Aspell’s thin mouth did not press into the sharp line she expected. He simply stood, eyes still remote, and then he said, “You have woven yourself too thoroughly into the fabric of your realm.”
The accuracy of his description startled her. He saw it, and his mouth curved into a strange half smile. “Do you know how I passed my one hundred years of sleep, madam?”
Wordlessly, she shook her head.
Aspell said, “In dreams.”
Fae did not dream. Were it not for that look in his eyes, Lune would have tried to correct his words, suggesting that he had experienced hallucinations, or some other kind of vision. But Aspell never chose his words carelessly, and his not quite wakeful state would accept no other term: he had dreamt, and some portion of those dreams held him still.
“I dreamt of many things, as the years slipped by,” he said. “I felt the Hall continue to crumble, though I did not understand what it was I felt until I entered this room. I sensed your presence, madam, working itself into the cracks and gaps of this realm, holding together what would otherwise break apart. I sensed…” He trailed off, then shook his head, as if trying to escape the seductive clutches of something faerie-kind was never meant to experience. “Even now, much of what I dreamt is unclear to me. But I believe that you are right. Having given so much of yourself to preserve your realm, you cannot leave it now.”
But she could have done it before. Lune trusted everyone else in the chamber, her knights and her Prince of the Stone; in front of them, she could admit her mistakes. Her gamble was to do so in front of Aspell. “I wish I had done it sooner. Whether that would have been better or worse, I cannot say—there is more at stake than merely the palace—but I wish I had not left the choice until it was too late.”
Aspell’s eyes widened in unguarded surprise. Then, with careful consideration, he bowed.
Lune did not let herself breathe out in relief. Not yet. “Valentin Aspell. You have been condemned and punished for your treason. If we should grant your freedom, how would you use it?”
As always, he chose his words with care. After a long pause, he said, “I do not know. But I would not seek to unseat or replace you. It would serve no purpose now.”
Hardly a ringing declaration of fealty. But it was what she had hoped for. “Swear to it,” Lune said, “and liberty will be yours.”
He did not hesitate. Valentin Aspell went down on one knee, and swore the oath, and Lune let the traitor go.
St. Mary Abbots Workhouse, Kensington: July 18, 1884
Nothing would stop the shivering. It wasn’t the cold, not anymore; the icy water into which they’d forced her head and most of her upper body had long since dried. The drafts blowing through her cropped hair still made Eliza feel peculiarly naked, but only when she let herself think about it.
She shivered because she was not alone.
Or because she was going mad. She couldn’t be sure of the difference between the two. The gusts of misery and dread that kept surging through her—were those her own? Or did they belong to the woman who had died in this cell? She felt the ghost hovering about her, some poor soul who’d made the same mistake she had—trying to run, trying to flee, as if the workhouse were something that could be escaped. All it did was make things worse. Convinced the workhouse master that Mrs. Kitteirng was right, that Elizabeth White, called Hannah, was a dangerous lunatic in need of the strictest restraint.
How long had she been in the cell? A day, at first; then they’d taken her before a justice and gotten permission to keep her there longer. She’d laughed when they shoved her through the door, calling it a holiday; so long as they kept her in here, she didn’t have to pick oakum or sew shirts or do any of the other tedious labor that was supposed to teach workhouse inmates virtue. But she’d never been forced to sit, for hours and days on end, in a pitch-black cell too small to pace, her only contact with the world coming when they opened the door to deliver food or empty her chamber pot. The single candle they carried hurt her eyes, and if she spoke, they struck her without answering back.
Lights burst across Eliza’s vision, and she realized she was pressing her fingers against her eyeballs, just to have something to see.
Something other than the ghost.
“Leave me alone,” she whispered, forgetting her resolve not to talk to the dead woman. Or to the figment of her imagination, whichever it was. “You want me to kill myself, as you did, and I won’t. I won’t.” A laugh caught in her throat—a laugh or a sob, she couldn’t tell which.
Maybe it would be better to feign madness. Then she might be sent to Bedlam. She’d seen an article in the newspaper once, praising Bedlam for being a model of civilized, enlightened treatment for the mad—far better than a workhouse, anyway. But no, that would never happen; Mrs. Kittering would put a stop to it. Just as she’d prevented Eliza from being sent to the new women’s prison in Brixton, where she might have been able to keep an ounce of dignity. Instead it was hard labor in the Kensington workhouse, and confinement as mentally unsound.
“Please.” It was her own voice, whispering again, and then repeating itself more loudly. “Please. I won’t try to escape again. Just take me away from her—” Then she remembered that she must keep silent, that every word she spoke might keep her in here longer.
When she heard the footsteps outside, she cringed, thinking they had come to punish her for talking. When the door opened, the flood of light made her whimper in pain; it was far more than a single candle. And then she heard a voice, actually speaking to her, for the first time since they shoved her back into the cell. A voice that didn’t belong to the dead.
“Come on, then. Somebody wants to see you.”
A rough hand grabbed the sleeve of her smock. Eliza did not resist. The woman was taking her out of the cell; that was all that mattered. Bringing her back to the world of light and sound—bringing her back to the world.
By the time she felt fresh air on her face, her eyes had recovered enough for her to see. She was being marched across to the main building, past workhouse men who could be trusted with the labor of keeping the grounds tidy. What could they want her for? Please, Mary Mother of God, don’t let them be taking me back to the justice, to ask for more time. If they’ve only brought me out to throw me back in again…
The main building was not a place where she spent much time; only the best of the workhouse inmates were given duties here, where visitors might see them. The matron hustled her through quickly, into a nearly empty room, containing only two things: an ordinary chair, and a much heavier one with shackles on its arms. Eliza swallowed a whimper as they were closed around her wrists. It’s better than the cell. Anything’s better than the cell. Then the matron left, and Eliza had just enough time to wonder what was going on before a man walked in.
He was a round-faced fellow, not much older than she, with alert eyes beneath heavy dark brows. Both whiskers and hair were closely trimmed, and he wore a stern-looking suit, everything buttoned into place. In one hand he carried a leather case, which he set down at his side when he took the chair across from Eliza, and opened to reveal a sheaf of papers. These he took out, but did not look at; they sat forgotten in his hand as he studied her.
Eliza stared back mutely, wondering who he was. Then he spoke, and a shock of familiarity washed over her. The accents of western Ireland, which she had heard before.
“Elizabeth White,” he said. “Formerly a housemaid to the Kittering family of Cromwell Road, in South Kensington. Alias Elizabeth Marsh, formerly a costerwoman. Alias Elizabeth Darragh, a drunkard seen in Newgate. Alias Elizabeth O’Malley, aged twenty-one years, of Whitechapel.”