“Are those children like us—I mean, like me?” Dora asked her. “Trapped in Hollowvale, I mean? Where has the marquess put them?” A dreadful suspicion had arisen at the back of her mind, and she knew she would have no rest until she confirmed it.
Theodora gave her a wary look. “He keeps them all at Charity House,” she said. “It is a foolish name, by the way. There is nothing charitable about it at all.” Theodora pointed across the misty garden before them, towards the tall, foreboding building on the other side.
Dora started in that direction immediately, pushing her way through the garden’s brambles. She had expected the thorns to be sharp and wicked, given the wild look of the roses—but they were nearly insubstantial, the way that Elias had felt when she’d tried to touch him while scrying. The white rose petals wavered beneath her fingers like the mist that surrounded them.
“Faerie stuff isn’t very certain of itself,” Theodora said from behind her. “It’s why the marquess prefers his English trophies, I think.”
Dora was about to respond to this—but she found herself brought up short as Charity House finally came fully into view. A faint nausea tingled in her stomach, tinged with familiar recognition.
“I have seen this place before,” Dora said. “Charity House looks just like the Cleveland Street Workhouse, back in England.”
“I have never seen the Cleveland Street Workhouse,” Theodora said. “But I am sure that the marquess has twisted up its purpose entirely. I managed to get a peek inside, just the other day. It’s terrible! Only a faerie could engineer something so awful and bizarre!”
Dora tried the door out front and found it unlocked. As she pushed it open, she was assaulted by the sharp, familiar stench of lye. The workhouse inside was a facsimile of the one she had visited in England; the hallways were cleaner and quieter, but the air was still laden with that acrid steam.
As Dora crept towards the place where she remembered the mess hall, she saw inside perhaps twenty children of varying ages, all sitting down at a long table. Those on one side of the table were twisting up a rough hemp rope with their little hands; those on the other side seemed to be untwisting the very same rope with quiet, fanatical concentration, much as the people at the Cleveland Street Workhouse had been doing.
“Half of them seem to be picking oakum,” Dora whispered in puzzlement. “But the other half are reknitting the strands again? Why?”
Theodora sighed heavily. “You must cease asking why when it comes to faeries,” she said. “I am sure there is an explanation, but it will not make any more sense than you expect.”
Dora’s eyes caught on a particular little girl with straw-like hair and a pockmarked face, who was currently working at unpicking her bit of rope. A burst of surprise rippled through her; and though Dora made no sound herself, Theodora let out a loud gasp next to her, without quite knowing what it was she was gasping at.
A few of the children at the table glanced up at them in curiosity—but none of them stopped working, even for a moment. Jane shot Theodora only the briefest of annoyed glances before returning her concentration to the task before her. Closer up, Dora could see that the little girl’s hands were scarred and bleeding from the rough hemp.
Dora stepped forward, unable to help herself. “Jane?” she asked. When the girl failed to respond, Dora remembered belatedly that Jane was simply the name which they had given her. She took a few more quick strides across the room, and brought her hand down on the girl’s shoulder.
Jane flinched at first—then she scowled, and tried to slip Dora’s grasp. “What d’you want?” she asked in a rough voice. “I’m goin’ as fast as I can.”
“And what would it matter if you went any faster?” Theodora asked, as she came up behind them. “The other children will only undo it all!”
Jane narrowed her eyes at the rope in front of her. “You don’t have to rub it in,” she said sourly. “I couldn’t stop if I wanted to, anyway.”
“You were at the Cleveland Street Workhouse in England,” Dora said. “I saw you asleep in the corner. The Lord Sorcier has spent days now trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.” She wanted to sound more urgent, more relieved, more tearful—but as usual, the words came out with unnatural calmness instead.
At this, Jane did turn to look at Dora. “He what?” the little girl said. “You’re jokin’. This is some other faerie trick, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Dora assured her. “I was trying to help him, before the lord of this place stole me away.” She squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “We have been calling you Jane, since we do not know your name. But what should I be calling you?”
