Longshadow

by Olivia Atwater

  Abigail pressed her lips together. It took everything she had not to remind Lucy that Lightless had said nothing of the sort—that Lord Longshadow could bring her back to life, but that he surely would not do.

  Thank goodness Lucy wasn’t there to hear about that apple, Abigail thought. If we do get our hands on it, then it’s definitely going to Hugh.

  “We need to figure out where the other two girls were on the days that they died,” Abigail said. “If we’re right, then they’ll have been at a ball… or at a smaller gatherin’, if we’re lucky. Anyone who showed up to all of those events could be our killer—or at least, one of their servants might be the killer.”

  “How are we goin’ to do that?” Hugh asked sceptically. “No one’s goin’ to give you their guest list, Abby.”

  Abigail considered this for a long moment. “We’d need someone very well-connected to ask for us,” she said slowly. “Someone that lots of people like very much.”

  “Maybe Aunt Vanessa?” Hugh asked.

  Abigail shook her head. “People like Aunt Vanessa,” she said, “but they’re always dodgin’ her because of the charity these days.” Apparently, the worst social crime one could possibly commit among the ton was to allow one’s interest in charity to develop past the superficial.

  Lucy straightened, with a look of dawning realisation. “My mother could get those guest lists!” she said. “Everyone is very fond of her.”

  Abigail nodded, trying to look impressed—as though Lucy had come up with the idea entirely on her own, instead of being carefully led to it. “That’s true,” Abigail said. “Your mother would be perfect.” She looked over at Mercy, suddenly hesitant. “I’m almost certain Lady Pinckney would help us if Lucy were the one to ask her,” Abigail said, “but she’d have to be able to hear Lucy.”

  Mercy sighed heavily—but she nodded, all the same. “I don’t think it’s healthy, chattin’ up your dead loved ones,” she mumbled. “But I’ve been all wrong before, an’ there’s people in danger anyway.”

  Abigail smiled at her. She nearly squeezed Mercy’s hand—but she remembered just in time what a poor idea that would be, and she dropped it instead.

  Twilight faded from the room, sinking back into daylight. Abigail stood up from her chair, glancing at Hugh. “I do need to talk to you first, Hugh,” she said. “Alone, I mean.”

  Hugh frowned. “It’s nothin’ bad?” he asked warily.

  “Nothin’ bad,” Abigail promised. “It’s family stuff, is all.”

  Hugh followed Abigail just outside of the ballroom. She settled herself onto one of the stairs, and he soon followed suit, looking over at her curiously.

  “Mercy told me an’ Dad somethin’ important last night,” Abigail addressed Hugh. “Lord Longshadow can bring people back to life, Hugh. He’s got an apple that’ll do it, just once.” Abigail leaned her arms onto her knees, sucking in a deep breath. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I thought you deserved to know. We’re goin’ to ask Lord Longshadow to trade the apple for his feathers, once we’ve sorted out these murders.”

  Hugh glanced up the stairs behind them, at the closed door that led into the ballroom. “You didn’t want Lucy to know?” he asked slowly.

  Abigail scowled darkly. “Lucy’s more interested in findin’ Lord Longshadow an’ comin’ back to life than she is in savin’ any other girls,” she said. “If I tell Lucy about that apple, Hugh, I guarantee she’ll stop helpin’ us until we promise it to her, even if it means more people die.”

  “And… you don’t want to give Lucy the apple,” Hugh said.

  Abigail raised her eyebrows at him. “I don’t want to, no,” she replied. “I feel bad for her bein’ dead—an’ if I could bring back as many people as I liked, then I would bring her back. But if there’s only one apple, then I think one of Hollowvale’s children ought to have it. Lucy’s had a comfy life, with a mum who loved her an’ people givin’ her everything she ever wanted. All of Hollowvale’s children died young in a workhouse. If Lucy’s death was unfair, then yours was even more unfair.”

  Hugh looked away from Abigail uncomfortably. “It just feels strange, not tellin’ her,” he mumbled.

  Abigail knitted her brow. “I thought you’d be excited,” she said. “I know we’ve still got to talk to the other children in Hollowvale, but you’re the youngest, an’ there’s a fair chance they’ll all agree to give you that apple. I thought you had tarts to bake, Hugh.”

