Longshadow

by Olivia Atwater

  Mercy stepped behind her—and a moment later, her long fingers found the buttons on the back of Abigail’s gown.

  Abigail froze. Her face was burning hot now, and she knew that it would be painfully visible if Mercy bothered to look. She was, as always, acutely aware of those lovely fingers, now slipping loose the buttons on her gown one by one.

  “You haven’t got bandages on your hands today,” Abigail observed breathlessly. She stared at the floor, willing Mercy to stay focussed on her clothing and not on her face or her voice.

  “I’m almost good as new,” Mercy agreed. She flicked open another button, and Abigail shivered. “It’s good to feel things when I touch ‘em again. Though I guess we’ll both be wearin’ gloves tonight.”

  Abigail suppressed a dim sense of disappointment. Your hands are so pretty, though, she wanted to say. This was a strange thing to say, of course, and so she thought about keeping it to herself.

  But Mercy opened another button on Abigail’s gown—and for some reason, this gave her the courage to say it anyway.

  “Your hands are so pretty,” Abigail mumbled. “It’s just a shame to cover ‘em up.”

  Mercy paused. At first Abigail was terrified that she’d gone too far, and said something out loud which she couldn’t take back. But—very slowly—Mercy reached out to run one finger across Abigail’s bare back. “Your… everything… is pretty,” Mercy murmured. “Shame to cover it up.”

  Abigail’s nerves jangled at the statement. If a man had said those words, she would have been absolutely certain of his intentions. But there was still just enough doubt—just enough fear—to hold her back from assuming that Mercy had the same intentions.

  Abigail’s throat was dry. But she cast about for something to say anyway. Finally—a bit hoarsely—she said: “I was worried you might get bullied too… but that accent was perfect. If we put you in midnight, then I’m sure that everyone will think you’re a lady.”

  Mercy let out a soft hm. “Well… I’ve helped more’n just laundresses over to the Other Side,” she admitted. “I helped a noble lady right here in London, maybe half a year ago. She asked if I wanted anything, and I figured a good noble accent might come in handy someday.”

  Something about this bothered briefly at Abigail—but she was very distracted by Mercy’s fingers, which had now travelled all the way down to the buttons at the small of her back.

  “But you’d rather be a laundress?” Abigail mumbled.

  “I’d much rather be a laundress,” Mercy confirmed. “An’ don’t lie—you prefer me as a laundress too, don’t you?”

  Abigail smiled down at her toes. “I’ve grown a bit attached to your cap,” she admitted. “But I wouldn’t throw you over if you suddenly sounded like a lady or looked like a solicitor.”

  The words struck Mercy oddly, for some reason. She was quiet for a long moment, with her hand paused at the small of Abigail’s back.

  “What if…” Mercy struggled with an idea—but she trailed off worriedly, rather than finishing the question.

  Abigail turned to look at her quizzically. “What if?” she asked.

  It was Mercy’s turn to avert her gaze, though. She swallowed, unable to meet Abigail’s eyes. “What if the gamekeeper on the moon was breedin’ those stars like fishes? New stars would show up every night, wouldn’t they? D’you think anyone would even notice?”

  Abigail was certain that Mercy had been about to say something completely different. She reached out to take Mercy’s hand, threading their fingers together. It was particularly nice feeling Mercy’s skin against hers again, and she savoured the sensation.

  “You can tell me if you want,” Abigail said softly. “Or not. I won’t make you do it.”

  Mercy looked up at Abigail. The shadows in her eyes had utterly gone now, washed away by wistful twilight. “I want to tell you,” she whispered. “I… I will tell you. Eventually.”

  Abigail nodded—but she didn’t let go of Mercy’s hand. Rather, she tightened her grip reassuringly. “I’ll wait,” she said. “It’s all right.”

  Mercy tightened her hands briefly on Abigail’s—but then, she loosened her grip and stepped back, clearing her throat. “Lose the gown,” Mercy said authoritatively. “I’m makin’ you a better one. All those toffs are goin’ to go green with envy when they see you.”

  Abigail shot Mercy a half-smile—but she turned away and pulled the handkerchief free from its hiding place, before letting her gown slip obediently to the floor. “You’re soundin’ like Lucy,” Abigail said. “I don’t want everyone to envy me. I just want to get through tonight without anyone dyin’.”