The girl bit her lip uncertainly. But she must have been convinced that there was little she could do to worsen her situation, because she eventually decided to reply. “I’m Abigail,” she said reluctantly.
Dora nodded. “I’m Dora,” she responded. “And this is... well, also me. But you can call her Theodora, I suppose.”
Theodora blinked at that. “I hate the name Theodora!” she protested. “Why can’t you be Theodora?”
“I could call you Charity instead,” Dora observed dryly. “It is one of my middle names.”
Theodora made a face at that. “Oh, fine. Theodora it is. But I still don’t like it.”
“Would you stop arguin’ with... yourself?” Abigail asked. The little girl glanced between the two versions of Dora, briefly confused. “Do either of you or... or your hob nob magician have a way out of here?”
Dora frowned at that. “He’s not hob nob,” she mumbled. But it wasn’t the time for that discussion, and so she shelved it for later. “Now that I think of it, I am not even sure that Elias knows we’re here—”
A surge of strange heat made Dora waver on her feet. Theodora swayed next to her, and she realised that it had affected them both.
“...I’m so sorry, Dora,” whispered Elias’ voice. “This is all my fault.” There was a hideous anguish in his tone, though the words seemed to come from very far away. “Wake up, please. What must I do for you to wake up?”
Theodora pressed a hand to her chest. Her face was pale. “That was his voice, wasn’t it?” she murmured, with obvious distress. “He sounds so upset.”
Dora leaned heavily against the table in front of her. “Elias?” she asked softly. “Can you hear me?”
The sudden heat in Dora’s body began to ebb away. But for just a moment, she was convinced she could feel a spot of warmth on her lips.
“Is he doing something?” Theodora asked urgently.
Dora bit at her lip. “He is trying something,” she said softly. “And it is failing, just as it has always failed before.” The realisation made her stomach sink all the way to her toes.
Abigail was not enough. Now Elias is convinced that I’ve caught the sleeping plague, too. Dora stared down at her hands on the table. He must think I contracted the illness from the workhouses. That is the more logical assumption, even if it is wrong.
Elias was not going to realise that Dora had been spirited away to faerie. He would work desperately against her illness... and in the end, he would watch her slowly fade away.
“I must find a way to tell Elias what is going on,” Dora said. “Now more than ever.” She turned towards Abigail. “Do you happen to know where I can find a mirror?”
Abigail shook her head. “Nothin’ like that,” she said. “I did look at myself in a wash tub downstairs once, just to see if I’d changed since comin’ here.”
Dora nodded at that. “Looking into water might suffice,” she said. “I have never tried it before, but we are low on options.”
She meant to reiterate to Abigail that someone was trying to save them—that none of them were alone in the world, and that they had not been forgotten. But she was cut off as the door to the workhouse opened again, and Theodora dragged her quickly down to the floor to hide beneath the table.
“How fine you all look today!” Lord Hollowvale declared with a cha
rming smile. “I declare, all of your virtues continue to increase by the day!”
The faerie had returned from his appointment; in his arms, he held a small bundle which even then began to cry.
Chapter 16
“And what virtue is that?” Abigail demanded loudly. “We’re just twistin’ and untwistin’ a bunch of hemp!” The little girl nudged at Dora with her foot, clearly intending that she and Theodora should sneak their way to the other end of the table.
Lord Hollowvale did not seem at all fazed by this belligerent response. He smiled patronizingly. “Hard work and suffering will improve your virtue,” he told Abigail. “You do not realise it, because you are low-born and prone to laziness. But I was born to a higher station, and so I know what is best for you.”
“Accordin’ to who?” Abigail asked, and she now seemed genuinely flustered.
“Why, according to the English!” Lord Hollowvale said. “Is that not why you were put in a workhouse in the first place? But I can increase your virtue even faster here at Charity House, for you need not even sleep!” Another soft whimper came from the bundle in his arms, and he shifted it absently onto his shoulder. “I do not expect you to thank me, of course, since you are low-born. But generosity should be given without expectation of gratitude, and I must improve my own virtue as much as I can!”
