Something Magic This Way Comes

by Sarah A. Hoyt

  More at home than in my own home on Grosvenor Square, to be honest. That was merely a trap filled with lost dreams.

  The gas leak seemed to believe that I had fallen simply so that it could have the opportunity to go “pssst” at me again.

  And I had obviously misguessed its ambition to knock me down and then attempt to rob my now empty pouch, because I was down, an easy victim for the most puny dacoit, and it had made no such attempt.

  Instead, it hissed at me yet again.

  In exasperation I addressed the narrow slit of darkness.

  “I have no interest in your sister, no matter how fair, young, or clean she is. Nor do I have money to buy anything illegal with. So you can stop making that noise at me. You are disturbing my rest. Go away.”

  “You stupid human!” whispered someone from the alley, pure exasperation oozing out of the words like Trinity students out of the gin-sluiceries after Oxford boat night. “Do you think that if I could get away from here on my own I would be asking a drunken sot for help?”

  There was something undeniably feminine about that whispered accusation. That in itself was enough to irritate me. And I was inured to the bleating of people about my state, anyway. “I have no interest in helping anyone leave this charming locale. I’m happy here, happy for now, anyway, and you are disturbing my feeling of well-being,” I said, composing myself for slumber upon the lovely soft curbstone.

  She flung a fishhead at me. “You fool,” she whispered crossly, and accurately. “You’ll be run over by a hackney carriage. Or the mohocks will find you and rob you. They were prowling earlier. Keep quiet, crawl in here, and get this thing off me.”

  “I have nothing left for them to steal. And a hackney carriage would be a welcome release. Especially from your hissing,” I said loftily.

  “I’ll curse you with a lifetime’s misfortune,” she hissed.

  “Too late,” I said, turning my head away.

  “I’ll give you wealth beyond your dreams of avarice.”

  “I have already had that. A lot of good it did me,” I said bitterly.

  I would have been quite content if she had not begun to sob quietly. Even fishheads don’t worry me that much.

  So I crawled into the darkness. The noisome darkness.

  With a tumble of spilled garbage and more fishheads, by the bouquet. To think that I’d once been a rather fastidious soul.

  Her arm was trapped under the edge of the overturned garbage-bin. At her size, not even all her strength and the beating of her ragged filmy little wings could shift it. The little fey face was screwed up in pain. “Get me out of here,” she said, “before the cat comes back again.”

  I lifted the heavy steel rim off her easily enough.

  But even in this poor light it was clear enough to see that her arm hung at a strange angle. It needed attention.

  And her wings too were tattered, perhaps by her encounter with the cat.

  It wasn’t every day that I encountered a denizen of Faerie here in the grimy streets of London, not even after five years of Prinny.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed, between clenched little teeth, as I picked her up in both hands.

  “Put me down. I’ve got to get after them.”

  “I am taking you out of this alley, to find one of those hackney carriages. Then I’ll splint your arm. Then I shall probably lie down and sleep off this dream,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster.

  “Ah!” she gasped as she tried to move, her little face ghostly pale. “No. I have to catch them.” She moved. And screamed, despite obviously trying not to.

  “You asked me to help. Now I am going to help you. And you need that arm splinted.” I put my hand inside my coat. “Now shut up and keep still unless you want to end up in an iron cage at a freak show.”

  I tried to walk as carefully as I could, wishing that my head was clearer and feet were steadier. A hack clattered towards us out of the mist tendrils as if it had been called, with the steady clip-clop of hooves.

  “My good jarvey,” I called out, suddenly painfully aware of the empty state of my money pouch. “I need a cab to Grosvenor Square.”

  The coachman lifted his whip. And then, perhaps because of the address, or my accents pulled his horse to a halt. “ ‘You got any money, Guv?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Cos I’ll see the rhino up front, see.”

  “Er. I was set upon by mohocks . . .”

  He shrugged. Raised his whip to give the horse a tap.

  “No fare, no ride. I been in taken by you toffs afore.”

