Longshadow

by Olivia Atwater

  Mr Jubilee looked faintly offended at the subject of conversation. “Nightshade!” he said. “What an awful, temperamental flower. Blackthorn does not allow nightshade to grow within its borders at all.”

  Euphemia considered Mr Jubilee thoughtfully. “Blackthorn’s very clever, though,” she said. “I’m sure it could grow an antidote to nightshade if it wanted to?”

  Mr Jubilee knitted his brow. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Blackthorn surely could grow an antidote. I could ask the realm for a nightshade remedy—but it will not offer up such an antidote without payment.”

  Abigail opened her mouth to reply that of course she would find some form of payment—but to her surprise, Mercy responded first. “I’ll pay for the antidote, Mr Jubilee,” Mercy said. “You can tell Blackthorn that I’ll bring it some of the silver lilies from Longshadow, as soon as we’ve rescued my friends. Those lilies would grow just fine in Blackthorn, as long as they’re kept in starlight.”

  Mr Jubilee brightened. “Why, that’s perfect,” he said. “I shall go and ask Blackthorn as soon as I am free to return there. I am only a governess for tonight, after all, so I am sure that I can manage something by tomorrow.”

  Mr Jubilee, of course, was prone to forgetting even very important things—but Euphemia looked over at Abigail and silently mouthed the words: I’ll remind him.

  Abigail could not curtsy while on top of the piano—but she bowed her head to the two of them, nevertheless. “Thank you very much, Mr Jubilee,” she said. “I greatly appreciate it.”

  “I wonder now which flowers grow on the Other Side,” Mercy mused absently. “Maybe the silver lilies grow there as well? Or maybe there’s special flowers that the living never see at all.”

  This, it seemed, was a conversational cue for the faeries there—for both Mr Jubilee and Lady Hollowvale soon began enthusiastically exercising their imaginations on the subject.

  “Surely, there are flowers there that smell of pleasant memories,” Mr Jubilee said.

  “There could be flowers that sing when the wind blows through them,” Lady Hollowvale said dreamily.

  Abigail passed the teacup to Euphemia, who sipped at it placidly. “I don’t know about any of those strange things,” Euphemia said, “but there ought to be roses on the Other Side—or else it’s not much of a place to retire, is it?”

  Abigail tried to imagine up a strange flower that might be found on the Other Side—or really, any image of the Other Side at all—but her imagination failed her once again. She had no interest, she found, in speculating on the Other Side, since there were so many things yet for her to see on this side. But she didn’t wish to ruin everyone else’s fun, and so she stayed quiet and listened to the conversation instead.

  Eventually, they emptied the teapot, and the discussion tapered off. Mr Jubilee insisted that he ought to get back to watching the children, and Euphemia went with him to take a turn at Blind Man’s Bluff. Lady Hollowvale saw them all to the entryway of the Hollow House—but she asked for Abigail to stay behind for a moment as Mercy went ahead.

  “I am glad that you came,” Lady Hollowvale said. “I was concerned about Longshadow, Abigail. But I know that you are facing other dangers, and I wanted to offer you what help I can.”

  Abigail considered her Other Mum. “You said you couldn’t protect me against nightshade,” she said.

  “I cannot protect you from nightshade,” Lady Hollowvale agreed, “though I am heartened that Blackthorn may be able to provide you a remedy. I can offer you my love, though—and hopefully, that will be of use.” So saying, she tore an edge from the sleeve of her tattered grey gown. Before Abigail could fully react, Lady Hollowvale bit her thumb just hard enough to draw blood; she allowed three drops of that blood to fall into the rag, and then she folded it into quarters, offering it over to Abigail.

  Abigail took the rag in confusion. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” she admitted.

  Lady Hollowvale pressed her bleeding finger against her chest. “Keep my love close to you,” she said. “I cannot protect you from danger—but I can warn you, at least, when danger comes near. I thought it best to give this to you where no one else can hear of it.”

  Abigail closed her hand around the makeshift handkerchief. It was surprisingly light, even for a scrap of cloth—and something about it made Abigail remember her first mother in sudden, vivid detail. Abigail had forgotten almost all of her early memories involving her first mother, except for those last, very awful memories—Abigail had even forgotten her first mother’s name, since she had always simply called her Mum.

