The fear in Yvoir’s voice reminded Dead Rick, yet again, that he was no longer in the Goblin Market. The differences kept taking him by surprise. Hodge’s mercy, Irrith’s gentle teasing, and now Yvoir’s fear, because to these people he was scary. They had not lived with the likes of Nadrett or Lacca.
Or am I that much scarier than I used to be?
There was no need to cringe or scrape here, to show throat and beg for mercy. For the first time in ages, Dead Rick felt strong. Only for a moment, though: then his eyes went to the fragile glass of his memory, and he remembered how easily strength could be taken from him.
He took a slow breath and made himself think about what Yvoir had just said. “What are you waiting for, then?”
“Are you familiar with absinthe?”
A surprised snort puffed out of him. “That green stuff the mortals drink?”
Yvoir looked contemptuous. “What they drink is a pale imitation of the real thing. In Faerie, wormwood is an herb of the moon; the mortals know this, for they call it Artemisia absinthium, after the Greek goddess. And it will assist in visions, which is what we need. I have written to France, to obtain some. As soon as it arrives, we will try.”
Something in the way he said it made Dead Rick apprehensive. “And the bit you ain’t telling me is…”
“I said what they drink is a pale imitation. True absinthe—the Green Faerie itself—is much more powerful. You may find its effects… distressing.”
The anger was still there. It had always been there, every moment he lived under Nadrett’s heel, only now he could admit it without fear of dying. Dead Rick stalked toward Yvoir, who abruptly went rigid and did not move, and growled very quietly into the other faerie’s face, “More distressing than ’aving everything of who I was—every bit of me that ain’t Nadrett’s dog—stuck in glass?”
A tiny, tremulous shake of Yvoir’s head was his only answer.
Dead Rick’s lip curled in a mockery of a smile. “Let me know when you gets your wormwood. I’ll be more than ready.”
St. Anne’s Church, Whitechapeclass="underline" August 22, 1884
Eliza had grown accustomed to having her heart in her mouth every time she went to Whitechapel. Usually it was because of Special Branch, but this time, her fears were of another sort entirely.
What if it doesn’t work?
The question had no answer. If it didn’t work, then… no. It had to work. Had to, because Eliza lacked any alternative, and surely God owed her this much.
Blasphemous thoughts to have in her head as she slipped through the Whitechapel night to church.
With Owen following like a meek and frightened lamb, she avoided the pimps and the whores, the cutpurses and the drunkards staggering through the streets, making her way to a place such sinners rarely frequented. St. Anne’s was a solid, comforting bulk in the darkness, silhouetted against a surprisingly clear sky. Eliza was grateful for the lack of a moon, which would help to conceal what they did here tonight.
Grateful, at least, until a shadow detaching itself from the outer wall of the church made her nearly jump from her skin. “We’ve a problem.”
Eliza pressed one hand over her pounding heart and glared at the Maggie Darragh–shaped shadow. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Maggie, you scared me half to— What do you mean, a problem?”
Owen had scurried to hide behind Eliza, keeping her between him and the sister he didn’t recognize. Or perhaps it was the church he cowered away from, or his mother, who followed her daughter into the street. Maggie gestured at him. “He needs sponsors, doesn’t he? A godmother and a godfather, to answer for him, since he’s no voice. I didn’t think of it until now. Ma can’t, not for her own child. I suppose I might, but shouldn’t there be two?”
Eliza’s heart sank. She hadn’t thought of it, either, but should have. Even when an adult converted, they had sponsors at their side during the baptism, and Owen’s position was more like that of an infant. It might be possible to do it with only one—she could ask Father Tooley—but her instincts rebelled against doing anything that might undermine the sacrament.
But who would they find to be his godfather? Not liking it, but not seeing any other choice, Eliza said, “Fergus—”
Maggie was already shaking her head, as if she’d known Eliza would suggest him. “It would never work; he hasn’t come to church in years. And he—he doesn’t know about my brother, not yet.”
Now wasn’t the time to ask why. Eliza bit her lip. Dónall Whelan had been buried days before, with more faerie silver to pay his way; but he, like Fergus Boyle, had been an unrepentant sinner, not a man in good standing with the church.
Did the second sponsor have to be a man?
Owen was a silent, timid presence at her back. In the days since she’d found him, he’d come to trust her, a little, if not as much as Feidelm and the others he knew better. She’d dared the police and the world under London to find him, and a godmother was supposed to stand between her godson and sin…
If she sponsored him through this baptism, though, they would be family. And they could never marry.
She’d been avoiding the question ever since she went into the Onyx Hall and saw her lost love, caught seven years back in time. Even if Owen regained his wits, he was just a boy. Eliza had spent a third of her life apart from him, growing and changing, not always in good ways. Would he remember her? Would he still love who she’d become?
Did she still love who he was now?
Another question with no answer. It couldn’t be answered, not until Father Tooley baptized Owen and they saw what good, if any, that did. But Eliza had to make her choice now.
The creak of a door made them all jump. It was just the priest, though, emerging from the church in his robes and violet stole. He cast a quick glance around, then hurried over to join them.
In the few seconds it took for him to reach them, Eliza made her decision.
All that matters is helping Owen. You can’t let anything get in the way of that.
She just hoped the decision wasn’t cowardice, a way of avoiding the questions she couldn’t answer.
“Father Tooley,” Maggie said, “we didn’t arrange for sponsors. I’ll be his godmother, but for the other—”
“I’ll do it,” Eliza said, cutting her off. The declaration came out too loud, and she lowered her voice. “If two godmothers isn’t blasphemy, I’ll be the other.”
Maggie gave her a sharp look, and Father Tooley one so filled with pity and kindness that Eliza flinched away from meeting it. She expected the priest to remind her of what that meant, or say she couldn’t do it, but to her surprise— “I thought of that already, and arranged a godfather for him.”
“Who?” Maggie demanded, before Eliza could find her tongue. For one irrational, bewildered moment, she thought of Dead Rick. But the Goodemeades had already told her that baptism was too dangerous a thing for them to go near, bread or no.
Father Tooley said, “I think that’s him at the corner, there.”
She and Maggie both whirled. In the darkness, with a cap on, the man’s face was too deeply shadowed to make out the slightest detail, but Eliza didn’t need it. The left sleeve, knotted at the cuff where a hand should be, made him recognizable at any distance.
She didn’t know she’d cursed until Maggie elbowed her, and for a moment they might have been sisters again. Eliza spun again and glared at Father Tooley. “You’d call my father a good Catholic? Good enough for Owen?”