Elias waved Mercy off. He turned his gaze upon Abigail. “My magic is still weak,” he said slowly, “but I can chalk a summoning circle for you, if you feel that you are up to the task.”
Abigail straightened in her chair. It was the first time her father had ever explicitly invited her to help him with his work. “I’m a bit tired,” she said, “but I should be fine for it.”
Mercy glanced sideways at the empty chair next to her. “No, you can’t be there,” she told Lucy. “I’m only tellin’ Abigail his full name. I don’t want anyone else in the room when she uses it.”
Hugh rolled his eyes. “I’ll keep Lucy company for a bit,” he said, in a long-suffering tone.
Dora smiled vaguely in Lucy’s direction. “I know we can’t offer you any tea or biscuits, Lucy,” she said, “but I do want you to know that you’re welcome here. I promise we will do our best to help you.”
Hugh looked between Dora and the empty chair. “Lucy says thank you,” he informed Dora helpfully.
Abigail winced. “Mum can’t hear you either, Hugh,” she reminded him.
Hugh blinked in realisation, and Mercy giggled at him.
“Lucy says thank you,” Mercy repeated.
Abigail wondered briefly whether the words were exact. She had never heard the words thank you cross Lucy’s lips before.
Elias rose tiredly from his seat. “I suppose you are staying to help with this investigation, after all,” he murmured to Abigail. “I do not like it. I had hoped… well, I had hoped that you would have a more peaceful life than I have had.”
Abigail smiled ruefully at him. “You never chose a peaceful life,” she said. “What made you think I’d choose any different?”
Elias winced. “I have only myself to blame,” he muttered. But he shook his head and rounded the table to pull out Abigail’s chair. He took her hands in his, looking down at her seriously. “I am not pleased at the idea of putting you into danger,” he said. “But I am proud of you. I can be both at once, I suppose.”
Abigail flushed with unexpected pleasure. She had never once questioned that her father loved her. But he had never said before that he was proud of her.
She smiled up at him affectionately, and squeezed his hands in hers. “Well,” Abigail replied cheekily, “I’m proud of you too.”
Chapter 8
It was depressingly late in the morning by the time Elias finished chalking a brand new summoning circle in the ballroom upstairs. Abigail could hear the children rising for breakfast downstairs, and her stomach gurgled plaintively at her.
“Hush, you,” Abigail muttered to herself. “We’ll eat when we’re done.”
“I’ll be just outside, if anything goes awry,” Elias said warily. He glanced suspiciously at Mercy, who wrinkled her nose at him.
“I’m hardly in a state to hurt anyone,” Mercy said. She held up her hands, which Dora had gingerly bandaged.
“Even so,” Elias murmured, “I will be just outside.”
“I’ll be all right,” Abigail told him. “I’ve still got Mr Hayes, if anything goes wrong.” She patted the reticule on the floor next to her.
Elias blinked at her. “Who is Mr Hayes?” he asked.
Abigail snorted. “Don’t worry about it,” she told him. “It’s not important.” She waved Elias away, and he turned reluctantly to head back through the door, closing it behind him.
Abigail shifted to cross her legs, turning herself to face the front of the circle. She’d left a cup of milk and honey at the centre to help lure in the sluagh. Mercy had scoffed and muttered what a silly superstition that was—but all of the spells that she had read required milk and honey, and Abigail was not nearly foolish enough to try making up her own spell.
“Lightless won’t bite,” Mercy told Abigail. “He’s really a proper gentleman. I mean to say, er… a proper gentleman gave Lightless his manners, an’ he’s very fond of ‘em.”
Abigail nodded, trying to pretend more confidence than she really felt. She’d never actually tried to summon anything before. “Are you still willin’ to give me his name?” she asked Mercy. “I think I’d have trouble doin’ anything without it.”
Mercy sat down next to her, looking reluctant. “I did say that I would,” she mumbled. “But… you promise you won’t give his name to anyone else? An’ you won’t use it to hurt him?”
Promises were a serious matter for both faeries and magicians—magic tended to start misbehaving when one had a history of broken oaths. But Abigail nodded solemnly.
