Dora had been regarding Lady Pinckney with the same blank, careful expression she normally used when trying to decide on a proper conversational reply—but she took her cue from Abigail and abandoned whatever clever retort had been upon her lips. “Lady Pinckney has acquired the three guest lists for which you were searching,” Dora told Abigail. “There is another ball tonight, and most of the same guests will be attending.”
Abigail struggled to keep the instinctive horror from her face. She had barely survived her only Season—the idea of attending even one more ball with the ton made her feel sick to her stomach. “And you thought I should attend this ball?” she asked Lady Pinckney.
Lady Pinckney’s expression darkened. “Some other girl may die this evening,” she said. “You implied that you could prevent such a thing from happening.”
Abigail’s heart sank down into her stomach. For a brief, terrible moment, she thought: I could simply let them die. It was an awful, unworthy thought, and she knew it. But Abigail knew deep down in her bones that no one would want her at the ball, and that those in attendance would make things as difficult as possible for her, even while she tried to protect them.
“I am certain that I am not invited to this ball,” Abigail said slowly. “I am rarely invited to anything.”
Lady Pinckney pulled a small envelope from her reticule, and Abigail suppressed a sigh of defeat.
“Lord Breckart’s sister is throwing a ball tonight,” Lady Pinckney said. “I have requested an invitation for you, as a personal favour. It was the most taxing favour I have ever asked, in fact.” Her eyes narrowed. “But you cannot wear that gown.”
Hugh sighed heavily. “I always knew toffs were somethin’ else,” he said, “but they’d really rather risk dyin’ than bein’ seen with someone in an old gown.”
Abigail bit at her lip. She had no other quality gowns, of course—and there was no way she was going to be able to find a new one in time for the ball. But before she could formulate a polite way of saying so, Mercy interrupted.
“Gowns won’t be a problem,” Mercy said. “We’ll just wear midnight.”
Lady Pinckney startled and nearly dropped her teacup. She glanced over at Mercy sharply, noticing her presence for the very first time. “We?” she asked.
Mercy shrugged. “This is my problem too,” she said. “Obviously, I’ll be goin’ with Abigail.”
Lady Pinckney did not grimace—but her disgust was palpable, nevertheless. “This invitation is for the Lord Sorcier, his family, and his ward. It will not suffice for…” Lady Pinckney trailed off, as she realised she did not know just what Mercy was.
Mercy smiled coldly. “And just what do you think I am, Lady Pinckney?” she asked.
Her accent was suddenly cool and refined, in a way that could not possibly be faked. Mercy’s shadow lengthened subtly behind her once again, twisting lazily against the morning sunlight.
Abigail stared at Mercy in confusion.
“Never mind,” Mercy said. Her accent had reverted to the one which Abigail found more familiar. Mercy looked past Lady Pinckney, towards Abigail. “I don’t need an invitation. I go where I please. An’ I don’t mind sortin’ out some gowns. I’m hardly an expert tailor, but midnight hides an awful lot of sins.”
Lady Pinckney kept her eyes fixed upon Mercy. Desperate longing rose once more within her gaze, and Abigail knew exactly what she was about to say, even before she said it.
“I have gone far out of my way for you,” Lady Pinckney said. “I would like to see my daughter now.”
Mercy shook her head. “You weren’t listenin’ at all last time,” she told Lady Pinckney. “I told you my services weren’t for sale, an’ they’re not. I didn’t offer to use my magic for you again if you did somethin’ helpful—I said the opposite, in fact. You went out of your way so we could find Lucy’s killer… or at least, that’s what you said.”
Hugh sank down into his chair, suddenly weary. “You won’t even talk to Mercy!” he told the air next to him. “Why d’you think she’d go out of her way for you?”
Abigail could only assume that both Lucy and Lady Pinckney had decided to lean upon Mercy at the same time.
Lady Pinckney straightened coldly in her chair. “If that is truly how you feel,” she said to Mercy, “then I can always speak again with Lord Breckart’s sister and have the invitation rescinded.”
