by Rabia Gale
The light sharpened, banishing some of the fuzziness, showing Arabella more detail than she wanted to see. An obsidian point of darkness lay at the end of the passageway, drawing her on.
Into the Shadow Lands.
Arabella resisted, digging in her heels. Her feet could find no purchase on the slippery floor, so she grabbed the solidified robes of a woman whose eyes held no hope. A gust of wind at her back shoved her onward.
No! It’s not my time! Arabella thought fiercely of life, of hot summer days and fresh-cut hay and warm milk straight from the cow and gamboling kittens. The red chimney pots of Lumen, the reek of horse dung, the clatter of wheels on cobbled streets. Flower girls hawking their wares in thin, piercing cries; street sweepers with their long-handled brooms; ladies taking a promenade in Queens Park; elegant gentlemen riding their hacks.
She thought of Uncle Henry’s mild kindliness and his old smoking jacket with the patched elbows that he wouldn’t let Aunt Cecilia replace. Her aunt reclining in her morning gown, avidly devouring a romance and weeping real tears over the trials of improbably beautiful and virtuous heroines. Harry showing off fashionable clothing from a Bell Street tailor with a careless air that couldn’t quite hide his excited pride.
The silk rose in Charlotte’s brown hair. The curve of Viola’s alabaster cheek with curls of her ash-blond hair lying against it.
Trey Shield, with narrowed eyes and distracted air, lecturing her while she secretly admired the fine figure Briggs had made of him. Really, he was quite handsome when he bothered. The long-tailed coat, grey knee-breeches, and white stockings made him look elegant—and far above her touch.
Her own body, still alive in Crescent Circle.
The alien wind, stinking of grave dirt and burning coal, buffeted her ever more fiercely. Arabella planted herself in her life, in her present joys and future hopes, and refused to give in.
She was anchored, she was weighty.
She wouldn’t be blown willy-nilly into the Shadow Lands.
The wind lashed at her once more, like a tantrum-throwing child slamming the door, and died down. The stone around her misted and dissolved, leaving Arabella back in a mean corridor made of wood, smelling of old dinners and lit with oil lamps.
That dark point grew smaller, but didn’t wink out. It stayed at the edge of her vision, a reminder that her victory was only temporary.
Arabella smoothed her hair and dress out of habit. Her hair lay in a thick plait down her back. She was back in one of the shapeless, homespun gowns that she had worn before Lumen, but she didn’t care.
She had won back her life dressed like this. This was her triumphal garb.
She turned and plunged through a wall, hurrying for the Lilac Room.
Those brief moments in the passageway to the Shadow Lands had changed everything.
Arabella no longer retained her substance as well; she was squeezed and pinched and pulled as the crowds jostled around her. Their voices came to her from far away, as if she were underwater. The edges of her vision wavered darkly, and everything looked dull and tarnished. The light had taken on a sullen hue, the gilt on chandeliers and mirrors and ladies’ dresses darkened to a dirty brass. Lines of dissipation and discontent were stark on the guests’ faces.
A mournful flute, singing of regrets, rose above the musicians. The dancers on the floor moved slowly, as if through fog. Behind them, Arabella saw others—skeletons in broken crowns and moth-eaten robes, rotted corpses in scraps of silk and crawling with maggots, sharp-edged shadows she had no name for. They staggered and stumbled, swayed and slithered, parodying the moves of the mortal dancers.
Arabella veered away from the dance floor and struggled towards the foyer. Arms brushed against her, bodies bulled through her. Voices and images and desires snaked into her head. A man’s thirst for wine so strong it parched her throat; a woman howling, “I’ll make her pay for that, the hussy”; the creamy swell of a bosom above a beaded bodice; desire that ran like fire and grease through her soul…
Arabella half-fell into the foyer, disheveled and panting, her skirt stretched behind her in a gauzy thread, caught under someone’s feet in the crush. She yanked it back to herself and gritted her teeth against the headache pounding in her temples.
All those emotions, all those thoughts. All those dark secret things laid bare in her head.