“I promise I won’t give his name to anyone else,” Abigail repeated. “An’ I won’t use it to hurt him unless he tries to hurt someone else first.”
Mercy took a deep breath. “His full name is Lightless Moon,” she said. “He has other names an’ titles, but that’s the one he prizes most. He’ll come for sure if you call it.” She paused. “It’d be best to call his name three times, actually.”
Abigail turned her attention back to the circle. She reached out for the magic around her, hooking it upon the chalked symbols before her, as well as the milk and honey. “Lightless Moon!” she called out firmly. “Lightless Moon, Lightless Moon! I am here with Mercy, an’ we require your presence.”
The name rang through the air like a clear bell, echoing oddly. The magic in the circle surged, reaching out to search for the name’s owner…
…but nothing happened.
The magic of the circle slipped away from Abigail’s grip and slowly died.
“Did I do it wrong?” Abigail whispered.
Mercy stared at the circle, ashen-faced. “No,” she said. “You did it right. But he… he’s not answerin’.”
Abigail looked at Mercy with concern. A horrible grief had come into her dark eyes.
“Perhaps he’s just busy?” Abigail suggested carefully.
Mercy shook her head slowly. “The only way Lightless wouldn’t come is if he can’t,” she said. Her voice trembled on the words.
“Let’s not think the worst right away,” Abigail reassured her. “All we know is that he can’t answer. Could other things prevent him from doing that?”
Mercy crossed her arms over her chest with a shiver. “Maybe… iron could,” she said hopefully. “An’ we did just run into a whole trap made of iron.” She knitted her brow in frustration. “But I wish I knew anything else about what’s goin’ on! I’m sure Lightless could’ve told us somethin’ helpful.”
Abigail studied Mercy carefully. “We could try another sluagh,” she said slowly, “if you happened to know another name.”
Mercy closed her eyes with a groan. “I know a few,” she said, “but I only know so many who hang around London.” Abigail waited patiently, and Mercy opened her eyes again with a wince. “You can try callin’ Black Catastrophe. But you’ll have to do the talkin’. She doesn’t like me much at all.”
Black Catastrophe sounded much less friendly than Lightless Moon, on the basis of her name alone. But Abigail nodded anyway. “We need information,” she said. “I’ll do my best to be polite. Though… perhaps you should move back a bit?”
Mercy clambered to her feet, inching back against the wall. She dragged the shadows weakly around herself, obscuring her form. “Good luck,” she muttered bitterly.
Abigail returned her attention to the circle and gathered up her magic once again.
“Black Catastrophe!” she called—a bit more cautiously, this time. “Black Catastrophe, Black Catastrophe! I’m in need of your counsel, an’ I require you to appear!”
This time, the sluagh’s name roiled through the air like a dark, sullen cloud. Abigail’s magic hooked upon a distant presence, tugging emphatically.
Shadows quickened within the circle, casting back the morning light. Slowly, they coalesced into a rail-thin woman with indigo skin. Her dark clothing hung from her limbs in feather-like rags; her eyes were entirely black, and deeply hateful, as they stared out from the circle at Abigail.
“Who gave you my name, litt
le magician?” Black Catastrophe hissed. Her voice was harsh and bird-like.
Abigail hid her flinch and forced herself to meet the sluagh’s eyes directly. “It doesn’t matter who gave me your name,” she said. “But you can call me Abby. Girls are dyin’ in London, Black Catastrophe, an’ now a sluagh has disappeared. Do you know anything about either one?”
Black Catastrophe curled her lip at Abigail. She paced the circle slowly, testing out its edges. Surely enough, the milk and honey seemed to interest her not at all. “I know of both,” the sluagh said. “I am not inclined to tell you much of either.”
Abigail watched the sluagh pace. As a magician, Abigail could command answers from Black Catastrophe using her name… but doing so would probably earn her a lifelong enemy. She wondered briefly if that was how Mercy had irritated Black Catastrophe in the first place.
