Lady Pinckney did not set aside her Bible. Nor did she look directly at Abigail. “Thank you for your sentiments,” she said. Her tone was flat and cold. “Will that be all, Miss Wilder?”
Abigail responded by taking the hard wooden seat that had been provided. “I won’t take too much of your time,” she said. “I was told that strange circumstances were involved. With your leave, I would like to search for any clues that might help stop this from happening again.”
Lady Pinckney’s lips curled with obvious distaste. “Was it not enough that the Lord Sorcier must tramp about my home casting spells?” she asked. “He has already come and gone, with or without my permission. Lord Pinckney said that it was a matter of the crown, and that we had no standing to send him away.” She narrowed her eyes at her Bible. “You are not the Lord Sorcier, and I will not allow you to play at court magician in my home. You may leave.”
Abigail clenched her jaw. The harsh superiority in the lady’s tone jangled at her nerves, tempting her to lash out. But Abigail had known that this conversation would not be easy—and so, rather than respond immediately, she reached for the teacup and took a long, lingering sip. It was a soothing lime-flower tea, and it calmed the raw edges of her emotions.
I am not here for my own well-being, Abigail reminded herself.
Faeries are hurting people again, and I was the one who decided to try and stop them, she thought next.
Lady Pinckney is never pleasant to me, she thought finally, but she is grieving right now, and I must be the better person.
Abigail set the teacup down.
“My father is often very brusque,” she said. “I am sorry if he caused you further grief. But I am not here to play at court magician, Lady Pinckney. I want to help make sure this doesn’t happen again. I swear, that is my only intention.”
“You despised Lucy,” Lady Pinckney said simply. “I do not want you looking through her things.”
Abigail clenched her fingers on the teacup. What she wanted to say was: Lucy despised me first, and I never gave her reason to do so.
But she took another swallow of tea instead.
“I will not pretend that Lucy and I were good friends,” Abigail said, “but she did not deserve this.” She summoned up her breath. “You may believe that we are very different, and that I cannot possibly understand what you are feeling. But I lost my first mother, Lady Pinckney—and while I love my current mother dearly, there is no such thing as a replacement. I will have an awful hollow spot in my chest where she once was, until the day that I die. And I am compelled to do any little bit that I might do, in order to prevent other people from knowing that feeling. I believe that you would do the same.”
Lady Pinckney stared at her Bible. The cold, hard expression on her face fractured—and for a moment, Abigail caught sight of the unspeakable misery beneath. Tears threatened at the older woman’s eyes, and she hid her face more fully behind her book.
“You are no magician,” Lady Pinckney said, in a hoarse tone. “What could you possibly find which the Lord Sorcier did not?”
Abigail bit her lip. Her father’s warnings about magic echoed in her ears… but she did not grudge Lady Pinckney the question. Abigail knew very well that she had made a tall request.
I shall have to be known as a magician someday, after all, Abigail thought.
Abigail sipped once more at her tea, letting the lime flower rest upon her tongue. It made sense, of course, that Lady Pinckney would drink lime-flower tea at a time like this; the flavour was known to soothe one’s nerves.
Slowly, Abigail collected up the magic around her again, focussing on the sweet scent and taste of the lime flower. She rose from her chair and reached out to touch the teapot on the table, letting that magic trickle through her fingers like water. A soft golden glow lit the teapot from within, casting ripples of sunlight across the table.
“Have another cup of tea,” Abigail told Lady Pinckney gravely. “It won’t dispel your grief—but it will soften the edges for a while, and maybe let you rest.”
Lady Pinckney let her Bible fall from her face. She stared at the teapot for a long moment. Slowly—with a sideways glance at Abigail—the lady reached out to place her hand hesitantly upon the pot.
Some of the tension drained from her body. She closed her eyes, and sighed in weary relief.
Abigail’s heart twinged at the sight. Though she held no love for Lady Pinckney or her daughter, she knew that she had lessened an awful pain, for just a little bit. That, Abigail thought, was worthwhile—and it was not the sort of magic which her father ever would have thought to perform.
