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?”
“Kensington 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 Halclass="underline" 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.”