She’d lose herself in the sea of it all. Arabella took deep breaths and anchored her thoughts to a bird in lazy flight, to a boat bobbing on water, to a spider spinning her web. The repetitive motions of natural things soothed her. Gave her space in her own head to think.
She had misjudged the dangers of her situation. So what if this was Merrimack’s, a place deemed safe for debutantes? So what if Trey Shield was also under this roof? So what if the wards prevented demons and corrupted spirits from entering these halls?
Arabella had nearly lost herself twice, in the Shadow Lands and among the crowds.
Gathering her skirt, Arabella silently, soberly made her way up the stairs and to the Lilac Room.
It was empty, though a fire burned in the grate. Arabella cast a desultory look around the chamber, all desire to explore completely quenched. She had passed two middle-aged gentlemen laughing together on the stairs. As they turned a corner, one had knocked into her, leaving a green smear of bitter jealousy. The other had looked at his companion and thought, his voice loud and dripping contempt in Arabella’s mind, “This clumsy oaf will always fail at whatever he sets his hand to.”
Their vitriol nearly sent her reeling. She’d clutched the rail, the grain scraping roughly into her sinking palms, while the two, showing each other affable masks, continued down, still chatting.
It had been a relief to see the door with Lilac Room etched into the brass plate. Arabella wearily pushed through the wood and circled the room, noting the writing desk laid out with fresh paper, pens, ink, and wax; a hideous urn with dog-headed demons snarling all over it; and the two stiff sofas with scroll-shaped arms. There was nothing purple nor floral about this chamber. Even the wallpaper had a maroon diamond pattern repeating endlessly across it.
Arabella threw herself into a chair by the fire. It took a little work to stay level with the seat, but once she figured the trick of it, her body stayed in place without her constantly willing it so. She huddled, with her feet up on the upholstery, her knees tucked to her chest. No one could see her to be scandalized or scold her for stretching her clothing.
Besides, ghostly wear was eminently adaptable. Her gown, cream-colored and plain, grew bigger to accommodate her unladylike position.
Arabella put her cheek in her hand and stared moodily into the fire.
More than ever, she just wanted to go home.
Except she couldn’t figure out where home was. Was it Umbrax, with its wild seas and rocky shores and purple moors? Was it the tall house with the yellow door on Crescent Circle?
Or was it a rented row house in the City, with a pentagram in a cellar workshop, an evil book in the library, and the Shade Hunter’s presence all over the place?
Arabella was so tired she couldn’t summon the strength to scold herself for her fancies. The numbed feeling would’ve frightened her if she hadn’t already felt so remote and removed from herself.
The door clicked open, then shut. Slow footsteps and the tap of a walking stick sounded on the floor. Arabella sat up as an old lady walked to the sofa and seated herself stiffly on it. Despite her age, her back was ramrod straight and the gnarled hands on the ebony-topped walking stick firm. She didn’t look at Arabella, just stared into the flames.
Arabella subsided, studying the woman. Her lined face and elaborate wig were white with powder. She wore a dress that had been fashionable in her youth, with hooped skirts of green damask, an open bodice tied across a stomacher decorated with jet beads, and flounces at her elbows. A medallion of tarnished bronze on her age-spotted bosom caught the light in tiny gleams. Her sunken eyes were dark and, Arabella suspected, very penet
rating. An aura of authority surrounded the woman.
She was glad this grand old lady did not see her. But how was she to converse with the person Trey had wanted her to meet with this eccentric peer in the same room?
The woman said, without taking her gaze off the burning logs, “How long will you hide your gift, child?” Her voice was deeper than expected, and slightly husky.
Arabella looked around the room involuntarily, as if someone else had snuck in without her knowledge. “A-are you addressing me, Madam?” she asked timidly. How small and thin her voice sounded.
The lady turned her head slightly towards Arabella. “Who else is in the room, child?” she asked with awful patience. Arabella squirmed in her seat, remembered with horror her inelegant posture, and instantly put her feet on the floor. Too hard, for her soles sank slightly into the thin carpet. The lady went on, “I may be ancient, but I am not, as yet, in the habit of talking to myself.”