Lady Pinckney opened her eyes and very gingerly poured herself another cup of tea. The potion glimmered with soft, reassuring light. The glow lit up Lady Pinckney’s features as she sipped at her cup, softening her harsh expression.
They sat in silence for another minute. This time, it was an oddly comfortable, contemplative silence.
“I will have Mr Swinton show you to Lucy’s bedroom,” Lady Pinckney said. She hesitated uncomfortably. “You… won’t disturb anything?”
Abigail shook her head. “I may need to open the window,” she said, “but I will do my best to leave everything exactly as I find it.”
Lady Pinckney glanced behind her, at the maid. “Please find Mr Swinton and bring him here,” she said. “Make certain that he has his keys.”
Chapter 3
Mr Swinton was surprised and suspicious as he showed Abigail into Lucy’s bedroom—but he was far too upstanding to voice any of his possible concerns aloud.
The bedroom was neat and spacious; the servants had clearly been keeping it clean, in spite of its owner’s absence. The western window was firmly closed—but Mr Swinton went to open it for Abigail, in order to let in more light.
Hugh was sitting on top of the bed, waiting for Abigail. He glanced at her as she entered.
“No ghost,” Hugh said. “It’s really strange, Abby. I feel as though Lucy should still be here, but she isn’t. I don’t know why.”
Abigail gave the butler a sideways look. She suspected he would not be very understanding if she started talking to thin air. “Thank you for the help,” she said politely. “I will let you know if I have any questions.”
Mr Swinton frowned at that. Abigail knew that he was weighing whether he ought to protest the clear dismissal… but he must have erred on the side of caution, for he nodded stiffly and stepped outside of the bedroom.
“What do you mean, Lucy should be here?” Abigail asked Hugh softly.
Hugh hopped off of the bed, frowning. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It feels like… like she left a lot of herself behind. She was attached enough to stay, but I don’t see her anywhere around.”
Abigail shook her head. “I don’t like that,” she said warily. “Not many things can affect ghosts.” Worry gnawed at her. “Maybe Dad was right. Maybe you should go back to Hollowvale for a bit, Hugh.”
Hugh narrowed his eyes at her. “I am not goin’ back to Hollowvale,” he stated. “If you’re stayin’ in London, then I’m stayin’ in London.” Abigail hesitated at that, and Hugh added: “Don’t be like Dad, Abby. I want to stay, just like you.”
Abigail sighed. For just a second, she sympathised with her father. The idea of letting Hugh walk into danger with her was suddenly terrifying. But Hugh hadn’t just been abducted by a faerie—Lord Hollowvale had really killed him. It only made sense that Hugh would want to stop the sluagh from doing the same to other people like him.
“You’re right,” Abigail murmured. “You have the right to stay an’ help. But… will you please be more careful from now on, Hugh? If there’s somethin’ around that can bother ghosts, that means we’ve got to stick together.”
Hugh nodded reluctantly. “I’ll stay close by,” he promised. He turned his gaze back to the rest of the bedroom. “There’s somethin’ wrong here. You think you can dig around some?”
Abigail considered the room. “I don’t kn
ow quite what I’m lookin’ for,” she admitted. “But I’ll start with the obvious, I suppose, an’ see if the room is hidin’ anything.”
Hugh bounced on his feet with excitement. “I know this one!” he said. “I’ve seen Dad do it before. You’ll need tobacco smoke, won’t you?”
Abigail scowled. “Dad can call fire on command,” she said. “I haven’t got any way of lightin’ tobacco, even if I had it. Anyway, there’s other ways of seein’ hidden things, you know. I’ve got a little bit of eyebright tea, an’ it works just as well.”
Abigail dug into her reticule once more, producing a little silver flask. She unscrewed the top only with a bit of reluctance. Eyebright tea was normally light and sweet—but Abigail had brewed this particular batch with exceptional strength in order to be sure that its magic would work, and the taste was bitterly overwhelming. Still—she screwed up her face and took a long swallow from the flask.
Slowly, the image of the bedroom grew bright and strong—as though the sun were shining in from every corner at once. Abigail cast her gaze around the room, searching for anything out of place.
