Abigail shifted on her feet uncomfortably. “I know you’re bein’ silly,” she grumbled. But the observation had cut through her anger somewhat, and she sighed. “I’m sorry for bein’ bossy,” she said. “You know how hard I keep tryin’ to get the hang of faerie magic. It’s just not fair seein’ someone else imagine impossible things so easily.”
Hugh looked down at his shoes. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he said. “I know how hard you worked to get me out of Hollowvale. All I meant to say was… if you’re good at mortal magic, an’ Mercy’s good at faerie magic, then you’d be able to do a lot between the two of you.”
Abigail grimaced. “I do think Mercy’s hidin’ something,” she said darkly. “Imagine her showin’ up with faerie magic, right as we’re scarin’ off faeries. I meant what I said about keepin’ her close. I’d chase her down, if I thought I could catch her… but I’m not all that sure if I could, right this second.”
Hugh straightened. “I bet I can convince her to stick with us, if we manage to find her again,” he said.
Abigail pursed her lips. “I’ll leave that to you, then,” she said, “if we manage to find her again.” She turned back towards the bedroom. “But I doubt Lady Pinckney’s goin’ to let us in here again—so we’d best make the most of it while we’re here, first.”
Abigail spent another half an hour performing spells and searching over the bedroom with a few more sips of eyebright tea. She found very little of magical note, unfortunately—but just as she was about to give up, she discovered something exceptionally peculiar beneath Lucy’s dresser, right next to the western window.
“It’s a little flower,” Abigail said, as she pushed back up to her feet. “Look at this, though—I think it’s oleander! I’ve only ever seen it grow in Blackthorn, in faerie. It’s as poisonous as anything. I got a rash last time I touched one.” Abigail offered her gloved hand out towards Hugh, with the tiny white flower at the centre of her palm.
Hugh peered at the flower. “I’m fairly sure Lord Blackthorn wouldn’t poison anyone,” he said. “He doesn’t tend to climb through windows, neither.”
Abigail frowned at her hand. “I don’t think this flower’s from faerie at all,” she said. “Faerie stuff is always off, just like the tarts in Hollowvale. This is a real oleander.”
Hugh crossed his arms. “Well, what’s that supposed to tell us?” he asked. Hugh was far more interested in tarts than he was in flowers.
Abigail rolled her eyes at him. “None of Lucy’s beaus would’ve given her a poisonous flower,” she said. “An’ she wouldn’t be wearin’ one, neither. I think that sluagh that came through the window must’ve shed this on its way in.”
Hugh cocked his head curiously. “But you just said you’ve never seen an oleander outside of faerie,” he said. “Where would you find a flower like that in London?”
Abigail smiled triumphantly. “You’d only find it somewhere like an orangery,” she said. “An’ I bet I know which orangery.”
Chapter 4
Abigail nearly found them a hackney right away—it was getting late in the day, after all—but thankfully, Hugh was keen enough to remind her about Mr Hayes.
They found the little scarecrow still furiously dancing, just outside the house across the street.
“Look at him go!” Hugh marvelled. “He’s a hard worker, isn’t he?”
Abigail pursed her lips. “I should end the spell now, shouldn’t I?” she observed dubiously.
Hugh shot her an offended look. “You can’t!” he said. “You already named him an’ everything!”
Abigail sighed. “Technically, you named him,” she muttered. But she, too, felt an odd sense of responsibility for the little scarecrow now. Abigail leaned down to scoop up the straw doll. “Just stay put for a bit,” she instructed Mr Hayes. “I’m sure there’ll be more sluagh for you to chase off later.”
Mr Hayes slowed his wiggling in her hands. Once Abigail was sure he’d calmed down enough, she tucked him back into her reticule.
“Right,” Abigail said. “Kensington Gardens isn’t that far. We should be able to make it in before lock out.”
Hugh grimaced. “But you said we’re not goin’ back to Hollowvale—” he started.
Abigail cut him off. “We’re not goin’ back to Hollowvale,” she said. “The sluagh are usin’ the same paths in an’ out of faerie that we do, in Kensington Gardens. I think the one that came through Lucy’s window must’ve used a path in the Greenhouse. It’s not supposed to be public—but what do faeries care about visitin’ hours?”
