“I can get them away from Nadrett; surely that is some use. And it may be I can help you discover how to return them to their rightful place. Once they are in your possession, many things become possible. Now, do you have anything for me?”
The skriker drew a series of breaths, each one deeper than the one before, shoving his knotted emotions out of the way. “You ain’t given me nothing yet. I already knowed about the glass, so you tell me something else. Something I’ve forgotten.”
The annoyance was much more distinct now, but Dead Rick didn’t care. “Are you going to haggle every time we speak? Never mind; I’m sure I know the answer to that. Very well… something you’ve forgotten.” The stranger paused, then said, “You were once a faithful Queen’s man.”
It wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Lune, the Queen of the Onyx Court: he didn’t remember her, but he’d heard stories, even in the seven short years since his mind was wiped clean. How she’d won her throne from the cruel Queen Invidiana, centuries past. How she’d battled a Dragon to save London, twice. How she’d struggled to hold the Hall together, in the face of human destruction.
Noble stories, that all ended the same way: But that was a long time ago. However great a Queen she’d been in past ages, she was gone now. “Me, a courtier?”
“I never said that. Merely that you served her on several occasions—her, and the Prince of the time. And not because they held your leash, either.”
It was like their first meeting, when the stranger had spoken of those mortals as Dead Rick’s friends, the boy he’d stolen, and the girl who damned him for it. A Queen’s man. Against his will, the concept wormed its way under his skin and lodged there, irritating and impossible to ignore. A master—or rather a mistress, and a changing series of masters, the Princes who ruled at her side—more worthy than Nadrett. The stories spoke as much of Lune’s flaws as her virtues, but at least she had some of the latter. More than he could say of his current master.
“Is that why you’re doing this?” Dead Rick asked, the sudden thought dragging him up from the depths of his own mind. “Not the bit where you find a passage to Faerie—the bit where you tear down Nadrett along the way. Is it for ’er sake?”
The voice answered with cold disgust. “No. I do not serve the Queen.”
Which ruled out him being the Prince, even if Dead Rick believed that cockney sod could speak like such a gentleman. “So all you’re after is profit.”
“Is that a problem?” the voice asked, calmly.
His immediate reaction was suspicion—but that was just reflex, born of living in the Goblin Market. Once I’ve got my memories, I can do whatever I like. If I stay, this bastard might demand somebody’s firstborn child in payment for going to Faerie… but I know Nadrett would. And so long as there’s two of them selling, there’s a way to pit them against each other.
Many things became possible, once he had his memories back.
“Not a problem,” Dead Rick said, “if you can give me some proof you ain’t just spinning lies.”
The reply had the unmistakable sound of being delivered through clenched teeth. “More damned haggling. What proof do you want? The Queen, on a platter?”
“If you know where she went, sure—but I was thinking of somebody who knowed me. Before.”
“That will be dangerous,” the voice pointed out. “Nadrett has gone to some effort to cut you off from the life you had before. If he discovers you talking to an old friend, I will not be blamed for the consequences.”
“I don’t care.”
A note of amusement. “So the dog has begun to recover the pride he once had. If you believe I will be patient until you have had your confirmation, you are wrong; tell me what you know, and I will make arrangements.”
He was unlikely to get anything better. Dead Rick slid one hand into his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out the carte de visite. The stranger couldn’t see him, but he held it up anyway, studying the woman’s face once more. “Rewdan was bringing compounds in for Nadrett. Faerie chemicals, not the mortal kind. I asked around, and found out they’re used for photography.”
“Photography?”
He’d been hoping the stranger might see meaning in that, but judging by the surprise in the voice, the hidden speaker was as confused as Dead Rick. “So they say. I guess there’s faerie cameras?”
“In the Galenic Academy, yes… mortal techniques cannot capture our images properly. Issues of light.” Dead Rick wished, not for the first time, that he could see his ally’s face; he would have dearly loved to see the stranger’s expression as he paused for thought. “Are you certain this has something to do with a passage to Faerie?”
Not in the slightest—but he wasn’t stupid enough to admit it. “I ain’t ’eard about nothing else.”
As if musing to himself, the voice said, “Some sort of optical trick, perhaps?… I will look into it. Can you get anything else from Rewdan?”
“Not since Nadrett shot ’im.”
“Ah. Then we will have to proceed on our own. What were the compounds?” Dead Rick named them, and the voice made a thoughtful noise. Then he said, “I can’t keep sending you to the pavilion; someone will notice. Next time, leave a bone near the monument to past Princes, at the other end of the garden. And if I need to contact you, I will put my own sign there, by the flame that burns in its base. A spill of ashes. Keep watch for it.”
Dead Rick nodded, then remembered. “And you get me somebody who knowed me.”
“Yes, yes, I haven’t forgotten.”
Again, no farewell. The voice simply fell silent, and did not speak again. Dead Rick leaned his head back against the stone and thought, Good. Because while you look into this photography business, I’ll be looking into you.
Cromwell Road, South Kensington: April 12, 1884
Tongue stuck firmly in the gap in her teeth, Eliza bent over the brush in her hands, giving the floor of the water closet the hastiest scrub she could without risking Mrs. Fowler thrashing her for it later. The housekeeper was out this morning, which meant everyone was being decidedly slower about their work—everyone but Eliza, who was determined to finish quickly so she could sneak off and talk to Louisa Kittering.
Miss Kittering had been confined to her room, with only the barest contact permitted. Ann handed trays of bread and tea through the door, and Eliza went in long enough to clear away cinders from the grate, fill the lamps with paraffin, and gather up dirty laundry, but all of this happened under Mrs. Fowler’s disapproving eye. She’d had no chance to finish the conversation they’d begun outside the house, after the London Fairy Society meeting.
That was good enough. Eliza sloshed a bit of clean water from the sink to rinse the floor, mopped it up, wiped the tiles dry, and hurried to the servants’ stair. If she was quick about returning her supplies to the basement, she could be out again before anyone thought to question what she was doing next.
A lovely and plausible hope that was dashed when she reached the bottom of the stairs. Almost every single maid and footman in the house was gathered there, gawping and whispering amongst themselves.
Apprehension gripped Eliza’s heart. Had Miss Kittering done something else foolish? If she’s gotten herself banished to the countryside…
It might not be Miss Kittering at all. But a heavy dread had settled upon Eliza, making her go forward, to where Ann Wick peered up at the ceiling as if she could see or hear anything from the floors above. “What is it, Ann?”