A bewildered Mr. Rochart was reaching out to comfort Jane, but Helen seized her sister and helped her cry. With wet eyes she looked at Jane’s fiancé and said, “Even if you two wanted to come help us stop Grimsby, you can’t. Jane must stay here. You must stay with Jane.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Rochart. And Helen carefully helped Jane to sit up, and brought her more tea, and watched her looking at nothing as if she was taken by the fey all over again, and felt her heart crack even as she was glad to be the strong one, the one who was there for her sister.
Jane shook her head, trying to turn her thoughts away from what she had been made to do, trying to bear up under the combination of starvation, brainwiping, and anguish. “So long,” she whispered to Helen, and her face was white and red as her empathy for others poured out. “He’s been taken over for so long. His poor son.” Jane looked at Tam, who was playing on the floor with Dorie. Softly said, “His mother gone. His stepmother. And his father—?”
“Has long been dead,” said Helen softly in response. She remembered that moment when Grimsby had wept at Millicent’s side and amended her statement. “Or at least, there’s only a sliver of him left inside. I don’t know if it can come back out.”
Chapter 14
WHAT ALISTAIR DID
The Hundred met on the cobblestoned alley by the warehouse. Well, not quite a hundred. Despite all their best efforts, some of the women simply couldn’t be convinced—and then, of course, there were those who could not be found. Still, there were a lot of them, and they spilled out around the building in hues of violet and buttercup and rose. They were beautiful. They were delicate. They were mad.
Helen went among the newest ones, shaking hands and turning on her fey-enhanced charm to make sure they were fully rallied to the cause. She talked to them face-to-face, and then she had them pull their iron masks on and buckle them securely. By the time she had made the entire rounds, everyone except for her had on their full iron mask.
Now they looked grim. Even in their sea of beautiful dresses they were frightening with their identical iron grey faces. Helen smiled to herself at how delightfully awful they looked in the shining silks and glinting metal. The world was bathed in sunlight; the snow of last night was melting rapidly, and Helen found she was not particularly missing her wool coat. The slacks were a good deal warmer than the voile, or for that matter, than the skirt that usually went with the jacket. Helen took a deep breath of the crisp and river-stenched air as she made her way to Frye, identifiable as always by her trousers.
“The doors aren’t even locked,” said Frye. “It can’t be this easy, can it? That we just walk in?”
Helen grimaced. “I doubt it. But what else can we do? How else do you spring the trap?”
Frye shook her head, then grinned. “That’s why you’re the ringleader of this circus,” she said. “You get to make the hard decisions.”
“Yeah,” Helen muttered, and then a flash of movement behind Frye caught her attention. “Tam?”
He crept around Frye, wearing his binoculars and explorer hat and a stubborn look. “I followed you,” he said.
“Tam—,” she began.
He cut in quickly, “Dorie said you might need this after all.” He held out a copper hydra charm, shiny with wiped-off bacon grease.
She took it from him and said, “And now you must go home. We have to face your—”
“It’s not my father in there,” said Tam. “You know it’s not. I have to see.”
“It’s not a good place for you to be,” said Helen gently. “Besides, that creature looks like your father. That’s going to be hard.”
He set his lips in a line and she remembered Charlie picking up a staff and saying he was going in to fight.
It was hard no matter where you were. It was hard whether you stayed back, or went in, and though she would have protected him from this with her last breath she also would not stop him now. She looked up at Frye, who looked quite sympathetic to Tam’s cause. “You two stay to the rear,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Frye.
“And if it looks at all as though he’s in danger, you take him away.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Frye again.
Helen looked down at Tam. “You swear to obey Frye? This isn’t a free-for-all. There are rules in war.”
He nodded, and Helen shook her head with the tension. Frye clapped her on the back. “Cheer up. You only live once.”
Gallows humor again. Helen smiled because there didn’t seem to be anything else to do.
It was eerily silent from within the warehouse. She held the shiny necklace in the palm of her hand and concentrated, studying the way the warehouse lit blue when she focused on it. She let go and the light faded. The women milled about, chattering, but she knew the nervous energy, the anticipation, would shortly turn to funk and gloom if they didn’t move soon. None of these women had done anything like this, knew what they were up against.
Helen squared her shoulders. Nobody knew what they were up against. Nobody had faced down a fey leader except her sister, six months ago.
And what Jane could do, so could she.
“All right, women!” Helen shouted. No need for a surprise attack. Whoever was inside knew the women were here, not least because Grimsby surely knew of Helen’s whereabouts through the necklace she held. Well then, let him see. She held it up as she moved through the crowd to the front, and shouted: “Everyone is in charge of finding your own face, first and foremost. As soon as you do that, focus on finding the women they’ve captured and freeing them. Don’t get distracted by whatever the men do. If we take back what we own, they lose control over us.” She took a deep breath. “Iron masks secure? Now. In we go!” Helen flung open the warehouse doors.
The room was a thick cloud of fey blue that swirled and blew. Helen could not see her hand in front of her face. She felt her way forward—and then shouts from behind made her turn.
