Longshadow

by Olivia Atwater

  Abigail let out a frustrated noise. “We’ll just go back to England, then,” she said. “We can take a different path from Kensington Gardens—” But even as Abigail turned back towards the window that led into the Greenhouse, she saw the flaw in this plan. Whoever had set this particular trap had prepared it completely. On their way in, they had stepped over a last horseshoe which had been staked into the ground, pointing away from the window.

  “Well,” Hugh said, following Abigail’s gaze, “I guess we won’t be doin’ that either.”

  Abigail grimaced and thought for a moment. She glanced at the surrounding foliage, searching for a stick. They were all too short to reach the horseshoe from where she was standing, however.

  Mercy fixed her eyes upon the horseshoe with growing confusion and distress. Shadows gathered in ragged cobwebs around her as she reached for her inside magic.

  Abigail whirled towards her. “No, don’t!” she said quickly.

  But Mercy had already lashed out at the horseshoe in front of the Greenhouse window. Shadows hissed towards it, cold and unfriendly; for an instant, the shadows looked like half-shrouded human forms, grasping out at the horseshoe to pry it loose from the ground.

  A thunderous crack split the air. White-hot light tore through the shadows, shredding them like paper. Mercy staggered back with a cry of pain—and soon, there was the awful scent of something burning.

  Abigail rushed over as Mercy crumpled to the ground, holding her hands to her chest.

  “Is it bad?” Abigail asked urgently. “Let me see.” She reached out gingerly for Mercy’s wrists, tugging her hands back into view.

  There was an angry red colour to the skin of Mercy’s hands—but thankfully, the burns seemed mild. Any sort of burn was agonising, of course, and Abigail didn’t grudge the tears of pain that ran down Mercy’s face.

  “Why would you do that?” Abigail asked her. “You must’ve known what would happen!”

  Mercy shivered miserably. “I… I don’t know,” she said. “I’m so used to inside magic doin’ whatever I want it to do, I think I just… believed it would work anyway.”

  Hugh had hurried over with Abigail; he winced as he saw Mercy’s hands. “Some things are still impossible, no matter how hard you imagine ‘em,” he said.

  Abigail sighed heavily. “Do you know,” she said, “I think your imagination’s a little too creative. You’ve had so long gettin’ your way that you’ve forgot what it’s like when you don’t. Faerie magic is nice an’ all, but it can’t solve everything.”

  Mercy looked down at her hands with a trembling lip. “It hurts an awful lot,” she mumbled. “I think I hate horseshoes, Abby.”

  Abigail cocked an eyebrow. The nickname sounded strange, coming from Mercy’s lips. “It’s Abigail,” she said reluctantly. “An’ I’ll bet you do hate horseshoes. I can’t say as I enjoy ‘em much myself, right now.” She set Mercy’s hands carefully down into her lap and pushed to her feet. “Well, whoever did this, we’re well an’ truly trapped. Even mortal magic hates iron. I’m not sure as we have a way of gettin’ out of here.”

  Hugh looked up at Abigail. “Well, you can’t,” he said. “I don’t think I have any trouble gettin’ past. It’s just a shame I can’t move the horseshoes for you.”

  Abigail knitted her brow at him. “You can’t move the horseshoes,” she said slowly, “but maybe you could find someone else to move them.”

  Hugh crossed his arms thoughtfully. Then, a sudden thought lit up his face. “Mum!” he said. “Not Other Mum, but Normal Mum! Maybe I can get her attention in a mirror an’ lead her here!”

  Abigail gave him a wary look. “Your locket’s in faerie with me,” she said. “It might not work as well if you go back to England. What if you go too far from it an’ you fall apart?”

  Hugh frowned darkly. “No one else here can walk past iron,” he said. “You need my help, Abby. Anyway, I’m not really scared of fallin’ apart.”

  Abigail frowned at that. “You’re not?” she asked. “But you said you didn’t want to move on, Hugh.”

  Hugh shrugged. “I don’t want to move on,” he agreed. “Seems silly to give up everything I care about just to wander somewhere new. But you are what I care about. There’s nothin’ wrong goin’ down fightin’ for that.”