  “Pick up a fishhead and show it to him,” whispered a weak little voice from inside my coat.

  I could at least throw it at him. And convince him that haddock’s eyes were mutton pies perhaps . . . I bent over and picked up the fishhead.

  It glistened golden.

  “I seem to have found one of my coins,” I said, holding it out. The jarvey’s whip hand was arrested in midstroke.

  “That will do nicely, sir. And where would you be wishful of me to be taking you? It’ll be payment in advance, o’course.”

  I gave him my address and the fishhead. “Keep the change,” I said, doing my best to alight one-handed.

  As the cab rattled across the cobbles my fuddled mind wondered just what I should do now. My knowledge of medicine was slightly less than my knowledge of faerie-folk, which in turn was greater than my knowledge of females. The little fay was both of the latter. Still, something told me that this was not a case to summons Dr. Knighton to attend.

  * * *

  Through the pain Annwn also tried to think rationally.

  It had been pure misfortune that the dogs had knocked over the canister of the accursed metal.

  Still . . . they had saved her from the cat, when they’d returned. And having someone of the old blood come along to rescue her, even if the fool did not realize it, was a piece of rare luck. He was, she reluctantly acknowledged, quite right. An injury inflicted by cold iron was always serious. She could forget what she had planned. The problem was going to be getting back, injured as she was, let alone following Prince Gwyn. The doors between here and faerie were few nowadays, and well guarded. It wouldn’t matter how she’d got here, the way back would be perilous. In the meanwhile, every bump they went over hurt. She gritted her teeth and wished for an end to the journey, at least. The human was doing his best to help. It was right that she gave him some form of repayment, she thought, although in the fashion of humans he probably wouldn’t appreciate it. In the old days Faerie had tried to shape human society, interbreeding with the noble houses. When failure became too apparent, they’d settled for shutting themselves off as much as possible. Now, it seemed that some—like Gwyn—were trafficking here. Just thinking about him hurt her. Left her with a conflict of emotions.

  It had been jealousy that brought her here in the first place. Now, knowing the truth, she felt betrayed and abused. Prince Gwyn had not courted her for love.

  Still, she did understand his motivation now, even if she would never forgive him. As humans were reputed to be fascinated by the fey, there was a counterattraction, a curiosity about the world above. Most of Faerie looked long and often at the world above. Even a child could create the window-spells required for that. Then there was the food . . . there were some things that magic was curiously unsatisfactory for.

  Children were told that the food and drink of the land above was poison, or that it would bind them there to the dull earth. Annwn, guiltily, knew that it was not true. Desire might bring them back, but not magic—

  * * *

  The hackney carriage pulled up at the door of an elegant Palladian mansion in that most desirable of addresses, Grosvenor Square. I could never look at the house, the home we had dreamed we would fill with laughter and children, without anger. Marianne had insisted on the address. Only Grosvenor Square would make her happy, and to make her happy I would have sold Redmund. I would have given her anything, then. Deep down
I knew that I still would.

  Well, anything but what she said that she now wanted.

  That I leave London. And her.

  I knew that I was not man to play “Cuckolds, all’s awry.” My pride ran too deep, even if she’d left me to be the mistress of a Royal Duke, and it was the on dit of whole town.

  The little fay in my arms stirred uncomfortably. She was so frail, and I must have tensed on seeing the house. I shook the feeling away from me and alighted from the cab. I had to be gentle. Kitty would have laughed at me and told me I was too gentle to be good at treating hurts. It was true enough. Even the sight of a small injury always made me feel sick. Kitty had always been the one who did the treating of injuries—from bandaging cut knees to splinting birds wings. She’d been as close as a sister to me once, before I had told her that I was betrothed to Marianne.

  I hadn’t seen her since that . . . scene. Looking back now, she’d been right. And if anyone was the right person to take the fay to . . . it would be her.

  Kitty . . . Now that I’d thought of her, it seemed obvious. Well, I was still fairly castaway. That did tend to make one oblivious of certain facts, like her stepfather.