Helen whirled to see the women behind her being pulled to the side of the warehouse as if being sucked under by a wave. In a clear space in the blue fog she saw a large strange machine that whirled and made a loud thrumming sound. The little iron letter opener Frye had lent her slipped through her fingers, slicing them as they went, and flew toward the machine.
“Masks off, everyone!” Helen shouted. “It’s magnetic.”
So this was part of the trap—they had to advance without protection. Several women helped those who had been caught get unbuckled.
The blue cleared as Helen stepped forward. Inside the cloud she saw them. The men. Twenty or so of the highest-ranking members of Copperhead. Alistair’s friends.
Each one stood in front of a supine body. A caged woman, a funnel attached to her perfect face. And in the middle of the room, sucking all their fey power into the copper hydra box—Grimsby.
Helen’s heart broke as she saw those women. Some she knew, instinctively, without seeing their faces. She knew the missing ones of The Hundred—and some of them had the misfortune to be the wives and girlfriends of Alistair’s friends. Without a doubt she knew that Morse, for example, was standing next to the body of his very own wife. And there, next to Hattersley—poor Betty, who had been supposedly taken by the police for curfew violation.
Heart beating rapidly, she looked for Alistair, but she could not find him. She almost laughed in relief, but then he advanced out of the shadows and said, “Grimsby wishes me to tell you your presence is requested.”
“What are you doing here?” she said.
“I am appointed emissary,” he said dreamily. “Ambassador. Go-between. We men understand that sacrifices must be made in war. Today, we will annihilate the fey. We would like you to assist in the glorious cause.”
“You men understand very little,” said Helen sharply. “We do not choose to lay down our lives for some fey’s nefarious plot.”
There was movement then, and she heard some of the men shifting in concern at her words, but whether at the
“lay down our lives” or “fey” she did not know.
Alistair turned wide dreamy eyes on her. “Our leader has assured us that none of you will be permanently harmed,” he said. “If anything, you may come out of it more docile and sweet-tempered, which surely you would rejoice to hear.”
Helen smiled then, with all her teeth. “You may tell Grimsby—or rather, that fey living in him—that our presence is neither necessary nor required. Except that we will get what we came for.”
“You think so?” he said with curiosity.
The blue sharpened and the men stood straighter.
Helen set her jaw. “To your faces!” she shouted to The Hundred, and they all poured in. Their iron letter openers and scissors and kitchen knives had been taken by the magnets, but they came with fingernails. They came with copper hatpins. They came with the golden pins of diamond brooches. They came, and they came, pouring into that cold warehouse.
It is almost like a dream, how she stands above them all and sees the wave of women break and flow around the jutting rocks of men. She sees potato-faced Boarham rub his hands together and say, They really did all come, Grimsby, how clever of you—before falling under a sea of sherbet silk. Yes, that is Lady Dalrymple, leading that charge. And there, Agatha Flintwhistle, unhooking faces one by one, handing them carefully to Louisa Mayhew. Tam clambers up the crates like a monkey to throw random junk at the men’s unprotected heads, and Frye whoops and hollers whenever he scores a shot. Alberta stands near them all, whacking men with a wooden bat when they get too close. How clever of Alberta to prepare for the human enemy instead of fey, Helen thinks, for the men did not have a plan to ward off bats.
She sees Calendula Smith, leading a battalion of women in an organized attack into the heart of the room, where Morse and the others are attempting to keep their women tied to their beds. Hattersley has pushed Betty’s bed away from the others—she can’t tell if it’s to keep Betty safe or to deliver her to Grimsby for some even more nefarious purpose. Calendula barks orders like a lieutenant, and the women work together to loosen wrists and ankles, to push and shove and kneecap the men. Calendula herself overpowers scrawny Morse and pushes him with all her sturdy bulk onto the bed, holds him down while another woman ties him up. A lewd comment falls from his lips—another women stuffs rags in his mouth and then nobody has to hear him.
The men are strong, but there are more of the women. And the men are not really expecting a battle. Helen sees that again and again, sees the surprise in their eyes when a pack of beautiful ladies plows into them and bites.
But surprise only works for so long. The men remember that they know how to box and hit, that they have a warehouse full of scrap wood and metal they can pick up and swing. The fighting wears on and she sees the Prime Minister’s wife crumple under a powerful blow from Boarham. Helen herself has been methodically going where she is needed, where she sees a woman alone and outnumbered. It has all been very numb and she is surprised to find she has tears in her eyes when she looks down and sees Calendula Smith’s old face crumpled on the floor, the forehead twisted and smashed from a vicious twist of a heel.
In the blurriness she stands, and there is a man bearing down on her with a lead pipe. There is no time, and suddenly a copper knife flashes out and into the man’s arm, and he stumbles, and drops the pipe. “Iron allergy,” Desirée says to Helen with satisfaction. “Magnets didn’t catch me.” Desirée picks up her copper knife and grins fiendishly at the bleeding man, and he turns and runs out of the warehouse.
