Abigail straightened. “If you’re tryin’ to convince me to run away to Hollowvale, then you’re doin’ a poor job,” she said. “I’m hardly leavin’ you to face the lord of the sluagh while you’re all alone an’ powerless, even if he is under all those bans. You can’t have more’n a thimble full of your magic left, after all of that.”
Elias narrowed his eyes. “This is not up for discussion,” he said. “It is my job and my responsibility to protect England from black magic—not yours. I rarely ask anything of you at all, Abigail; but I am asking you now to take Hugh back to Hollowvale, and to remain there with him until I can resolve this.”
Abigail opened her mouth to protest—but Dora raised her eyebrows, just behind Elias’ shoulder, and shook her head minutely.
Slowly, Abigail closed her mouth again.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take Hugh back to Hollowvale.”
Elias relaxed his shoulders. He wavered visibly on his feet again, before Dora caught him by the shoulders. “Thank you, Abigail,” he said. His voice was tired and relieved. “I’ll send word as soon as this is sorted. I have hope that it won’t be long.”
Abigail clenched her jaw—but she forced a nod. “Mum,” she said, “can we talk outside for a moment?”
Dora nodded. “Would you find your father a chair first?” she asked. “I think it’s best if he rests for a bit longer.”
Abigail turned to head across the room, towards a desk and chair at the far wall. Hugh followed at her heels, scowling.
“I don’t want to go back to Hollowvale,” Hugh said. “I know you don’t either, Abby. Why’d you say yes?”
“We’re not actually goin’ back to Hollowvale,” Abigail muttered beneath her breath. “There’s just no use arguin’ with Dad when he’s like this.”
Hugh blinked. “So you lied?” he asked.
Abigail smiled humourlessly. “Dad’s the one who started keepin’ secrets,” she said. “I’m just followin’ his lead.”
There were notes still scattered across the desk. Abigail glanced them over quickly, picking out her father’s slightly messy handwriting. Her eyes caught upon the name Miss Lucy Kendall, and she blinked in surprise, filing it away for later.
The desk chair was a bit too large and bulky for Abigail to pick it up herself. There was a stool next to one of the toppled bookcases, however, and she picked this up to bring it back towards the window. Dora helped Elias to sit down, and she nodded at Abigail.
“Let’s speak before you leave, then,” Dora said. “I’ll return shortly, Elias.”
They headed back onto the stairs just outside of the ballroom. Once the door had closed behind them, Dora turned towards Abigail.
“You want me to go to Hollowvale too?” Abigail asked her mother sourly.
Dora sighed. “I promised to speak with your father,” she said, “and I will do that. I believe that I can puzzle through whatever is making him act this way. But in the meantime, it is not the worst idea for you to visit Hollowvale. It has occurred to me that Lady Hollowvale probably knows much more about Lord Longshadow than any of us would know. Perhaps you could ask her if she has any useful information while you are there.”
Abigail pursed her lips. “We could just as easily summon her,” she said. “Other Mum would come, if it was one of us callin’ her.”
“Lady Hollowvale only leaves her realm under the gravest circumstances,” Dora said. “She is very protective of the other children there. The matter does not yet seem that urgent, I think.” She smiled dimly at Abigail. “I will bring your father around, I promise. I think you would be a great help to him, if he would only admit it. You shall only be in Hollowvale for a little bit.”
Abigail heaved a put-upon sigh. It was harder, she thought, to lie to her mother. Dora was always so painfully sincere, and Abigail knew that it was easy to lie to her, because she so poorly understood people.
But when Abigail spoke, it was indeed a lie which spilled from her lips.
“I’d best get goin’ to Hollowvale then,” she said.
Chapter 2
Abigail had not particularly liked Miss Lucy Kendall. It was a strange circumstance, therefore, to be investigating the other girl’s death.
“Should I feel bad that Lucy’s dead?” Abigail asked Hugh, as they stepped out of a hired hackney. “Am I allowed to be relieved she won’t be at the next stupid party, instead?”
