Longshadow

by Olivia Atwater

  Abigail smiled sleepily at her. “Sometimes you learn so much about somethin’ that you come to hate it,” she said. “We used to live above a perfume shop. I hate perfume now, but I can tell you what stupid flower someone’s wearin’ any day of the week.” She rubbed at her eyes, and then added: “You smell like lilies. Mostly lye, but a little bit of lilies.”

  Mercy raised her eyebrows. “Longshadow has a lot of lilies,” she said. “An’ they aren’t stupid.”

  Abigail grinned down at her plate. “I guess lilies aren’t stupid,” she allowed. “They smell nice on you, anyway.”

  “I will have to check with the merchants here who cater to magicians,” Elias said slowly. “One can become a magician without access to formal materials, but those with an interest just as often end up in a shop. If anyone new has started spending money on magic, then the merchants will know.”

  “We could watch the path to Longshadow, to see if someone comes back to check that trap,” Abigail observed.

  Mercy pressed her lips together. “If the girls are bait,” she said, “then no one will check the trap until another one’s died. I’d hope we sort this out before that happens.”

  Elias frowned tiredly. “Which brings us to the matter of Lord Longshadow,” he said. “If Lord Longshadow is trapped, then there is little that I can do. But if he is not yet trapped, then I have left us both at a disadvantage, all at once.” He closed his eyes. “Lord Longshadow truly believes that he would be doing good by stealing away Hollowvale’s children—he argued with me over it, even during this dire situation. If I give him back his power, disappearing sluagh will not deter him… but I also do not know what might happen if Lord Longshadow is abducted.”

  Mercy picked uncomfortably at one of the bandages on her hands. Finally, in a small voice, she said: “You shouldn’t undo the bans.”

  Elias glanced at her curiously.

  “Lord Longshadow is responsible for your mistrust,” Mercy said. “An’ you’re right to have been concerned about Hollowvale’s children.” Her voice was heavy with weariness. “You banned Lord Longshadow from harmin’ anyone with magic—but you didn’t say anything about usin’ magic for protection. That ought to be enough to keep a powerful faerie safe.”

  Mercy’s pale face was full of misery and contrition. But the argument surprised Abigail, all the same.

  “I thought you liked Lord Longshadow,” Abigail said slowly.

  Mercy swallowed. “Just right now,” she said, “I don’t know if I do.” She looked up at Abigail. “There’s somethin’ I think you ought to know, for more reasons than one. It’s why you shouldn’t undo the bans.” She sucked in a determined breath. “Lightless wasn’t lyin’ when he said Lord Longshadow could bring Lucy back to life.”

  Abigail stared at her. “It… had occurred to me that faeries can’t lie,” she said. “But Lightless only said that in order to convince Lucy to go with him, didn’t he? Maybe Lord Longshadow could bring someone back to life—but he never would.”

  Mercy bit her lip. “In Longshadow—on the border between faerie an’ the Other Side—there’s a big silver tree,” she said. “Every hundred years, that tree grows an apple that can bring someone back to life. Lord Longshadow’s never once let anyone have that apple. But you could undo those bans in exchange for the apple, an’ bring back… anyone you liked. You could bring back Hugh, or Lucy, or one of those other girls.”

  Abigail’s heart flipped in her chest. The revelation opened up so many sudden possibilities that she wasn’t even sure where to begin. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have Hugh back in the flesh—able to talk to anyone he wanted, hug anyone he wanted, bake all of the apple tarts that he wanted. Her imagination wasn’t nearly up to the task… but it didn’t matter. Even if Abigail couldn’t envision the idea, she knew that it was something she had to pursue.

  “I’m sure Lord Longshadow wouldn’t be happy with you for tellin’ us this,” Abigail observed softly.

  Mercy grimaced. “I don’t see as that matters either way,” she said. “Lord Longshadow’s caused you years of trouble. You deserve to know.” She looked up at Elias again. “Leave the bans in place. When this is all over, you can trade ‘em for that apple.”

  Elias considered this seriously. Rather than answering the implicit question, however, he glanced at Abigail. “You’re going to fall asleep into your food,” he told her.