  Mercy scoffed. “Lucy wants everyone to envy her because she’s greedy,” she said. “I want everyone to envy you out of vengeance, since they’ve all treated you so badly. You’ll never convince me to give up my vengeance, so don’t even try.”

  The shadows in the corners of the room darkened again as she spoke. Abigail flinched a bit, expecting to feel that cold, awful doom—but instead, there was only a sense of soft, pleasant calm. Slowly, the blackest parts of those shadows coiled together, wafting towards her on some invisible breeze. They caught against her skin like strands of spider’s silk, sticking where they touched.

  The gown that slowly formed around Abigail was so dark that it drew in the light around them. It wasn’t black in the way that Lady Pinckney’s mourning gown had been black—rather, the black of the gown was a complete absence of light and colour. Surely, there were details to the high waist and short sleeves… but none of those details were visible enough to make them out. There was instead a broad sense of sweeping skirts and a kind of dark majesty which sank into Abigail’s heart, whispering to her that she was far more beautiful and mysterious than she believed herself to be.

  The feeling dazed Abigail for a long moment—but as Mercy stepped around to inspect her work, Abigail remembered just in time to tuck her Other Mum’s handkerchief back into the gown.

  “My best work yet!” Mercy declared, as she looked over the gown. She trailed her fingers along the gown’s skirt with a deeply satisfied expression; the shadowy material rippled beneath her fingers, as though preening at her touch.

  Abigail smiled sheepishly. “I appreciate it,” she said. “I don’t know where I’d have found a gown up to Lady Pinckney’s standards, otherwise.”

  Mercy pursed her lips. “If Lady Pinckney isn’t satisfied with a gown made of midnight, then her an’ her sense of fashion are a fraud,” she said. “Other materials might come in an’ out of style in faerie, but midnight is always a classic.”

  Abigail considered this. “Where did you get midnight from, though?” she asked. “It’s late morning. I can’t imagine there’s much midnight to be found right now.”

  Mercy glanced up at Abigail, and a flicker of uncertainty crossed her features. She seemed to think very hard on her response—but finally, she said: “I always have midnight with me. It’s… the name I chose. I’m Mercy Midnight.”

  Abigail blinked. Mercy’s wary manner suggested that this was indeed her real name—and there was something about that name which lingered upon the air, dark and heavy and thrilling.

  A name was a terrible thing to offer, especially to a magician. Abigail couldn’t imagine, at first, just what had prompted Mercy to trust her with such dangerous and personal knowledge.

  But Mercy had wanted to tell Abigail something else earlier—something even more dire, it seemed. It occurred to Abigail now that there was a hint of guilt on Mercy’s face; and Abigail thought that perhaps this was Mercy’s way of assuring her that she still had her trust.

  “That’s a really lovely name,” Abigail said softly. “An’ you chose it yourself? I think it suits you.”

  Mercy had looked down to the floor, unable to meet Abigail’s eyes. A light blush crept into her pale cheeks. “It’s a sad thing, keepin’ my name all secret,” Mercy said quietly. “I really like it, an’ I like tellin’ it to people. If it wasn’t so dan
gerous, you know, I’d tell the whole world.”

  Abigail reached out to take Mercy’s hand again. “But you’ve told it to me,” she said. “I know I’m not the whole world… but I think your name is beautiful. An’ I’ll try an’ treasure it enough to make up for everyone else who doesn’t know it.”

  Mercy tightened her hand on Abigail’s. “That matters,” she said. “I hope you know how much it matters to me.”

  Abigail nodded slowly. “I’m Abigail Wilder,” she murmured. “There’s some middle names in there too, so you know. But that last part means the world to me. I chose to be a Wilder, an’ I got chosen back. Names matter. It’s why they’re so powerful, I figure.”

  Mercy smiled in a misty sort of way. She looked down at Abigail’s hand again, and cleared her throat. “Well,” she said. “Look at me, declarin’ victory before we’re even done. You still need gloves an’ slippers—an’ I want to do up your hair, as well.”