“You’ve got everything all backwards,” Mercy said. “I’m helpin’ people I care about—but I don’t need your invitation to do that. Abigail needs the invitation, so she can go an’ risk her life to protect you an’ your lot. I’d be only too happy if she stayed safe at home instead.”
Abigail pressed her fingers to her forehead. Everything that Mercy said was true, of course. In fact, Abigail was frighteningly tempted to let Lady Pinckney do as she’d threatened—in which case, she wouldn’t be allowed at the ball, and perhaps that much would soothe her conscience.
But of course, Abigail’s conscience was not soothed at all. If another girl were to die tonight, she knew that she would never forgive herself.
“Mercy,” Abigail said quietly, “I think you should let Lady Pinckney speak with Lucy.”
Mercy glanced sharply at Abigail—the suggestion seemed to mortally offend her. Her twilight eyes had darkened with black shadows again, seething with indignation. But Mercy must have read something of Abigail’s weariness—for she took a deep breath and crossed her arms. “Why?” Mercy asked.
Abigail looked at Lady Pinckney. “I understand that you’re hurt, and that you think this will help you,” she said. “I don’t think it will help—and you’re going about it all the wrong way, ordering people around. But if another girl dies tonight, you will regret it. I want to save us both from that.”
Abigail pressed her lips together and turned back to Mercy. “No one could ever pay you enough to do this,” she said, “so I’m not offering you payment. I’m asking because we’re friends: let Lady Pinckney see her daughter one more time. For her part, she must swear never to ask you again.” Abigail met Mercy’s eyes carefully. “There’s a time and a place for this,” she said.
What Abigail did not dare say was: You have already alienated Lucy with the truth. Please don’t do the same with her mother, or else we will be short on help.
Mercy considered these words very carefully. The shadows in her eyes did not recede—but her expression lost some of its hardness, and Abigail thought that perhaps Mercy had understood her message.
Slowly, Mercy inclined her head.
“Once more, Lady Pinckney,” Mercy said. “I’ll trade my services, this time only—for friendship, which is priceless, an’ somethin’ which I’m not sure you know how to pay.” Mercy’s shadow shivered again, and she narrowed her eyes. “This will be the last time that you ask. Swear that to me, Lady Pinckney. An’ know when you make that oath that somethin’ terrible will befall you if you break it. Argue with me any further, even once, an’ you’ll have nothin’ at all.”
Lady Pinckney stared at Mercy. It was clear that she did wish to argue. But the piece of Longshadow which Mercy carried had leaned its weight upon the room around them, lengthening their silhouettes and deepening the silences. It was like catching a glimpse of cold, impartial doom.
In that moment, even Lady Pinckney knew to be afraid.
“I swear,” Lady Pinckney whispered, “I will not ask again.”
Mercy nodded curtly. “Then you’ll have again what no one else is ever offered at all,” she said. “You’ll see your daughter one more time—but only in spite of yourself, an’ only because Abigail asked it.”
Abigail looked away. She should have been relieved at the outcome—but all she felt was drained. She had often felt that way after dealing with the ton. It occurred to her now that this was because, like Lucy, they only knew how to take things that they wanted. It was deeply tiring to always be the one giving, even when giving seemed to be the only reasonable choice.
Dora had lis
tened silently to this exchange, with her hand on her teacup. But now, she rose from her chair and looked at Mercy. “I am feeling faint,” Dora announced. “I will need Abigail to help me retire. This is my home, and you are my guest; I trust that you will not harm anyone in my absence.”
Mercy knitted her brow at Dora. “I… will not,” she said slowly.
Dora smiled dimly, and then turned to Abigail. “Would you please help me back upstairs?” she asked.
Hugh swivelled his head sharply, glancing at Dora with worry. “Somethin’ wrong, Mum?” he asked, as he hopped from his chair.
Dora could not hear him, of course—but Abigail moved to offer out her arm, and Dora leaned lightly upon her, heading for the exit of the room. Hugh followed them out, hovering with concern.
Dora straightened again, once they had closed the door behind them.
“Mum?” Abigail asked softly. “What’s goin’ on?”
