The brownie sisters had dwelt in London since time out of mind; indeed, since before Islington had been a true part of the city. Their distance from the Onyx Hall meant fae did not visit them as often as they used to—the journey to Islington was fraught with peril, for an unprotected faerie—but they still kept abreast of rumors and gossip, by what means Louisa could only guess. If they could not answer her question, they would find someone who could.
Rosamund was muttering darkly about the odds of a sheltered girl from the better classes surviving on her own in London. When she paused to draw breath, Louisa broke in. “She went freely, but I’ve come across a rumor of another who didn’t. Have you ever seen a boy who looks like this?” From her pocket she produced a battered, ill-quality photograph, showing a woman seated with three children. “Or heard of anyone called Owen?”
Both brownies frowned over the photograph, identical furrows appearing in their brows. “Welsh?” Rosamund asked.
“Irish, I think. At least, the maid who assaulted me was.”
Gertrude’s honey-brown eyes widened. “A maid did that to you? I assumed it was L—the girl’s father!”
“She was a strong maid,” Louisa said sourly, putting the photo away. More like a woman boxer. “She, er…”
While she paused to frame her next words, Rosamund came to her chair, and beckoned with one peremptory hand. Louisa bent obediently and let the brownie’s gentle fingers probe her bruises. When Rosamund let go, she said, “She suspected me for what I am, and tried to trick me into saying things I shouldn’t. When that failed… I’m not even certain she was trying to drive me out; she may not have had any particular purpose in mind, except to vent her spleen upon me. But she shouted a great deal about someone she called Owen, and how she wanted him back.”
Looking to her sister, Rosamund said, “The bombings?”
“Oh!” Louisa said, startled. “I hadn’t thought of that. It would make a good deal of sense. Do you know who’s helping them?”
Gertrude tapped one plump finger against her lip. “Eidhnin and Scéineach… Bonecruncher, though you didn’t hear that from us; Peregrin would kill him if it came out he’s been working with folk in the Goblin Market, even for a good cause… Nadrett supplies the dynamite, but only because he can profit from it. We suspect Valentin Aspell is behind it all, though there’s no proof.”
“Which almost is proof,” Rosamund said, returning to her chair. “No one else is half so sneaky.”
Louisa frowned. “Why should Aspell be so helpful? You can’t tell me he cares about the Fenian cause.”
Rosamund was shaking her head before Louisa even finished. “The Fenians are just a useful cover, a way to act in public without drawing attention. For Bonecruncher, anyway—the Irish fae see it differently, of course. Remember, some of those bombs have been on the underground railway. They can’t destroy the tunnels themselves, not with how alert the police are—but the hope is that it would stop, or at least slow down, the plans to finish the Inner Circle.”
The ring of iron that would destroy the Onyx Hall. Aspell had gone to prison for being a traitor, but he at least claimed he’d been trying to save the palace. Maybe there was some truth to it. “Did they carry off any of the Irish mortals? Bonecruncher wouldn’t, I suppose, but Aspell might.”
Rosamund spread her hands helplessly. “I’m sorry. It’s terrible to say this, but there are so many mortals caught in the Market nowadays, we don’t know who they all are.”
Which meant that if Louisa wanted to know, she’d have to go below once more. With a guilty start, she remembered that she’d promised Dead Rick she would come back, even try to help him get away from Nadrett. There was a dearth of young men in her new life that might be persuaded to change places with a faerie, though. Perhaps she could convince the Goodemeades to divert a few pieces of the London Fairy Society bread from Hodge to Dead Rick; that would be better than nothing.
Well, it wouldn’t kill her to walk into the Onyx Hall; it wouldn’t even endanger her safety as a changeling. She just couldn’t answer to anyone who guessed her old name. Dead Rick might not be the cleverest faerie there, but he would sort that out soon enough.
As for what she would do when—if—she found this Irish Owen… Time enough to decide that once I’ve located him. The maid might just have been deranged, after all.
But Louisa didn’t think so. Not with those screams still ringing in her ears.
“Is there anything I can do for you two?” she asked the brownies, gathering the will to leave their comfortable home.
Rosamund laughed, and it was surprisingly bitter for someone ordinarily so cheerful. “Marry that Watkin fellow, who’s in charge of finishing the Inner Circle, and convince him to stop. Oh, and you only have a few months in which to do it.”
“If I could, I most certainly would,” Louisa said, the warmth draining out of her. It was all well and good to escape to safety, but the Goodemeades had a way of making her feel guilty for those left behind.
“Is there an address where we can write to you?” Gertrude asked. “It may be we’ll have something else you can do—and it would be nice to stay in touch, regardless.”
Louisa wrote the direction on a scrap of paper Rosamund furnished, hugged both brownies, and went back out into the streets of Islington. “Now,” she said to the passing traffic, not caring who stared at her, “I must decide: What do I owe to an Irishwoman who hit me in the face?”
Nothing. But her curiosity had been roused, and would not subside. Sighing, Louisa went to find the coachman.
The Goblin Market, Onyx Halclass="underline" June 6, 1884
Nadrett’s boot came down on the back of Dead Rick’s neck, forcing his face sideways, so that his throat was half-crushed against the cold stone. The skriker’s entire body trembled, torn between the need to breathe and the knowledge that fighting would only make his master press harder.
“I sends you out,” Nadrett said in a dangerously soft voice, “for my own purposes. Not yours. When you don’t return on time, you know what that says to me? It says you’ve taken the good bread I’ve given you, and decided to use it for your own purposes. Which sounds an awful lot like stealing from me, don’t it?”
Shallow breaths rasped into Dead Rick’s throat. Nadrett had been busy when he returned from the Academy—off fucking some former court lady, according to Gresh, which always put the master in a better mood—so he’d dared to think he might get away with his disobedience.
He didn’t have that kind of luck. He never had.
“What, dog, was so very important that you decided it was worth stealing from me?”
Dead Rick couldn’t answer. The best he could manage was a hoarse noise, some movement of his lips. Nadrett let him suffer like that for a moment longer, then lifted the boot. “Yes?”
The skriker coughed, then hurried to speak before his master lost patience. “Bread.”
“I know what you stole from me, dog.”
“No. Bread. Debts. Tried to get more, to pay a few coves off.”
Nadrett made a disgusted sound. “’Ow’d you end up with debts? You don’t need no bleeding bread; you never go outside. And don’t I give you everything else you need? Anybody comes to break my dog’s fingers, they’ve got to ask me for permission first, don’t they?” The toe of his boot thudded into Dead Rick’s ribs, and the skriker curled up in pain.
By the time it faded, Nadrett had stepped away, going to an old cabinet in the corner of the room. Dead Rick looked up, cautiously, afraid he would be punished for doing so. But his master’s attention was elsewhere; he unlocked the doors with a small key from around his neck, then opened them to reveal an assortment of shelves and tiny drawers. This was where he kept minor valuables: bread for his underlings, mortal trinkets, other items for his business.