  There was real enthusiasm in Mercy’s voice—as though she were talking about dressing up her favourite doll. It warmed Abigail’s heart so much that she forgot all of her worst misgivings about going to a ball once again.

  “By all means,” Abigail said, “turn me into a midnight princess.”

  Mercy’s vengeance was a terribly pleasant thing, at least where Abigail was concerned. She spent quite some time playing with the shadows of the gown, shortening and lengthening them, spinning gloves and slippers from thin air. Mercy even added bits of midnight to Abigail’s ragged blonde hair, smoothing out its harsh ends. Something about all of that midnight seemed to soften all of the imperfections of which Abigail was always so acutely aware—as though the darkness had washed away the up-close details and left behind only the idea of Abigail, as she might appear to someone in the middle of the night.

  Eventually, however, Abigail insisted that Mercy should make herself a gown as well. Mercy agreed—with great reluctance—but the gown that she fashioned for herself was clearly an afterthought compared to the masterpiece which she had laboured over for Abigail.

  It didn’t really matter. Mercy had been made to wear midnight. Abigail knew it deep down in her soul, with only the barest glance. The dark, beautiful sense of command which Mercy carried with her was only further revealed by the shadows that surrounded her. Midnight loved Mercy; it was clear in the way that it clung to her form, shifting with her steps.

  More than ever, Abigail wanted to beg Mercy for… something. It was a strange feeling—as though Abigail needed Mercy’s presence, even though she was already there.

  “You’ll really have to dance with me tonight,” Abigail breathed helplessly. “You won’t forget?”

  Mercy smiled slyly over at Abigail… and Abigail decided, right then and there, that Mercy was the midnight princess, between the two of them.

  “Why would I forget?” Mercy asked. “It’s top of my list.”

  Abigail realised then the nature of the unearthly feeling she’d kept having around Mercy. She wanted Mercy’s attention—but more importantly, she wanted to belong to Mercy, to have the privilege of her possessiveness.

  It would have been a dangerous feeling, all on its own. But Abigail had discovered another stubborn feeling, right next to the first one: she wanted Mercy to belong to her, as well. A mutual belonging, she thought, would do very nicely.

  Chapter 18

  Elias Wilder was dressed for a ball—and he was not very happy about it.

  “Perhaps we could simply pass a ban upon balls in general,” Elias muttered, as their carriage approached Lord Breckart’s town house. He tugged uncomfortably at his silver cravat. “No one can be poisoned at a ball if there are no balls being thrown.”

  Dora smiled at him indulgently, reaching up to fix his cravat once more. She was wearing a green silk gown tonight, in a very outdated style—but the colour matched one of her eyes, and something about her dress made her seem a bit warmer and more approachable than usual. “That is true, of course,” Dora said to Elias. “But one expects that someone would then be poisoned elsewhere. For once, you must admit, we are fortunate to have a ball. It means that everyone of concern is in one place, and feeling social.”

  Abigail snorted. “Like any of these people would give up their parties, even if you asked,” she said. “Anyway—we’ll want to find out who’s been dabblin’ in magic lately. I’ll handle the marriage mart crowd, since they’re right around my age. That leaves the older people for you an’ Mum.”

  Hugh had sat himself in Mercy’s lap, right next to Abigail, since the carriage was so small. “Me an’ Mercy an’ Lucy will listen in on conversations,” he said. “I wanted to go watch the cook downstairs anyway, an’ the servants always talk while they’re workin’.”

  “Ah!” Dora said suddenly, digging into her own reticule. “I made certain to bring my pocket mirror, Hugh. I will check it religiously, in case you require anything.” She soon produced the small mirror, displaying it helpfully towards Abigail.

  “Hugh’s over there, Mum,” Abigail said, with a helpful jerk of her chin at Mercy.

  Dora now smiled dimly in Mercy’s direction. “Of course,” she said, as though the mistake had been entirely hers. “My apologies, Hugh. I am so scatterbrained sometimes.”

  Hugh smiled back, though Dora couldn’t see it. “Thanks for tryin’, Mum,” he said softly. Perhaps it was Abigail’s imagination, but she thought she saw Mercy squeeze Hugh’s hand silently.