Dora and Theodora crept their way breathlessly towards the other end of the table as he spoke, hiding behind the other children’s feet.
“You’re mad!” Abigail declared.
“Oh, maybe so,” laughed the marquess. “But if I am, then all your nobles and your king must be mad as well!”
“The king is mad, though,” Theodora muttered under her breath. Her face was red and furious. Dora quickly brought her finger to her lips, though she didn’t dare to shush her other half. She is too emotional, Dora thought. We must get out of here before she loses control.
“On that note,” Lord Hollowvale mused. “I have bought a brand new inmate! The price was very dear—Master Ricks assures me that it is difficult to come by newborns—but now I realise that I do not know what to do with it. How does one increase a newborn baby’s virtue? Perhaps it must be taught to be quieter and less needy?” His steps approached the table.
Oh no. It couldn’t possibly be, could it?
But the baby in Lord Hollowvale’s arms cried again, and Dora knew with certainty that George Ricks had sold the faerie the very same unwanted child whose mother he had tried to leave out on the street before.
Theodora’s mouth dropped open. Her mismatched eyes blazed with unspeakable anger. Dora knew that it was really her anger, but she also knew that it was likely to get them both into terrible trouble.
Dora reached out to grab Theodora by her cheeks. Slowly, she shook her head and focussed keenly on that faint connection between them. Patience, she thought. We have to be patient. Both George Ricks and that awful faerie will pay, but we cannot confront Lord Hollowvale now.
Theodora clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. Dora could tell that she was struggling to control herself, in much the same way that Dora sometimes struggled to focus on the matter at hand. But something about Dora’s physical presence must have helped—because Theodora began to breathe in and out very carefully, and she closed her eyes and started counting to ten in French.
Lord Hollowvale’s steps began to take him closer to their side of the table.
“I’ll take the kid!” Abigail blurted out.
Lord Hollowvale’s steps paused. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked curiously.
“I’ll teach ‘em virtue and such,” Abigail said. “Stayin’ quiet, smilin’ at strangers. That’s hard work, so it’ll make me better too, right?”
The marquess considered this for a long moment.
“What an idea!” Abigail laughed nervously. “Me, proposin’ nice things. Guess all this hemp pickin’ really is workin’ on my soul, isn’t it?”
“How delightful!” Lord Hollowvale said finally. And he did sound delighted this time. “Yes, your charity becomes you, little girl! I knew that all of my efforts were not in vain.”
He snapped his fingers, and Abigail’s hands stopped their work. She blinked down at them in bewilderment, even as the faerie placed the crying bundle into her little arms.
Abigail quickly shushed at the baby, rocking it in her arms. The motion did little to calm the poor thing, but Dora thought that the newborn must have at least been more comforted in the arms of a human than being carried by a mad faerie.
“Since you have the creature well in-hand, I must be off,” Lord Hollowvale said. “I have my own daughter with which to deal.”
He turned on his feet and strode back for the entrance. As the door closed behind him once more, Theodora let out a ferocious hiss.
“I hate that creature!” she said. “I hate, hate, hate him! Stealing babies now, what won’t he do?”
Dora pushed back up to her feet. “The marquess did not steal the baby,” she sighed. “I fear that he bought it. As awful as he is, all of his evils would not have been possible without Englishmen willing to indulge him.”
Theodora hesitated. “...and Englishwomen, too,” she said slowly. “Isn’t that right?”
Dora didn’t need to parse Theodora’s meaning. It was her thought, after all.
“Mother sold me,” Dora said softly. “I think that she must have regretted it eventually. But that is not the greatest comfort in the world.” A dull sadness settled into her chest.
Tears gathered in Theodora’s eyes—but this time, she wiped at them and pressed her lips together. “Nevertheless, we must undo what we can of this. If you need a washing tub for whatever you are doing, then we will find one for you.”