  Hugh only looked more glum at this, for some reason. He hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know why I’m not excited,” he admitted. “I guess… I don’t want to get my hopes up. There’s an awful lot of dead people, an’ only one of me. An’ almost every other dead person is probably more important than I am.”

  Abigail clenched her jaw. She suddenly wished, harder than she had ever wished before, that she could hug Hugh. “You are important,” she told him. “Other people called you less important an’ put you in a workhouse—but they weren’t right to do that, Hugh.”

  “How could I be important?” Hugh scoffed. “I didn’t even live long enough to do much. All I know how to do is pick oakum.”

  Abigail took another long, deep breath. She knew why Hugh was being so obtuse, of course; he was having trouble imagining something nice happening to him, in the same way that Abigail had trouble imagining anything at all.

  “People think Lucy is important,” Abigail said, “but she’d never be caught dead makin’ tarts for someone else. All she’ll ever do is eat everyone else’s tarts, Hugh. You understand what I mean?”

  Hugh nodded listlessly—but Abigail was sure that he did not understand. Frustrated as she was, she knew that Hugh had stopped listening entirely, and that she would need to figure out a different approach.

  “Well, we’ve got murders to sort out before we ever get to askin’ who gets this apple,” Abigail sighed. She pushed back up to her feet. “Let’s go an’ get those guest lists.”

  Chapter 11

  It was far too late in the day for visiting—but Abigail had never had a reputation to ruin in the first place, and so she took them all to Lord Pinckney’s townhouse, even as the sun began to decline behind London’s western skyline.

  The butler, Mr Swinton, was not at all pleased to see Abigail again.

  “I know it’s late,” Abigail told him, in her best attempt at an upper-class accent. “I do need to see Lady Pinckney urgently, though. If she doesn’t like what I have to say, I promise I’ll leave immediately.”

  Abigail and Mercy were led inside to wait in the entryway—though they were left to share only one hard stool between them.

  “You can have the stool,” Abigail muttered to Mercy.

  Mercy arched an eyebrow at her. “I don’t want it,” she said. “You have it.”

  Abigail narrowed her eyes. “You’re injured,” she said. “I insist.”

  Hugh groaned audibly. “You’re both bein’ stupid,” he said. “I’m goin’ to go spy on Lady Pinckney with Lucy.”

  Abigail gave him a sharp look. “That isn’t polite, Hugh—” she started. But Hugh had already turned to vanish through one of the townhouse walls.

  Silence stretched between Abigail and Mercy.

  “I can’t sit while a lady’s standin’,” Mercy said. Abigail knew that she was only saying it in order to be contrary.

  “What luck,” Abigail said. “I’m not a lady.”

  “You’re dressed as a lady,” Mercy pointed out.

  “An’ you’re dressed as a laundress,” Abigail said. “But neither of us is actually what we appear to be, are we?”

  Mercy grimaced at that, and crossed her arms. “We’re both just standin’ here until the butler comes back, then?” she asked.

  “I suppose we are,” Abigail said stubbornly.

  Thankfully, Mr Swinton reappeared much more quickly than he had done the first time Abigail had visited. He cast one last withering glance between Abigail and Mercy, before saying: “Lady Pinckney w
ill see you in the drawing room.”

  Lady Pinckney was seated at the same table as before, when they entered. She was still wearing black—but her stern family Bible was missing, which made the whole atmosphere seem a bit more at ease. Hugh had seated himself on a distant divan, though his eyes rested on a space just next to Lady Pinckney.

  “Your mum still can’t hear you,” Hugh told the empty air, in a long-suffering tone. “You’ll have to wait until Mercy does her inside magic.”

  “This is a very unusual visit,” Lady Pinckney informed Abigail. Her eyes flickered towards Mercy, and a hint of distaste showed in her gaze.

  “I know,” Abigail said. She had to work to ignore the obvious condescension in Lady Pinckney’s manner. It was such a perfect, eerie reflection of Lucy’s own habits that there was little mistaking the relation between them. “I found out some things about Lucy,” Abigail added. “Actually, I found… well, Lucy’s ghost.”