  The carriage rolled to a stop outside of the townhouse, and their family descended the steps. Lord Breckart’s townhouse was a somewhat unfortunate affair; the tall building had probably once been white, but London’s atmosphere had long since stained it a sooty grey. As a footman directed them up the stairs to the ballroom, Abigail noted that the inside of the townhouse matched its outside in many ways; though it had been recently cleaned, there were signs of sullen, ongoing neglect. Fairly or not, Abigail generally assumed that neglected homes were a sign of unhappy servants—happy servants could make even a shabby home feel somewhat welcoming—and her opinion of Lord Breckart adjusted itself accordingly.

  Any more recent efforts had clearly been directed towards the ballroom, which was lit with candles in every corner. Idle music trickled over the air, though at least one flute sounded as though it was being played by someone’s inept cousin. The press of people already inside the ballroom looked positively stifling, and—

  —and Abigail realised that she was searching for things with which to take issue. With each step closer to the ballroom, her body had coiled with growing dread, and her hands had clutched more tightly at the reticule of magician’s tools which she held to her chest.

  I don’t want to be here, Abigail thought dizzily. But I am here. I chose to attend this ball. It’s best I get on with it.

  Mercy squeezed at Abigail’s arm—and for a moment, at least, Abigail was pulled from her dread. She glanced over and saw that sly, knowing smile on Mercy’s lips. The twilight in her eyes was even more vivid, in the darkness of the stairwell; her black hair was pooled atop her head in a way that lengthened the pale column of her neck. The midnight that she wore shifted in and out of the flickering shadows that surrounded them.

  “You’ve faced down worse’n this,” Mercy murmured to Abigail. “You’re a magician, an’ a faerie friend. What’s a lot of empty-headed toffs goin’ to do to you?”

  Abigail smiled wryly at that. “I know that I shouldn’t be afraid,” she said softly. “But I am. I don’t belong here. Stickin’ yourself where you don’t belong is always painful.”

  Abigail had only meant for Mercy to hear this—but Elias paused just in front of them and turned his head with a dark expression. “I knew you didn’t really enjoy your Season,” he accused Abigail. “I asked whether I ought to turn anyone into a toad, and you said no.”

  Abigail winced. “An’ that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” she said, with a hint of apology. Privately, she thought it was probably for the best that Elias had used up
so much of his magic on the bans against Lord Longshadow before coming to this specific party. Their investigation would certainly be derailed if a tactless lady started croaking in the middle of the ball.

  Mercy shook her head in bemusement. “I gave you my midnight this time,” she said. “No one ought to dare be awful to you.” She released Abigail’s arm, however, and glanced up at the front of the line into the ballroom, where a footman was calling out introductions. “It’ll be fine—you’ll see. I’ll meet you inside.”

  Abigail nodded tightly. In the next moment, Mercy had fully disappeared into the shadows.

  Soon enough, Abigail’s family reached the footman in the doorway. The poor man’s expression turned instantly wary as he saw them—there was no mistaking their otherworldly nature, given Elias’ uncanny bearing, Dora’s mismatched eyes, and Abigail’s resplendent dress made of midnight. The footman took their invitation with a hint of trepidation, and spoke with Elias in quiet tones. He turned then, and announced to the ballroom:

  “Lord Elias Wilder, Lady Theodora Wilder, and their daughter, Miss Abigail Wilder.”

  At that, Abigail had to hide a smile. Technically speaking, society saw her as the Lord Sorcier’s ward, and not as his daughter. But Elias had clearly taken her worries to heart and insisted that she be introduced as such regardless. Few people would be courageous enough to insult the Lord Sorcier’s daughter while he was present in the room to register his displeasure.

  As they headed into the ball, however, Abigail could not help but notice the way in which people’s eyes slipped uneasily past her mother and father to settle upon her. At first, the muted whispers set a sick churning in her stomach… but guests inclined their heads to Abigail as she passed, and she slowly became aware that the stares, this time, possessed a kind of mingled awe and fear.

  “There is danger, darling,” Lady Hollowvale’s voice whispered in her ear.

  Abigail startled, glancing around the room. She brought her hand up to her chest, where the handkerchief was hidden. But her Other Mum’s voice faded away again, replaced by the furor of the ballroom. It was hard to tell just what had caused the whisper.