Hugh considered this seriously. “You think we’ll find anything useful there?” he asked.
“I think we’ll find some witnesses,” Abigail said, as she whistled down a hackney.
Abigail had gone to Kensington Gardens with her mother and father quite often. Most ladies and gentlemen enjoyed walking in the gardens on Sundays during the day, while they were open to the public—but Abigail’s family found the gardens both beautiful and functional. After lock out, once the sun disappeared, dozens of paths into faerie appeared within the gardens. This was why the gardens were really off-limits after nine in the evening—for faeries of all sorts tended to stroll about the gardens at night, no matter how much Elias tried to discourage them.
Hugh and Abigail arrived at the gardens with a few hours to spare before lock out. Abigail probably should have been better-dressed for the occasion—but the black mourning ribbon on her bonnet must have garnered her some sympathy, for no one stopped her to remark on her very plain gown.
It was pleasant for a while, strolling along the Broad Walk with Hugh—though the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen around them saw Abigail walking all on her own. Tall green trees reached up towards the sky, casting shade along the edges of the large path. Knots of people lingered there in the last hours of daylight, laughing together as they went.
“It seems silly, doesn’t it?” Hugh asked, looking around at the other people in their very best walking dress. “People come here just to walk?”
“People come here to walk together,” Abigail corrected him. A hint of wistfulness slipped into her voice. “Couples come walkin’ here, especially.”
Hugh shot Abigail a dry look. She knew he still didn’t see the appeal. He’d never grown up enough to wonder about spending his life with someone else. Abigail had thought about such things—briefly, at least, before her disastrous Season had disabused her of the notion entirely. No one, she had realised then, was ever going to ask her to go walking with them. Long walks were for talking. Talking to other people required that you have things in common with them.
Abigail had so very little in common with any of the beau monde. Women like Lucy talked of French gowns and available bachelors. Men talked of things like Oxford and the Continent. Abigail could have talked about how to stretch a meal over several days—or, conversely, how to break faerie curses. Over the course of that single Season, Abigail had come to see clearly the broad gulf that separated her from London’s upper crust. It was not a chasm which could ever be bridged with muslin and ribbons and careful accents.
“This is boring,” Hugh declared. “I’m goin’ to climb a tree.”
Abigail rolled her eyes. “Oh, go ahead,” she said. “I need to rest my feet a bit, anyway.”
Hugh spent some time picking out the perfect tree for climbing. Abigail sat herself beneath the chestnut tree he chose, watching as the world darkened around them. Soon, as the sun dipped lower on the horizon, even the most daring aristocrats began to make their way home.
For the space of about half an hour, the Broad Walk was utterly empty. But eventually, Hugh leaned over one of the tree branches and called down: “Here they come!”
They looked like distant swaying lanterns, at first. Each of them glowed a different colour of the rainbow, carrying their own light with them.
The faeries of the Broad Walk were all dressed like flowers this evening. The first couple to breach the ho
rizon consisted of a violet-skinned elfin woman in a large bluebell gown and a pale pink hyacinth lady, whom she seemed to be escorting. Abigail rose to her feet and squared her shoulders, heading back onto the path to meet them.
“Excuse me!” Abigail said to the bluebell faerie. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”
The two faerie ladies ignored Abigail roundly, strolling past her as though she didn’t exist.
“I simply cannot fathom it,” the hyacinth faerie observed to the bluebell. “Imagine, dressing as a tulip! How gauche.” At first, Abigail wondered whether the hyacinth was talking about her—but she saw then that the next faerie couple were dressed as an orange tulip and a yellow tulip.
Abigail stepped past the first faerie couple to speak with the tulips. “Good evening!” she said loudly. “Did you happen to see the ghost of an English lady pass by here, just a few nights ago?”
The tulips ignored her completely as well.
Abigail was just starting to get very irritated—but before she could open her mouth to comment on the faeries’ lack of politesse, someone else looped their arm through hers, such that a slim, pale hand came to rest upon her arm.