Hugh considered this as he walked behind her. “Wasn’t Lucy the one who made fun of your pock marks an’ called you a leper?” he asked.
“That was her,” Abigail said grimly. “As if I’d ever forget.”
Miss Lucy Kendall was—had been—a true beauty, and she had rarely let anyone forget it, even for a moment. Lucy’s mother, Lady Pinckney, was a woman of sharp tongue and great social standing, and Lucy had done everything in her power to emulate her. Lucy had technically come out into society several years ago, while she was still quite young—but everyone truly expected her to start selecting a husband this Season, now that she had reached the age of majority.
Abigail hadn’t really expected a fanfare when she came out into society herself—after all, she was not truly related to either her mother or her father, and very few of the bon ton wanted a workhouse brat at their functions, no matter how well Abigail dressed or spoke. But Aunt Vanessa had decided that Abigail ought to enjoy at least one Season of dresses and parties, and it was always so difficult to say no to Aunt Vanessa.
For some reason, Aunt Vanessa’s enthusiasm had convinced Abigail that the idea might not be an unmitigated disaster. But of course, it had been. Much as Abigail liked to consider herself thick-skinned, Lucy Kendall had made her run home crying at least once—and the older adults at those parties had at times been even worse.
Only the possibility that Elias might be blamed had prevented Abigail from cursing the awful girl with warts. It had been a terribly close thing, however.
Now here Abigail was, standing in front of Lord Pinckney’s townhouse with a black mourning ribbon on her bonnet, intent on learning more about his daughter’s murder.
“I think you’re allowed to be relieved,” Hugh said solemnly. “If Lucy wanted you to miss her, she could’ve treated you more nicely.” He paused. “An’ it’s not like you killed her.”
Abigail sighed. “No one would’ve missed me if I’d died in the workhouses,” she said. “Well—Mum an’ Dad would’ve missed me, even then. I want to miss anyone who dies, I guess, just on principle. But it’s harder’n I thought it would be.”
“I think Lucy’s got plenty of people to miss her,” Hugh said. “But none of those people can figure out why the sluagh killed her an’ stop ‘em from doin’ it again—so you can do that instead of missin’ her.”
Abigail grimaced. “You’ll have to talk to Lucy for me if her ghost is hangin’ around,” she warned Hugh. “I can only see you because I’ve got your locket.”
Hugh twisted up his mouth as though he’d eaten a lemon. “If I have to,” he said. “It’s better’n goin’ back to Hollowvale, I guess.”
A flutter of black at the edge of Abigail’s vision distracted her, drawing her eyes. She turned and saw two large ravens settled upon the overhang of an opposite townhouse. Both of the birds were watching her far too intently. Abigail narrowed her eyes at them.
“If you’re normal birds,” she called over to them, “you’d best get gone! An’ if you’re not normal birds… well, same thing!”
The two ravens continued staring at her, unblinking.
“You think they’re sluagh?” Hugh asked Abigail worriedly.
“I think it’d be an awful coincidence if they weren’t sluagh,” Abigail replied darkly. “Either they’re watchin’ the scene of their crime, or else…” She trailed off as a nasty thought occurred to her.
“Or else?” Hugh prompted carefully.
“Or else they’re followin’ me,” Abigail said. “Lord Longshadow can’t talk to his sluagh, but they might still hav
e figured out it was Dad who bound him. Maybe they think I’ll lead ‘em to Lord Longshadow’s feathers.”
Hugh shifted on his feet. “You think you could handle a pair of sluagh?” he asked Abigail warily.
Abigail straightened her back. “Let’s find out,” she said.
Technically speaking, Abigail had learned mortal magic from her father and faerie magic from her Other Mum. Most normal people shouldn’t have been able to use faerie magic at all—but ever since Abigail had returned from Hollowvale the first time, she’d exhibited a talent for both magics at once.
Of the two, mortal magic should have been more difficult; it required strange props, careful study, and sometimes very specific incantations. But Abigail had always found faerie magic to be far more trying. Faerie magic, Other Mum had told her, required only that you utterly believe that what you were trying to accomplish would happen. Faeries, she’d said, were experts at believing in ridiculous things.
