Ghostlight (The Reflected City Book 1)

by Rabia Gale

  The feeling spread like honey, something between a laugh and a tickle. It covered her in a strong gladness. Arabella peered into the niche, wondering which saint a man like Trey claimed as patron, what form his devotions took.

  The niche was sparse, containing only a leather-bound book of Scriptures, a medallion with a religious symbol, and a gold locket.

  Arabella examined the symbol, a long-handled knife crossed with a hook. It belonged to no saint she was familiar with, though that didn’t mean much. Dismissing the medallion, she leaned over the locket with greater interest.

  The locket was a pretty one, oval with pearl-set flowers and a delicate chain. It was decidedly feminine, and of the type that held a miniature and possibly a lock of hair. Arabella drew back, flushed with embarrassment. Trey was not the sentimental sort, but that keepsake must mean a great deal to him. It was all wrong to have intruded upon his privacy like this.

  Arabella left the room by simply sinking through the floor. She drifted down from the ceiling of the sitting room, her mouth dry and woody. She was sure her hair was covered in cobwebs and the accumulated dust of decades.

  With a shake, Arabella whisked herself into the kitchen, which seemed the safest place to lurk in. There, she discovered a stash of lurid gothic novels behind a jar of flour, presumably hidden there by Nat, who she was evincing a lively interest in. She swiped at the books with her hand, hardening her substance enough that one tumbled onto the wooden table.

  Fortunately, it was the first volume of The Castle of Ormolo. Arabella pawed it for some time, finally managing to get it open and oriented the right way. She leaned over the fine gilt-edged pages, blowing on them to make them turn. It wasn’t the best solution, as she turned several at a time more often than not. She had to resign herself to not reading pages ten and eleven, but she was soon absorbed in the trials of the beautiful Belinda Beaufort. The heroine’s troubles kept her occupied until the handle of the back door rattled.

  Arabella jumped, looking around guiltily, as if to ascertain that no one had caught her reading about Belinda meeting Count Ormolo at the top of a lonely tower in nothing but a night dress. She shoved the volume back behind the jar as the door eased open.

  A child’s face, sharp with suspicion, peered around the edge. Wary eyes fell upon Arabella, standing by the table, and widened in recognition.

  “Oh,” said Arabella, startled but pleased. “You’re the boy from yesterday. Jem, wasn’t it?”

  All of Jem appeared around the door, laden basket in arms. He carried it to the table and dropped it with a grunt.

  “Did Trey—um, Lord St. Ash send you?” Arabella asked as Jem shut the door.

  The boy held up his right thumb, with a flickering blue rune wrapped around it. “Aye, if that’s the gent’s name. Everyone else at the spook ’ouse just calls ’im Shield.” Jem surveyed Arabella critically. “Ye’ve faded,” he announced.

  “I suppose I have,” said Arabella calmly, examining the child with equal interest. Scrubbed and cleaned, Jem turned out to have straw-colored hair that flopped down over bright blue eyes. The bones of his face were rather fine, and a sudden awareness flashed through Arabella.

  “They’re treating you well at the Phantasm Bureau?” she queried. The child wore a too-big rough coat, but it was clean and warm. She noted with approval his shoes and the red mittens peeking out from the coat pockets.

  Jem shrugged a shoulder. “Me belly’s full and me body’s warm. Can’t ask for more.”

  “You don’t have to stay there forever,” said Arabella. “Have you thought about school?”

  “Book learnin’.” Jem made a face and flapped a dismissive hand.

  “Is good for you,” Arabella completed. “If you wanted to, I’m sure Tr—they would let you. I know a charity school you could go to.”

  “Don’t need yer ’elp, miss,” said Jem gruffly, unpacking the basket and laying out meat pies, apples, butter, and eggs.

  “Not at the moment,” Arabella agreed. “But you can’t stay in that disguise forever, you know.”

  Jem shot Arabella a hard glare. Arabella matched it with a direct one of her own.

  Jem heaved a sigh. “What gave it away?” she said, resigned. “Was it wimmin’s wit? Me ma could see right through a body, she could.”

  Arabella hid a smile. “I think it was because you reminded me of myself.”