  But right now, as Abigail held her Other Mum’s love, she found that she could picture her first mother’s smile very clearly, for the first time in a very long while. The memory made her heart twinge with both happiness and longing.

  Abigail held the ragged handkerchief tightly to her heart. She looked up at her Other Mum. “Is this love really for me?” Abigail asked softly. “I’m not even your real daughter.”

  “How silly!” Lady Hollowvale laughed. “Of course you are my real daughter. You are standing right in front of me. I am certain that I did not dream you up.”

  Abigail smiled up at her. “You didn’t dream me up,” she agreed—though that hadn’t been her original point at all. “Thank you, Mum. I promise, I’ll keep it close.”

  Lady Hollowvale embraced her once more—and Abigail walked out from the Hollow House, through the fog that clung to her like a friend.

  Chapter 16

  Though night had now fallen, no stars shone over Kensington Gardens. Hollowvale’s mists leaned upon the Round Pond, shot through with shafts of sourceless moonlight.

  It was easy to spot Mercy’s dark figure, walking ahead. Even in the heavy fog, her form seemed to drink in the moonlight, draining it from the world around her. She was an otherworldly shadow in the mist—both unnerving and comforting, all at once.

  Abigail tucked the ragged handkerchief hurriedly into her décolletage and quickened her steps to catch up with Mercy. Mercy’s black hair was loose around her shoulders now, and her eyes gleamed with twilight, more vividly than ever before. She smiled as she saw Abigail, and she slowed so that they might fall into step next to one another.

  “I’m glad you came,” Abigail told Mercy softly. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

  Mercy looked down at her feet. Once again, Abigail’s steps had left ripples upon the water where she walked, while Mercy passed without trace—like a ghost, stepping sideways through the world. “I’m glad I came too,” Mercy said. “I had things I needed to say. An’ it was a very pleasant tea. Mr Jubilee’s always wished I could come here with him to visit, an’ now I have.”

  Abigail bit at her lip. “You could come to tea again, in that case,” she said. “If you wanted, I mean. It only seems fair, since I’ll be goin’ to Longshadow to see those lilies.”

  Mercy paused upon the water, and Abigail stopped with her. For a moment, it felt as though they were utterly alone in the quiet of the mist. Mercy turned to look at Abigail—and there was something soft and hopeful behind the setting sun in her eyes as she did.

  “I would like to come to tea again,” Mercy said. “Here in Hollowvale, an’ maybe at the House. I’ve got a little cottage in Longshadow too, where I could put on a kettle.”

  Abigail had not imagined much of anything for the entire time while they were in Hollowvale—but this suggestion inspired a wonderful series of images in her mind. Abigail could see Mercy sitting down to tea with everyone in the House, wrinkling her nose as Abigail discussed outside magic with her father. And though Abigail had never seen Longshadow, nor the cottage of which Mercy spoke, she imagined them all the same. The cottage was probably very small, with lacy curtains and open windows; it had a little stove full of flickering coals, and it smelled entirely of lilies and fresh laundry.

  “I don’t know how you do that,” Abigail said softly. “Sometimes, when you talk about things like that, I can almost see ‘em in m
y head. Am I borrowin’ your imagination somehow—like the first time you helped me walk on the lake?”

  Mercy tilted her head. “I’m not lendin’ you anything,” she said. “You must really be comin’ up with it all on your own.” She studied Abigail’s face, as though searching for something in particular. “You said you’ve got to deal with things as they are. I know it’s hard for you to imagine things that seem unreal, so… I’ve started tryin’ to figure out how to make the good things more real for you. I thought that if I came to Hollowvale an’ sorted things out with your Other Mum, it might help. So maybe it did help?”

  Tears pricked abruptly at Abigail’s eyes. They were warm tears, and not sad ones. “It did help,” she said. “I’m imaginin’ all sorts of nice things right now. I’ve imagined more things since I met you than I have in years an’ years.”

  Mercy reached out to take Abigail’s hand. Her long, delicate fingers were still covered in bandages, but Abigail now imagined that those fingers would eventually heal, and that they would eventually hold hands again in that way which a chaperone might find inappropriate.