“Pardon us,” Mercy said, “but have you seen the ghost of an English lady wanderin’ around?”
Abigail glanced sideways at Mercy. The other woman had stepped out from the shadows in order to walk next to Abigail. Mercy was still wearing the faded green frock and apron from before; this close, however, Abigail noticed the sweet scent beneath the lye that clung to Mercy’s clothing. This time, Abigail knew for certain that it was the scent of lilies.
And who’s being nosy now? Abigail thought darkly. It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that Mercy had shown up at Kensington Gardens at exactly the same time as they had done. In fact, Abigail might have wondered whether Mercy had followed them in secret, if she hadn’t been watching for exactly that on their way there.
The two tulip faeries turned to regard Mercy and Abigail. One of them wore a garish orange gown, while the other wore a green shirt and trousers with a very loud yellow waistcoat and cravat.
“The ghost of an English lady?” mused the yellow tulip.
“I’m sure I haven’t seen anything like that,” the orange tulip tittered. She tilted her head at Mercy and Abigail. “But which flowers are you supposed to be? We are all supposed to be flowers, you know. That way, the mortals will overlook us if they wander into the gardens.”
Abigail raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think anyone would mistake you for—”
“We’re dressed as mortals an’ not as flowers,” Mercy said. “I’m dressed as a laundress, an’ she’s a magician.” Mercy shot Abigail a flat look that said: let’s not start an argument.
“I’m quite sure we all agreed to dress as flowers,” the orange tulip murmured.
“But I would have preferred to be a laundress!” the yellow tulip declared with distress. “Had I known that we were allowed—“
“But you haven’t seen a dead English lady anywhere?” Abigail insisted. “An’ no sluagh, neither?”
“Oh, neither,” the orange tulip assured Abigail. “But we don’t walk here every evening. You ought to ask the crocuses—they love the gardens here more than any of the rest of us. I’m sure you’ll find them dancing near the Round Pond.”
The tulips bowed to them and continued onwards—whereupon Abigail turned to look at Mercy.
“I thought you didn’t want to stick around me,” Abigail said. She meant for the words to come out as more of a challenge—but they were strangely subdued, instead. The stuck up magician comment was still bothering at Abigail, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
“The faeries won’t talk to anyone strollin’ down the walk without a partner,” Mercy grumbled. “Those are the rules.”
Abigail nearly said: Maybe I don’t want to be your partner. But even without a cup of tea, she managed to restrain herself and think again.
Mercy is suspicious, and we need to keep her close, Abigail thought instead.
And then there was a second, very quiet thought: I would like to take a walk with someone who isn’t related to me, just for a little bit.
“Then I suppose we’ll have to walk together,” Abigail said finally. She turned her head back towards Hugh’s tree, and saw that he had already jumped the last few feet to the ground.
“Hullo there, Mercy!” Hugh said breathlessly, as he hurried over to join them. “I know why we came to Kensington Gardens—but how’d you decide to come here?”
Mercy shifted her hand slightly against Abigail’s arm. Her fingers were long and delicate, but her hands were bare: she’d gone without even the simplest gloves. Her hands were far softer and smoother than Abigail might have expected from a laundress.
“I’ve got my own ways of findin’ things out,” Mercy said—and Abigail remembered belatedly that she was supposed to be thinking about how suspicious the other woman was, rather than about how nice her hands were.
“You’ve got faerie magic,” Abigail said dryly, “and you don’t seem frightened of all these funny flowers. At the very least, some faerie’s taught you magic.” The three of them walked down the path, nodding occasionally at the other bright faerie couples who passed them.
Mercy frowned at that. “No one taught me magic,” she corrected Abigail. “Like I said, I’ve always just had it. An’ I’m not sure what you mean by faerie magic, anyway. I’ve got inside magic an’ outside magic.” She glanced sideways at Abigail, from beneath her messy black hair. “I don’t much like outside magic. It’s boring.”
Abigail couldn’t help the spark of interest this statement struck within her. “What, er—what do you consider inside magic an’ outside magic?” she asked.