  “Jarvey,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, having just staggered against my own gatepost—which, with alarm, I realized had iron rails, a circumstance I never noticed before. “Wait. I will need you to transport me . . .”

  “Ho, you’ll not find a place to sell you more blue-ruin this side o’ Tothill fields at this time o’morning,” said the hackney driver with a snort.

  “I need to go to a posting house, not drinking,” He looked me over. “That’ll be a first, for a flash cove like you.”

  His comment stung, but it was not without accuracy, so I left it at that and took her indoors, to a chaise lounge in the second salon. The little thing had been oddly still, but I was relieved to see that she was still breathing. She opened her eyes. They were wide and a little wild. “This is not a good place for me to be . . .”

  “While I have to agree with you, it’s unlikely that any of my staff will have stayed up to see you here. I’ll need something to make a splint . . . and then the best I can think of is a big bandbox. There’s a swansdown muff still, left from Marianne things . . .”

  “There is an ill-wishing on this place. An unhappiness . . .”

  “That’s true enough,” I said sourly. “Lie there. I have some sticking plaster, and I must look about for something to use as a splint. Then we can be away to someone better skilled than I.”

  She shook. “Be quick. It . . . hates women.”

  Well, my Aunt Seraphina had had just such humors.

  Forever saying a place was augish or something. A few people called her eccentricities fey, which had always pleased her no end. She hadn’t like the house either.

  Marianne had, and that had been good enough for me, then. An odd thought struck my still befuddled brain: Perhaps a fay would be fey.

  I found a roll of sticking plaster and some small scissors. For a splint I looted Marianne’s remaining knicknacks. I found a very elegant oriental fan with ivory canes that she used to flirt from behind, those soft eyes peeping provocatively through sooty lashes above it. I’d been too dazzled to read their true message then. I had been such a fool, I realized, ruthlessly cutting the silk that held the canes together. I took it, the large bandbox, and the muff to the green salon.

  She wasn’t there. Had it all been an illusion? A strange product of too much drink? I stared hard at the chaise lounge refusing to accept the evidence of my own eyes. I’d carried her. Felt the weight of her.

  I held the branch of candles higher. And then I could see her still lying there, holding her injured arm. Her little face was still pained and much too white, her green eyes wide and fearful.

  Glamor, I realized. Well, glamor or no, I had do something about that arm. There wouldn’t be any brandy in the house, but some ratafia . . . I had alway detested the stuff. Even drunk I didn’t like the smell.

  I went to fetch a decanter and returned. She wasn’t there, but now I knew I just had to look harder.

  “Drink this,” I said kneeling next to her, holding the crystal glass of almond-scented liquor to her lips.

  “No daylights.”

  It clattered slightly against her teeth as she tossed it back. Belatedly I realized that she was actually quite small.

  * * *

  The scent alone was heady. Earthly fruits steeped in brandy flavored with almonds. Something for those of the wealth and power of Faerie to sip. She’d tasted it once. A gift from Gwyn—she’d thought him fabulously generous at the time. Love had tinged that, as pain did this time. It was so unmagically powerful that it almost overwhelmed the pain of the human moving her arm. Oddly, she could see that he was crying as he wrapped the white carved canes—carved with an almost elven delicacy—around her arm. He strapped it in place, and gradually the pain of his handling ebbed. His long white face with its high cheek-bones and clean planes was almost a mirror for her agony.

  He’d felt it. She knew, looking at him, what a curse her kind had loosed on humans, mixing blood and then deserting them to live with after-clap. Those of Faerie knew how to block out such magics.

  He stood up. Looked at his handiwork. “I think that’ll do. Now let’s hope that the hackney cab hasn’t decided to lope off into the night. We’ll need to get your arm properly set, and there is only one person I can trust to do it.”

  Trust. Annwn knew that that was a rare and a precious commodity, and one Faerie had little of. Less now. They would see her as having betrayed the faith that the house royal had placed in her. They would not see it that she too had been betrayed. But right now she had to get out of this house. She stood up a little shakily. “Then let us go. Now.”

