I have spent a great deal of time watching women lie, usually about their ability to raise ghosts. Though he was nothing on Sidgwick, for such observations. Myers knew his own desire for success sometimes blinded him. “What you’ve learned—is that what troubles you?”
“No. Well, yes—” Miss Kittering sighed. “The question that plagues me is, what do I owe to a crazed Irish maid who tried to strangle me?”
“You mean, do you owe her your assistance.”
She looked away again, then nodded.
Myers wanted to ask for more details, but her obvious reticence told him not to push. Considered in its most general terms, however, the crux of the matter was clear. “Would it do anyone any good for her to know? Either the maid, or this fellow she lost?”
A long silence answered that, until they had nearly reached the bank of the Serpentine. Finally—grudgingly—Miss Kittering said, “It might.”
“Would it cost you much to help?”
Even more grudgingly, she said, “No.”
“Then, from what you have told me, the only reason to refuse is spite toward this maid, for what she did to you. But your wounds healed, and hers, it seems, cannot. Unless someone helps her.”
Staring out over the placid waters of the artificial lake, Miss Kittering spoke again, sounding oddly lost and confused. “I’m not accustomed to feeling this way. There was a time I would have forgotten her without hesitation.”
Quietly, Myers said, “I must confess, I would think less of you if you did.”
She turned to face him, skirts brushing pebbles into rattling motion. “That, too, is unaccustomed. I never thought I would care so much what you think. But I do; I find I cannot bear the thought of you condemning me.” Miss Kittering sighed. “So be it, then. I know what I must do.”
St. Mary Abbots Workhouse, Kensington: July 27, 1884
Following her release from the black punishment cell, Eliza heeded Quinn’s advice and behaved herself, swallowing every bit of rebellion and reluctance. They churned uneasily in her gut—along with a case of the gripes she got from bad food—but she held her peace. To really get the sergeant’s help, she would need proof, and she couldn’t get it from inside here. Eliza doubted she could win free by model behavior, but it was at least worth a try; and in the meanwhile, she would look for other options. She’d made a mistake, trying to run so early, before she knew enough.
So when the matron came to find her a little over a week later, Eliza was not locked away, pressing on her own eyeballs out of desperation; she was up to her elbows in scalding hot water and soap, scrubbing the battered tiles of the workhouse floor. “Another visitor,” the woman said. “You’re a popular one, aren’t you?”
Her tone made it clear what she thought of that, but Eliza showed no offense. She dried her hands, curtsied, and followed the matron, wondering. Hoping. Quinn back again? Has he found proof of the faeries?
Not Quinn. The matron led her to a different room, which proved to be a small parlor, of the sort where ladies from the Workhouse Visiting Society would take their tea, while being told grand lies about the public good such places did. One such silk-clad lady was waiting in the corner, studying a bad landscape painting on the wall, when Eliza entered, with the matron close behind.
Then the lady turned around, and Eliza stopped dead. It was Louisa Kittering.
Who swept past her as if she weren’t there and took the matron’s hands in her own, nonsense courtesies spilling from her mouth—“So grateful to you, just rest yourself in this chair, please, there’s nothing here you need worry yourself about in the slightest”—whereupon the woman nodded, smiling vacantly, and sat herself down as if she’d forgotten her own name.
“Don’t say anything,” the changeling told Eliza. She said it almost in the same breath, but her tone and entire posture changed, the bright silliness falling away like a costume. “And please, for the love of Mab, don’t hit me again. If I scream, we’ll have half the staff on us in an instant, and I can’t charm them all.”
The creature was between her and the door. Eliza backed away, wishing she had a crucifix. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—”
Louisa Kittering’s face showed exasperation. “That won’t do any good against me, you know—it doesn’t even scare me anymore. Will you hush? I’m here to help you.”
Eliza stopped. No, she really had just said that. “You’re a liar.”
“What I am is the one who can help you get him back.” She held up the lost photo of Owen.
For all her apparent calm, the changeling squeaked in alarm when Eliza snatched the picture from her gloved hand. I thought it gone forever. Her heart thudded hard against her ribs. “Why—why would you do that?”
Composure regained, the changeling lifted her eyebrows as if she were wondering that herself. “Before we say anything more, a few basic rules. We aren’t going to talk about who, and what, I am—”
“The devil we aren’t,” Eliza said violently.
A raised hand stopped her. “I’ll have you know the girl you’re so concerned about chose this. She had to; I couldn’t have done… what I did unless she was willing. She’s off to enjoy the life she wants, without fear her parents will chase her down. Isn’t that a gift?”
“And I’m to be believing you did that out of the goodness of your heart?” Eliza snorted to show what she thought of that. “What do you get out of it?”
The changeling smiled. “The ability to stand here in front of you while you fling words of your God at me, without fear they’ll harm me. The safety of knowing my protection won’t wear off, the way other kinds do. The freedom to stay in London, so long as I keep to this life. She and I both got what we wanted.”
For all the tales she’d heard of changelings, Eliza had never thought of the faerie side. She’d assumed the point was to steal mortals away—and maybe for some of them, it was. When it came to the faerie left in the mortal’s place, though, she hadn’t given it much thought, other than to call it mischief on their parts. This one wants to live as a mortal…?
Not fully mortal—not given what she’d just done to the matron, who was still smiling at the far wall, not heeding a word they said. But partially so, enough to protect.
Eliza wouldn’t believe it until she laid eyes on the real Louisa Kittering. But in the end, one spoiled, rebellious young woman mattered far less to her than Owen. For him, there was no aid she would not accept. And this seemed more promising than trying to arrange for the changeling to be delivered to Sergeant Quinn as proof. That, Eliza thought, can come later. “How do you mean to help me?”
The creature who was now Louisa Kittering looked around the workhouse parlor, her mouth forming a pretty expression of distaste. “First, by getting you out of here. Ash and Thorn, what a dreadful place. I confess I felt none too kindly toward you after you beat me black and blue—but I expect you’ve had three blows by now for every one I took. Wouldn’t you agree? Of course you would, if it means seeing this end. It will take a while longer, I fear; it’s a bit of a tricky thing, convincing these people to let you go, and I can’t be quite as direct as once I would have been. You can wait a few more days, can’t you?”
Eliza only stared, listening to the new Miss Kittering talk about workhouse overseers and justices of the peace—not to mention Mrs. Kittering—as if they were only tiny challenges, easily overcome. She collected herself with a snap and said, “What then?”