Abigail was not very good at believing in ridiculous things. For much of her early life, she’d been incapable of changing the world around her, no matter how hard she tried. When Abigail’s first mother had grown ill, she’d tried very hard to nurse her back to health—but obviously, that had not worked very well, and her mother had died instead. At the Cleveland Street Workhouse, the workhouse master had controlled every aspect of Abigail’s life, from the moment she woke and ate her miserly breakfast to the moment she finished picking oakum and staggered her way to bed.
The first time Abigail had truly managed to change anything had been that moment in Hollowvale when she’d lied to her faerie captor and helped to hide Dora from him. She hadn’t expected that to change much of anything either… but thankfully, it had.
It now seemed insulting to Abigail that she was so terrible at believing in things. And so, she often ended up trying to use faerie magic, even when it wasn’t terribly advisable.
Abigail dug down into her soul for the cold seed of power that Hollowvale had planted within her. Hollowvale’s power numbed her fingers and tickled at her insides, searching eagerly for an outlet. Abigail concentrated hard, doing her best to give it that outlet.
She stared down the two ravens and tried to imagine them being blown away by a stiff wind. That was plausible, she thought, and therefore easier to believe.
Hollowvale’s power lurched within her, clumsy and uncertain. The magic tried to shape itself to Abigail’s imagination—but her belief in that stiff wind was nearly as squidgy as the cucumber sandwiches from that morning. Abigail scowled and swayed on her feet, shoving the faerie magic hastily back down inside of herself.
Silence settled in upon the street. One of the two ravens cocked its head at her curiously. For a second, Abigail thought she could feel a tiny breeze… but perhaps that was just nature’s way of trying to make her feel better.
“Fine,” Abigail snapped frustratedly. “We’ll do it the other way.”
Abigail still wore her very proper, pocketless muslin—but she had brought with her the largest reticule she could find, full of her most important magician’s tools. From this reticule, she extracted a small bundle of straw and a ball of twine. She tied off bits of straw with the string, until she’d formed a clumsy human figure.
Hugh watched on with interest. “Is that supposed to be a doll?” he asked. “Looks a bit funny.”
“Hush, you,” Abigail muttered. “It’ll do in a pinch.” So saying, she spat once upon the straw doll and set it down on the ground in front of her feet. Abigail paused as she looked at it. “Curses,” she said. “I have to name him now. Anything you want to walk around on its own really ought to have a name.”
Hugh grinned. “You could call him Mr Hayes,” he said.
Abigail groaned softly at the pun. But since her mind had yet to offer up a better name, she shook her head in resignation. “Doll!” she declared. “I name you Mr Hayes! Go forth an’ scare the birds, as you were made to do!”
This time, Abigail called the magic from all around her, instead of from inside herself. It beaded invisibly upon her skin like dew collecting on grass, trickling into her consciousness and shaping itself into a form that centuries of English farmers found so very familiar. Finally, as she became convinced that she had collected enough power, she forced the image of the scarecrow upon the doll just in front of her.
At first, Abigail worried that even this bit of mortal magic had failed. But a second later, the little straw doll wiggled itself onto its feet. It did not have a head, so much as a short stub of straw—but she still had the impression that it was looking up at her.
Mr Hayes lifted one clumsy arm of straw and saluted her.
The tiny doll turned around and marched across the street, towards the curious ravens on the other side.
Mr Hayes was far from the most terrifying creature in the world—but that didn’t much matter. Many thousands of people believed that scarecrows did indeed scare crows—and ravens were close enough as made no difference. As the doll marched closer and closer to the foot of the building where the birds perched, they began to shuffle in alarm.
Mr Hayes paused beneath the awning with the birds, staring up at them with his head made of hay. Then—very seriously—he began to dance from foot to foot in what was surely meant to be a threatening manner.
The ravens croaked with terror. One of them took off instantly, bolting into the air. The other one inched backwards, cowering from the sight of the doll.
