Louisa tried to recall what the girl whose place she’d taken had said about the maid. A prying sort—and Irish; yes, now she remembered. Irish, though hiding it, which might explain why her mind went to fae. Louisa shuddered. They had harsh ways of dealing with changelings in Ireland.
Biting her lip in thought, she went to sit in front of the grate, staring at the coals glowing softly in their harmless iron nest. The Goblin Market answer would be to dispose of her. It wouldn’t even be hard; servants vanished all the time, with little or no explanation. Fetch a will-o’-the-wisp from the Onyx Hall and lure Hannah Whoever over the rail of a bridge, or into the path of an omnibus. Easy and sure.
But she’d taken on this life precisely to get away from the Goblin Market—that, and to stay in London, when the Onyx Hall finished its collapse. It would be a poor escape if she brought all those habits of thought and behavior with her.
So what, then?
The door opened. But the woman who came in wasn’t Hannah; it was some other maid, and she stared wide-eyed at Louisa—who realized she was on her feet with her hands raised in defensive claws. She lowered them hastily, and assumed an expression that implied they’d never been raised at all, that she certainly hadn’t been on the verge of attacking the maid. It will take more than a new name to banish my Goblin Market habits, I suppose. “Yes? What is it?”
The maid, a slump-shouldered woman with a nose made florid by drinking, gave an awkward curtsy. “I’m here to help you dress, miss.”
“Oh.” Now Louisa felt even more foolish. She couldn’t get used to all these people about, waiting to help her. In the old days, before the Onyx Hall reached its present degenerate state, she’d been a minor member of the court, and then of course she’d had servants. But the menial work—the lacing of her stays, the cleaning of her shoes, all the little tasks—had been handled by creatures so small and mindless they ranked one bare step above furniture in her notice. Humans relied on people for these things, and Louisa kept being surprised by their presence. “Pick out something—no, never mind; I will do it myself.”
She rummaged through the wardrobe, half her mind on which of her myriad of outfits to wear—It’s morning; I should choose a morning dress; now, which ones are those? It’s been ages since I was able to mind proper fashion—the other half on the problem of Hannah the maid.
I’ll see to it she keeps quiet, Louisa decided at last, fingering the sleeve of a dress. Scare her, if I must. But no sense drawing more attention than necessary, as long as she doesn’t go wagging her tongue where she oughtn’t.
She turned around, garment in hand, and saw the maid’s eyebrows shoot up. Looking down, Louisa found she’d picked up what even she could tell was a ball gown, in eggplant-colored silk. Scowling, she shoved it back into the wardrobe and plucked out something else. But if she threatens more trouble…
If that happened, then Louisa would have to take steps to remove her. Not deadly ones; having her sacked might do. Or reported as Irish, at which point she’d likely be sacked anyway, and no one would listen to a word she said besides. If that wasn’t enough, there were fae in the Onyx Hall who would help out for a price, making sure Hannah went somewhere very far away, and didn’t return.
There were possibilities. But this much was certain: under no circumstances could the maid be allowed to threaten Louisa’s safety. There was still enough Goblin Market left in her to guarantee that.
Riverside, Onyx Halclass="underline" May 28, 1884
Coming out of the Crow’s Head, where Nadrett had sent him to question the owner Hafdean, Dead Rick caught an odd scent.
Sour. Sharp. I’ve smelled this before, I know I ’ave—
On Rewdan, the padfoot who’d been Nadrett’s courier from Faerie. Satyr’s bile, Dead Rick guessed; it was a kind of acid. But what in Mab’s name was it doing here?
He stepped warily, following the trail. It led away from people, toward a broken bit of the palace, close enough that nobody wanted to spend much time there. Which made it a perfect place to do secret work—but also to ambush anyone who came looking. Nadrett wouldn’t do that; if ’e wants you dead, all ’e ’as to do is snap ’is fingers. Chrennois might be a different story, though.
The light faded fast, but he could feel that the stone around him was mazed with cracks. This part of the Hall, like the Market, lay close to the riverside; that meant both cast-iron pipes and the forward progress of the Inner Circle were eating away at its structure. Dead Rick’s hackles rose. But there was light up ahead—a faerie light—surely that meant he could trust the fabric to hold together a little while longer.
He paused to sniff the air. Nothing. Just dust, cold stone, and the sour smell of bile. No scent of anyone, faerie or mortal. It didn’t reassure him: How had the acid gotten there, if no one had brought it?
Ears and nose could not answer that question for him. Dead Rick crept forward on silent feet and peered around the edge, into the light.
He saw just one faerie light, drifting slowly through the air. Its weak glow illuminated a round chamber, rings of stone benches surrounding a low depression in the center. Dead Rick didn’t know what the place had been originally—some kind of theater? There were no other exits, just the passage by which he’d come. He strained his senses, afraid someone had followed to trap him in this dead end. Again, nothing.
Except the smell of acid.
He glanced back into the chamber. A lighter smear marked the black stone in the center. Bait, he was sure—but damn it, it worked; he couldn’t leave without investigating.
Gritting his teeth, Dead Rick went down the steps between benches, to the floor of the chamber.
“My apologies for the absence.”
He actually leapt into the air, and only just stopped himself from shifting to dog form as he came down. A strangled noise came from his throat, a growl and several different curses all fighting to get out at once. Dead Rick sucked in a huge breath of air, held it, then spat out, “You fucking bastard.”
The voice didn’t dispute it. “I’m glad you found—and followed—the hint I left for you.”
Dead Rick swiped at the mark on the stone. It burned his fingers faintly: bile, of course. He wondered where the voice had gotten it. “Where in Mab’s name ’ave you been?”
“Had you not taken to sleeping at your master’s feet, you might have heard from me sooner. But arranging a new location in which to speak required some amount of effort, and time. I take it you have news for me?”
More than a little. Dead Rick wrestled with himself. Honesty could get a dog killed—but in this case, so could deception, if Aspell decided to sell what he knew. “Secret’s out. I don’t know ’ow, but Valentin Aspell knows we’ve been dealing.”
A long pause. His muscles all tensed. Just because his ally had never presented himself as anything more than a disembodied voice didn’t mean he wasn’t in danger. There might be an ambush here, after all.
“What did you tell him?”
The question was presented far more mildly than he had any right to expect. Still, Dead Rick was careful to say, “I thought you was gone, understand? Tried to signal you for days, got no answer, but I didn’t want to just give up, and this was ’is price for what I needed to know.”
“Spare me the excuses; just tell me what you said.”
So Dead Rick did. Mostly. He left out any hint that he’d been investigating the voice, trying to find out who he was; but as he’d thought before, the information itself didn’t amount to much. “You was right to be careful,” he added at the end, still wary. “Keeping separate like this—I don’t know nothing to betray.”