  Abigail had slumped forward onto the table in front of her, such that her chin was close to touching her plate. She blinked quickly, forcing herself upright once again. “I’m fine,” she said.

  Elias shook his head. “You should both get some sleep,” he said. “This will not be solved within the day.” He frowned at Mercy. “I am not best pleased at the idea of letting you stay here. But… you don’t have a family of your own, do you?”

  Mercy crossed her arms over her chest uncomfortably. “The sluagh are the closest thing I have to family,” she said. “I could probably stay in Longshadow, but…”

  “The way is closed,” Elias finished for her. There was a sense of pity in his eyes, and Abigail knew that he couldn’t help but compare Mercy to his younger self.

  “I don’t think Mercy is goin’ to steal away Hugh at this point,” Abigail said softly. “I think she’s a good person, even if she has been a little dense.” She paused, and said to Mercy: “You can stay in my room.”

  Mercy looked between the two of them. There was surprise on her face; Abigail wondered whether Mercy had truly expected to be thrown out onto the street. The idea miffed her a bit.

  “Thank you,” Mercy said. It was hard to tell which of them she was addressing, as she glued her eyes back to her lap. “I’ll try not to be a bother.”

  Abigail’s bedroom was relatively small compared to Lucy’s room—but compared to the workhouse, it was an unprecedented luxury. The narrow bed was fitted with clean sheets and sturdy blankets—and until today, Abigail had always had it entirely to herself.

  Normally, Abigail was jealously possessive of her bed. She was willing to share her parents and her food and her time with all of the other children, as long as she had her very own bed. She was surprised, therefore, to feel no particular reluctance at sharing the bed with Mercy. In fact, the idea was pleasantly comforting.

  Mercy shucked her frock and apron, such that she was left in only her shift. The thin cotton emphasised her long limbs and her far-too-skinny frame. Abigail was perfectly used to seeing other people in various states of undress—there had not been much privacy in her early life—but something about the way that Mercy’s shift clung to her form made Abigail look away with embarrassment. Perhaps, she thought, it was because she had considered all of the other children to be siblings, of a sort. But something about Mercy’s sly smiles and strange magic precluded Abigail from thinking about her in that way.

  Mercy slipped beneath the sheets on the other side of the small bed, curling up beneath them. The heavy curtains blocked out the late morning sunlight, such that they were left in sleepy half-darkness.

  Abigail had been sure that they would both fall asleep immediately, given how long they’d been awake. But only a few minutes later, Mercy spoke very quietly.

  “I’m worried for my friends,” she said.

  Abigail turned to face Mercy beneath the covers. Mercy’s dark eyes were troubled and fearful. Her oddly expansive presence had disappeared for the moment; she seemed very small and fragile now.

  Slowly—before Abigail could think better of it—she reached out to pull Mercy into her arms.

  Mercy buried her face in Abigail’s shoulder. Now that Abigail had embraced her, she realised that Mercy was shivering with misery. A handful of tears soaked at Abigail’s shift, and she tightened her arms.

  “Lightless an’ Silent an’ Never could all be dead,” Mercy whispered, in a choked voice. “I might never see ‘em again.”

  Abigail reached up hesitantly to stroke at Mercy’s hair. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “
I wish I could fix it.”

  This only made Mercy hiccup harder. “I’m not supposed to be afraid of death,” she said. “I’m not supposed to want to fix it.”

  Abigail scowled. “Everyone’s scared of death,” she said. “Anyone who wasn’t scared, I figure they’d already be on the Other Side. All of this is unfair, Mercy. You ought to be scared—an’ sad, an’ angry.”

  Mercy swallowed. “You were right about me,” she said. “I’ve been so awful, Abigail. I thought I knew best, tellin’ people they ought to accept death—but I never thought any of the people I loved would ever die. Now they might be gone, an’ I’m just as upset as everyone else. I’m the one who’s been stupid an’ stuck up.”

  Abigail threaded her fingers through Mercy’s hair. It was softer than it looked—and Abigail realised belatedly that she had been wanting to touch Mercy’s hair. She set aside the strange thought, glancing down at Mercy.

