Longshadow

by Olivia Atwater

  Abigail quailed against the bookshelf, staring at Mercy. In that moment, she caught a glimpse of the piece of Longshadow that Mercy carried with her, loosened from Mercy’s own veil of mortality. Longshadow had seemed oddly kind, or whimsical, or merciful at times… but it was also dark and final and terrible, in a way that little else could be.

  Abigail was not even the direct target of Mercy’s ire—but even so, she found that she could not bring herself to move.

  Hugh had been lounging in the chair next to the desk—but now, he sprang up to his feet. “Stop that!” Hugh said. “You’re scarin’ everyone.” He stalked across the distance that separated him from Mercy and grabbed at her arm.

  Mercy glanced sharply back at Hugh. As she did, the blackness in her eyes retreated somewhat… and, very slowly, the dread silhouette upon the wall bled away its darkness, shrinking back to a more natural size.

  “An’ now Lucy’s cryin’,” Hugh said furiously. “You’re just bein’ cruel now, because you’re scared.”

  Mercy took a deep, shaky breath. The razor dark edge of Longshadow had yet to entirely depart her form. “I am scared,” Mercy said, “but I didn’t say any of that because I’m scared. I said it because I was angry, an’ because it’s all true. I’ll wager no one ever told Lucy the truth in life, so I’ve gone an’ done it now, before it’s too late. We all know I’m right, an’ I won’t take back any of it—not even a little bit.”

  Hugh looked past Mercy, at something Abigail couldn’t see. His brow knitted with worry, and Mercy turned away from him.

  “Go after her an’ comfort her if you want,” Mercy told him. “But Lucy wouldn’t do the same for you, Hugh. An’ I won’t pretend that she deserves it.”

  Hugh released Mercy’s arm with a sharp, sullen huff. He stalked away, towards the door that led to the stairs—and disappeared through it.

  Chapter 13

  Mercy was still trying to calm herself, a full minute after Hugh had disappeared. Abigail, for her part, was still trying to recover her voice; leftover fear weighed upon her throat, stifling her words.

  Finally, Mercy cast a subdued glance at Abigail. Her eyes flickered once again with pink and blue twilight, rather than with darkness. Her pallid skin was stark against the shadows in the room, so that she nearly looked like a ghost herself. Mercy must have seen some measure of the fear in Abigail’s eyes, because a hint of shame crossed her features, and the last remnants of Longshadow’s ire faded from her manner.

  “I’m sorry,” Mercy said softly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Abigail swallowed. “I didn’t mean to be scared,” she said.

  Mercy walked slowly back towards Abigail, as though approaching a trapped animal. She sat down next to Abigail and slumped her shoulders—as though she could shrink herself to something less frightening if only she caved her posture enough.

  “I don’t want you to be scared of me,” Mercy said quietly. “I don’t like it at all.”

  Abigail took a deep breath, steadying her pulse. She reached out to place her hand on top of Mercy’s. Again, Abigail was struck by how long and fine Mercy’s fingers were, and by how much she enjoyed holding her hand. It was a helpful reminder that Mercy was many things at once—for while she could be frightening, she could also be very kind and caring, when she was of a mind.

  Mercy glanced down at Abigail’s hand. Gradually, she curled their fingers together, rasping ragged bandages against Abigail’s skin.

  “I am scared of you,” Abigail said quietly. “You’re powerful, an’ you don’t always appreciate that.”

  Mercy pressed her lips together miserably. “I can’t help bein’ powerful,” she mumbled. “I just am. I try not to do bad things with it… but I guess I don’t always manage.” Mercy stared down into her lap. “I thought Lucy should hear the truth. But now I’m not so sure. Do you think Hugh was right, Abigail?”

  Abigail leaned herself back against Mercy, as she had done earlier. She sighed heavily. “Hugh’s still a kid,” Abigail said. “Kids think bein’ mean is always bad. An’ they think that if you’re nice to people, then they’ll be nice back.”

  Mercy released Abigail’s hand to wind an arm around her back. Mercy was warm and comfortable—and while the scent of lilies that she carried with her was sweet, it was the smell of lye that reminded Abigail that she was human. “That isn’t an answer, exactly,” Mercy observed warily.

