Abigail pulled the silver flask from her reticule and sipped at her eyebright tea. The candlelight took on a strange sort of too-bright haze… but nothing hidden leapt out at her, and she tucked the flask back into her reticule with a frown.
A man in a blue vest with salt-and-pepper hair excused himself from his current conversation, striding out towards Elias. Elias, in turn, set his jaw as though he were about to deal with something very unpleasant.
“Blast it,” Elias muttered, disturbing Abigail’s thoughts. “Lord Breckart is headed over to give his personal regards. Well, there’s no need for all of us to suffer at once.”
“I can see Lady Mulgrew from here,” Dora observed idly. “She is certain to spend the entire evening gossiping. I will go and encourage her for a bit.”
Abigail thought about bringing up her Other Mum’s whisper… but admittedly, she wasn’t certain what to say about it. They suspected already that someone dangerous was in attendance, and she could not yet offer any more specific information on the subject.
Abigail’s parents both slipped away into the crowd, even as Hugh looked around, wrinkling his nose. “So many people,” he muttered. “I’m goin’ to have to walk through ‘em. Always feels funny.”
Abigail brushed away her uncertainty, shooting him a sympathetic look. “You can stick to the corners if you want,” she said. “I think most of the unsavoury talk happens there anyway.”
Hugh nodded. “Lucy says she knows just who to go listen in on. I think she’s a little excited about it, actually.”
Abigail stifled an annoyed response—of course Lucy would love being able to eavesdrop on everyone—and nodded her head instead. “I’d be obliged if you could point Hugh in a helpful direction then, Lucy,” she said. “Well. We all know where I’m headed. I suppose I’ll go pretend to join the husband huntin’.”
Hugh chortled to himself at that, as he strolled away with his hands in his pockets. Abigail glanced about the room, searching for her targets. She found them soon enough—for the young women of the marriage mart always seemed to congregate together in a flock. This evening, they were huddled together with their punch and their fans, waiting for the hostess to officially open the dance floor.
Abigail picked up her skirts—conscious, this time, not to flash any bit of her ankles—and started towards the marriage corner. Previous experience led her to expect that she would be hard-pressed to shove her way through the other guests; but this time, people moved instantly out of her way, watching after her as she passed.
Miss Bridget Gillingham was the first to assess Abigail’s approach. Abigail did not have much of a head for social details, but she seemed to recall that Miss Gillingham was considered to be possessed of both an average appearance and an average dowry. Miss Gillingham had made up for both by cleaving closely to Lucy’s company, showering her regularly with the compliments that she so clearly desired. For her part, Abigail found nothing off-putting about Miss Gillingham’s appearance—she had always chosen simple, flattering gowns which went well with her brown eyes and chestnut hair. Rather, it was Miss Gillingham’s ruthless, mercenary personality which bothered Abigail the most.
Miss Gillingham was, Abigail thought, the most likely young lady to give her the cut and to encourage the other ladies to do the same. But tonight, Miss Gillingham pasted on a pleased sort of smile as she saw Abigail, and she gestured her over to join the group.
Privately, Abigail reminded herself to thank Mercy later. It was amazing, really, what a little bit of midnight could do for one’s social standing.
“And here we thought we would never see you again!” Miss Gillingham declared, as Abigail came within speaking distance. “It has been far too long, Abigail. I hope that you and your parents are doing well?”
Abigail had to work not to flinch at the use of her first name. Lucy and the others had always called her Abigail, as a point of disrespect. Miss Gillingham now used the name as though it had always been a sign of affectionate familiarity, rather than scorn. But there was no point in correcting her, Abigail decided. This suddenly warm welcome could only work to her advantage.
“We are doing well,” Abigail said carefully, rounding out her accent with care. “We have been very busy, of course, and so our social commitments fell sadly by the wayside.”
“Of course, naturally,” Miss Gillingham agreed sympathetically. “Service to one’s country must come first. We are all so grateful to the Lord Sorcier for his diligent protection.”