A light shone in her eyes and the air in the chamber seemed to sharpen somehow, like a sword being unsheathed.
“I-I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Arabella, flushing and mortified. “I did not know I was supposed to meet you. Lord St. Ash didn’t say.” As he should’ve! He had sent her to meet this august personage—and this woman, whoever she was, was important and fairly crackling with power—with no preparation whatsoever.
“Ah, Trevelyan. That impossible boy, always testing the boundaries.” The lady shook her head. “But we are talking of you.”
“Could you—would you—return me to my body, ma’am?” Arabella leaned forward in her eagerness.
“I have not the power for it,” said the lady simply. “I came here to see if I could enable you to do so, on your own.” She looked levelly at Arabella. “You could do that, you know, if you freed your gift.”
Arabella said nothing, though her hands were clenched in the translucent material of her gown.
“You don’t deny it,” the lady mused. “Interesting.”
Arabella lifted her chin. “If you know that much, ma’am, then you must know that I cannot do as you say. You must know that the gift is”—her voice trembled—“a curse.”
“I know only that it is all knotted up with pain and fear.” The lady’s voice was at once gentle and inexorable, like soft snow falling and falling from a winter sky. “And that you could free it, if you wished.”
Arabella made a sudden, sharp gesture, as if to cut off her words. “I don’t wish it. What you call a gift has left nothing but a dark taint on the earth.” She strove to keep her voice from getting shrill.
The lady nodded once, slowly. “Perhaps it is too much to ask right now. After all that has happened.”
“It’s in the past,” said Arabella firmly. She added, in a smaller voice, “Does this mean you can’t help me?”
The lady frowned at the fire. “Your soul must remember again what it is like to dwell in your body. Perhaps I can assist you.” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “Memory… memory is a tricky thing, like a river that rushes fast in places, meanders in others. You never know when the undercurrent will take you and pull you under. And yet, I see a place you cannot reach. A dam, blocking the river, a reservoir of memory behind it.” Her brows drew together in fierce concentration.
Pressure built up in the room. Arabella held her breath. In the back of her mind, within dark recesses, impressions stirred, images flickered…
And then the feeling vanished. The memories plunged beneath the surface again. Arabella let out a soft sigh and looked expectantly at the lady.
Her mouth was set in a thin, pained line. Though she still held herself straight, she was diminished somehow, shrunken even. Under the powder, her face was grey.
“Oh, do not, madam!” Arabella sat up, alarmed. “Do not exert yourself so!” Guilt tore through her. How would she face Trey—or anyone—if something happened to this old lady on her behalf?
The woman’s hands clenched around the top of her walking stick. Her head was bowed. “Once,” she said, voice low and hoarse. “Once, this would’ve been a mere moment’s work for me, a mere weaving of some threads here and unraveling of others there.” She looked up and smiled without mirth at Arabella. “It is a painful thing to be old and weak.”
She rose heavily to her feet, leaning on the stick. Arabella scrambled up, feeling more gauche than ever.
Even at her age, the lady was taller than Arabella. The firelight flickered over her face, kindling a spark in her dark, heavy-lidded eyes.
The room seemed to waver, as if viewed through water. The stern old lady with her erect carriage and hooped skirts was gone. In her place stood a warrior in bronze helmet and rune-etched breastplate. The folds of her once-white robe, ragged at the bottom, stained with grime, fell to her sandaled feet. In her right hand, she carried a spear tipped with starlight; in her left, a buckler that gleamed silver like the moon. Her eyes were hidden pools, dark green with shadows.
It was autumn, and a fierce sun beat upon her neck, a chill wind scraped along her face. Her feet had turned to lead, the shaft of her spear bit into her callused hand. Sorrow crept greyly over her, one thought only ringing and ringing through the fog of emotion.
He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.
Arabella jerked back, startled. She blinked, and both the image and the curious sensation of fitting into someone else’s skin disappeared.
The lady cocked her head and looked on with interest. “Curious,” she said. Before Arabella could respond, she reached out and brushed her fingers against Arabella’s cheek.
