Abigail crossed her arms thoughtfully. “Lord Hollowvale believed he was bein’ virtuous when he stole all of those children,” she said. “He was really awful, mind you, an’ I’m glad that he’s dead. But I can’t help but think my Other Mum must’ve given Hollowvale a tongue-lashing after she took over. Maybe she’s teachin’ it how to really care about people.”
“Oh,” Mercy said, in a bewildered tone. “I didn’t know that was possible.”
“Maybe it isn’t,” Abigail said. “I could be wrong.” She hoped she wasn’t wrong. The idea that Hollowvale might have fostered her as a sort of apology seemed better than the idea that it had simply taken one more thing that it wanted, without thought as to how it would affect anyone else.
Abigail tucked the thought away for now, and resolved to ask her Other Mum about it later.
“But that’s neither here nor there,” Abigail said belatedly. “Whoever set up this trap knew about the path the sluagh take back to Longshadow, an’ they aren’t a faerie or a ward of faerie. I’m afraid that leaves the obvious.”
Mercy watched her warily. “The obvious?” she asked.
“I think we’re dealin’ with a magician,” Abigail said grimly. “Maybe it’s just another magician tryin’ to help stop the sluagh… but maybe not.”
Even as Abigail said this, she realised that Mercy had suddenly stopped listening. Mercy’s dark eyes were fixed beyond Abigail’s shoulder, upon something off between the trees.
“Mercy?” Abigail asked cautiously.
“Do you know what Miss Lucy Kendall looks like?” Mercy asked quietly.
Abigail knitted her brow. “I do,” she said. “Lucy was around my height—blonde, and very pretty.”
Mercy stumbled to her feet. “Miss Kendall!” she yelled. “We’re over here! We came to find you, but you’ve got to come to us!”
Abigail widened her eyes, scrambling up after Mercy. “She’s here?” Abigail asked. “Where?”
Mercy shushed Abigail with a wave of her hand. “You can’t see or hear her,” she said. “She’s in distress. She’s fallin’ apart some, without anything to anchor her here.”
Abigail looked around, though she knew that it was fruitless. Even eyebright tea wouldn’t reveal a ghost to her. Normally, Hugh let her know when there was one nearby. “You can tell Lucy I’m here,” Abigail said. “Though… that might just make her run away. She’s never liked me much.”
Mercy shrugged. “Tell her yourself,” she said. “Maybe you can’t hear Lucy, but she can hear you. Try an’ convince her to come over to us.”
Abigail winced. She hadn’t enjoyed talking to Lucy when they’d both been alive—she was even less enthused about the idea of having a one-sided conversation with Lucy’s ghost. But it only made sense that Abigail should try, since Lucy didn’t know very much about Mercy.
Abigail took a deep breath and tried to readjust her accent to something slightly more upper-class. “Lucy!” she called out reluctantly. “It’s Abigail! I can’t see you, but I know you’re here. You’re in faerie right now, but I can help you get back home.”
Mercy pursed her lips disapprovingly, but said nothing. She probably thought they ought to be convincing Lucy to move on, instead of going home. But Abigail knew that the promise of home would likely mean more to Lucy than just a familiar, unpleasant face.
A few moments later, Mercy shifted on her feet. “She’s coming this way,” she said. “She does look the way you described.” Mercy winced and held up her hands. “Oh, please slow down,” she said quickly, to the empty air in front of them. “Abigail can’t hear you, so I’ve got to tell her everything.”
Abigail was used to repeating Hugh’s words to others; it was very strange, suddenly, to be stuck on the other side of that divide. She forced herself to wait patiently as Mercy turned back towards her to relate Lucy’s words.
“Lucy says she’s been wanderin’ around here for a while,” Mercy said. “We’re the first people she’s seen since she got lost.” She paused, and sighed. “Lucy says we’re to take her home immediately.”
Abigail suspected that Lucy had not phrased the matter even that politely, based on Mercy’s expression. She took a deep breath.
“We’re waiting on my mum,” Abigail said, with carefully rounded vowels. “If you stay with us for a while, she’ll come and take us back to England. In the meantime, it would be a great help if you could tell us everything you remember about how you got here.”