Miss Phoebe Haddington—a blonde young woman with self-consciously crooked teeth—shot Abigail a close-lipped smile. “But perhaps you have been attending balls in faerie, instead?” Miss Haddington suggested. “I always said that you were surely a faerie princess in disguise. And now, I am proven correct! Please tell us, Abigail—is there a faerie lord pining over your return as we speak?”
Abigail blinked slowly. The flattery was nearly outrageous enough to be insulting. It reminded her, in fact, of the way in which ladies had once spoken to Lucy. The idea left such a sour taste in her mouth that she struggled to keep it from her face.
That’s exactly the sort of ridiculous flattery that would work on Lucy, Abigail thought. They’re only doing what they know best.
“There are no faerie lords pining over me, so far as I know,” Abigail said carefully. She wondered whether she ought to confirm the idea that she had been to faerie balls before—Lady Hollowvale held bizarre parties for the children and the other faeries, every so often—but Abigail was certain that the admission would derail the conversation entirely. Instead, she said: “Miss Lucy Kendall is missing, I notice. I had nearly forgotten about that tragedy.”
Miss Gillingham and Miss Haddington exchanged suddenly wary looks. The other ladies behind them shifted in discomfort.
“Yes, er… a terrible tragedy,” Miss Haddington said.
“Truly awful,” Miss Gillingham agreed. “One cannot help but feel that it should never happen to anyone. But…”
“But,” Miss Haddington agreed, with a wince.
Miss Gillingham leaned forward conspiratorially, speaking from behind her fan. “One must admit that things have been somewhat more pleasant without Lucy, God rest her soul. She treated us all so abominably. And the way in which she spoke of you in particular—oh, forgive me, but there ought to be limits to performing grief. Lucy really was nothing but a bully.”
Abigail stared at Miss Gillingham for a long moment. The obvious callousness did not bother her—Abigail had shared the very same sentiment with Hugh, after all. But the implication that every terrible thing said about Abigail had been Lucy’s fault—the idea that the other young women had just handed off all of their own previous, nasty behaviour to a dead woman—seemed so utterly beyond the pale that Abigail could not immediately manage a coherent response.
“I remember when you called Miss Wilder a pock-marked hag, Miss Gillingham,” said a quiet voice. “I am sure that she remembers it as well.”
Abigail glanced sharply towards the voice in question. Miss Esther Fernside was short and unassuming, with her mousy hair and her downcast gaze; it had been terribly easy to miss her among the other ladies. She was wearing a pale yellow ball gown tonight that looked as though it had been packed away for some time.
Miss Gillingham flushed brightly. “I… I don’t recall that at all,” she floundered. “Your memory has failed you entirely, Miss Fernside. I know that your father is our host, but that certainly does not give you leave to slander your own guests.”
Abigail stifled a wince. She hadn’t intended to waste time defending herself—but she could hardly allow Miss Fernside to be harassed for sticking up for her in turn.
“I do distinctly remember hearing that comment from your lips, Miss Gillingham,” Abigail said. “But I understand the difficult position that you were in at the time. I am sure that Lucy encouraged you to speak that way.”
Miss Fernside cast a sharp look at Abigail—and Abigail knew then that they were
both aware that she was lying. Abigail did not understand the mindset necessary to insult someone else so callously. And, against all implications, she did not forgive Miss Gillingham in the slightest for her previous behaviour.
Still, Miss Gillingham relaxed, now looking only mildly embarrassed. “I truly cannot remember ever having made such a remark,” she said. “But… if I ever did, of course, you have my deepest apologies. As you say, I was not always myself around Lucy.”
Now that Abigail was aware that she could find women attractive, she could not help but think: This is why I never fell in love at any balls. So many of you aristocrats are all so terrible.
Abigail smiled gratefully at Miss Fernside, nevertheless. Had she ever noticed Miss Esther Fernside before now, she thought, they might have got on very well.
“I’m sure that you saw Lucy on the night of Lady Lessing’s ball,” Abigail observed to Miss Gillingham. “I heard that Lucy danced with Mr Red, in fact.”
