She brushed her fingertips across the spot, remembering the brief touch of a warm, soft tongue. Owen hadn’t let her go after the dog, even though Eliza wanted to take it in and feed it. You can’t afford it, a stór; just let it go. You’ve done your good for the day.
All three women were listening patiently. Eliza took a deep breath and went on. “A few days later, when I was returning from church, I met a man.” Even then, before she knew anything about him, his eyes had seemed familiar. “He walked up to me in the street and said, ‘Thank you.’ Then he tried to vanish into the crowd, but I chased him; I wanted to know who he was, and why he’d thanked me. He said his name was Dead Rick, and that I’d saved him.”
For the first time since she began, one of the women made a noise. Eliza paused, looking at Gertrude, but the woman waved her on. She obeyed; if she stopped for long, she might not have the courage to go on. “I kept asking questions—what did he mean, that I’d saved him; I’d never seen him before in my life—until finally he turned into the dog.”
No one looked surprised. Rosamund actually nodded, as if Eliza had confirmed what she already suspected. Eliza could scarcely believe their lack of disbelief; she’d scarcely believed the sight when she saw it with her own eyes. The wiry, hard-faced man had thrown his hands up in disgust—if you’re going to keep pushing like that—and then dropped, curling inward, clothes somehow becoming fur, until he stood on four legs before her. Then he’d licked her hand, in the same spot as before.
“How long ago was this?” Gertrude asked.
“A little more than seven years ago.”
More nodding. Only the sisters; Mrs. Chase listened silently, but it was clear the Goodemeades were the true audience for her tale. “Go on,” Rosamund said.
It was almost easier to tell the next part. Painful as the memory was, it hurt less than remembering how things had begun, the friendship they’d enjoyed once both she and Owen knew the faerie’s nature. Running wild through Whitechapel. Tithing bread to him when they could afford it—sometimes when they couldn’t—so he could be among them safely. Telling him of her mother’s ghost, and him teaching her to make use of that gift, so that it might earn her money someday. “A few months later, I went to Mass, and Owen wasn’t there. Mrs. Darragh was in a fine fury, saying Dead Rick had caught them as they were about to go into the church, and convinced Owen to go with him instead. I slipped out before the priest came in and went looking for them, and—”
The words lodged in her throat like a piece of chicken bone. Try as she might, Eliza couldn’t get them out. If she spoke, she would burst into tears, and she refused to do that in front of these women, when she scarcely knew them. Gertrude patted her on the hand, and that nearly broke her. The woman said softly, “For now, just give us the shape of it. If the details matter, we can worry about them later.”
It helped, a little. “The faeries took him,” she said. There, it was out; now she could go on. “Dead Rick betrayed us. All those months we spent together, the friendship—it was a lie; it meant nothing to him. I was a fool to think it did. Faeries can’t be friends with human mortals. The look he gave me, when I asked him how he could turn against us like that—” He might as well have been looking at a wall that suddenly began to scream at him. Mild curiosity, but nothing more. Cold. Empty.
Gertrude reached out again, but Eliza pulled away before the woman could touch her. “I chased them,” she said, hearing her own voice high and tight, “but they got away. And I never saw Dead Rick again, until last year, when he helped the ones who bombed the railways. Since then I’ve been trying to find people who know something of faeries. I’ve told ye my tale; now ye tell me—who is this Cyma, and can ye help me find Owen?”
Rosamund nodded. “Cyma’s name was… merely a sign to us, to make certain we’d listen to you when you came. We already know where your lad is.”
Her calm, casual words struck like a bolt of lightning. “Where?”
The woman hesitated before answering. Eliza nearly leapt from her seat and shook her. “With the fae, still. But not the ones who took him before. Kinder folk, who are doing for him what they can.”
Eliza’s heart pounded in her ears, making her whole body tremble. “Miss Kittering said he was with an Irish lady.”
“An Irish lady faerie,” Gertrude said. “It’s almost the same thing.”
Rosamund spoke before Eliza could find the words to express how far from the same thing it was. “Please believe us, Miss Baker. There are cruel faeries in this world, certainly—far too many of them, and even more who are only good when someone gives them a reason. But there are those for whom it’s in their nature to be kind. You’ve been badly hurt, you and those close to you, and no kindness after the fact will heal that hurt entirely; but please, believe that not all fae are like that.”
The passion in her voice was startling. Mrs. Chase gave Rosamund a peculiar smile, then said to Eliza, “They’re telling the truth. Remember that, Miss Baker—that I, too, believe there are kind faeries in the world. I’ve lived many long years, and seen more than you can imagine; I hope my word will count for something.”
She said it as if her word should somehow carry a different weight than that of the Goodemeades. Eliza didn’t understand, and honestly didn’t care. Kind faeries, cruel ones; there was only one thing she wanted. “Make them give Owen back to me.”
Another hesitation. This time Eliza did leap to her feet, but Mrs. Chase’s outstretched hand stopped whatever she might have done. “He’s eaten faerie food,” Rosamund said. “Lived among the fae for seven years. We’d have brought him out already, but for fear it would hurt him.”
“Then take me to him.” She said it without thinking. Damn the danger; she could be the heroine in this tale, going underhill to rescue her true love.
Even if it’s been seven long years? Even if you need a photograph to remind yourself of his face?
Even then. If her love wasn’t strong enough to win him free, then she would find something else. The faeries would regret the day they took Owen from her.
The sisters exchanged another one of their glances, as if they were carrying on a conversation no one else could hear. Then Rosamund shrugged, and Gertrude smiled up at Eliza. “Very well. We’ll take you to your friend.”
The Goblin Market, Onyx Halclass="underline" August 6, 1884
The usual noise of the Goblin Market had taken on a harder edge of late. Voices were grimmer, laughter more shrill; and everyone kept their weapons close to hand.
Hardface’s latest lover, a Greek maenad named Hippagre, told stories about Roman despots who, knowing that soldiers were coming to kill them, spent their final night hosting a grand party, squandering all their wealth and riches at one go. With tremors repeatedly shaking the Hall, the Market felt a good deal like that—though Dead Rick doubted many fae would take poison at the end. It explained the wild celebrations he witnessed: drinking, rutting, the torment of mortals.
But not the violence. That, he feared, was the fault of his ally—at least in part.
The versorium wasn’t the only thing to go missing during the chaos laid over the Market. A great many things of value had vanished, from bread to weapons to enchanted mirrors. Every major power in the Market had been robbed: Nadrett, Aspell, Hardface, even Lacca, who lost most of what little she had scraped together in the last few months.
Dead Rick’s absence had not been marked, but the outrage meant Nadrett kept Dead Rick near constantly on four feet and running at his heels, whether he needed to be there or not. Currently the master was pacing while Old Gadling took a horsewhip to the back of the clurican who had been the guardian of the bread lockbox. It was the third time he’d had the Irish faerie beaten, and Dead Rick was serving absolutely no purpose there, but Nadrett insisted on it anyway.