  Abigail stared at Hugh. As she did, she realised that she had largely avoided talking to him about why he refused to move on—mostly because she didn’t want him to move on, and some part of her had always feared that bringing up the subject would get him thinking about it.

  “I don’t want you to go down fightin’ for me at all, Hugh,” Abigail said softly. Her throat was tight on the words. The idea was suddenly very possible and very horrifying.

  Hugh rolled his eyes. “That’s your problem an’ not mine,” he said. “But anyway, you’ll have to use the locket if you want to stop me. I’m goin’ now, Abby. If I wait too long, I won’t be able to find Mum quick enough before the sun comes up an’ the paths in the gardens all close.”

  Abigail clenched her fingers into her palms. For just a moment, she was tempted to use the locket, to force Hugh to stay. But she knew that was wrong. If she did that, Abigail thought, then she really would be a necromancer.

  “I don’t want you to go,” Abigail said quietly, “but I won’t use the locket, Hugh.”

  Hugh smiled up at her. “I know why I’m still here,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll disappear as long as I know you need help. So don’t worry too much.” He sighed. “I do wish I could hug you goodbye. But you ought to know I love you lots, Abby.”

  Abigail blinked away tears. It was suddenly very difficult to keep her voice level. “I love you lots too, Hugh,” she said.

  Mercy looked up at Abigail from her place on the ground. There was still pain on her face—but underneath that was a new and curious uncertainly. “I… I could strengthen your spell on the locket,” she said. “I’ve always been good with ghosts.”

  Abigail considered Mercy carefully. “You don’t believe in ghosts stayin’ past their time,” she said slowly. “You called me a necromancer for doin’ the spell at all.”

  Mercy nodded miserably. “I don’t like it much,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to stay here forever with these horseshoes. And…” Mercy trailed off. Her dark eyes flickered to Hugh, studying him with consternation. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “It seems like the right thing to do, just now. I never thought I’d say that.”

  Abigail glanced at Hugh. “It’s your locket,” she said. “Do you want to risk her touchin’ it?”

  Hugh narrowed his one eye at Mercy. “Promise you won’t do anything funny to it?” he asked her. “You’ll just make the spell stronger?”

  Mercy nodded reluctantly. “I promise,” she said.

  Hugh nodded. “Go on then,” he said to Abigail. “I do think she wants out as much as you do.”

  Abigail tugged the locket reluctantly from her shirt. She greatly disliked the idea of giving it to anyone else; she especially disliked giving it to Mercy, given the suspicions that had started growing in her mind. But Hugh had made his decision—and so, Abigail placed the locket gingerly into one of Mercy’s painfully reddened hands.

  Mercy flinched in discomfort. But she closed her fingers around the locket, even so. With one last worried look at the horseshoe near the window, Mercy took in a breath—and the shreds of her shadows gathered around her once more.

  The magic didn’t backfire this time, since Mercy wasn’t trying to affect the iron—but the shadows still seemed sullen and sluggish. In England, Mercy’s magic had leapt to her command whenever she pleased; here, surrounded by iron, it seemed to resent being called up at all.

  Slowly, Mercy’s shadows curled around the silver locket, settling into its engravings. The locket took on a tarnished look, much like the trees that surrounded them.

  Perhaps it was just her imagination—but Abigail thought that Hugh’s form strengthened a little bit. Certainly,
he stood somewhat straighter.

  Mercy let out a long, wavering breath. Abigail caught her, just before she sagged forward. The scent of lilies was suddenly overwhelming—fresh and crisp and sweet, like flowers after a spring rain.

  It was easier to think of Mercy as a strange and vexing presence when she was standing further away, talking in contrary tones. But as Mercy leaned her forehead wearily against Abigail’s shoulder, it was suddenly difficult to ignore how very soft and fragile she could be. Much of Mercy’s strength, Abigail realised, was an illusion conjured up by her stubbornness and confidence—and much of that was due to her belief that her inside magic would always save her.

  Right now, Mercy was trembling in Abigail’s arms, pained and uncertain. And though Abigail still didn’t trust Mercy, she couldn’t help an overwhelming wash of sympathy for her. For the first time in quite a while, it seemed, Mercy was entirely dependent on someone else to help her.

  Still—though she was tired and hurt, Mercy forced some steel back into her spine and handed the locket carefully back to Abigail.

