Longshadow

by Olivia Atwater

  Mr Ruell blinked at the grim observation. “Oh,” he said. “How, er. How terrible.”

  Abigail had already started to suspect that Mr Red was not at all aware of his place at the middle of this murderous problem. But she was now utterly convinced that he was exactly as he seemed: a handsome but oblivious nobleman, with little to no understanding of either magic or faeries.

  “I heard that you danced with Miss Lucy Kendall the evening that she passed away,” Abigail said. “I was wondering if you also danced with Miss Edwards and Miss Hancock relatively recently.” The subject of conversation was not at all appropriate, and Abigail knew that if she had been angling for marriage, it would surely have spoiled her chances with the man in front of her.

  Mr Ruell looked suddenly torn. The midnight gown that Abigail was wearing had clearly piqued his interest—but her insistence on this macabre topic of conversation was probably making him regret that interest, the longer that they spoke. “I… I think that I must have done, yes,” he said uncomfortably. “I have done an awful lot of dancing, Miss Wilder.”

  “There is danger, darling—”

  This time, the last bit of Lady Hollowvale’s whisper was drowned out by someone’s scream.

  Abigail whirled—but it was difficult to pick out the source of the scream, among the great press of guests. Worse, of course, was the fact that all of those people had begun to panic. The dance floor soon erupted into chaos as couples blindly backpedalled.

  Mr Ruell, to his credit, took Abigail about the waist and tugged her sharply back, just before a wave of stampeding guests shoved past them. Delicate jewellery snapped, and decorative feathers fell loose, mingling with discarded shawls on the floor.

  One of those discarded shawls—a light pink bit of fabric—marched its way across the dance floor with determination, as though chasing the mob of people.

  “Oh no,” Abigail groaned.

  “What on earth is going on?” Mr Ruell gasped.

  Slowly, the pink shawl fell away to reveal a tiny straw man with a soldier-like stride.

  Midnight rippled at the corner of Abigail’s eye. Mr Hayes turned towards it, narrowing the eyes which he did not possess. Abigail knew, somehow, that if she’d had a swallow of her eyebright tea, she would have seen Mercy’s form, fleeing through the shadows.

  Why is Mr Hayes going after Mercy? Abigail wondered. He’s only supposed to frighten birds.

  Mr Hayes was not at all deterred by Mercy’s darkness. He marched after her with unerring precision, scattering terrified aristocrats in his wake.

  “Black magic!” someone gasped.

  “Where is the Lord Sorcier?” a man demanded.

  Abigail pried herself free of Mr Ruell’s grip, forcing her way through the crowd. “Mr Hayes!” she hissed. “Stand down, Mr Hayes!”

  But the crowd was far too loud, and Abigail knew that the little straw man had not heard her. He continued his stubborn chase, hunting down his invisible opponent.

  Abigail decided that enough was quite enough. She elbowed her way past a shrieking lady, hiking up her midnight skirts to an indecent length. Then, all at once, she launched herself forward to tackle the little straw doll.

  “Stand down, Mr Hayes!” Abigail snarled.

  Mr Hayes turned his head to look up at her, as though to plead his case. But a moment later, he heaved a great straw sigh, and went limp in her hands.

  Abigail shoved back up to her feet, clinging to the doll with a dark expression. Several of the guests had stopped to stare at her openly.

  “It’s a doll,” she said. “A doll. It’s no danger to any of you.”

  Abigail glanced around for her reticule… and found it sitting open on a chair. She stalked over towards it, and—with a furious breath—shoved Mr Hayes back inside, where he had been before.

  Abigail quickly searched through her bag, going through her magician’s tools. But even after several counts, nothing came up missing.

  “Did you break out of there all on your own?” Abigail muttered at Mr Hayes.

  The little straw doll, of course, did not respond.

  Abigail sighed heavily. We’ll talk about you abandoning my bag later, Miss Gillingham, she thought. For now, she pulled out her little silver flask and took another swallow of eyebright tea.

  A bright haze enveloped the ballroom once again. It took Abigail some searching—but she soon picked out a small, blurry figure, shivering upon the balcony.

  Abigail’s shock had now given way to resigned understanding. There could be only one reason, after all, for Mr Hayes to chase after Mercy.