Mercy frowned. “Repeatin’ yourself isn’t goin’ to help,” she advised the air. “We can’t leave until Abigail’s mum shows up. An’ might I add, you’re rather pert for someone who needs our help. Does that normally work for you?”
“Let me guess,” Abigail said dryly. “She doesn’t like your accent. Or your hair. Or your frock. Or… anything about you.”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “Lucy thinks I’m your maid,” she said. “She doesn’t like my attitude.”
Abigail couldn’t help a small snort. “You’d make a terrible maid,” she told Mercy. “I thought you were a laundress at first, but I can’t even imagine you washing someone else’s clothing now. Maybe you wash clothing for the sluagh? But, oh… I imagine they mostly wear feathers.”
Mercy shrugged. “I can let you talk to Abigail,” she told the air, “but she already told you the same thing.” She glanced at Abigail. “Do you mind if I put a spell on you?” Mercy asked. “It might speed things up some.”
Abigail shot Mercy a surprised look. “You can help me see Lucy?” she asked. “Well—yes, if you don’t mind. I’d appreciate it.”
Mercy nodded. “You’ll have to take off your gloves,” she said.
Abigail didn’t require much convincing on that score—if it hadn’t been for her formal visit with Lady Pinckney earlier, she would never have worn a gown into faerie at all. She peeled her gloves carefully from her hands, tucking them into her reticule just next to Mr Hayes. The straw doll wiggled emphatically as Abigail opened the bag, urgently trying to worm his way free, but Abigail closed the reticule upon him again, just in time.
Mercy reached one reddened hand out to take Abigail’s, threading their fingers together. Her skin was still cool and pleasant, in spite of the burns—and again, Abigail found herself thinking about how long and fine Mercy’s fingers were. There shouldn’t have been anything improper about touching another woman’s hand—but somehow, Abigail was sure that if she’d had a chaperone nearby, she would have been scolded for touching Mercy’s hand.
Magic tingled lightly across Abigail’s skin. Even as she watched, the shadows of the forest parted like a curtain. Colour crept across her vision, replacing the ambient moonlight with splashes of vibrant twilight. The trees glimmered with blues and pinks and yellows, all mixed together like a painter’s canvas.
Caught between those twilight colours was a familiar woman around Abigail’s age. Lucy Kendall was an inch or so taller than Abigail, with fine cheekbones and light blue eyes; her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders, nearly midway down her back. The thin white nightgown that she wore was probably not very helpful against the evening air.
Every once in a while, Lucy’s form wavered with the twilight, as though she were a part of it—but she always stabilised stubbornly, clinging to solidity. Abigail wondered if this was what Mercy meant when she talked about Hugh being stuck in-between. It was strange, seeing visual proof of the idea.
“I want to go home,” Lucy informed Abigail, in a curt, ladylike voice. “Either that, or else you must bring me to Lord Longshadow immediately.” Lucy said both of these things as though they were orders she expected to be followed.
Abigail frowned at the second statement. “Why do you want to see Lord Longshadow?” she asked.
Lucy straightened haughtily. “I am not supposed to be dead,” she sniffed. “The gentleman all in black—I believe his name was Lightless—he said that I could make my case to Lord Longshadow, and that he might bring me back to life.”
Abigail raised both eyebrows at this. She was about to comment that Lord Longshadow probably would not bring Lucy back to life—but Mercy cut in before she could make the observation.
“Lightless?” Mercy asked Lucy. “Are you sure that was his name? I suppose he had an old, ratty coat, an’ stars all in his eyes?”
Lucy glanced over at Mercy sharply. “That is correct,” she said. “Do you know where it is that he’s gone? Lightless said that he would hold my hand the entire way and not let go—but as soon as we entered the forest, he did let me go, and I suddenly felt sick and faint. I don’t remember much after that.”
Abigail was surprised to hear a note of concern in Lucy’s voice as she talked about Lightless. Lucy had rarely evinced even a hint of worry for someone other than herself or her family while in Abigail’s presence. But perhaps, Abigail thought, the fear of being left alone had knocked something loose within her, if only for a moment.