Something was indeed out of place.
A black shape fled from Abigail’s sight, darting away beneath the large four-poster bed. At first, she thought it must have been a raven—but a moment later, she realised that it was far too big to be a raven.
“Hugh,” Abigail said softly, “get behind me, won’t you?”
Hugh frowned—but he shuffled carefully behind Abigail, glancing around the room with curiosity.
Abigail slowly closed the silver flask and put it back into the reticule, setting the bag down onto a side table. She kept her eyes ahead of her as she reached blindly into the reticule again, searching around inside until she came out with a tiny pouch of salt—one of the best mortal remedies she had against evil spirits.
“I know you’re there,” Abigail announced to the bed. “You may as well come out.”
The bed remained silent.
“I can force you out,” Abigail added. “Neither of us would like that very much, I think.”
Another second passed. Then, a voice underneath the bed said: “You could just leave, an’ pretend you never saw me.”
Abigail knitted her brow. The voice that had spoken was a young woman’s voice. Whoever the woman was, she had an accent very similar to Abigail’s—which surely meant that she had little business being in a dead noblewoman’s bedroom.
“Would you please come out?” Abigail repeated. Her tone was a little less hostile now, and a little more curious.
The bed sighed.
Slowly, a young woman wriggled out from underneath the bed. Her mid-length black hair had fallen free from her simple white cap. Her face was drawn and pale—and as she clambered to her feet, Abigail saw that she had a small frame that suggested she had missed several meals over the course of her life. She wore a patched old apron overtop a faded green frock.
Overall, she was exactly the sort of young woman who didn’t belong underneath a lady’s fourposter bed.
“Who are you, an’ what are you doin’ beneath Miss Kendall’s bed?” Abigail asked. She meant to use a stern tone befitting a professional magician—but the words came out less serious and more perplexed. Whatever magic had been hiding the woman before seemed gone now, though the pungent taste of eyebright still lingered on Abigail’s tongue.
The young woman grimaced, wiping her hands on her apron. Abigail caught a whiff of lye, mixed with some sweeter smell which she could not quite identify. Probably, she thought, she was looking at a laundress. But that fact did not feel very enlightening—rather, it only added to her existing confusion.
“I don’t know that I ought to give you my name,” the woman said warily. “I heard you talkin’—you’re a magician, an’ a necromancer.” She narrowed her eyes at Hugh, and Abigail blinked.
Hugh lit up with delight. “You can see me?” he asked. “No one but Abby’s ever seen me before!”
The small woman frowned at Hugh. “Have you been trapped here?” she asked him seriously. “If you tell me how she’s done it, I could try an’ help you.”
“I’m standin’ right here, you know!” Abigail said hotly. “An’ I’m not a necromancer!” She paused, and thought for a moment. “Well. I suppose I technically did some necromancy. But that’s not the same as doin’ necromancy all of the time, is it? It’s not like I’ve made a profession of it.”
Hugh grinned. “I asked Abby to bring me to England,” he said. “I’d been stuck in Hollowvale for years an’ years. It’s not awful there, but it does get boring after a while—”
Abigail threw up her hands. “Oh, just tell her everything then!” she said sourly. “We can surely trust strange washer women hidin’ underneath beds, can’t we?”
The dark-haired woman blinked at Hugh. “You… wanted her to bind you?” she asked. “But don’t you want to finish your business an’ move on to what’s next?”
Hugh furrowed his brow. “I don’t know what business I’d have to finish,” he said. “But if I’d wanted to move on, I’d have done it.” He stepped forward to offer his hand. “I’m Hugh, by the way, an’ this is Abby. You can tell me your name—I’m not a magician.”
To Abigail’s unending surprise, the other woman took Hugh’s hand and shook it. “Oh, fine then,” she said. “My name’s Mercy. I think magicians could still use a name they’ve heard, but only my first name shouldn’t hurt too much.”
Hugh stared down at the hand that currently gripped his. His eyes were very wide. “You can touch me too,” he breathed. “No one’s ever done that, ‘less I was in Hollowvale. How do you do that? Could you teach Abby?”