  Abigail tucked the flask back into her reticule and shoved the bag beneath her arm. She headed towards the balcony with such obvious purpose that even the guests who were clearly angling her way in search of gossip material stepped out of her path.

  Mercy had huddled herself within the shadows of the evening; scraps of her midnight gown still clung to her, but the material had started unravelling into a wispy haze. Abigail’s gown, too, had started coming undone… but this was not at all her primary concern.

  Abigail strode purposefully onto the balcony, and Mercy glanced up at her sharply. Her eyes had gone utterly black again—and this time, Abigail could not help but notice how much they looked like a raven’s eyes.

  “I don’t understand,” Mercy said, in a trembling voice. “Why am I so frightened of a doll?”

  Abigail closed her arms around herself, fighting back the evening chill. Her gown was ragged now, though it still clung to solidity. “Because scarecrows are meant to frighten birds,” Abigail said quietly. “And you are a bird, in at least one sense. You’re actually a sluagh, Mercy… aren’t you?”

  Mercy pressed her lips together, and Abigail knew that it was true.

  “You never told me that you were a ward of faerie,” Abigail said. “I only assumed that you were… and you let me believe it.”

  Mercy looked away, and her gown melted further into the night. Flashes of her too-pale skin appeared, stark against the evening. “When we first met,” Mercy said miserably, “I only knew that you were a magician. I turned into the most harmless person I could think of, so that you might leave me be an’ let me go. But you kept followin’ after me. An’ after a while, I… I did want to tell you. But I was so frightened you’d be angry, an’ maybe you’d stop lettin’ me help.”

  Abigail sighed heavily. “I’m not angry,” she said. “You lied for a good reason. An’ after all the lies I’ve told lately, I can hardly blame someone else for tellin’ one or two.”

  Mercy closed her black, bird-like eyes. There was something tight and pained about her expression. “There’s so much more to it,” she said, “but I’m afraid I don’t have the time to explain.”

  Midnight wavered around them again, and Abigail realised that there was something very wrong with Mercy.

  “I’ve made such a terrible mistake,” Mercy whispered. “I’m sorry, Abigail. For everything.”

  All it took was a blink. Somehow, by the time Abigail opened her eyes again, Mercy was simply… gone. All of her midnight had gone with her; Abigail was now standing alone on the balcony in only her shift.

  “Blast it!” Abigail hissed. She fumbled for the silver flask in her reticule and took another swallow of eyebright tea—but Mercy was not hiding behind her magic. The balcony was truly empty.

  “Abby!” Hugh gasped. Abigail turned, and saw that he had sprinted through the wall, onto the balcony. The silk kerchief over his eye had slid somewhat askew, and he fixed it hurriedly as he continued babbling. “What’re you doin’ in your underthings? Wait, it doesn’t matter! Abby, I heard one of the maids say somethin’ about Miss Fernside’s mum. She passed away half a year ago in her bedroom, Abby, with the western window open!”

  Abigail looked at Hugh sharply. “Miss Fernside must have only just come out of mourning, then,” she said. “That explains why she’s only been at the latest charity teas. And…” A horrible thought occurred to Abigail. “Th
e girls have only been dyin’ for the last few weeks. Ever since Miss Fernside started attendin’ balls again.”

  Hugh nodded emphatically. “What do you want to wager Lucy was just as horrible to Miss Fernside as she was to you?” he asked. “An’ get this: the maids aren’t allowed to clean Miss Fernside’s bedroom. She keeps it locked up tight when she isn’t in there.”

  Abigail hissed in frustration. “Miss Fernside’s father fancies himself a magician!” she said. “She’s probably heard him go on an’ on about it. An’ she was far too interested in faerie tales, wasn’t she? Why didn’t I suspect her?”

  Abigail knew even as she said the words, however, why she hadn’t suspected Miss Fernside. In truth, Abigail hadn’t wanted to suspect Miss Fernside; the other woman had hated all of the same people that Abigail hated, and so Abigail had imagined them to be allies.