Dora managed an apologetic smile. “I do not normally entertain people like Lady Pinckney,” she said. “I would have asked her to leave almost instantly, except that I knew you had need of her.” She sighed. “I have been worried about saying the wrong thing and foiling whatever you are after. But I fear that my silence has reached its limit, and I am not sure how much longer I can let her speak down to you. I thought I would remove us both from the room, since your business seems complete.”
Abigail relaxed with relief; out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hugh do the same. “Thank you, Mum,” Abigail said. “For keepin’ quiet and for helpin’ me leave.”
Dora wound her arm around Abigail’s shoulders. “I think that perhaps now is an appropriate time to tell you how marvellous you are,” Dora said seriously.
Abigail knitted her brow. “Is it?” she asked. “An’ how’s that?”
“Everything always seems very straightforward to me,” Dora told her, “but you are so good at knowing when things are actually complicated. I have become passably good at staying silent… but you are good at coming up with things to say, once the silence is over. You are an excellent liar, Abigail. You always have been, ever since the day I met you.”
Abigail raised her eyebrows. “I can tell that’s supposed to be a compliment,” she said, “but I’m fairly sure most mums aren’t proud of their children for bein’ liars.”
Dora beamed gently at Abigail. “But I am proud,” she said. “You lied to save me from Lord Hollowvale—and now, you are lying in order to save more girls from dying.”
Hugh glanced between Dora and Abigail. His brows knitted together. “What were you lyin’ about just now?” he asked.
Abigail blinked. “I wasn’t aware I was lyin’ just now,” she admitted. She addressed both Hugh and Dora at the same time.
Dora tilted her head. “You said that you believed the best of Lady Pinckney—that she would feel regret if another girl died from her stubbornness. I thought that you were lying, just then. Lady Pinckney probably would not feel guilty for very long, if at all. She has already changed her own memories to suit herself once, it would seem.”
Abigail considered this seriously. It was true that Lady Pinckney had misremembered her conversation with Mercy in a self-serving manner—and now that Abigail thought consciously on the matter, she suspected that Dora was correct. Lady Pinckney would not feel guilty if her behaviour went awry; more likely, she would twist the facts in order to blame everyone else.
But twice now, Abigail had implied that Lady Pinckney did have good intentions, if only she would take a moment to recognise them. Both times, Abigail thought, she had been lying. No part of her truly believed that Lady Pinckney was capable of moving past her own self-serving nature. She was not capable of imagining such a thing.
“I’ve been flatterin’ her,” Abigail observed aloud. “Lady Pinckney wants to believe she’s a good person. She won’t listen even if anyone tells her different, so I may as well pretend that she’s good when I ask her to do things.”
Dora nodded reasonably. “You see?” she said. “I would never have thought of it like that. But I remember now—you pretended to believe that Lord Hollowvale was a good person too, all of those years ago. It is part of why he believed you when you lied to him and protected us.”
Hugh shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Abigail could tell that he didn’t much like the topic of conversation.
“There are plenty of faerie tales full of clever liars who do good things,” Dora told Abigail. “Faeries are wicked—Lady Hollowvale is always the first to say so—and Mr Jubilee once told me that trickery is almost as good a weapon against faeries as iron is. I think that people can be even more wicked than faeries, though. So I am glad that you are better at lying to all of them than I am, Abigail. And I am glad that you seem to know when to do it and when not to do it, for the most part.”
Abigail chewed on this slowly. “I lied to you an’ Dad about goin’ back to Hollowvale,” she observed. “Doesn’t that upset you?”
Dora thought on this. “It does not,” she admitted—and she sounded very surprised as she said it. “It does seem that your father was wrong to send you away, even if he meant for the best. And I am glad that you have been here to help him.” She squeezed Abigail’s shoulder. “I would not like for you to make a habit of lying to either of us. But I am determined that you should never feel the need to do so again.”
Abigail looked down at her feet. It was a strange thing to be admired for something so shameful. But Abigail knew that her mother was not nearly a good enough liar to fool her; Dora must have really believed in everything she’d said.
“I am proud because you are a good liar and a good person,” Dora added softly. “I must not forget to mention the latter part.”
