With Fate Conspire

by Marie Brennan

  Instinct overcame caution. Eliza dragged the chair back over, pulled the front boxes out of the way, and reached for one at the back. It proved to be inappropriately heavy, and when she lifted the lid, a smile spread across her face. “Caught you.”

  Whatever hat had once occupied this box was long gone. In its place were books, magazines, and pamphlets. Eliza paged through them, hardly breathing. A pair of gothic novels, showing signs of repeated reading. A book of poems by someone named Oscar Wilde. An advertisement for a mesmerist. Scattered numbers of a few spiritualist magazines, and some pamphlets by Frederic Myers, whose name Eliza recognized. He and some other fellows had done a great deal of research into mediums and ghosts, even forming their own Society for Psychical Research.

  Was Miss Kittering interested in contacting a departed spirit, or did she fancy herself a medium? Eliza supposed it didn’t matter. Either way, this collection held a great many things Mrs. Kittering would not approve of in the slightest, not with her insistence upon perfect respectability. Nothing on faeries, not that Eliza could see without a more detailed search—but plenty that spoke of disreputable things.

  At the creak of the stairs, her heart leapt into her mouth. Eliza hastily crammed everything back into the hatbox, shoved it into place, threw the doors shut—catching them at the last instant so they would not slam—and put the chair back more or less where it belonged, before flinging herself at the fireplace, where she ought to be hard at work.

  When the door opened, she knew that only vanity had saved her from discovery. Not hers, but that of the footman Ned Sayers, who invariably paused to admire himself in the looking glass mounted at the top of the family staircase. Mrs. Kittering did not sack footmen as often as she did maids, because of the necessity of keeping a pair who were reasonably well matched in height and looks; as near as Eliza could tell, Ned Sayers’s face was the only thing keeping him in his position.

  She offered him a smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she had only just begun to rub black lead into the iron bars of the fireplace grate, when she should have been nearly done. Sayers smiled back, and held up a pair of delicate ankle boots. “Just returning these,” he said.

  “I hope they weren’t too much trouble to clean,” Eliza said. Servants’ gossip was her other great hope of learning anything; they knew far more about their masters and mistresses than those employers liked to consider. But Mrs. Fowler, who watched over their meals, had little tolerance for idle chatter; and when Eliza went to bed at night, she was far too exhausted to question Ann Wick, the upper-housemaid whose room she shared. Hoping to get something from Sayers, she added, “From what I hear, Miss Kittering can be dreadful hard on her belongings. A real hoyden, that one.”

  The footman shrugged, going past her. “I suppose.” Eliza watched surreptitiously as he opened the wardrobe doors and tossed the boots casually onto the bottom shelf; she prayed he would not notice anything out of place. Then she saw her rag still lying on the chair, and jerked her eyes back to the grate, cursing silently. But Sayers only said, “If you’d like, I could shine your shoes up for you. Such a pretty ankle you have.”

  A hand settled on Eliza’s calf, exposed where she knelt to do her work, and she jumped in surprise. Her sleeve caught on the knob of the ash pan; for a moment she was off balance, almost falling. Sayers caught her. Eliza dropped the brush in her haste to be free of him. “Mr. Sayers—”

  “Ned, please.” He smiled at her.

  Eliza did not like that smile at all. Maids could be turned off for dallying with men; perhaps Mrs. Kittering was not solely to blame for all the departures. But if she made him angry with her, that could be trouble, too. “I’m already behind in my work,” she said, dodging the question of what name to use. Picking up the brush, she frowned; it had rolled off the canvas she’d put down and left a smear of oily black lead on the floor. Then she bit back a curse in Irish, seeing that she’d gotten some of it on her hands, too. Even if Sayers left, there would be no returning to those hidden pamphlets; she’d leave dirty finger marks everywhere.

  “You’ll always be behind. Sunup to sundown, and Mrs. Kittering will be displeased at something you’ve failed to do; what’s a bit more, in exchange for some fun?”