  “I think that should help,” Mercy said softly. “I did my best.”

  Abigail kept the other woman balanced against her shoulder as she looped the locket back around her neck. Something about it did feel subtly different—stronger, she hoped.

  “I’ll be off then,” Hugh said—but Mercy shook her head and staggered up to her feet.

  “Maybe Abigail can’t give you a hug,” Mercy said, “but I can give you one for her.” A hint of that previous stubbornness had leaked back into her voice.

  Hugh smiled again, with a hint of relief. He launched himself at Mercy, throwing his arms around her, and Abigail remembered that it had been ages and ages since he’d been able to hug anyone.

  Mercy floundered on her feet just a little bit; but she closed her arms around Hugh, holding him fiercely.

  Abigail’s heart twisted in her chest as she watched them both. So many odd, bittersweet emotions tangled up within her that she wasn’t entirely sure of them all. That old sadness for Hugh had returned, several times over; but she was also deeply proud of him, and scared for him, and still pleased that someone could hug him right now, even if she couldn’t.

  There was another emotion there, however, that had nothing to do with Hugh and everything to do with Mercy. However much Mercy seemed to disagree with Hugh’s decision to stay in England, she clearly cared about his happiness. Only someone who had spent time worrying over how Hugh felt would ever go out of their way to offer him comfort. Abigail knew, moreover, that Mercy was not feeling well at all, and that it cost her something to keep her feet as Hugh held onto her.

  Abigail did not want to like Mercy. It was a terrible idea to like her, in fact. But Abigail was beginning to suspect that she did like Mercy in spite of that. Abigail’s heart warmed a bit as she considered the soft smile on Mercy’s face. It was a lovely smile, Abigail thought—not because Mercy was lovely, but because the smile made her beautiful sentiments apparent.

  Slowly, Mercy disentangled herself from Hugh. “Well,” she managed, “now you can leave, I suppose.” She smiled again, and Abigail’s heart flickered in her chest at the sight. “Thank you for helping, Hugh. I know it’s mostly for Abigail, but I still appreciate it.”

  Hugh cast his gaze to the ground, suddenly bashful. “It’s a little bit for you too,” he assured Mercy. “I wouldn’t just leave you trapped here, even if you were the worst villain in the world.” He looked past her, towards Abigail. “You both take care,” he said. “Don’t let the sluagh get you or nothin’.”

  Mercy frowned at this comment, but said nothing.

  Abigail shook her head. “I’ve still got Mr Hayes with me,” she said. “Worry about yourself.”

  Hugh grinned at the reminder. He gave a gentlemanly sort of bow to them both.

  And then, he turned around to walk through the Greenhouse window, back into England.

  Chapter 6

  It was always terrible trying to tell time in faerie. Even simple things felt wavery and dreamlike. Night and day didn’t seem to follow the usual rules, and seconds seemed to wander past, rather than tick by.

  Mercy settled next to Abigail against a tree, looking out over the rest of the forest. Now that Hugh was gone, the tarnished grove felt even less substantial than before—but Mercy’s hands were still painfully red in a very real way.

  “I wish I had somethin’ for your hands,” Abigail sighed. “I’ve only got magician’s things in here, though.”

  Mercy leaned against Abigail. “It’s all right,” she mumbled distractedly. “They’ll heal. Anyway, it’s a lovely view, isn’t it? I wouldn’t mind this at all, if it weren’t for the iron.”

  Abigail was still sick with worry for Hugh—but she considered the world around them, trying to see it through Mercy’s eyes. Everywhere she looked, the trees glimmered silver beneath an invisible moon, casting gentle shadows across the forest floor. Most mortals would have found the sight enchanting, Abigail thought. And for a moment, at least, she found it enchanting too.

  But the moment passed as Abigail remembered their situation, and her worries about the woman sitting next to her.

  “I’m sure you’ve been all around faerie,” Abigail said. “You’ve got a piece of it in you too. An’ it’s a piece of Longshadow—isn’t it?”

  Mercy said nothing. But her silence spoke for her.