  “I want to make more good things real for you, Abigail,” Mercy said. “I’m imaginin’ all sorts of ways to do that lately. It’s a nice way to pass the time when I’m feelin’ down.”

  Abigail wasn’t at all sure how to respond to this, at first. The suggestion that Mercy spent her spare thoughts upon Abigail’s happiness was a wonderful surprise. Abigail was at once both deeply grateful for it and pained at the thought that the overwhelming affection which it inspired within her might not be entirely welcome.

  Abigail reached up to wipe at her tears. “I am… really fond of you, Mercy,” she managed. “I think you ought to know that.”

  Mercy released Abigail’s hand. A moment later, though, she had thrown her arms around Abigail’s neck and pressed her cheek to her shoulder.

  “I’m fond of you too,” Mercy mumbled. “We’ll have all sorts of adventures together when this is over, I’m sure. Look forward to ‘em, won’t you?”

  Abigail closed her arms around Mercy. She couldn’t help but think how very well they fit together that way. The embrace lingered for quite a while, as Abigail tried to work up the courage to express the other things she kept imagining. But just as she had settled the butterflies in her stomach and steeled her spine, a small form stumbled blindly out of the mist, barrelling straight into them.

  All three of them went sprawling upon the water. Abigail clambered up to her knees with a very unladylike word, and saw that Fanny had taken them all to the ground. She was wearing the lace blindfold again—though now, she tugged it up to reveal her eyes, looking confused.

  “I got two people?” Fanny said. “Oh! Well, there you are again, Abby. But you weren’t actually playin’, so I guess I’ll have to put back on the blindfold.”

  Abigail pushed back up to her feet, brushing herself off with her very last scrap of dignity. “I’d stay an’ play, but I really think I’ve got to be off,” she said, as she turned next to help Mercy back to her feet. “Do you know where Hugh is, Fanny?”

  Fanny frowned. “Hugh’s back at the shore,” she said. “He got real serious after the talk we all had.”

  Abigail paused. “The talk you all had?” she asked.

  Fanny twisted the blindfold slowly in her hands, looking anxious. “Hugh… told the lot of us about the apple in Longshadow. I think he expected we’d tell him to bring it back to Hollowvale so one of us could have it, but…” She glanced away. “Everyone agreed he ought to keep that apple for himself, if he can get it. We told him that none of us would take it from him, even if he offered.”

  Abigail let out a long breath. “Oh,” she said.

  Mercy crossed her arms. The soft look in her eyes was gone, replaced by sudden thoughtfulness. “Do you know,” Mercy said, “I think Hugh’s got the same problem you do, Abigail. I don’t think he’ll believe in that apple ‘till you throw it at his head.”

  Abigail managed a rueful smile at that. For just a moment, she managed to conjure up the image of Hugh’s surprised expression as she tossed a magical apple at his head. It was getting easier and easier to imagine things, she found, the more that good things happened to her.

  “I’ll take care of him, Fanny,” Abigail promised.

  Fanny twisted her lips into a sour expression. “Well, he needs it,” she said. “He’s still a kid, you know.”

  Abigail tried and failed to hide a grin. She declined to point out that Fanny wasn’t that much older than Hugh, herself. Instead, she said: “Come give me another hug, before you blind yourself again.”

  Fanny wasn’t yet so mature that she was willing to turn down hugs. She squeezed Abigail around the midsection, as tightly as she could manage. “You’ll be back soon?” Fanny asked Abigail.

  “As soon as I can,” Abigail assured her. “Me an’ Mercy are goin’ to come for tea, after Hollowvale’s gone back where it belongs.”

  Fanny’s eyes sparked with mischief. “Once Hugh’s alive again,” she said, “you tell him he’s got to bake us all tarts an’ send ‘em along with you.”

  “I won’t come back without Hugh’s tarts,” Abigail said solemnly.

  They left Fanny behind them, still wiggling the blindfold back over her eyes. Sure enough, as the fog gave way to reveal the shore, Abigail saw Hugh sitting at the edge of the water, with his elbows on top of his knees.

  “Did you catch any flowers tonight, Hugh?” Abigail asked him lightly.