  Abigail dared to lay her head against Mercy’s shoulder. Somehow, it was easier to talk about difficult things while Mercy was holding onto her.

  “You’ve never needed anything from a ghost until you met Hugh—and now Lucy,” Abigail told Mercy. “You just accepted ‘em as they were, because you knew they were movin’ on soon anyway. Honestly, I always treated Lucy that way, even while she was alive. She’s never goin’ to change, because she doesn’t want to be a good person—she just wants to be praised an’ petted an’ given treats. She’ll pretend to be good if you dangle those for her sometimes, but it’s still just an act.”

  Mercy huffed slightly. “That’s your lack of imagination talkin’,” she said. “You can’t imagine Lucy ever bein’ a better person, so you don’t even want to give her the chance?”

  Abigail grimaced. “I think it’s easier to imagine things when you don’t have to live in the real world with real people,” she said. “I’ve figured out why my imagination’s broken, Mercy—I have to deal with things as they are, an’ not as I wish they were. I don’t believe that things are ever really goin’ to change, because they so often don’t. That doesn’t mean I won’t try an’ change things anyway sometimes, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be ready for how hard that is.”

  Abigail craned her head to look up at Mercy, putting on a serious expression. “There’s a time an’ a place for ignorin’ all your past experience with someone an’ gamblin’ that they might change anyway. I don’t think that time an’ place is in the middle of tryin’ to save other people’s lives.”

  Mercy looked down at Abigail for a long moment. Twilight glimmered in her eyes, strange and confused. “So you believe I shouldn’t have told Lucy what we all think of her,” Mercy murmured. “Even though it’s the truth.”

  Abigail shook her head. “I don’t know,” she sighed. “I just know that I wouldn’t have told her. Lucy isn’t worth the truth to me anymore. But maybe she’s still worth it to you.”

  Mercy tightened her arm around Abigail. “Lucy wasn’t very kind to you when she was alive,” she observed. Mercy sounded pained now, and offended on Abigail’s behalf.

  Abigail closed her eyes. “That’s not worth thinkin’ about anymore either,” she said softly. “I’d rather spend what imagination I’ve got on somethin’ nicer.” Abigail slid her arms around Mercy, holding her in return.

  Thoughts had started chasing themselves around in Abigail’s mind, ever since she had danced with Mercy on the Round Pond. It had taken an awful long time, at least by Abigail’s standards, for those thoughts to make any sense. But Abigail was nearly certain now that the way she’d felt while dancing with Mercy was the way that she was supposed to feel when dancing with a handsome gentleman.

  The realisation was nearly as annoying as it was relieving. On the one hand, Abigail was terribly peeved that no one had told her that she might find another woman to be interesting and lovely and deserving of sideways glances from beneath her eyelashes. But on the other hand, the understanding that she was attracted to Mercy freed Abigail from a nameless, confused anxiety that had plagued her for so many years—a feeling that something was not-quite-right, that she would never be able to relate to the way that other women sometimes wrote soppy love poems and sighed with heavy longing.

  Abigail did not necessarily want to write a love poem. But she did let out a heavy sigh as she pressed her cheek to Mercy’s shoulder. A new frustration had replaced the old one, as a fresh thought occurred to Abigail: Mercy probably considered her to be a possible friend, rather than anything more
. Abigail had known close female friends to dance together, and sleep in the same bed together, and even to kiss each other while declaring their undying love and friendship.

  How on earth did one woman express romantic interest in another woman?

  “I’m imaginin’ somethin’ right now,” Abigail mumbled.

  “An’ what’s that?” Mercy asked distantly. She pressed one hand very gently to Abigail’s hair, and Abigail nearly lost her train of thought entirely. Her skin flushed, and her heart stuttered annoyingly in her chest.

  “I’m imaginin’…” Abigail trailed off, thinking on what she wanted to say, and on what she really ought to say.

  She thought: I’m imagining that your heart might do funny things when you look at my smile, or at my eyes, or at my hands, the same way that my heart does when I look at you.

  But she discarded that thought, and tried another: I’m imagining that if I kissed you, perhaps you would kiss me back, and that would be so wonderful that I’m not sure what I would do.