Dora glanced towards Abigail, who was staring down at the newborn in her arms in abject confusion.
“Thank you for holding off the marquess for us,” Dora told her. And now, she did reach out to hug the little girl gently, careful of the baby between them. “I will not give up until you are home, I promise.”
Abigail smiled ruefully at that. There was a chip off of one of her front teeth. “Closest thing I’ve got to home is with Master Ricks,” she said. “And isn’t he the one that sold me off?”
Dora set her jaw. “George Ricks will not see you again,” she said. “You are sleeping in a clean, cozy bed, with a lovely woman named Mrs Dun looking in on you. I cannot believe that Elias would send you back to the workhouses after going to so much trouble to save you. But if he does, then... then we will find you a new home.”
Abigail shrugged, and Dora knew that the little girl didn’t believe her. But Lord Hollowvale had to be searching for her and Theodora even now, and there was no time to insist. Dora released the little girl again reluctantly.
Dora had visited the laundry room once or twice with Miss Jennings—the way there was the same as it had been in the Cleveland Street Workhouse. As she and Theodora descended the stairs, the scent of lye grew overwhelming, and they both began to cough.
The tubs downstairs were full of fresh, soapy water, though there was no laundry to do and no one there to perform the washing. Perhaps, Dora thought, Lord Hollowvale had simply wished to recreate the atmosphere of a real, true workhouse as closely as he was able.
Pale, wavery light streamed into the semi-basement from barred windows near the top of the walls, barely bright enough to light their way. Dora headed to the tub closest to one of those windows and settled down onto her knees before it.
“This is far from ideal,” she sighed, as she looked into the soapy water. But she could see a faint, distorted reflection in the water nonetheless, and she knew that it was the closest she was going to find to a proper mirror on such short notice. “It will simply have to do.”
“You’ll be able to talk to Elias this way?” Theodora asked urgently.
“I don’t know,” Dora admitted. “He has wards against such intrusions, and I have never gotten past them before. I was thinking that I might s
cry on myself and hope that he is nearby, but I’m not certain if that would allow me to speak with him in the same way.”
“Well, we surely do not have much time,” Theodora said. “Do your best, and I shall watch at the door.”
Dora looked back down into the soapy water, and tried to concentrate. It was harder than ever before—even the vanity mirror in her room at Hayworth House had been more yielding. But with Theodora nearby, it was a simpler matter to imagine herself in detail, only with shorter hair and less emotion on her face. Surely, Dora thought, she would be asleep somewhere, with her hair down.
The image slipped away, again and again. Having both her halves in faerie at once was helping, Dora thought, but the soapy water was a miserable substitute for a helpfully-enchanted mirror. Still... after a few careful tries, she began to see black tendrils in the water, bleeding in at the edges. Slowly, a familiar image asserted itself before her: a sunny, upstairs room with two small, clean beds.
Jane—or rather, Abigail—still slept in the far bed, though her body looked more pale and haggard than ever. Dora saw herself tucked into the other bed. Compared to Abigail, Dora looked as though she had just gone to sleep for a midday nap; her face was arranged in peaceful repose.
If anything, the man who had settled himself into the chair next to Dora looked far worse than she did. Elias’ face was worn and drawn, and he had great black circles beneath his eyes. He was holding Dora’s hand in his, but he must have fallen asleep in spite of himself; he was slumped in a terribly uncomfortable-looking position in the chair.
The sight of him sent a confused relief through Dora. Simply seeing Elias again was a kind of proof that she had not dreamed him up. But the idea that Dora had now contributed to his grief with her foolishness made her sad.
Dora took a few steps closer and reached out to brush one of those wild, white-blond locks of hair from his face. Her fingers passed right through him, of course, and she sighed.
“Elias?” she whispered softly. “Can you hear me? You must wake up. You would be very upset with yourself if you did not wake up right now.”
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