  It cut too close to the bone. Sayers was right about the work; this house was so big, and the staff perpetually shorthanded, that Eliza found herself busy every waking minute. A stray thought had her wondering how deeply Miss Kittering slept, and that frightened her into sensibility: if she was considering sneaking into the young woman’s room at night, then she had lost every last shred of sense.

  All of which made Eliza’s tone harder than was perhaps wise when she said, “I need this job, Mr. Sayers. Mrs. Kittering may be displeased whatever I do, but that’s no reason for me to add to it a-purpose.”

  Sayers frowned. She could hardly bring herself to care; surely any trouble he posed would take time to really vex her, and she had no intention of being here long enough to give him the chance. What mattered was Miss Kittering, and her secrets.

  “I thought you a more friendly girl than this,” he said.

  Eliza almost laughed in his face. Fergus Boyle had said much the same to her once, and she knew well what kind of “friendliness” they were trying to coax out of her. But no; if I laugh he will be angry, and I should avoid that if I can. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sa— Ned. It’s just that life has been miserable hard for me lately, and this position is the best bit of luck I’ve had in ages. I don’t dare risk it. Please, forgive me.”

  His given name stuck in her craw, as did the apology, but it had the desired effect; the footman’s hard mouth softened into a more accepting line. And he didn’t even offer to make life easier for her—not yet, anyway. Eliza had little doubt such false promises would come. “How could I not forgive a pretty face like that?” he asked—stretching the truth close to the breaking point, for Eliza knew herself no beauty. Her life had been much too hard for that.

  When the door opened a second time, she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or dismayed, for she was sure it would be Mrs. Fowler, come to thrash Eliza for being a sluggard. But the figure in the doorway was half a foot shorter and half the housekeeper’s size, and dressed ten times more finely: Miss Louisa Kittering herself.

  Eliza shot to her feet and curtsied. Sayers rose more lazily, and though he stood behind Eliza, out of her sight, she was sure he tried one of his smiles on Miss Kittering, for the young woman’s mouth twisted in disdain. “Don’t you have work to do?” she asked him.

  “Of course, miss.” He had the gall to pinch Eliza’s rump as he left. She went rigid, then remembered herself and curtsied again. “I was just polishing the grate, miss. I’ll come back later—”

  “No, help me change clothes.” Miss Kittering shut the door again and tossed her bonnet carelessly toward the bed. It fell short, and rolled across the carpet.

  With that black lead on her fingers, Eliza knew she ought to call for Lucy, the lady’s maid. But this was too splendid an opportunity to pass up; Mrs. Kittering was firm on the subject that servants should be seen only when they were needed, and ideally never heard at all, which meant she might never have another chance to speak with the young woman.

  So she retrieved her rag from the chair while Miss Kittering’s back was turned and gave her fingers a hard scrub, until the black lead no longer came off at a touch. “A walking dress,” the young woman said, pulling off her elegant little shoes with a sigh; Eliza went to the wardrobe and fetched one out, hoping she remembered the subtleties of ladies’ clothing well enough to have chosen the right outfit.

  “It’s a lovely day for walking,” she said to Miss Kittering. Not that she’d put her nose out of the house past taking deliveries at the cellar door, but the last two days had seemed much warmer, and there was even some sun.

  Miss Kittering made an unenthusiastic sound in reply. Determined to get more than that, Eliza asked, “Are you going up to Hyde Park, then?”

  “K
ensington Gardens,” the young woman said. She bent to see herself in the mirror, smoothing her polished golden hair, then straightened so Eliza could unbutton the back of her morning dress. “Mama’s idea, of course. She would send me out in a thunderstorm, if Mr. Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes asked.”

  “Who?” Eliza bit her lip an instant after the question slipped out. She couldn’t help herself; the name was so absurdly long.

  Miss Kittering didn’t comment on her rudeness. “Eldest son of Baron Saye and Sele. Only a baron, as Mama put it—‘but at least it’s not a new barony.’” She spoke those last words in perfect mimicry of her mother’s voice, then sniffed in disgust.