  “Stupid,” Abigail muttered. “The enemy of my enemy isn’t always my friend. Sometimes they’re just awful in a different way.” She reached down to hike her up skirts—and remembered belatedly that she had no skirts. Abigail’s midnight gown had entirely dissipated, and left her in only her shift.

  Hugh looked Abigail up and down. “You can’t go back in like that,” he said. “They’ll throw you right out.”

  Abigail clenched her jaw. “Do you think you could possibly get Mum’s attention an’ get her out here, Hugh?” she asked.

  Hugh nodded seriously. “Mum’s still got her pocket mirror out,” he said. “I’ll do what I can. Just… don’t catch a cold or anything.”

  He whirled around then, and vanished back through the wall.

  Abigail waited for several minutes, painfully aware of each passing moment. She had nearly resolved herself to march back into the ball regardless, when the door to the balcony opened and Dora slipped outside, with Hugh close upon her heels.

  “Oh,” Dora said, blinking. “Did you decide to launder your gown, Abigail?”

  Abigail shivered violently. “I—no, Mum, I did not,” she said. “I’m not sure how you’d launder midnight, anyhow. But that’s neither here nor there, is it? Somethin’s really wrong with Mercy, an’ I’m almost positive Miss Fernside is our black magician. Where’s Dad?”

  Dora considered Abigail calmly. Then—just as calmly—she turned around to gesture at her gown’s buttons. “I cannot reach these on my own,” she said. “Would you mind?”

  Hugh coughed and turned away, blushing.

  Abigail knitted her brow—but she caught the implication a moment later, and quickly started undoing the buttons along the back of her mother’s green silk gown.

  “Lord Breckart has an interest in magic,” Dora continued, as though they were having a perfectly normal conversation. “Elias has slipped away to investigate his library while I cover for him. He is hoping to find one of the stolen books there, in order to confirm Lord Breckart’s involvement in these deaths. But if what you say is true, then he might find those books in the library either way. Miss Fernside likely has access to it, after all.”

  Dora tugged the gown from her arms and stepped free of it. Now in her own underthings, she turned to offer the gown to Abigail. “It is hardly a gown made of midnight,” Dora said apologetically, “and I do not know how well it will fit you. But it should be presentable enough for you to walk through the ball and reach your father.”

  Abigail stepped into the gown and spun around to let her mother do up the buttons for her. “I’m hardly goin’ to complain about you givin’ me the gown off your back, Mum,” she said. “What’re you goin’ to do out here in your underthings, anyway?”

  Dora shrugged. “I suppose that I will climb down from the balcony and retrieve my pelisse from the carriage,” she said. “There is a very sturdy tree here, and it does not look like a difficult descent.”

  Abigail shook her head. Thank goodness I don’t have a normal mum, she thought to herself. “Thanks, Mum,” she said. “Good luck with the tree.”

  Dora smiled dimly. “Good luck with the black magician,” she said.

  “Are you decent?” Hugh demanded, with his back still turned to them both.

  “I’m decent, Hugh,” Abigail said wryly. “Mum’s not—but that’s never stopped her before.” She stepped past Hugh for the door back into the ballroom, slipping back inside.

  Heads turned here and there as Abigail entered, and she quickly became conscious of the overly large gown that she wore. In particular, its hem was a few inches longer than she was used to, and it dragged uncomfortably upon the floor as she walked. The obvious strangeness made people murmur around her—but Abigail had far more important things to worry about than her already-dubious reputation.

  “D’you know where the library is, Hugh?” Abigail asked. She rubbed at her arms uncomfortably; the warmth of the crowd had dashed the cold that lingered from outside, but her body still wouldn’t stop shivering. And now, on top of that, her stomach was feeling slightly queasy.

  “I’ve only been down to the servants’ area,” Hugh said. “Lucy says it’s probably on the second floor, though, just underneath us.”

  “Oh?” Abigail muttered beneath her breath. “Lucy is with us too, is she?”

  “She’s, er. Very upset with Miss Fernside right now,” Hugh said. Though he was still an eight-year-old boy, he said this with a surprisingly diplomatic tone.

  “And where is Miss Fernside?” Abigail asked grimly. She cast her gaze around the room—but if Miss Fernside was indeed present, then she had faded most effectively into the crowd.