“I don’t intend to hold you here, if it makes you feel any better,” Abigail said slowly. “I only want to help. Right now, everyone thinks the sluagh are responsible for these murders, an’ so Lord Longshadow has been blamed. If you can clear his name—”
“What do I care about Lord Longshadow?” Black Catastrophe sneered. “He is only the first among sluagh because Longshadow loves him for now. It will tire of him someday… and then, perhaps I shall be Lord Longshadow.”
Abigail pressed her lips together. It hadn’t occurred to her, somehow, that certain of the sluagh might not be so loyal to their lord. “Lord Longshadow wouldn’t say for certain that the sluagh hadn’t killed those girls,” she observed. “Perhaps he wouldn’t say that because he knew that some of you might do.”
Black Catastrophe lunged at Abigail—but her hands came up short, scratching against the invisible wall that the circle made between them. Her fingernails were long and pointed, like talons.
“What reason do we have to murder you?” Black Catastrophe hissed. “You all die so soon regardless, little mayfly. I have ferried you mortals for centuries now, and never heard a word of gratitude. I will continue to do so without requiring it.”
Abigail raised her eyebrows very slowly.
I wonder why no one’s ever thanked you for keeping them company, if you’re always so pleasant, her mind supplied snidely.
But Abigail stifled this idea, and thought instead: Black Catastrophe wants gratitude. She’s just told me as much.
“I know very well how important your work is, Black Catastrophe,” Abigail said. She forced a note of false respect into her tone. “It’s why I hate to hear you an’ the other sluagh so maligned. It’s nothin’ but nasty gossip, because people don’t appreciate you until it’s far too late.”
Black Catastrophe tilted her head at Abigail. For a moment, the movement made her look more like a raven. “Humans enjoy casting aspersions on everything they do not understand,” the sluagh said. Her raspy voice now held a note of grudging agreement.
Abigail forcibly hid her smile. “I would be awful lucky to have you show up an’ collect my soul, if I was ever in distress,” she told Black Catastrophe. “It must be so much work ferryin’ all of London’s souls where they’re meant to go, too.”
Black Catastrophe relaxed slowly in place. “Not every soul requires our help,” she said. “But those who die painful or unexpected deaths so often linger on afterwards… and London has a way of killing in such a manner.”
A brief, awful memory floated back to Abigail’s mind: she remembered her mother’s last, laboured breath, as she languished in a dirty workhouse bed.
“At least London’s souls have someone to keep ‘em company,” Abigail said softly.
Black Catastrophe settled back upon her heels. She watched Abigail more coolly now, and with less hostility. “We have no reason to murder you,” the sluagh repeated. “You should ask instead why so many sluagh have vanished.”
Abigail blinked at her. “Many sluagh?” she asked. “I’d only heard of one sluagh goin’ missin’.”
Black Catastrophe shook her head slowly. “I know of three who have not shown their feathers lately,” she said. “Lightless has disappeared—but Silent and Never both disappeared before him. I cannot help but wonder if I will be next.” Her brow furrowed, and her expression grew dark. “Lord Longshadow may be gone as well.”
A chill shivered down Abigail’s spine at the suggestion. Elias had bound Lord Longshadow from harming anyone with his magic, among other things. If someone was abducting sluagh, then the Lord Sorcier might conveniently have handed the first among sluagh over to them on a silver platter.
Abigail forced the thought aside—but it lingered at the back of her mind, worried and uneasy.
“I found a trap made of iron horseshoes on the path through Kensington Gardens to Longshadow,” Abigail told Black Catastrophe. “You should warn the other sluagh to stay away from there.” She paused, thinking hard. “I don’t suppose you know who would want to abduct the sluagh?”
Black Catastrophe frowned. “Any who misunderstand us might wish to harm us,” she said. “Otherwise… I have heard that the Lord Sorcier bears a grudge against Lord Longshadow. Perhaps he is to blame.”
You really know how to make friends, Dad, Abigail thought ruefully. She decided then that she ought to do the very opposite of what her father might do in her place, and make sure that Black Catastrophe remembered her fondly.
“I appreciate your counsel,” Abigail told Black Catastrophe. She hesitated. “I hear it’s customary to give somethin’ to a sluagh when they see you off. I know you haven’t ferried me anywhere… but if it pleases you, you could take the blue from my eyes. I think it’d look good on you.”