  “You don’t care for him, then?” Eliza laid the morning dress aside for later folding.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him,” Miss Kittering said, holding her arms up for Eliza to slip the walking dress over her head. “But it’s ‘Louisa, go here,’ and ‘Louisa, go there,’ and ‘Louisa, don’t waste your time dancing with anyone who doesn’t have a title,’ and it’s enough to make me scream. All because she still thinks she could have married that viscount, if only her figure had been of higher quality, and so she’s determined to—”

  Miss Kittering stopped there; apparently she had just noticed herself gossiping with a servant. Eliza devoted her attention to the row of little buttons, as if she’d heard nothing at all. So Miss Kittering had a rebellious nature, did she? It didn’t surprise Eliza in the slightest. But what, aside from the general impulse to kick against her mother, did that have to do with faeries?

  Experimentally, she said, “I imagine you’d rather just curl up with a book.”

  The back beneath her hands stiffened. Eliza cursed her tongue; what if Miss Kittering realized she’d been snooping in the wardrobe? The young woman said, again in mimicry of her mother, “‘Too much reading rots a girl’s brains.’” Then Eliza finished with the buttons and Miss Kittering pulled away. “My ankle boots, and the yellow shawl; it is not so warm out there as all that.”

  Eliza curtised and fetched the requested articles. And then Miss Kittering was gone, leaving her with a half-polished grate, and only a few tantalizing hints of an answer.

  The Goblin Market, Onyx Hall: March 30, 1884

  Even in the Goblin Market, few people paid attention to a dog.

  They were too common to mind. The Onyx Hall held some actual strays—mostly pets, abandoned by faerie owners who tired of them. Cats sometimes slipped through the hidden entrances by means no one could explain, but it was a rare dog who stumbled upon one of the holes in the palace’s fabric. There were also faerie hounds, creatures of some intelligence, but no shapeshifting ability. And then there were fae like Dead Rick, who walked equally well as men or dogs: skrikers, padfoots, galley-trots, and more. It was possible to tell the various kinds apart, but only if the watcher paid attention.

  So Dead Rick could and did crisscross the warren that housed the Goblin Market without attracting much notice at all. Far less notice than he would have attracted if he’d gone asking for Cyma, when he had such a particular question for her. He finally picked up a trail that smelled more or less recent, and followed it into a quieter part of the warren, until it was drowned out by the overpowering scent of opium.

  Dead Rick briefly considered waiting. He hated the opium den; it was full of delirious mortals in varying states of mental decay, easy prey for the fae who had lured them below. And if Cyma had been smoking it herself, she might be in no state to help him.

  But he didn’t want to waste any time. And if he stayed low to the ground, out of the worst of the smoke, he could get in and out before it had too much effect on him. Peeling his lips back in annoyance, Dead Rick slipped through the brocaded silk curtains that had taken the place of the den’s missing door.

  The light inside was murky, partially from the smoke, partially from the various covers placed over the faerie lights: oiled cloth, colored glass, anything to soften and warm that cold brilliance. He couldn’t smell anything through the opium reek, though, and was glad the abundant shadows gave him useful concealment until his eyes adjusted enough to make his way around the room.

  Most of the people he saw were mortal. With the introduction of faerie opium from China, this had become the most common means of harvesting dreams: men and the occasional woman lay in loose-limbed stupor on narrow pallets, and from time to time figures would take shape in the smoky air above their heads. Once bottled, those were worth a bit on the market, though not as much as the clean product. And besides, the only sorts of people fae could usually lure down here were the dregs of London, beggars and cripples and madmen, poor folk who would sell their souls to forget their troubles for a little while. Not much variety to be had from such stock.

  The fae who slipped among them weren’t Nadrett’s people. The opium den was under the control of a Chinese faerie with a long, elaborate name that had soon been shortened to Po, and he did business only with Lacca, another Goblin Market boss. Together they defended the opium-dream trade against Nadrett’s attempts to take it over. But they allowed individuals to pay for use of the dens and, as Dead Rick suspected, Cyma was among them.

  She was in a back corner, leaning up against a low couch, helping a golden-haired young mortal woman in a nightgown steady an opium pipe carved of ivory. The pupils of Cyma’s eyes were slightly contracted, but he guessed that to be the mere result of sitting too long in the room; the young woman, on the other hand, was thoroughly lost to the drug. After a long drag on the pipe, she opened her eyes, saw Dead Rick, and fell to helpless giggling. He felt disgruntled at her reaction: he was a death omen, after all, not some lady’s idiot lapdog. But perhaps that was the opium at work.