  “You’re not stupid,” Abigail told her. “You’ve been… a little stuck up. But so have I. An’ so has Dad. We’re all just doin’ the best that we can.” She rubbed soothing circles into Mercy’s back. “I appreciate you tellin’ us about the apple. I don’t know if we can make Lord Longshadow give it to us, even holdin’ onto those bans. But at least now we’ve got the chance to try.”

  Mercy hesitated. “Lord Longshadow is… just like me,” she said. “A little stuck up, I guess. But I really believe you can work things out.”

  Abigail studied her curiously. “How did you end up in Longshadow, Mercy?” she asked. “You can’t have been abducted like me, if you’re so fond of everyone there. Do you remember your original family at all?”

  Mercy took a deep, shuddering breath. Gradually, her tears stopped—but she continued clinging to Abigail uncertainly. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think I ever had a family. For a while, Longshadow was all I knew. But I also knew that there were lost people out there who were supposed to walk through Longshadow to the Other Side, an’ hadn’t done it. Longshadow wanted me to lead ‘em back there.”

  Abigail frowned distantly. “You’ve just always been in Longshadow, then,” she said. “But aren’t you a laundress?”

  Mercy shifted in Abigail’s arms, suddenly embarrassed. “I, um… I saw a laundress to the Other Side,” she said. “We talked for such a long time—all about her life, an’ her friends, an’ her dreams. I thought she was really lovely. When she crossed over, she gave me her cap, an’ I kept it. I think she must’ve given me more than that, though, because I smell like she did now. It’s… nice.”

  Abigail blinked. “I never heard anyone call the smell of lye nice,” she said. The Cleveland Street Workhouse had always smelled of lye, and Abigail hadn’t been able to stand the scent ever since.

  Mercy flushed in the darkness. “I like it,” she said. “But only because it was hers. It makes me feel like I’ve still got a piece of her with me, even though she’s gone.”

  Abigail turned her cheek against the top of Mercy’s head. The idea warmed her a little bit—and she thought again about the sluagh, who often received similar gifts from the dead. “That is nice,” she said quietly. “You know… I think I understand why so many ghosts give gifts to the sluagh now. It’s just as nice to know you’re leavin’ somethin’ behind you—that someone might remember you from time to time. I’ll wager that laundress is happy, wherever she is, whenever you get to thinkin’ about her.”

  Somehow, the idea endeared the smell of lye to Abigail, too. She inhaled softly—and this time, when the acrid scent hit her, it reminded her less of the Cleveland Street Workhouse and more of Mercy’s smile.

  “They’re not gifts,” Mercy mumbled. She sounded calmer, now, and sleepier. “Well… not really. Faeries can’t give things away without payment, an’ they can’t accept things without payin’ ‘em back, either. But it’s all right with the ghosts, because the sluagh did ‘em a service first.”

  Abigail smiled dimly. “But the ghosts don’t have to pay their way,” she said. “The sluagh think it’s their duty to take ‘em to the Other Side. So maybe it’s payment… but it’s still somethin’ the ghosts choose to give over.”

  Mercy thought on that quietly—and for a while, Abigail thought perhaps she’d fallen asleep. But then, Mercy said: “Black Catastrophe will think of you often as well.”

  “She will,” Abigail murmured back. “I think that’s nice, too. I told her I don’t ever intend to die, an’ I meant it. But I’d be happy to leave pieces of myself with everyone else, even while I’m alive.”

  Mercy tightened her arms on Abigail. “I don’t want you to die either, Abigail,” she whispered. “I never want to lead you to the Other Side. That’d be… it’d be awful.”

  Abigail wasn’t certain just what prompted the gesture—but she found herself leaning down to brush her lips over Mercy’s hair. “I wouldn’t go even if you tried,” she assured Mercy. “I’ve got too many people to haunt.”

  Mercy closed her eyes with a tiny smile.

  Abigail fell asleep still holding her. In fact, it was probably the best way she had ever fallen asleep.

  Chapter 10

  Elias had already left to question the merchants by the time Abigail and Mercy awoke. But he had left a note that Abigail should have full access to the ballroom, and to his existing notes on the current case. Abigail therefore went upstairs to the third floor, settling herself in the large chair before the desk while she read through her father’s slightly messy handwriting.