  Jem looked disbelieving. “I s’ppose ye’ll tell the coves at the spook ’ouse, eh?”

  Arabella shook her head. “No. I hope you will yourself someday. I won’t pry into why you’re dressed up as a boy, but I want you to know I’m ready to help you—if you should need it someday.”

  “Like when I get a bosom and such,” said the forthright Jem.

  “Among other things.”

  “Huh. Ye really mean it.” Arabella tried to radiate sympathy as Jem eyed her. “I thought ye were just a mawkish sort.”

  “I’ve been cold and hungry and scared before,” said Arabella, low-voiced. We’re more alike than you know.

  “Well, I’ll think ‘bout it,” said Jem magnanimously. “Though why ye’re worrit about me is beyond me ken. Seems like ye got yer own troubles.”

  Arabella’s spirits sank a little at this brutal assessment. “Lord St. Ash has the situation well in hand,” she said, as much to reassure herself as Jem.

  “No, he ain’t,” continued the relentless realist. “I ’eard him tell the cove who used to be head o’ the spook ’ouse that the cove who’s head now told him to exorcise you Sat’rday mornin’. Was right worrit about it, he was.”

  Arabella untangled this confidence. “August Winter wants to banish me to the Shadow Lands?”

  “Aye,” confirmed Jem. “Only he don’t know Mister Shield’s got you locked up here, jest that yer people have yer body. If he did—” Jem made a macabre, throat-cutting gesture.

  A nervous hollow feeling gnawed at Arabella. She had till tomorrow morning? And Trey was the one who’d have to exorcise her?

  He wouldn’t—would he?

  “Huh,” said Jem again. “Yer as white as a sheet. Didn’t think bogeys could get that pale. Mebbe I shouldn’t have told ye that, but I figure a girl’s gotta know.” Her young-old eyes challenged Arabella. “Whatcha gonna do, miss?”

  Going to do? Arabella could think of several grisly methods of prolonging her own existence in Vaeland. No doubt Trey’s books upstairs could give her many more. A place like Lumen had to have its share of necromancers and witches alike. She could walk out right now and take matters into her own hands.

  But how far was she willing to go?

  And how much faith was she going to put in Trevelyan Shield?

  “Going to do?” Arabella said aloud brightly. She smiled at Jem. “Do you know how to bake a cake?”

  Jem had been gone for hours by the time Arabella heard the snick of a key turning in a lock, the rasp of the door, and Trey’s firm step in the hallway. She sat with her elbows on the table, her chin propped up in her hands. The pose was harder than it looked—with her lack of substance, it was too easy to sink into a bench.

  The fire that Jem had built in the oven had died to a few glowing embers.

  Trey stood in the kitchen doorway, still in his top coat and hat, and stared at the row of cakes in front of Arabella. “You’ve been busy.”

  “I gave Jem half,” said Arabella, “but you may have the rest.”

  Trey approached the table, stripping off his gloves. He lifted one of the golden-brown cakes. “Did Jem make these?” Wariness tinged his tone.

  “We both did,” said Arabella. She spread out her translucent hands in front of her. “These will interact with the corporeal world, but it’s hard.”

  “From ghost to pokey in one day? Impressive.” Trey took a bite of cake. His expression changed. “This is good!”

  “Of course it is,” said Arabella tartly. “I supervised, after all. It would taste even better if you kept honey in the house.”

  Trey
brushed off the criticism. “Stocking the larder is Nat’s job. Hmm, I see Jem brought those meat pies, though one is missing.”

  “Jem’s payment for running your errands.” Arabella gave a benevolent smile. “I said he could take one.”

  “Please, do not scruple to make yourself at ease in my home,” said Trey dryly.

  “Thank you, but I’d rather not.” Arabella tilted her head and regarded him gravely. “Did you find Lord Atwater?”

  “Led me on a merry chase all day.” Trey took another cake. “Chin up, girl. I’m going to collar him at the assembly tonight. I confirmed with his clerk he’ll be there. He won’t directly refuse to have a word with me.”

  “That’s all very well, but what if he doesn’t have any intelligence? It’s a slim hope to begin with, and—” Arabella bit down the words your supervisor is going to make you exorcise me tomorrow morning. She finished softly with, “I don’t have much time left.”