  Cyma turned to see what her mortal was laughing at, and frowned at Dead Rick. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  It was possible to speak in dog form, but not easy. Dead Rick shifted back, then said, “I was going to ask you that.” He, too, kept his voice low, but not out of consideration for the opium smokers. If any of them were alert enough to pay attention, he didn’t want them overhearing more than necessary. “Wasn’t you supposed to be going somewhere? Away from ’ere?”

  “Soon enough.” An unfocused smile spread across her face; the drug was affecting her, after all. “Soon I’ll be safe. I’m done chasing mortals for Nadrett … London will be mine, and I won’t need him anymore.”

  Dead Rick had no idea what she meant by most of that, but one thing was clear enough to prick his curiosity. “Who did ’e send you after?” His attention went to the girl on the couch. “’Er?”

  “No!” Cyma said. It was abrupt enough that he believed it, especially with the way she shifted as if to protect the girl; for a moment, he thought she might say more. But Cyma wasn’t so far gone that she would spill her secrets that easily. “Nadrett’s business,” she muttered, subsiding. Was he imagining the guilt on her face? “It was a man he wanted, and nothing to do with you.”

  Could this have something to do with the plan the voice had spoken of? Dead Rick doubted it. Nadrett sent his minions after people all the time; Gresh harvested them regularly from the East End, for bread and less pleasant things. Rewdan’s business was something less usual. “Cyma … do you still talk to that fellow over in the Academy?”

  “Yvoir?” Cyma’s gaze sharpened, and she said in something more like her regular voice, “What do you want, Dead Rick?”

  He’d practiced the lie until he could tell it convincingly. “I might know ’ow to get my ’ands on some compounds from Faerie. But I ain’t no scientist; I don’t know what they’re good for. And that means I don’t know what they’re worth. I was ’oping you might be able to find out for me.”

  “What compounds?”

  “Satyr’s bile. Lunar caustic. Maybe some others, but those two for sure.”

  The mortal’s hand groped absently through the air, from where she had sagged back along the couch. Cyma caught it, then hung on as if she could read the answer to
Dead Rick’s question in the young woman’s palm. He held his breath, waiting. Cyma was the only person he halfway trusted; if she couldn’t help him—or wouldn’t—he’d have to buy the answer from someone else. Valentin Aspell sold information, but it came at a high price.

  Cyma frowned. “Won’t your master be angry? If you go making deals behind his back.”

  Not ’alf so angry as ’e’ll be if ’e finds out what I’m really doing. “I can’t afford to be safe, Cyma.” He gestured around: at the opium den, the Goblin Market, the Onyx Hall. Maybe at London itself. “It’s all falling apart, ain’t it? Nadrett’s got me chained to ’im now, sure, but I ain’t stupid enough to believe that’ll ’elp me much when the end comes. ’E’ll leave me to drown, I know it. I got to be ready to run on my own.”

  Cyma’s gaze softened. One hand reached out to stroke his cheek; he flinched away. To his surprise, he saw the bright glint of tears in her eyes. “We shouldn’t have to run,” she whispered.

  The opium was starting to make him light-headed. He fought it back with bitter anger. “Unless you’ve got a new palace stuffed down the front of your dress, we ain’t got much choice. Bloody ’umans are going to crush us underfoot, and never know we was ’ere.” He glared at the oblivious young woman on the couch.

  “Some of them know,” Cyma said, and stroked the girl’s hand. “Maybe if they all did—”

  “What?” Dead Rick’s skin jumped all over, as if he’d turned around to find Nadrett pointing a gun at him. “Are you bleeding mad? They’d kill us.”

  Cyma gestured languorously at the slumped figures all around the opium den. “These don’t. The ones in the Academy don’t. The idea isn’t mine, Dead Rick; you’d be surprised who else agrees. We’re a part of London, damn it—have been for centuries. Why shouldn’t we admit it?”