“I don’t know where Lightless went,” Mercy said grimly, “but I know he wouldn’t leave you alone on purpose. Lightless is a sluagh—he was holdin’ your hand so he could anchor you while you walked through faerie. You’re still attached to your home, an’ you’re too far away from it to hold together without help.” She paused. “The iron might’ve startled him. But if the iron was here when he was here… then why isn’t Lightless stuck in this trap with us?”
“I don’t know about any of that,” Lucy said stubbornly. “What I do know is that I am not supposed to be dead. I was only feeling a bit ill when I went to sleep. I’m far too young to have simply… died! And I was going to find a husband this year. I had all manner of prospects.”
Abigail held up a hand. “Wait,” she said. “You were ill before you went to sleep? Before you ever saw the man with the stars in his eyes?”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “I was only a little bit dizzy,” she said. “It was hardly a mortal illness.”
Abigail glanced sideways at Mercy. More and more, she was beginning to suspect that Mercy was correct, and that the sluagh had not killed Lucy at all.
“I thought sluagh looked like ravens,” Abigail said to Mercy.
“Sluagh sometimes look like ravens,” Mercy corrected Abigail. “Sluagh are shapeshifters. Ghosts who make it to the Other Side leave sluagh with their smile or their laugh or their curtsy, as a kind of thank you. The sluagh collect it all up an’ make new faces for ‘emselves.”
“Well, whoever gave Lightless his smile had a very handsome smile,” Lucy said distractedly. “I am very upset with him for leaving me here, but perhaps he will come back and apologise.” Her form wavered again in the twilight, and she caught herself against a nearby tree. “Oh, drat. I am feeling faint again.”
Mercy reached out her other hand to take Lucy’s. As she did, the wavering stopped abruptly, and Lucy straightened with a sharp breath.
“You really can’t remember what happened to Lightless?” Mercy asked Lucy seriously. “I suppose everything got jumbled up when you lost his hand.”
Lucy glanced down at the hand in hers with a slight curl of her lip. “Your hands are dirty,” she said sullenly.
“Her hands are not dirty,” Abigail said, with a hint of testiness. “She’s hurt her hands, an’ she’s still tryin’ to help you for some reason.” Abigail realised belatedly that her normal accent had slipped out, and she felt her cheeks colour with embarrassment.
Lucy jerked her hand away from Mercy. Her outline had strengthened significantly—but it wavered anew at the edges, and she sank to her knees. “This is all very serious,” Lucy snapped at Abigail, as she leaned her shoulder against the tree. “I have no intention of trusting my life to either of you tatty urchins. If you intend to help me at all, then you should go and get your father, Abigail. I dare say the Lord Sorcier will have an interest in this—if he ever actually performs his duties, that is.”
Anger flashed through Abigail’s body. “My father’s busy tryin’ to stop other people from dyin’,” she said. “Anyway, I’m startin’ to think no one ought to help you at all. Maybe when Mum gets here, I’ll give you what you want an’ leave you wanderin’ around faerie all alone.”
Lucy balled her hands into fists at her sides. “I wish you would go away,” she said. “At least it was quiet before you got here.”
Mercy let out a soft hiss of pain—and Abigail realised that she had tightened her fingers on Mercy’s burned skin. Abigail released Mercy’s hand quickly, with an apologetic look; as she did, twilight flashed back into moonlight, and Lucy’s form disappeared abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” Abigail told Mercy miserably. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Mercy shook her head, cradling her hand to her chest. “It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t think we were gettin’ anywhere, anyway.” She glanced back towards the base of the tree just next to them. “Have it your way,” she told the air there. “We’ll be here when you want to talk. I’m sure it’ll be an awful boring wait, otherwise.”
Abigail helped Mercy back towards another tree, and settled down next to her once again.
Chapter 7
“Lucy’s wanderin’ again,” Mercy said to Abigail, sometime later. “She keeps makin’ sure we’re still here, though.”
Abigail leaned her head back into the tree, still stewing in anger. “You don’t seem upset,” she said. “Lucy said some awful things to you too.”
Mercy settled her head idly onto Abigail’s shoulder. “It’s hard to be upset with a dead person,” she said. “Anyway, she’ll come around. They always do eventually.”