Black Catastrophe blinked. The offer seemed to both startle and please her. “It is… a very pretty blue,” she said. “I do like it.”
“It’s yours, then,” Abigail said. “I hope you enjoy it.”
Even as she watched, the shining black of the sluagh’s eyes bled away, replaced with a clear sky blue. Black Catastrophe still had no irises—but her new robin’s egg eyes made her seem somewhat less terrifying.
Oh, Abigail thought. That is rather pretty. She was surprised to realise that she didn’t miss the idea of her blue eyes, even so. She so rarely got to see them, after all—and she suspected that the gift meant more to Black Catastrophe than the blue would ever mean to Abigail.
“You are very polite, little magician,” Black Catastrophe said. She pursed her lips consideringly. “If you are ever dying, you should call my name again. I will see you safely to the Other Side.”
Abigail smiled at the sluagh. “I don’t ever plan to die,” she said. “But if I do, you’ll be the very first person that I call.” She glanced down at the chalk circle. “I should let you go; I’m sure you’re awful busy. But you should know I’ll do my best to clear your name an’ stop whoever’s snatchin’ sluagh.” She reached down—very carefully—to smudge the chalk at her feet. “Here… let me get the western window for you.”
Abigail walked slowly for the window, opening the shutters more fully. As she did, she heard a rustle of wings behind her.
A large indigo raven rushed past her, bolting through the window to the city beyond.
Abigail watched the sluagh go thoughtfully, putting pieces together in her mind.
“You gave her your eyes?” Mercy asked from behind Abigail. She sounded aghast.
Abigail turned back towards her. “Well, no,” she said. “I gave her the blue from my eyes. I doubt I’ll really miss it, an’ it seemed to really please her. I think she just wanted someone to give her a gift at all.”
Mercy looked into Abigail’s eyes, searching them slowly. “I liked the blue in your eyes,” she said plaintively.
A flush crept up into Abigail’s cheeks at the words. It was rare indeed that anyone complimented her features… and Mercy sounded so genuinely sincere.
“I mean—” Mercy fumbled awkwardly. “Oh, it was just a bit of a shock. I like your eyes in general. They’re a lovely grey now, like the mist in parts of faerie.”
Abigail glanced down at the floor. She was suddenly having a hard time looking straight at Mercy. “Thanks,” she mumbled. “I suppose I match half of Mum’s eyes now. I rather like that.”
Mercy bit her lip. “What Black Catastrophe said, though… I had no idea so many sluagh in London were missin’.”
“Three sluagh,” Abigail said. She forced herself to straighten again. “Three dead girls, an’ three missin’ sluagh—if we don’t count Lord Longshadow, anyway. That can’t be a coincidence.”
Mercy searched Abigail’s face worriedly. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.
Abigail frowned grimly. “I think we’ve had it backwards all along,” she said. “The girls aren’t the victims—they’re the bait. Someone’s goin’ after all the sluagh in London.”
Chapter 9
“It has to be a black magician,” Elias said, once Mercy and Abigail had rejoined him over breakfast, relating what they’d learned. “I do my best to keep London clear of them, but I’m afraid that new ones show up all of the time. All that’s really required for black magic is an interest and some knowledge of folk superstitions.”
“Outside magic,” Abigail mumbled tiredly. “Someone with any talent at magic just needs to find somethin’ enough people believe at once, an’ use it for themselves.” Her eyelashes were beginning to flutter, however, now that she’d eaten half of the plate in front of her.
“Outside magic?” Elias asked. “I’ve never heard the term.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s not in any magicians’ books,” Mercy said with a yawn. “But Abigail’s right—that’s how I’ve always known outside magic to work. Anyway, you didn’t really think it was the books an’ the plants an’ the wands that were magic, did you?”
Elias considered this slowly. “I suppose not,” he murmured. “But what an unusual theory. I can’t help but wonder how you came to it.”
Mercy shrugged. “I hate outside magic,” she said. “Sometimes you learn the most about the things you don’t like.”
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