Miss Gillingham waved a hand quickly. “Oh, Lucy rather threw herself at him until he had no choice,” she said. “Mr Red is always such a gentleman that he probably felt obliged.”
Abigail bit back a frustrated comment. She had been hoping, at least, to find out who had been hovering around Lucy on the night that she had died—but so far, all of the ladies present had been far too focussed on minimising their friendships with Lucy to offer any useful information on the matter.
“But you are not interested in Mr Red, of course,” Miss Haddington said quickly. “He must seem so very normal to you, Abigail. The Lord Sorcier’s daughter must surely require a magician for a beau, at the very least.”
I am not interested in men at all, Abigail thought sourly. Your own designs on Mr Red are perfectly safe, Miss Haddington. But she seized quickly on the last comment. “I expect that I would need to marry a magician,” Abigail said. “Or at least someone who has dabbled enough to discuss the subject. I don’t suppose you know of anyone present tonight who might fit that description?”
Miss Haddington looked very much as though she wished she could offer some names to that effect. But it was Miss Fernside who smiled wryly at Abigail and said: “I do hope that you don’t intend to court my father, Miss Wilder. He is far too old for you, and I cannot recommend his personality.”
Abigail worked desperately to hide her surprise. She thought back on the rest of the conversation and remembered that their host, Lord Breckart, was Miss Fernside’s father. “I, er… cannot say that it has crossed my mind,” Abigail assured Miss Fernside. “I wasn’t aware that your father was a magician.”
Miss Fernside sighed. “He likes to call himself a magician,” she murmured. “He has probably cornered your father already, in order to discuss magic with him with great seriousness.”
Several of the ladies laughed nervously at this forthright observation. Miss Fernside, Abigail thought, had foregone almost all tact tonight. There was a kind of rebellious desperation to her manner, for some reason, which Abigail could not quite pin down.
“Miss Wilder.” The voice came from behind Abigail. It took a second for her to place it, given the refined accent—but as she turned, she saw that Mercy had approached her from behind. Her own midnight gown was resplendent in the candlelight, shifting against the darkness like a sigh. She was so utterly, breathtakingly beautiful that Abigail could not help but think: You may all have your Mr Red. I am very nearly in love with Miss Midnight.
“What a lovely gown you are wearing,” Mercy observed, without a hint of irony. “I do hope that you will do me the honour of joining me for a dance soon, before the floor opens and you are cornered by a dozen gentlemen.”
Abigail’s cheeks heated slightly at the sentiment. Ladies did often dance together before the floor opened—but they rarely invited each other to do so with such flowery language.
Miss Fernside stared at Mercy. “I don’t…” She trailed off uncertainly. “I feel like I might know you, miss. But I can’t seem to remember your name. Were you on the guest list tonight?”
Abigail stifled a wince. Mercy couldn’t have known that she’d just made herself plain in front of the host’s own daughter. “Mercy and I are acquaintances,” Abigail said swiftly. “I’m sure she’s meant to be here. There must have been some strange oversight, is all.” Abigail took Mercy’s hand quickly, and added: “Perhaps we should have that dance now.”
“I will hold your reticule, if you like,” Miss Gillingham volunteered. She seemed entirely too eager to please, after having her previous comments brought to light.
Abigail bit her lip. It did not seem a terribly good idea to hand her magician’s tools over to Miss Gillingham. But the lady had a desperately stubborn expression on her face, and Miss Fernside was still looking at Mercy as though she were a puzzle to be solved—and so, Abigail shoved the reticule hurriedly into Miss Gillingham’s hands.
“Do be careful with it,” Abigail said. “My father has cursed it against thieves, and terrible things might happen if it were to fall open.”
Miss Gillingham widened her eyes at this. But Miss Fernside was just opening her mouth to address them again, and so Abigail spun away with Mercy, hurrying onto the dance floor.
“That was surprisingly illuminating,” Abigail murmured. “Our host, Lord Breckart, fancies himself to be a magician. He’ll have told my father by now.”
Mercy frowned. “Well, that makes for one suspect, at least,” she murmured. “Should we tell your father?”