Arabella steeled herself, but the touch was warm and pleasant.
Not so for the lady. She dropped her hand quickly, an odd expression crossing her face. Arabella could not make it out at all—mingled astonishment, pity, and… awe?
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Something I must consider on my own first,” said the lady. She smiled at Arabella, wry with a touch of humor. “I apologize I could not help you. But I think you and Trevelyan can solve this on your own. Help him, child, and yourself. He risks much for you.”
And with that, she left the room, her skirts rustling across the floor, the stick tip-tapping, leaving Arabella rooted to the spot.
Chapter Ten
“Lord Atwater.” Trey positioned himself between the parliamentarian and the only exit out of the small room. “A word with you, if you please?”
Atwater was a man still in the prime of his life, with a full head of greying hair. His height masked his thickening girth, and his face was open and good-humored, his light blue eyes pleasant. Trey privately thought that the confidence and affability he projected had gone further in making his career than any political acumen or hard-earned wisdom.
“Ah, young Shield, is it not?” Atwater’s lips curved in a ready smile, but there was no warmth in his mild eyes. “Ah, forgive me, it is Lord St. Ash now, of course.”
Trey bowed stiffly, acknowledging Atwater’s self-correction. “This will take but a few moments of your time, sir.”
Atwater gestured around the room. “My dear young man, surely this is a night for dancing and entertaining, not business?”
“Not in my line of work,” said Trey. He observed Atwater’s entourage, noting how all of them were unimportant hangers-on. Surely Atwater could afford a better class of sycophants? They melted away with muttered excuses when Trey turned a cold look on them. Not nasty, just making it obvious they weren’t needed. “Perhaps your clerk did not give you my messages?”
Atwater looked around the mostly-empty room. Old Lord Mosely, corpulent and gouty, snored in a chair, a handkerchief over his face. Two undistinguished men were hunched over an intense game of cribbage.
There was no one to intervene. Trey had timed his move with care. With his hand at his side where Atwater couldn’t see it, he made a small gesture. The spell he had prepared sparked between his fingers and shot across the small distance between them.
“Yes, my man did say you
had asked to see me,” Atwater said, resigned. He wasn’t smiling now; he just looked weary. “What d’you want, St. Ash?”
“This won’t take long,” Trey assured him. “I want to know your whereabouts Wednesday evening.”
Atwater raised his eyebrows. “Am I under investigation?” he asked with surprised hauteur.
“You may have knowledge that will aid me in a disturbing case.” Trey took note of Atwater’s reaction, the slight tensing of his shoulders and the narrowing of his eyes.
“Well, then ask for it directly,” said Atwater shortly, seeming to remember he was Trey’s senior and a member of Parliament.
“I’d rather not,” said Trey. His spell, a small thing of grey aether shot through with silver runes, detected no trace of the Shadow Lands on the man.
All that meant was that Atwater had had no recent direct dealings with the ghoul.
That didn’t mean much. And Trey wasn’t a good enough rune master to cast a halfway-reliable truth spell.
Atwater eyed him, as if wondering how much rope Trey was giving him to hang himself. Then he spread out his hands with a twitch of his shoulders. “I was in meetings at the palace late into the evening. Afterwards, I took a hackney to Green’s where I had supper and met with friends. It was past midnight when I returned to my rooms. I’m sorry that I didn’t think to ask the hackney driver his name, so he could corroborate my story.” Sarcasm dripped from his tone.
“I have a witness,” said Trey, “who spotted you in the Fleet that evening.”
Atwater waved a dismissive hand. “The person was obviously under an erroneous assumption. In the twilight, anyone can mistake a superficial resemblance.”
“The witness claims,” Trey went on, “to have seen you coming out of a particular pawnshop. Moreover, a pawnshop whose owner was found murdered by a ghoul this morning.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Atwater, with an impatient twitch. “But I have no connection to the incident at all. You’re wasting your time here, St. Ash.”
“Forgive me, but I have to follow every lead. You understand.”