  In the end, Abigail said neither of these things. What she said was: “I’m imaginin’ that maybe two women might fall in love, the way that men an’ women normally do. Wouldn’t that be somethin’? Two women courtin’ an’ gettin’ married an’ livin’ their lives together, like it was nothin’ special.”

  Mercy’s hand was featherlight on Abigail’s hair. Her bandages had snagged at the strands here and there, but just the idea of her touch was delightful enough that Abigail didn’t care.

  “Well… that’s not very imaginative,” Mercy mumbled apologetically. “Generally, when you’re tryin’ to exercise your imagination, you ought to come up with things that haven’t happened before.”

  Abigail blinked. “I’m sorry?” she said.

  Mercy threaded her fingers through Abigail’s hair now, tattered bandages and all. “I’ve met women who married women,” Mercy said. “Oh! I guess you wouldn’t know. Ghosts are so much more honest, once they’ve got nothin’ left to lose. There’s women who just went off an’ lived together, an’ told everyone they were bosom friends. There’s women who dressed as men so they could marry their sweethearts. I met a lady adventurer once who travelled all across the Continent seducin’ women. She was interestin’ enough, even if she wasn’t all that kind.”

  Abigail required a very long moment to digest this information. Mercy’s revelation was so straightforward and matter-of-fact that Abigail wasn’t at all certain whether she should take it as a hopeful sign. Clearly, Mercy was aware that women could care for other women in that way—but if that was so, then surely Mercy would have mentioned if she herself was one of those women.

  “Can you imagine if there were trees that grew things other’n fruit?” Mercy mused, perfectly oblivious to Abigail’s sudden agony. “A tree full of books would be helpful right now, for certain.”

  Abigail made an exasperated noise. “You’re so dense,” she muttered beneath her breath.

  “You’re mumblin’, Abigail,” Mercy said helpfully. “I can’t hear you.”

  Abigail resettled herself against Mercy’s shoulder. “You’re very warm,” she said, more loudly. “An’ I’m gettin’ tired. Sorry.”

  Mercy patted her softly on the head. “Well, you can sleep for a bit, then,” she said. “Hugh an’ Lucy will come back eventually. An’ I’ve got plenty of awful books on outside magic to keep me company until then.”

  Abigail smiled dimly at that. And though she hadn’t quite admitted it aloud yet, it was nice to know that the fond twinge in her heart was actually called affection.

  “Psst. Abigail.”

  Mercy was whispering to Abigail—but Abigail was very warm, and she didn’t particularly wish to wake up. Her back ached a bit, as she was lying on the floor, but Mercy had pillowed Abigail’s head in her lap and settled her hand absently upon her head. It was somehow both very comfortable and very uncomfortable, all at the same time.

  “Abigail,” Mercy murmured again, “you should really wake up an’ see this.”

  Abigail groaned softly—but she shifted in Mercy’s lap and forced herself upright, blinking away the morning.

  Mercy had a small book open on her knee, just next to where Abigail’s head had once been. Mercy was looking at an illustration on one of the pages that showed a flower with a five-pointed blossom and a dark clutch of berries. Her sly smile held an unusual tinge of pride.

  “I’ve found it,” Mercy said. “I know how our magician is makin’ ghosts.”

  Abigail rubbed at her eyes and looked down at the book.

  “Is that nightshade?” Abigail asked.

  Mercy nodded, and read out loud: “Nightshade can be used to wake the sleeping dead. The determined magician may use it to summon spirits and request their wisdom.”

  Abigail knitted her brow. “Well, that’s… admittedly clever,” she muttered. “Our magician’s just summonin’ the dead right after they die.” She straightened with an abrupt thought. “Nightshade—belladonna—it’s poisonous. The perfume shop we used to live over sold belladonna perfume. Dad always said it was goin’ to get someone killed.”

  Mercy frowned. “Why would people put somethin’ poisonous on their skin?” she asked. “That seems awful silly.”

  Abigail snorted. “People don’t just put it on their skin,” she said. “Some ladies put it in their eyes. Makes ‘em look all dark-eyed an’ mysterious. I don’t think any of it is good for you, but belladonna only kills you right away if you eat it.”