Mercy thought for a moment. “Well,” she said, “inside magic comes from inside of you, an’ you tell it what to do. You have to really believe in what you’re doin’, or else it misbehaves.” She knitted her brow. “Outside magic is where you use what everyone else believes. It’s like borrowin’ other people’s imagination, so it’s hard to get it wrong.”
Abigail blinked. “Well… you’ve just described faerie magic an’ mortal magic,” she said. “Only, I’ve never heard them described that way before. An’ I thought you had to be a faerie to do faerie magic.”
Mercy shrugged. “You’re not a faerie,” she said, “but that locket you’re carryin’ around with you is inside magic, isn’t it?”
Abigail reached up to touch the locket around her neck self-consciously. “I was stolen away to faerie for a while,” she murmured quietly. “I came back with a piece of it inside of me, I guess. But I don’t think that makes me a faerie. An’ I guess… well, I can do inside magic, but I’m not very good at it.”
Mercy nodded, as though this was a very reasonable explanation. “Well, there you are,” she said. “You’re not a faerie, an’ you still do inside magic.” She glanced up above them—and then, without so much as a pause in their conversation, she said: “What a sky that is! Can you imagine if we fell into it, like it was a lake?”
Abigail looked up at the sky. It was now very dark, out in the middle of Kensington Gardens, and she could just make out a few pin-prick stars. “That’s an awful long way to fall,” Abigail noted wryly.
Mercy sighed with exasperation. “See, that’s your problem,” she said. “You have to exercise your imagination if you want to use it for inside magic. If I tell you that sky looks like a lake, you don’t say no, you tell me what the stars are!”
Abigail squinted upwards dubiously. “Er,” she said. “I guess the stars could be fishes?”
“Sure they could!” Mercy agreed amiably. “But how’d they get there in that lake? Someone stocks the pond with fishes, don’t they? Who was it who threw those star-fish into the sky?”
“A gamekeeper!” Hugh volunteered. “He must have his cottage on the moon!”
“He could be a she,” Abigail told Hugh suddenly, “as long as we’re imaginin’ things.”<
br />
“Maybe you should apply for the job,” Mercy told Abigail, with a slow, sly smile. A pair of cornflower faeries swept past them, glowing a vibrant violet; the colour lit Mercy’s pale face strangely, so that for the moment, she appeared more otherworldly than tired.
There was something at once both magnetic and distressing about it, Abigail decided. The world seemed almost to bend around Mercy, as though casting itself constantly at her feet. Part of Abigail wanted to throw herself at Mercy’s feet as well—though thankfully, it was a very small part of Abigail, easily overruled by the rest of her rational mind.
Abigail was used to having strange feelings like that around faeries and their associates. Her Other Mum could be downright frightful at times. But for some reason, Mercy’s sly smile also made Abigail’s knees feel a little bit weak—and that had certainly never happened to her before.
Perhaps I’d best not exercise my imagination too much more, Abigail thought.
Thankfully, the Round Pond soon came into view—and what a view it was! Bright blue candles burned upon the lake, reflecting upon white swans and flower-dressed dancers. The faerie visitors to Kensington Gardens waltzed clockwise upon the water, twirling to the sound of a ghostly pipe.
Abigail searched the dancers carefully. “I think I see some crocuses,” she said. “Those white ones, over there. Perhaps we can wait until they finish dancing.”
A dangerous glint came into Mercy’s eyes. “Why wait at all?” she asked. “Look at that. You can’t pretend you don’t want to dance.”
Abigail hesitated. “I don’t know if I could imagine my feet into dancin’ on water,” she said. “An’ I’ve got this reticule—”
Mercy waved a hand. “I want to dance,” she said. “It looks like fun. I’ll imagine hard enough for both of us.”
“I’ll watch your things,” Hugh added helpfully. “You’ve got to talk with the crocuses somehow, Abby.”
Abigail considered Mercy for a long moment. The other woman was interesting, certainly—and Abigail couldn’t deny that Mercy’s enthusiasm was a bit contagious. Many things were simply off about her, however, and Abigail still had little reason to trust her.
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