  Mercy sat down on the stool nearby, while Hugh—and, presumably, Lucy—stood behind her.

  “People only figured out the pattern by the time Lucy died,” Abigail said thoughtfully, “so Dad didn’t get a chance to investigate the first two deaths as they happened. But he interviewed people at all three houses who saw the ravens comin’ an’ goin’, which is how he got onto the sluagh. Dad mentioned earlier, remember, that there might have been some black magic on Lucy—only, Lucy’s mum had a priest visit after she died, an’ some of his blessings might’ve mucked things up.”

  Hugh frowned. “You think someone killed Lucy with magic?” he asked.

  Abigail leaned her chin into her hand, resting her elbow upon the desk. “I think so,” she said. “Mostly because of what Black—” Abigail cut herself off quickly, before she could say the sluagh’s full name aloud, and she amended the statement. “Mostly because of what the sluagh said. Not everyone who dies ought to leave a ghost—but there’s been three deaths an’ three missin’ sluagh, which means that someone made sure these girls left ghosts. There’s got to be some kind of black magic that could do that, but it’ll take time to figure out exactly which black magic it is.” She turned back towards Mercy. “Would you mind lettin’ me talk with Lucy again?”

  Mercy nodded. She offered out one of her bandaged hands. Abigail took it very gingerly, aware of the burns still beneath the bandages.

  Twilight flooded into view, skittering across the ballroom floor in vivid splashes of colour. Lucy’s figure melted into view just behind Mercy. She was still in her nightgown, with her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and her arms crossed uncomfortably over her chest.

  “What were you doin’ the day before you died?” Abigail asked Lucy. “Do you remember anyone actin’ funny around you? Maybe they sprinkled somethin’ on you, or said some gibberish in your direction?”

  Lucy looked away. “I was at Lady Lessing’s ball,” she said.

  Abigail quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know Lady Lessing had thrown a ball,” she said.

  Lucy pressed her lips together. “You were obviously not invited,” she said. Her tone was practical, rather than insulting. It was at least an improvement over the way that Lucy had addressed Abigail while she’d been alive. “I don’t recall anyone acting strangely around me. But balls in London are always such a crush that I doubt I would have noticed if anyone had done.”

  Abigail nodded slowly. “An’ you weren’t feelin’ ill at all until tha
t night?” she asked. “You didn’t ail for weeks an’ then get worse?”

  “I did not,” Lucy said simply. “I was in perfect spirits just before the ball. I was feeling a bit ill when I returned home afterwards—but it was very late, and I had been dancing all evening. I thought I would be fine after a good night’s rest.”

  Abigail took a long breath. “I think that narrows it down, then,” she said. “It was someone at that ball who got at you—another noble, or maybe someone’s servant they brought with ‘em. It’d explain why all the victims have been noble girls our age. They’re most likely to be at every possible party, searchin’ for husbands.”

  Lucy’s lip trembled at that, and Abigail suddenly felt bad about bringing up the subject. “I danced with Mr Red,” Lucy sniffled. “He complimented my dancing and said that he would like to dance with me again another time.”

  “Mr Red?” Abigail asked.

  Lucy let out a frustrated sound. “His real name is Mr James Ruell,” she said. “He’s Lord Belwether’s second son. We call him Mr Red because he always wears that handsome red cravat.”

  Abigail shrugged. “I can’t remember if I ever met him,” she admitted. “I suppose Mr Red’s compliment was a coup for you?”

  Lucy stamped her foot. “It was everything!” she said. “I was the envy of every woman in attendance. I was thinking of marrying Mr Red, you know. I could have had him by the end of the Season if I’d wanted. And now I’ll never even dance with him again!”

  Abigail closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.

  All you have to live for is owning people and being envied, she wanted to say. Can you even hear yourself talking?

  But Abigail knew that she needed Lucy’s continued cooperation, and so she said instead: “I’m very sorry for your loss. We’re goin’ to make sure that whoever did this to you gets what’s comin’ to ‘em.”

  Lucy quieted at that. She still looked miserable—but she managed a stiff nod at Abigail. “And we’re going to find Lord Longshadow,” Lucy said, “so that he can bring me back to life, as Lightless said that he would.”