  Mercy shook her head incredulously. “That’s got to be the poorest reason I ever heard of to die,” she said. “Imagine slowly killin’ yourself to make your eyes darker.”

  Abigail shot Mercy a bemused look. “That’s not very imaginative,” she said. “Generally, when you’re tryin’ to exercise your imagination, you ought to come up with things that haven’t happened before.”

  Mercy winced. “I’ll admit,” she said, “I never met a ghost who poisoned ‘emselves with eyedrops. Or else, I guess I wouldn’t know if I had met one, would I? I’m sure they’d have died just like Lucy, without ever knowin’ why they fell asleep an’ never woke up.”

  Abigail frowned at that. “Speakin’ of which—where are Hugh an’ Lucy?”

  Mercy sighed heavily. “They’re downstairs,” she said. “Lucy won’t talk to me directly anymore. She’s doin’ this thing where I have to talk to Hugh, who talks to her for me.”

  Abigail shrugged. “Lucy could’ve stormed away entirely, I guess,” she said. “At least we can handle her havin’ a tantrum for a while.” Abigail pushed herself up to her feet, wincing against her body’s stiffness, and she offered Mercy a hand up in turn.

  Downstairs, Dora was sitting at the dining table, with her pocket mirror in front of her and Hugh at her side. Abigail had to assume that Lucy was present, though she couldn’t see her.

  “I’ve got good news an’ bad news,” Abigail announced, as they entered the dining room. “The good news is, Mercy might’ve figured out how our magician is killin’ people an’ makin’ sure they leave ghosts behind. If we’ve found the right information, then it means that someone’s done a spell usin’ belladonna an’ used it to poison those girls.” She glanced at Hugh. “That means someone must have slipped belladonna to Lucy at that ball—an’ probably near the end of the party, since she didn’t die in the ballroom.”

  Mercy looked at the chair just next to Hugh. “Do you remember anyone givin’ you somethin’ to eat, perhaps—” she started saying.

  But Lucy had clearly turned up her nose in some obvious way. Mercy cut herself off with a sigh, and turned to Hugh instead. “Could you please ask Lucy whether someone gave her somethin’ to eat or drink at the ball?” she requested.

  Hugh gave Mercy a faintly reproving look—but he turned to repeat the question to Lucy, all the same. A moment later, Hugh replied: “There were little treats an’ punch at the ball, but Lucy doesn’t remember if anyone gave her any.”

  Abigail chewed at the insid
e of her cheek. “I think someone must have poisoned Lucy’s punch,” she said. “It’s easier’n poisonin’ a little sandwich—an’ the flavour wouldn’t have changed all that much. You’d barely need a moment with someone’s punch to slip some poison into it, I’d wager.”

  Dora turned her even-tempered gaze upon Abigail. “But you mentioned that you had good news and bad news,” she said. “What is the bad news, Abigail?”

  Abigail sighed. “The bad news is, I don’t know how to protect against belladonna,” she admitted. “I think I could stop the necromancy part—the turnin’ someone into a ghost—but then whoever it was would still be poisoned like normal. The only magical antidotes I know of are things like theriac an’ bezoars, an’ we’re not goin’ to find any of those in a hurry.”

  Dora considered this for a long moment. “I believe that Lady Hollowvale might be able to help,” she said.

  Abigail blinked. “Other Mum?” she asked.

  Dora nodded slightly. “Lady Hollowvale still has half of my soul. I dream of her sometimes, you know—and I am sure that she also dreams of me. The longer that this has gone on, the more convinced I have become that she wishes to see you, Abigail.”

  Abigail shifted on her feet. It had occurred to her more than once that her Other Mum might have helpful insight into the current situation… but Hollowvale was not so very close that she could wander there and back whenever she pleased. “It could take days to go an’ see her,” Abigail said. “I’m not sure I can leave for that long.”

  Dora nodded serenely. “I thought as much,” she said. “Lady Hollowvale seems to know that as well. That is why she has risked leaving Hollowvale. I believe that she will join the other faeries in Kensington Gardens tonight.”

  Abigail felt a faint spike of alarm at that. “But that means Other Mum’s left the children alone in Hollowvale?” she asked.