  “I thought so,” Abigail murmured. She reached down to pick up one of the silver leaves on the ground next to her. “You knew the closest path to Longshadow from London—you didn’t need an oleander to tell you where to look. You’re all wrapped up in this too, somehow.” Abigail tossed the leaf aside with a sigh. “What I can’t figure out is why you were in Lucy’s room at all. If you’re workin’ with the sluagh, then wouldn’t you already know what happened to her an’ why?”

  Mercy pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin upon them. “I heard that the sluagh were bein’ blamed for killing’ Lucy an’ those other girls,” she said glumly, “but it just didn’t sound right to me. Sluagh aren’t normally like that.”

  Abigail glanced sideways at Mercy. There was real consternation on her face—as though her entire world had stopped making sense. “But sluagh do kill people,” Abigail said. “They come in through the western window at night, an’ the people inside are dead by morning.”

  Mercy shook her head, agitated. “Sluagh don’t—” She paused, wincing, and changed what she was about to say. “Sluagh do kill people,” she admitted. “But they only do it when someone’s already dyin’ an’ sufferin’ badly for no reason. They never kill anyone with a whole life ahead of ‘em. They wouldn’t.”

  Abigail frowned. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Are you sayin’ sluagh only show up when someone’s already dyin’? But why? Just to speed things up?”

  Mercy sighed. “Sluagh aren’t supposed to be killers,” she said. “They’re shepherds. They’re supposed to help ghosts to the Other Side. They can sense the dead an’ dyin’, so they show up when someone’s about to need their help.”

  Abigail stared at Mercy.

  It could have been a lie, of course—but everything Mercy said seemed perfectly consistent with the way she’d been behaving and the way that her magic worked. It was no wonder that Mercy hadn’t liked Hugh’s locket; the piece of Longshadow inside of Mercy was meant to send ghosts on, instead of keeping them longer.

  “You’ve helped ghosts over to the Other Side too,” Abigail said slowly, “haven’t you?”

  Mercy had spoken reluctantly so far—but at this, her manner softened, and she smiled wistfully. “Most of ‘em are scared of what comes next, even if they don’t realise it,” she said. “They just want someone to talk to ‘em an’ hold their hand an’ walk with ‘em.”

  Abigail knitted her brow, putting new thoughts together. “You really walk ghosts all the way through faerie to the Other Side?” she asked. “Through Longshadow, I guess?” Abiga
il paused, and narrowed her eyes. “If I were a sluagh in London, for instance, I’d probably take a ghost right down this path, on the way there.”

  Mercy blinked. “Well… yes,” she said. “I was almost sure that Lucy an’ the sluagh would’ve passed this way—an’ accordin’ to the other faeries, I was right.”

  “But here we are,” Abigail said, “an’ there’s only a bunch of iron, an’ no sluagh, an’ no ghost.” She looked again at the horseshoes around them. “I thought at first that my father might have set a trap for the next sluagh that came through here—but he can’t touch iron any more’n I can. If this trap was his, he would’ve used a circle like the one he had at the House. An’ obviously, the sluagh can’t touch iron either, so they can’t have left the horseshoes here.”

  “Your father?” Mercy interrupted. “Is he a ward of faerie too?”

  “What’s a ward of faerie?” Abigail asked, puzzled.

  Mercy shrugged. “That’s what you are,” she said. “Hollowvale liked somethin’ about you, so it decided to foster you.”

  Abigail blinked slowly. “Er,” she said. “So you’re sayin’… my Other Mum’s realm is my guardian, an’ not her?”

  Mercy managed a faint smile at that. “Well, why not both?” she said. “I guess you’ve got more’n one guardian, in that case.”

  Abigail turned the idea over in her head. Part of her didn’t much like it; Hollowvale’s old lord had been cruel and capricious, and he had caused an awful lot of suffering. Hollowvale had helped him do all of those terrible things, by definition—for lords in faerie were owned by their land, rather than the other way around.

  But Hollowvale had also accepted Abigail’s Other Mum as its new lady—with great eagerness, it seemed, given the breadth of her power. Ever since, the faerie realm had helped to nurture and protect the other dead children there. Perhaps, Abigail thought, there was even a sort of affection involved.

  “I wonder if faerie realms can change,” Abigail murmured.

  Mercy tilted her head. “What d’you mean?” she asked.