Abigail smiled wryly. “I’ll trust your judgement on the matter, I guess,” she replied.
Dora glanced suddenly towards the stairs. “Oh,” she murmured. “I shall have to tell Elias that we are attending a ball this evening.”
Hugh coughed on a laugh for the first time since they’d come out into the hallway. “Oh, Dad will love that,” he chortled.
Abigail hid a small smile. “I’ll let you break the news to him,” she told her mother. “I’ll just… wait out here, until Mercy an’ Lady Pinckney are done.”
Dora gave her a knowing look. “I will let you hide down here, since you have endured enough today,” she said. “That is how you know that I love you.”
Abigail smirked, thinking of the handkerchief she’d hidden in her gown. “I know, Mum,” she said. “I love you too.”
Chapter 17
Mercy and Lady Pinckney did eventually emerge from the drawing room. Abigail thought that Mercy had stayed behind as she saw Lady Pinckney off at the front door—but when Abigail turned to head back up the stairs, Mercy was suddenly there again behind her, standing halfway within a little pool of shadows.
“You’re awful good at sneakin’ up on people,” Abigail admitted to Mercy. “You really do give me a fright sometimes.”
Mercy smiled wanly. “It’s just petty vengeance,” she said. “I hated every minute I had to spend with Lucy an’ Lady Pinckney.” She hunched her shoulders against the thought. “Anyway… at least it’s over an’ done with. An’ Lucy’s talkin’ to me again, so there’s that.”
Abigail nodded uncertainly. “I didn’t like puttin’ you on the spot,” she said. “But if tonight doesn’t go well, then we might still need Lucy an’ Lady Pinckney’s help.”
Mercy grimaced. “It still stings,” she muttered. “I just hate rewardin’ bad behaviour.”
Abigail sighed. “I know,” she said. “I do feel the same way. But at least now it won’t come up again. Either Lady Pinckney will keep her oath, or else…” She frowned. “What would happen if Lady Pinckney broke her oath, anyway?”
Mercy shrugged. “Longshadow would do somethin’ to her,” she said. “I don’t know what it’d do, exactly… but it sure wouldn’t be pretty. She’ll just have to deal with the consequences, in that
case. I warned her outright, as much as I was able to do.”
Abigail nodded grimly. “Lady Pinckney chose to swear that oath,” she said. “I won’t hold it against you if she breaks her word an’ somethin’ bad happens to her.”
Mercy relaxed a bit at that. “Well… let’s stop talkin’ about her, then,” she said. “Let’s get to your room so I can dress you up for a ball. I’m lookin’ forward to it.” Mercy offered out her arm, and Abigail took it, before they both started up the stairs. “I think you’d look good dressed all in midnight.”
Abigail glanced sideways at Mercy. “I’ve never seen a gown made of midnight,” she said, “but I guess it’ll get a better reaction than what I’m wearin’ now?”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “I don’t have a problem with what you’re wearin’ now,” she said, “but I think you look good in everything. Anyway, it’s more about how people will treat you. Most people think midnight is scary an’ mysterious an’ beautiful. So maybe everyone will stop talkin’ down to you, if you’re wearin’ it.”
Abigail smiled at that. “I appreciate the thought,” she said. “I’m not lookin’ forward to goin’ to a ball again. It never ended well before. But if we’re both wearin’ midnight, an’ I get the chance to dance with you just once, then I promise I’ll look forward to it just a little bit.”
Mercy looked away shyly. “I would like to dance with you again,” she said. “We had all that fun, didn’t we, on the Round Pond? But I guess we can’t play with the shadows this time. None of these nobs has got even an inch of humour or imagination.”
They came to Abigail’s room, soon enough, and Mercy closed the door behind them. She turned to consider Abigail thoughtfully, raking her eyes up and down her form in a way that made Abigail blush.
“You’ll have to take off what you’re wearin’,” Mercy said. A little impish smile crossed her features for some reason, and Abigail blushed harder. She fidgeted for a second—but eventually, she reached for the buttons on the back of her gown, craning her arm to loosen them.
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