Abigail tilted her head to look at Mercy. “You’ve helped a lot of ghosts, haven’t you?” she asked.
Mercy nodded lightly. “They’re always upset,” she said. “People don’t tend to leave ghosts behind unless they died too suddenly, or with too much left to do.” She paused. “Powerful people take the longest to figure it all out. They’re so used to gettin’ their way in life, they just don’t know what to do once no one is listenin’ to ‘em anymore.”
Abigail ruminated on this for a moment. “But they do come around?” she asked. “Always?”
“Mm… most always,” Mercy said. “You can’t be too nice to ‘em too quickly, though. I figured that out early on. You can’t get through to someone as long as they still think they’re powerful. When you talk back some an’ let ‘em go off an’ flounder, they start to realise they’re not in charge anymore. Once it really sinks in, you can afford to be a little nice.”
Abigail managed a small smile at this. “I see,” she said. “I was wonderin’ why you were actin’ so patient about it.”
Mercy eyed Abigail consideringly. “Lucy said your father’s the Lord Sorcier,” she observed. “That’s true, then?”
Abigail’s smile vanished, and she looked away. “That’s right,” she said. “I won’t tell you anything about his business, though.”
Mercy heaved a sigh. “I heard he’s awful,” she said. “You’re far too nice to be his daughter.”
Abigail blinked. “Awful?” she repeated incredulously. “He’s wonderful! I couldn’t ask for a better father.”
Mercy raised her eyebrows. “Well, he’s just a bully, isn’t he?” she said. “Always tellin’ faeries what to do, an’ threatenin’ ‘em if they don’t let him have his way. I heard he killed two lords of faerie.”
Abigail crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh, he tells faeries what to do,” she said. “Mostly when they’ve been hurtin’ people. Maybe the sluagh have been nice to you, but faeries meddle with people in England all of the time, an’ they haven’t got a care how those people feel about bein’ meddled with.” She narrowed her eyes at Mercy. “Lord Hollowvale bought me from a workhouse master like I was a slave, an’ he stole me away to faerie. He worked me all day, without even lettin’ me sleep. Said he was doin’ me a favour, an’ he wouldn’t listen otherwise.”
Mercy winced. “Well… maybe Lord Hollowvale deserved it, then,” she allowed.
“No
t that Dad killed Lord Hollowvale,” Abigail added. “It was Mum that stabbed him with her scissors.” She smiled grimly. “I wish I could carry some iron scissors, but they’d just make me sick.”
Mercy did seem surprised by that revelation, though she tucked it away very quickly. She studied Abigail’s face carefully. “Lord Longshadow isn’t Lord Hollowvale, though,” Mercy said. “I can tell that you think they’re alike, but they’re not. Faeries aren’t all the same.”
Abigail pursed her lips. “They are the same in some ways,” she said. “They’re all so powerful, they can do almost whatever they want. An’ even when they want to be good to people, they just don’t know how. If they do get it right, it’s nearly by accident.” She gestured generally towards the other tree, where Lucy had once been. “Faeries are like Lucy. You’ll never convince ‘em they’re wrong about anything, most days. Dad just knows you can’t be too nice to ‘em too quickly, exactly like you said.”
Mercy opened her mouth to respond… but she paused, with a sudden expression of consternation. Abigail could tell that she was thinking very hard about the comparison.
“You’re like that sometimes, too,” Abigail told her. “The sluagh told you that ghosts ought to move on, an’ you decided to make ghosts move on. You never even considered otherwise, until you were in trouble an’ you needed help from a ghost.”
Mercy’s eyes flashed with irritation. “I care what happens to ghosts,” she said. “There’s nothin’ but pain for ‘em when they stick around past their time. They all figure that out eventually, you know.”
Abigail shook her head. “Carin’ what happens to someone doesn’t make it all right to make decisions for ‘em,” she said. “Sometimes we choose our pain because it’s for somethin’ we believe in. If no one ever chose pain, then it’d be awful hard to get anything done, wouldn’t it?”
Mercy made an expression like she’d tasted something sour on her tongue. “It’s natural for ghosts to move on,” she said stubbornly.
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