  “That’s why pursuing Atwater isn’t my only option. I asked Halford to trace your ring, and I’ve got a couple of my own spells searching at the same time.”

  He noted Arabella’s frown and explained, “Halford was the previous supervisor of the Bureau. I had to bring him into it. Winter had me looking for phantasms along the procession route all afternoon.”

  “Oh.” Arabella found that she was rubbing her hands together nervously. “Trey…” What will you do if it’s too late to return me to my body? Would you really banish me? Do I want you to be the one to do it? Or would I rather someone else did?

  His look was narrow-eyed, sharp. “What is it?”

  She couldn’t ask after all. Arabella hunched her shoulders and confessed, “I, um, went into your library. I saw… the book.”

  Trey didn’t ask which book. “And?” He had an odd, questioning expression on his face.

  “It was horrible.” Arabella shuddered at the memory. “It seemed to be leaking evil.”

  “Fascinating.” Trey looked at her as if she were an interesting specimen. “Most people feel nothing more than a vague sense of discomfort, if that.”

  “I don’t see how anyone can bear to be in the same room as that book,” Arabella burst out.

  “Meaning you’re wondering what sort of morals I have, to keep it around.” Trey gave a short laugh, devoid of mirth. He pushed his hands in his pockets. “I take no pleasure in it, I assure you. It’s there as a reminder.”

  Of what? she wondered. His expression, shuttered and frowning, didn’t invite further probing. Arabella squared her shoulders. “I think I should be at the Spring Assembly tonight. If I saw Lord Atwater, I might remember something.”

  His brow cleared. “I planned to bring you anyway. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Who?” asked Arabella, just as a bell rang.

  Trey turned away. “That’d be my cousin’s valet. Whit sends him over to make me presentable for every important social occasion, so I don’t disgrace the family.”

  “Whit?” Arabella’s brow furrowed. Realization and awe dawned over her. “You mean to say Beau Whitfield is your cousin?”

  “Deplorable, isn’t it?” said Trey cheerfully. “Hardly a connection to boast about.”

  “I’d say it was Mr. Whitfield who has more cause for bemoaning his relations,” Arabella shot back.

  Grinning, Trey raised a hand in acknowledgment of the hit. “Best get in the cellar, Bella. Briggs is as mundane as they come, but I’d rather not take any chances.”

  “Why, Lord St. Ash. To think you care so much.” Arabella fluttered her eyelashes at him. Before he could respond, she let herself fall through the floor and into the cellar.

  Chapter Eight

  The horse snorted and pawed the ground as Trey put his foot on the carriage step. The driver called out to the creature, “Wot’s gotten into you, beastie? Settle down, boy.” Despite the roughness of his tone, his words were gentle. The horse tossed its head once, eyes rolling and unhappy, but stood still.

  “Sorry,” called Trey. “Must smell the Quadrangle on me.” He ducked into the hackney before the driver could respond.

  Arabella, pale and glimmering, seated as far away from the horse as she could get, gave him a wan smile. The horse ceased objecting to her presence, and broke into a brisk, bone-jarring trot. Trey held onto the strap, while Arabella, sitting demurely, hands in her lap and ankles crossed, sank and rose in the seat.

  Trey searched her solemn expression. “It happens sometimes, when animals sense spirits. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not,” she said with a kind of tragic dignity. “I’m thinking of… other things.” She raised her chin, as if defying Trey to just try and console her.

  He smothered a smile before it could even twitch his lips. “Then accept my apologies for my presumption.”

  She gave him a regal nod and transferred her gaze to the window. Newfangled gas lights illuminated the way.

  Trey could read the tension in her very posture. There was a kind of determined courage in her eyes.

  She hadn’t been wrong about the time left to her. And Trey couldn’t offer her false assurances. It wasn’t in his nature to do so—and he thought too highly of her to be dishonest about her chances. Arabella was no fragile flower.

  Still, thought Trey, turning his head to glare into the gloom outside, he would do everything in his power to run Lord Atwater to ground tonight. That sharp, shivery feeling inside of him, the one he thought of as his intuition, told him that Atwater was connected to the whole reeking business.