Abigail searched the room for Elias. He was, however, no longer speaking with Lord Breckart. The crowd was far too large for the size of the ballroom, and she let out a soft noise of frustration. “I don’t know where he’s gone,” she said. “But he must know about Lord Breckart’s interest by now, if he was cornered into a conversation.”
Mercy considered this. “Would a black magician dare talk magical theory with the Lord Sorcier?” she mused.
Abigail shot Mercy a dry look. “I wouldn’t credit black magicians with an overabundance of either intelligence or caution,” she said. “Imagine this, instead of your sky full of star fishes: what would Lucy be like, if she learned black magic? She’d just have to show it off in some way, no matter how ill-advised it was.”
The questionable flautist hit a shrill note, and Abigail winced. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll get the chance for a proper dance tonight. I really wanted one, but this is all too much.”
Mercy smiled knowingly. “It’s a shame I can’t claim any debts from you right now, Abigail Wilder,” she murmured. “Because I’d say you owe me a dance later, if I could.”
Abigail smiled back wearily. “You’ll just have to trust that I want one later,” she said.
Lord Breckart’s sister interrupted them then, calling the floor to attention, and Abigail heaved a heavy sigh. She was about to flee the dance floor entirely, in fact, when her Other Mum’s voice whispered in her ear once again.
“There is danger, darling,” Lady Hollowvale breathed.
A moment later, someone pressed a hand to her elbow, hesitant.
“Miss Wilder?” a young man said. “Please forgive the forwardness—it’s so hard to get anyone’s attention in here. I was hoping that you might join me for the first dance?”
Abigail turned with a frown. The man that had just touched her elbow was a good head taller than she was; he had dark hair and a strong jaw, with a classically handsome smile.
He was wearing a deep red cravat.
“Mr Red, was it?” Abigail said.
The young man gave Abigail a quizzical look, and she corrected herself quickly. “Mr James Ruell,” she said. “Apologies. The ladies all call you Mr Red, and it seems to have stuck in my head.”
“There is danger, darling,” Lady Hollowvale insisted.
“Oh,” Mr Ruell said sheepishly. “I suppose that I am overly attached to this cravat, aren’t I? I always mean to wear something else, but it is my favourite.”
Abigail narrowed
her eyes. Part of her was tempted to put off Mr Ruell as swiftly as possible, in order that she might get back to searching for her father. But Lady Hollowvale’s warning had inspired within her the very opposite of wariness: in fact, Abigail was now absolutely certain that she would learn something of interest if she did dance with Mr Ruell.
“I would be delighted to dance with you, Mr Ruell,” Abigail said, as politely as she could manage.
Mercy shot Abigail an injured look—but Abigail winked at her quickly. “You were searching for my father, I think?” Abigail said to Mercy. “I do hope that you find him soon. I’ll be right here with Mr Ruell, either way.”
Mercy knitted her brow… but Abigail must have managed to convey something useful, for she nodded slowly. “I do think that I will go continue searching for him,” she said. “Enjoy your dance, Miss Wilder.”
Abigail turned back to take Mr Ruell’s hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the marriage mart crowd had turned its full attention upon her.
“There is danger, darling,” Lady Hollowvale said again, more urgently than before.
Aha, thought Abigail. So there is.
Chapter 19
The floor opened with a quadrille, which was not terribly conducive to private conversation. Still, Abigail managed bits and snatches in between movements, distinctly aware the entire time of her Other Mum’s voice whispering of danger in her ear.
“You are an excellent dance partner, Mr Ruell,” Abigail said, though she kept her tone measured. “I am certain that you must be in high demand.”
Mr Ruell beamed at the compliment. “I greatly enjoy dancing,” he said. “I know that it is fashionable to talk of how tedious all of these balls are, but I would dance every evening from dusk until dawn, if I could.”
Abigail studied him carefully. “Be careful what you say, Mr Ruell,” she said. “One never knows who might be listening. The faeries in Whisperlake hold balls which last for weeks at a time. I have heard that their mortal guests sometimes die of exhaustion.”
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