Mercy cocked her head at Hugh. “Well… I’ve always just done it, I suppose,” she said. “I’ve had a way with ghosts ever since I can remember.”
Abigail scowled. “Step away from her, Hugh,” she said. “There ought to be a ghost here, remember? Awful convenient that she happens to be here an’ Lucy’s ghost happens to be gone.”
Mercy glanced at Abigail sharply—and as she did, Abigail saw that the dark irises of Mercy’s eyes were tinged with shifting pink and blue hues, like windows into a twilight sky. The sight arrested Abigail so much at first that she nearly forgot that they were in the middle of an argument.
“Awful convenient there happens to be a necromancer here an’ no ghost,” Mercy challenged Abigail back. “I thought for sure I felt a ghost tied to this house, an’ instead I found you.”
Hugh dropped Mercy’s hand, looking between the two of them uncertainly. “I don’t think there’s any need to fight,” he said. “I can promise, Abby wouldn’t bind a ghost who didn’t want it. An’ Abby, I figure whoever got rid of Lucy’s ghost probably did it a while back—otherwise Dad would’ve noticed Lucy an’ talked to her while he was here.”
Abigail made a sour sort of face. “Probably so,” she said grudgingly. “That doesn’t mean we ought to trust her, though.” She was still feeling irritable over being called a necromancer.
Mercy crossed her arms. “I didn’t ask you to trust me,” she huffed. “I can find a missin’ ghost all on my own, thank you very much.”
“But why are you lookin’ for a missin’ ghost at all?” Abigail pressed her.
“I’ve got a question,” Mercy shot back at Abigail. “Why are you so nosy?”
“An’ why should you go lookin’ for a missin’ ghost all on your own?” Hugh asked plaintively. He turned a pleading expression upon Abigail. “We could use the help, Abby, couldn’t we?”
“You just want her around because she can touch you,” Abigail grumbled. She eyed Mercy suspiciously. “Oh, I think you should come with us,” she added. “I’d rather have my eyes on you instead of wonderin’ if you’re followin’ behind me. You sneaked into this house with magic—I’d have seen you without the eyebright, otherwise.”
Mercy lifted her chin. “Maybe I don’t want to come with you,” she challenged Abigail. “I don’t like be
in’ ordered around by stuck up magicians who think they’re better’n me.”
Abigail’s mouth dropped open. It was bad enough being called a necromancer—but it stung even worse to be told she was stuck up.
“I am not a stuck up magician!” Abigail said hotly. “I just think you’re suspicious!”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “An’ you’ve got the right to declare who’s suspicious an’ who’s not,” she snipped. “I think you’re suspicious, but I’m not orderin’ you to follow me around.” She brushed the last of the dust from her apron. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Magician—I’ve got a ghost to find.”
And then—even as Abigail watched—the shadows in the corner of the bedroom closed around Mercy like a broad yawn.
And she was gone.
Hugh looked back at Abigail with wide eyes. “Did you see that?” he asked, in an awe-filled voice. “That was faerie magic, Abby. There’s no way it was anything else! An’ she did it so quick, too! You’d never be able to do somethin’ like that—”
“Oh, would you be quiet, Hugh?” Abigail snapped. She didn’t mean to be brusque with him—but a small part of her was feeling terribly hurt and betrayed. It wasn’t enough that Hugh had found a strange woman to admire; apparently, he had to rub Abigail’s face in her own lack of imagination, too.
For just a second, Hugh looked distressed—but his expression soon hardened into resentment. “Is that a command, Miss Magician?” he asked. “You could use that locket to make me be quiet if you wanted.”
Abigail clenched her fingers into her palms. “Don’t you be pert with me!” she said. “I’ve never made you do anything you didn’t want to do, an’ you know it. I’m sorry if I can’t shake your hand or disappear into shadows. I only spent months makin’ sure you could leave Hollowvale, an’ I guess that isn’t impressive enough.”
Hugh opened his mouth to respond… but a strange look came over his face, and he closed it again.
Seconds ticked by. Finally, Hugh said: “We’re both bein’ very silly, aren’t we?”
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