind it. “Where did you see this? And did they use it in front of you?”

“They did. Out in the sewers—west of where it breaks into the Market, and a bit south of the intercepting line. Nadrett ’ad us out there ’unting a ghost, me and a few others, and Chrennois. ’E used it to capture the ghost.” Dead Rick settled himself on the cracked stone of the lowest branch and described the device, and the way the ghost had vanished. “I don’t think ’e’d tried it before. Ain’t many ghosts around anymore, are there? But I guess this one appears every year—proper ’aunting, not just something that ain’t been cleared away yet—and so ’e decided to test the camera on it.”

The voice hummed in thought. “Appears every year … when was this?”

“May Day. It were an old ghost, too; knee breeches, the whole bit.”

Silence. Then Dead Rick heard something he’d never expected from his ally: a bark of laughter. “Knee breeches! Do you mean to say that Nadrett captured the ghost of Galen St. Clair?”

Dead Rick opened his mouth to say he had no idea who that was, then stopped. Because he
did
know the name; he’d seen it before he talked to Irrith.

On the memorial listing past Princes of the Stone.

“Why would ’e be ’aunting the sewers?” the skriker asked, disbelievingly.

“No direct reason. It must be a consequence of the palace’s disintegration. He’s buried in front of that memorial, you know—well, no; I suppose you wouldn’t. One of two Princes laid to rest in the Onyx Hall. And his ghost appears here every May Day, or used to. But the chamber where that occurred vanished several years ago, and he wasn’t seen again. The general presumption was that his connection here had been broken. It seems he went instead to the place the chamber had been, beneath London.” Another thoughtful noise. “Near the Monument, it sounds like; almost beneath it.”