  His mother had taught him to pay attention to that feeling. After all, he’d inherited it from her.

  The hackney slowed as it entered a crowded street sparkling with light, from the orange and yellow flickers of torches to the cool steady glow of rune lanterns in jewel colors. Carriages, hackneys, and chairs milled in confusion; drivers and coachmen and servants cried out to make way for Duke this and Lady that.

  “We’re here.” Trey looked at Arabella questioningly. “Shall we alight?”

  Arabella nodded. “Yes, please.”

  “Stay close to me, then. I’ve put a charm on you that should keep anyone else from seeing you, but it’d be better for you to keep out of Winter’s sight. When we get in, I want you to go straight into the Lilac Room. You remember where it is?”

  “Up the stairs, to the left, third door on the right,” she recited his instructions from earlier. “Who am I supposed to meet? You never said.”

  “That’s right, I didn’t. And I’m not going to tell you, either.” At her look, he said, “I don’t want you to go into this meeting with any preconceived ideas.”

  “You’re not setting up an appointment with anyone else from the Phantasm Bureau, are you?” Arabella asked in tones of great suspicion.

  “Certainly not.” Trey rapped on the roof of the hackney. The carriage came to a stop, and he opened the door and jumped out. “Come on.”

  He didn’t wait for her. It would look decidedly odd for him to hold the door open for an invisible lady. Trey flipped a gold coin to the driver for his trouble—that sweating, shivering horse needed a hot mash and clean straw more than anything else this evening—and joined a throng of pedestrians streaming up to the marble steps of Merrimack’s. Light blazed from every window, the seething murmur of vast crowds surged into the night. The columns of the portico were festooned with climbing plants, delicate blossoms glowing in rainbow colors. The carved reliefs on the pediment appeared to be in motion, acting out the well-known story of Astrid Hildottir befriending the pegasus Windswift.

  Beside him, Arabella gasped at the sight of the edifice. Trey glanced down at her and saw her face lit up with delight. Gone were the dark doubts; she looked about with a frank wonder that the jaded would call gauche.

  Well, none of them could see her now. She’d be able to enjoy the spectacle untroubled by their sneers. As well she should. He felt suddenly and fiercely protective of her joy.

  Arabella looked at him and
said gently, “I know that you’re here on business matters, Trey, but it is the Spring Assembly.”

  He realized he was scowling at the mental image of bored society leaders looking down on his companion and instantly smoothed his brow. “You’re right, of course. Notice the undines in the fountains.” He nodded towards streams of water that arced into the sky, then formed into mist-masted ships sailing on a river of minute stars under a perfect, transparent moon.

  A younger couple Trey barely knew gave him an odd look as they passed by. Trey bowed to them, and they responded with stiff bows of their own. From their expressions, Trey knew he had added to his reputation for strangeness.

  It didn’t bother him. His family was known for being peculiar. And eccentricity had its uses.

  He detached Arabella from the spectacle of the water elementals by moving on. She hurried to keep up, but her face was still turned towards the show as a multitude of fluid mermaids and fish, each tiny form perfect in detail, slapped their tails. Diamond droplets fell over a group of women. The ladies cried out in dismay and scurried away from the splashing.

  Arabella giggled at this, and one of the undines, shaped into a sea horse, floated over and playfully batted her transparent cheek.

  “And they’re a mischievous lot, too,” remarked Trey to no one in particular, “who don’t need the added encouragement.”

  They joined the crush of people at the entrance. Arabella, forced between two slender columns, tipped her head up to where a multitude of sparks, the lowliest of the fire elementals, barely more than specks of light, moved in mesmerizing patterns.

  Mesmerizing to those who paid attention, that is. All around Trey, peers greeted each other, complained about the crowd, and declared they were dying of thirst. A plump matron in purple gauze and a feathered turban caught Trey’s eye and smiled invitingly.

  It took him a moment to extract the woman’s name from his memory. “How do you do, Mrs. Price?” He bowed, thankful the crush precluded him from taking the lady’s hand.

  “Ah, Lord St. Ash, I feel quite faint already!” The woman fanned herself vigorously, but her bright eyes and red cheeks belied her claims. “Oh, did you ever see such a headpiece?”