“Good job, Mr Hayes!” Hugh called out—though it was unlikely that the doll could hear him. “Go get those sluagh!”
The doll continued its strange dance; now, it waved its arms like fronds. The raven that still lingered croaked pitifully, and fled.
Mr Hayes watched the two ravens go with mute satisfaction. Eventually, he marched back towards Abigail and then settled in front of her, as though awaiting orders.
“Stay out here an’ guard against more birds,” Abigail ordered him. “They might try to come back.”
Mr Hayes saluted once more—and Abigail turned back towards Lord Pinckney’s townhouse.
Slowly, she headed up the steps in front of the building, pausing in front of its bright red door. Abigail eyed the wrought iron door knocker there with distaste—for though her time in Hollowvale had granted her some measure of faerie magic, she had also found that iron now burned her in the same way that it burned faeries. She rapped her knuckles against the thick wooden door, avoiding the door knocker entirely.
A little while later, the butler opened the door. His clothing was sharp and neat, but Abigail was unsurprised to see dark circles under his eyes. “May I help you, miss?” he asked politely.
“Would you please let Lady Pinckney know that Miss Abigail Wilder has come to call?” Abigail asked. “I am here to offer my condolences, among other things.” She fished out a calling card and passed it over. Abigail hadn’t expected ever to require her own calling cards, but thankfully Aunt Vanessa had insisted on having them made for her when she’d turned eighteen. Sometimes, Abigail thought, her aunt was a bit more foresighted than she liked to admit.
The butler nodded and took the calling card. “I will inform Lady Pinckney of your visit,” he said. “If you could please wait here?”
He framed this as a question—but of course, Abigail was not interested in waiting awkwardly on the doorstep. She nodded and followed him into the entryway, where she sat down on a stool to wait.
It took only five minutes before Hugh began to squirm in his seat. “How long d’you think we’re goin’ to wait?” he asked Abigail anxiously.
“Probably quite a while,” Abigail mumbled quietly. “Lady Pinckney hates our whole family, I hear. Lucy got it from somewhere.”
Hugh rolled his eyes. “She can’t have even met our whole family,” he said. “Mum an’ Dad barely socialise at all.”
“Yes,” Abigail said ironically, “we all make very fine fodder for gossip that way.”
Hugh groaned. “I’m tired of wait
in’,” he said. “I’m goin’ to take a look around for ghosts.”
Abigail bit her lip. Hugh’s ability to wander was very useful, and she’d begun to worry that Lady Pinckney wouldn’t allow her to investigate matters at all. “As you like,” she said softly. “Just let me know if you find anything.”
Hugh grinned. “If I find Lucy’s ghost,” he said, “you’re goin’ to get a whole earful, I promise.” So saying, he waltzed for the far end of the entryway and disappeared deeper into the townhouse.
After about a half hour more of waiting in the entryway, Abigail knew for certain that she was unwelcome. But Abigail was far too stubborn to leave—and eventually, the lady of the house must have become at least mildly curious, because the butler finally returned.
“The lady is just finishing her morning meditations,” he advised Abigail, “but she has agreed to see you.” There was a faint superiority to his voice now, and Abigail knew that Lady Pinckney had expressed to him her personal dislike of Abigail’s family. Nevertheless, she rose to her feet and followed him into the drawing room.
Lady Pinckney was in every way an older version of her late daughter: her porcelain skin had only a few aged wrinkles, and her fine blonde hair was neatly swept atop her head. She wore a full black mourning gown and a shawl, however—and, just as with the butler, she had large black circles beneath her eyes, which she had not bothered to hide in any way.
Currently, the lady sat in a chair at the table, reading her Bible. She did not look up as Abigail entered the room, though there was at least a fresh pot of tea on the table, along with two teacups. The only other available seat was a hard-backed wooden chair, which faced the wall and not the windows. A maid stood silently against the wall, just behind the lady’s table.
Abigail inclined her head. “Thank you for seeing me, Lady Pinckney,” she said. “You have my condolences, with regard to recent events.” Abigail spoke very slowly, trying for a crisp, elevated accent.
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