  I need to find Dad, Abigail decided. I’ll deal with Miss Fernside once I’ve got his help.

  Abigail strode across the ballroom as swiftly as she could, pushing through guests in order to make her way for the stairs. She halfway expected someone to try and stop her—but the voice which called out her name surprised her enough that she turned her head, rather than barrelling onwards.

  “Miss Wilder!” Mr Ruell called breathlessly. “Please wait!”

  Abigail caught the flash of Mr Ruell’s deep red cravat just before he caught up to her. He was waving something in his hand—a familiar bit of tattered grey fabric.

  Abigail widened her eyes as she recognised her Other Mum’s handkerchief.

  “Miss Wilder,” Mr Ruell gasped again, as he paused for breath just in front of her. “You dropped this earlier, when you were, er… during that business with the… doll?”

  Abigail forced a nervous smile. “Thank you very much, Mr Ruell,” she said. “I hadn’t even noticed.”

  Abigail reached out to take the handkerchief from him. She found it oddly difficult to do so, for her fingers had started shaking.

  As Abigail took the handkerchief, her Other Mum’s voice whispered again in her ear—but her urgent murmur had changed.

  “Alas, darling,” Lady Hollowvale lamented, “alas. It is too late for warnings.”

  Chapter 20

  Abigail stared at Mr Ruell. There was no guile in his eyes; in fact, he looked so sheepish and uncomfortable that Abigail had to assume that he knew where she had been keeping the handkerchief in the first place.

  “Alas,” Lady Hollowvale sighed again. “Alas.”

  Abigail nodded curtly at Mr Ruell. “Thank you for returning my handkerchief to me, Mr Ruell,” she said. “I’m afraid that I’m not feeling very well. I really must go back to my carriage.”

  Abigail turned back towards the stairs once more, cutting off any possible reply. As she did, she realised that she was not entirely lying: she did not feel very well at all. Her legs had started to shake. Her heart raced uncomfortably in her chest, and her mouth was strangely dry. A terrible headache had come upon her, all at once.

  Abigail stumbled onto the stairs, stepping out of sight of the ballroom. I’ve been poisoned, she thought, with sudden horror. But how? I didn’t drink anything—

  Oh, but she had. Abigail had taken several swallows of her eyebright tea tonight. She had taken at least two, in fact, since discovering her reticule lyi
ng open on a chair, entirely unattended.

  “Abby?” Hugh asked warily. “You don’t look well.”

  “I think Miss Fernside got to my reticule,” Abigail rasped. “My eyebright tea’s been poisoned.”

  Hugh straightened with alarm. “How much did you drink?” he asked urgently. “It can’t be enough to kill you, can it?”

  The shaking in Abigail’s hands had intensified. She stuffed the ragged handkerchief back down the front of her borrowed gown, trying to ignore her Other Mum’s continued lamentations. “I don’t know, Hugh,” Abigail said. “I wish I did. Either way, I’ve got to find Dad. No one at the ball is goin’ to be able to help me, that’s for sure.”

  Abigail considered the stairs bleakly. Had she been in normal health, it would have been a simple matter to descend one floor and search out the library. But her entire body now felt sick and unsteady, and her heart was somehow racing even faster by the second.

  She stumbled down the steps, gritting her teeth against her own growing weakness. I danced with Mr Red, Abigail thought. That was my real crime, wasn’t it? Miss Fernside might well be trying to bring someone back to life, but she’s sacrificing people that she doesn’t care for in order to carry out her plan.

  Abigail had nearly made it to the second floor entrance when her foot slipped out from beneath her. She tumbled down the last few stairs, and landed with a painful wince. It briefly occurred to Abigail that she would have terrible bruises later, before she remembered that this was the least of her worries.

  Abigail struggled back to her feet, breathing hard. Her vision had started to slant, as though the entire world had slipped sideways. Thankfully, the door to the second floor was unlocked, and it soon gave way before her, leading her into an empty, darkened drawing room.

  “I just have to find Dad,” Abigail mumbled. “He’ll have some idea what to do.”

  Hugh hovered around her, looking more and more worried by the second. “Where’s Mercy?” he asked. “Why isn’t she here helpin’ you?”