He’s not the only one who has run, Helen notices. There are fewer men than there were when they charged in, and some of the ones left are tied up or otherwise indisposed. Backlit by the open warehouse doors she sees Hattersley helping Betty pick her stilettoed way over machine parts and fallen bodies. They flee out the door and Helen watches them go with a mixture of pride and disappointment. They are not the only couple to leave together, and though she is glad that some of these Copperhead husbands are still open to being persuaded to reason, she also wishes more men had turned to fight against their old party as soon as it was clear that not all was as Grimsby said. She remembers again how Alistair spoke of avoiding the Great War five years ago—he paid a poor soldier to take his place. The men of her generation, the ones that are left, are cowards.
Helen wades back to help free the remaining women and faces, to unhook, uncouple, release that machine. She turns and there is Rook, working alongside her and suddenly everything snaps clearly back into focus and they are alone in the midst of a battle.
Like in the dance.
Like in the trolley.
He was there, helping them. He had been there all along.
“You missed your boat,” was all she could think to say.
“I stayed,” he said. “I had to see finished what I started.”
“But how will you get home?” She did not want him to leave and yet the words kept coming out.
His mouth set and he shrugged. “Take a passenger boat. Or go overland. I can’t crew a ship but I do know how to walk.”
“You can’t possibly walk all that way,” she said. “I’ll give you money for the train if you need it.”
“Alistair’s money?” he said, and she reddened.
She matched the intentional rudeness with coldness of her own, retreated into ice. “I suppose my husband can spare it.”
His lips twisted, and he said, “There’s always a husband.”
She wanted to break then, to let the floodgates open but here they were in a battle, and she was too tired to see anything but the future she had already laid out, that she would go one way and he another.
The silence lengthened until his moment of levity fell away, and he said softly, bitterness tracing his tongue, “I suppose you can make him be how you want,” he said. “Keep him so he’s never himself again.” He turned away and she heard the last words called back, “He’ll never have to know how he’s failed you.”
She stood there, heart beating. Keep him so he’s never himself again. What had she done to Alistair?
She was no better than the Fey King, changing Grimsby to suit himself. She remembered Grimsby in that moment of kneeling at Millicent’s side, crushed and heartbroken. A moment when he was free from the Fey King’s spell. When he could be his own person, make his own mistakes.
What had she done to The Hundred?
When did the end stop justifying the means?
Helen moved out into the remains of the melee, moved among the women as if in a daze, undoing what she had done. They fought hand to hand for control of their faces, themselves, and she reached out and touched them, and told them silently to make their own mistakes, live without her command.
She expected a rout. That the battle would suddenly swing back the other way, even with fewer men left to fight.
But she had misjudged them.
There were women who had been afraid. There were women who had been brave. There were women who had been weak and strong and sharp and tough and feeble and clever. Helen could not tell who was who as they wrestled for themselves, to win the day.
The battle was dying down now. The women were winning—had won. At what point did you declare, won? she wondered. At what point were you no longer afraid?
The women found their faces and she and Frye told them to take them and go. Go back to Frye’s. Find Jane. Become yourself again. And many did, and many stayed, helping the others, for there was still much left to do.
Through it all Helen moved, until she found Alistair, dreamily helping a woman over a pile of rubble and out the door to safety. He smiled kindly at her, and she thought, perhaps I have misjudged him, too. Perhaps he is who I always thought he was, and he stands apart from Grimsby because he is something better, something finer.
And even if he isn’t, he deserves his own chance to make mistakes.
She touched him on the arm and took all her changes back. One by one she took them away until he was wholly himself again. H
e shook himself, blinking, and she smiled up at him and said, “Thank you for helping us.”
Alistair looked around, getting his bearings. Then his eyes narrowed and he seized her arms. “What have you done?” he said in a broken voice. “What have I done?”
Helen swallowed. And then said calmly, firmly, “I changed you. I shouldn’t have. But you were helping us win.” More quietly: “Aren’t you helping us?”
“Out in public?” Alistair dropped his head to his hands. “Grimsby will never forgive me now. Oh, it’s hopeless. I tried to help you, I really did. But you’ve been nothing but trouble to me.”
“Really,” Helen said coldly. She was not going to stay for this. She turned away to help the others.
“I was going along fine as a bachelor. Thought I needed a wife. More fool I. I should have run the other direction when Hattersley told me about you.…”
Helen swung around. Her heart seemed to be beating preternaturally still, as though she was a hawk in the instant before it swoops. Hattersley. That single dropped sentence last night about Betty being a consolation prize for Helen. Everything in her fell to the tip of her tongue, into one swift, dangerous question. “What do you mean, told me about you?”
Alistair did not have the grace to stumble or look abashed. Glumly he said, “About your bargain with the doctor, of course. Hattersley boasted about how he’d found the perfect girl; all he had to do was rescue her from a doctor friend of his. He couldn’t believe the doctor would try to get balloon payments out of you when a variety of obvious answers were staring him in the face. Hattersley’s a family man at heart, though—he wanted a wife. He was thrilled by the lady-in-distress routine, talked of being your white knight.” Alistair laughed ruefully. “That was his undoing. Of course we all had to troop down to the tenpence dance hall and see you for ourselves.” He looked up at her now, as if seeing her then, a girl in a white dress with a green sash. “Well, perhaps it can be okay again,” he mused. “Served old Hattersley right I got to you first, I always thought.”
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