  “Steady. Unless you have a supply of fish heads, I’ll need to find something to raise the wind with.”

  She blinked a little owlishly. Raised her good arm.

  The curtains began to flap and flames on the branch of candles danced wildly. “How hard a blow will you need?” she asked, an expression of faint puzzlement on her impish features.

  “I meant my pockets are all to let. I’ll have to spout something.”

  The ratafia was definitely affecting her. “I’ll never fit in a pocket. Not even shrunk to my smallest.” she blinked. “Spout? Like a whale-fish or a poet?”

  For the first time in months my impecunious status embarrassed me. “Money. Gelt. I don’t have any cattle in my stable any more or an ostler to hitch them up to my phaeton. Actually, I don’t have the phaeton either. And I was thinking of transporting you in this bandbox.”

  “Cattle,” she informed me loftily, “belong in a byre. I could call horses for you if you desire. It was one of the powers given me.” She looked at the marble floor. “Only perhaps we should do it outside.”

  “I am surprised at your consideration for my house.”

  She shook her head. “It’s the horses. They’d slip on this, and they don’t like fire. Besides, there is an illwishing on this place. They might get hurt. Let us go.”

  She’d swayed up onto her feet, into the hall, and was heading determinedly for the kitchen. I followed willynilly and turned her toward the front door.

  It was a foggy predawn out there. It was also a street remarkably free of a hackney cab. That was probably just as well, as two gray horses were thundering down it toward us. Magnificent creatures. Lovely arched necks and clean lines. They also, to my eye, looked like they might want to kill us. But just before I was about snatch the bosky fairy away to safety, they stopped. They stood, still, barring the occasional restive toss of the head. She looked at her arm in irritation, her torn little wings fluttering vainly. “You will have lift me up onto her.”

  The horses were beauties . . . “But . . . what about saddles?”

  She stamped her tiny foot impatiently. “Dawn comes closer. We must ride.”

  She didn’t look as if she’d stay in
the saddle anyway.

  “You’re as drunk as a wheelbarrow.”

  “Don’t be silly, wheelbarrows don’t drink. Even barrows only drink souls. Throw me up!”

  I was ready to cast up accounts myself, but I knew what she meant. So I lifted her. She threw a leg over the horse if it were something she did every day. Perhaps the Faerie did. It was certainly less than ladylike.

  I’d ridden bareback myself as a boy at Redmund— but not without a bit and bridle. “Up,” she said, imperiously.

  Her steed stood more steadily than she had.

  I was still a bit foxed myself and nearly went over the far side of the horse. The mane that I clung to was oddly cold. I was no sooner up than the horse moved off rapidly, breaking into canter. “Yoicks! We’re going the wrong way.”

  She turned her horse with consummate skill and nearly had me off onto the street. I would have fallen had it been anything but the easiest paced beast I’d ever straddled. “Whither?” She demanded. “They’ll head for the sea if left to themselves.”

  “The White Horse Inn, in Fetter lane,” I gasped.

  “Just point. The names mean nothing to me,” she said with a little exasperation.

  Wild horses must have raced through half the streets of London that pale morning. I couldn’t point very well or very often when it was all I could do to stay on the horse. And her steed tried to stay in the lead.

  They were like no earthly horses, seeming tireless.

  “Slow . . .” I managed to say, when we’d just frightened a lamplighter dowsing wicks (no modern gas lamps in this part of town) out of several years of life.

  “It wants scant time till dawn, and the horses must be away by then, back to the water.”

  “Close. We . . . better . . . go on foot. People about,” I said pointing to a wide-eyed flowerseller, who had dropped her posies and was gaping through the foggy swirls.

  “True.” She halted her horse, and I alighted. I didn’t quite fall, as I managed to clutch the neck on my way past. She leaped, graceful as a fairy . . . and landed, plainly jarring her arm. She winced in pain.