  Abigail hadn’t expected to feel so uncomfortable saying the words aloud. But a series of wild, raw emotions crossed Lady Pinckney’s face as Abigail spoke, and she couldn’t help a wince.

  “I thought… I thought I felt her, just now,” Lady Pinckney whispered. “Is she here? Can I speak with her?”

  Abigail took in a deep breath. “I brought Lucy back here with me,” she said. “She can hear you just fine. But Mercy will have to do some magic if you want to see and hear Lucy in return.”

  Lady Pinckney frowned at Abigail. “Mercy?” she asked. She looked behind Abigail, as though expecting to find yet another person in tow.

  Abigail raised her eyebrows. “This is Mercy, Lady Pinckney,” she said. She gestured just next to her, where Mercy still stood.

  Lady Pinckney focussed on Mercy again with a slight frown, as though trying to reconcile two impossible ideas. Belatedly, Abigail realised that Lady Pinckney simply could not imagine that someone so poor-looking might have a rare skill which she required.

  Mercy, for her part, did not seem to take offense. In fact, there was a hint of bemusement in her manner. For the first time, Abigail identified it for what it was: Mercy was not actually a laundress, and she was tickled at being mistaken for something she was not. After leading the rich and the poor and the powerful alike all to the Other Side, Abigail imagined that it must be difficult to consider them nearly as consequential as they all considered themselves to be. After all, they would all eventually come around, as Mercy had previously observed, once they had everything taken away from them.

  “I can help you see Lucy if you like, Lady Pinckney,” Mercy told her. “You might find it more painful than you expect, talkin’ to her again. But I’ve been thinkin’, an’ I’ve decided I can’t make that choice for you.” Mercy spoke with the same lower-class accent which she had always used before—and for a moment, Abigail envied her stark confidence.

  The offer overwhelmed Lady Pinckney’s decorum, such that she seemed to forget that she was speaking to a woman dressed as a laundress. “Of course I want to see my daughter again!” Lady Pinckney said desperately. “I never even got to say goodbye!” Tears wavered in her voice, and Abigail looked away uncomfortably.

  Mercy nodded grimly. “If you’re sure, then,” she said. She glanced sideways at Abigail. “I’ll hold your hand too, if you want.”

  Abigail nodded wordlessly. Lady Pinckney’s grief had wormed its way past her hard feelings against Lucy, no matter how she tried to resist it. But she went to sit at the table next to Lady Pinckney, and took Mercy’s hand very carefully. Lady Pinckney did not hesitate to take Mercy’s other hand, though the bandages there were starting to look a bit sorry.

  The twilight that filtered into the drawing room was soft and subdued. It was particularly strange, given that there was barely any light from the windows there in the first place.

  As Lucy’s figure faded into view once more, Abigail saw that she was crying.

  “—I’m here, Mama!” Lucy was saying. “I’m so sorry for leaving you all alone, please don’t look so upset.”

  Lady Pinckney stared at her daughter. Slowly, she brought her other hand up to her mouth. Her tears spilled over, and she sucked in a shuddering breath. Lady Pinckney lurched to her feet, reaching for Lucy—but Mercy tugged her back, with a slight wince against the pain in her hand.

  “You can’t touch her,” Mercy said apologetically. “It doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry.”

  Lucy’s lip trembled. “I have tried to hug you so many times, Mama,” she said.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Abigail saw Hugh shrink down into the divan. The expression on his face was miserably upset.

  “I should have taken better care of you, Lucy,” Lady Pinckney sobbed. “I used to check on you every night when you went to bed. Why did I ever stop checking on you, darling?”

  “It’s not at all your fault, Mama,” Lucy assured her tearfully. “How should you have known that someone would curse me? You did nothing wrong, I promise.”

  Lady Pinckney shook her head in confusion. “Someone cursed you?” she asked. “But the faeries—”

  “Oh, no,” Lucy said quickly. “The faeries did not kill me, Mama. There was a very handsome gentleman with stars in his eyes, but he only came to hold my hand and keep me company. He said that he could bring me to Lord Longshadow, and—”

  Abigail knew instinctively that Lucy was about to tell her mother all about how Lord Longshadow would supposedly bring her back to life. She interjected quickly. “Lucy,” she said. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. We don’t know if Lord Longshadow is even still alive.”