  Hugh looked up at her and forced a smile. “No flowers,” he said, “but I got Robert an’ Fanny at least once each.”

  Abigail offered Hugh a hand up, since they were still in Hollowvale where he was solid. His skin was a bit too cool, and his hand seemed hazy and ephemeral—but it was good to be able to touch him, even briefly.

  Abigail continued holding onto Hugh’s hand as they walked away from the Round Pond. By the time they reached the edge of Hollowvale’s mists, however, the moon reappeared in the sky above them, even as Hugh’s grip disappeared.

  Dora had indeed kept the groundskeeper late so that Mercy, Abigail, and Hugh could leave the gardens. As they all walked back to the House, Abigail noted that the sky was far darker than it should have been, based on the time that they had spent at tea—but this was not entirely a surprise, as time often moved strangely in faerie.

  Abigail was a bit disappointed to find out that one of the maids had cleared off a bed for Mercy while they were gone—but this did make it easier, at least, for Abigail to stash her Other Mum’s handkerchief beneath the pillow without eliciting strange questions.

  Just as Abigail did not often imagine things, neither did she often dream. But that night, she dreamed of a little cottage in Longshadow, with a fresh pot of tea upon the table, and a lovely view of the silver lilies outside.

  Abigail woke to late morning sunlight, and to a gentle nudge at her shoulder. When she opened her eyes, she saw Mercy standing over her. There was a bemused, affectionate look on Mercy’s face that suggested Abigail was not a graceful-looking sleeper.

  “Abigail,” Mercy murmured, “Lady Pinckney is visitin’ downstairs. She asked to see me, but I expect you’ll want to be there too.”

  Abigail stretched and yawned, nudging her mind back into motion. “I will, yes,” she said. “I hope she’s not here just to bully you into lettin’ her chat with Lucy again.”

  Mercy grimaced. “I don’t think that’s the only reason she’s here,” she said, “but what do you want to wager it comes up at least once durin’ our visit?”

  Abigail shook her head. “I wouldn’t wager against it,” she said ruefully. She stumbled out of bed, searching for her cream muslin. The gown had seen far too much use in the last few days, by Abigail’s reckoning—she would be only too happy to hide it away for a few weeks, once everything was sorted.

  Mercy’s cheeks flushed slightly as Abigail started getting dressed, and she turned her head. “I’ll see you downstairs, then,
” Mercy mumbled.

  Abigail rushed to make herself barely presentable. She nearly hurried out the door without the handkerchief beneath her pillow—but at the last moment, she remembered it, and she tucked it down the front of her gown before heading downstairs.

  The House had exactly one small drawing room, mostly used for meeting with those dignitaries whom Elias could not dodge forever. As with most of the House, the drawing room was furnished in a way befitting the dignity of England’s court magician—but said furnishings were well out-of-date, and fraying at the edges. The room’s single window let in both a waxy bit of sunlight and all of the noises from the street below. All in all, it was a very cramped, uncomfortable sort of drawing room. Happily, this meant that formal visitations rarely lasted long.

  Lady Pinckney had settled herself at the main table, dressed all in black. Dora sat with her, sipping tea in silence, while Hugh sat in another chair unseen. At first, Mercy was nowhere to be seen—but as Abigail entered, the shadows in the corner of the room slipped away to reveal her, and Abigail realised that Mercy had been hiding from Lady Pinckney.

  Lady Pinckney glanced over as Abigail arrived—and her brows furrowed. “Surely, that isn’t the only gown you own?” she asked.

  Surely, that isn’t a proper way to greet someone in their own home, Abigail was tempted to reply.

  But Abigail smothered the response beneath a brittle smile. What she said aloud was: “I am at home, and it is simple to wear. I didn’t wish to keep you waiting, Lady Pinckney.”

  Abigail was careful once again to round out her accent, lingering over every syllable.

  Lady Pinckney let out an irritated sound. “Well, you cannot wear that to the ball tonight,” she said. “I hope that you have something else available to you.”

  Abigail paused just behind Hugh’s chair. “The… ball?” she asked carefully.

  “The ball,” Hugh repeated sourly. “Lucy’s been upset ever since it came up, since she won’t be able to go an’ dance.”