  Lucy opened her mouth to protest—but her eyes flickered towards Lady Pinckney, and she swallowed the words she’d been about to say. She must have realised, on some level, that the idea could badly hurt her mother once again.

  Lucy looked down at her feet, suddenly far more subdued. “Well, that is true,” she said quietly. “I may not ever meet Lord Longshadow now. But Abigail and her father seem very certain that it was a black magician who cursed me, and so I am helping them to find the person responsible. I do not see that they could possibly do so without me.”

  Abigail closed her eyes and breathed in patiently. Even in the throes of grief, Lucy had managed to find a way to stroke her own ego. But it was helpful to their cause for now, and so Abigail managed somehow to stay silent.

  Lady Pinckney whirled upon Abigail. “A black magician?” she demanded. “But the Lord Sorcier is supposed to protect England against black magicians! Are you saying that three girls have now died to black magic, right beneath his nose?”

  Abigail worked consciously not to tighten her hand on Mercy’s. She opened her eyes again, forcing herself to stay calm. “No one had brought the matter to his attention yet until Lucy,” Abigail said. “We are all working as quickly as we can now to make sure that this doesn’t happen again. I know that isn’t as much of a comfort as it might be, but my father cannot be expected to divine the future.”

  This was only mostly correct—for Abigail’s mother, at least, could sometimes divine the past or the future, when she looked into mirrors. But the practice was woefully unreliable, and you could never actually be certain what it was that you would see. Predicting black magicians on purpose was truly beyond any diviner’s capabilities, as far as Abigail knew.

  Lucy sighed. “Oh, maybe the Lord Sorcier is competent and maybe he is not,” she said. “But we must still find my killer, either way. I was at Lady Lessing’s ball on the day that I died, and Abigail thinks that I was cursed there. You are good friends with Lady Lessing, aren’t you, Mama? Surely, you could ask her for the list of guests who were there.”

  Lady Pinckney was still staring at Abigail with great fury. But she calmed somewhat as she looked back towards her daughter’s ghost. “I can, of course,” Lady Pinckney said. “Lady Lessing visited in order to offer her condolences. She said that if there was anything she could do for me, then I had only to ask her. I do not imagine that a guest list was what she
had in mind—but I shall insist regardless, if you think that it would help.”

  Lucy nodded in satisfaction. “There were two other girls, you remember—Miss Edwards, who was about to be engaged, and Miss Hancock, the girl with the unfortunate nose. I don’t recall whether either of them attended any balls before they died, but the killer surely found them at a social event as well.” Lucy spoke with great confidence, as though she had deduced all of this entirely on her own. “I know that it has been some weeks, but I am sure that your other friends could find out where the other girls had been and who else was at those events.”

  Lady Pinckney dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I will find out everything that I can,” she promised. “Whoever did this to you will regret it very soon, Lucy.”

  Abigail glanced at Lady Pinckney. “You should be careful who you speak with,” she warned. “If Lucy’s killer finds out that you are onto them, they could try and curse you next. We don’t know which exact curse they are using yet, and I won’t be able to protect you until we have narrowed it down.”

  Lady Pinckney waved her off tiredly. “I do not care,” she said. “Truly, I don’t. I could die tonight, and it would not matter.”

  Lucy gave a stricken gasp. “No!” she said. “Please don’t say that, Mama. I don’t want you to die. You must be careful, so you can live a very long time more.”

  Lady Pinckney attempted a weary smile at her daughter. It was not very convincing. “I will… try,” she said. Lady Pinckney looked at Mercy then, from beneath her eyelashes. “I would like to engage your services,” she said. “I can pay any price you like, if you will only let me see my daughter each day.”

  Mercy sighed heavily, as though she had been expecting the offer. “You must not make offers like that,” Mercy advised Lady Pinckney. “I am friends with faeries, you know. I could take your smile, or your happiness, or even your soul.” She paused. “But I won’t—because my services aren’t for hire. I’ve been questionin’ some things lately, but one thing I do know is that there’ll always be ghosts who are scared an’ confused an’ need a guide to the Other Side. I can’t help those ghosts if I’m here usin’ my magic for just one person.”