CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
July 22nd, 1812
Exeter, Devonshire
NELL WOKE KNOWING that the world was a different place and that she was a different person. The first twenty-three years of her life lay on one side of a great divide and the rest of her life lay on the other side.
She’d been so certain she could never love Mordecai Black—determined not to love him—but Black was no autocrat, and marriage to him wouldn’t be a cage; it would be freedom and companionship and joy.
And love.
Because she loved him. She loved Mordecai Black.
It was a life-altering realization.
Everything had changed—and at the same time, it hadn’t. Mordecai Black hadn’t altered at all. He was exactly the same man he’d been in London a week ago, but she’d been blinded by his reputation, by his assertive nature, by his imperious nose. He hadn’t changed; she had. She’d learned to see who he truly was, and that man wasn’t the rake the gossipmongers painted him as. He was kind and tender, decisive and blunt-spoken, liberal, unconventional, moral. And romantic. And lonely.
Nell had once heard a sermon in which a good marriage was likened to a garden: the husband watching over his wife and children while they bloomed under his care, protected and sheltered and nurtured. The vicar had been talking of flowers, but Nell had seen an espaliered tree in her mind’s eye, branches bound in place, lovingly forced to grow into a shape someone else wished it to.
Marriage to Black wouldn’t be like that. She wouldn’t be espaliered, she’d be like a great oak in the woods, able to grow into whatever shape she wished.
If I’m going to be free, I want to be free with him.
Nell flung back the bedcovers and climbed out of bed. She stood for a moment, trying to sense a change in her body, some physical reminder of last night’s events, but there was no ache, nothing. Her virginity had been taken, her heart had been lost—or won, depending how one viewed it—and her body carried on as if nothing had happened.
What did you expect, you goose? Nell crossed to the window, drew the chintz curtain back, and stared out at the rooftops of Exeter. The sky was bright, hazy.
Today I will find Sophia.
“Hurry up, Baletongue,” Nell said, under her breath. She turned and surveyed the room, but there was no Faerie concealed in the shadows of the bedhangings. She stood for a moment, listening, waiting, hoping. Lady Dalrymple had told her that when Baletongue arrived every hair on her scalp would stand on end—but her scalp felt completely normal.
The door swung open. Nell gave a great, convulsive start, but it was only Bessie, carrying a pitcher of steaming water.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
“Good morning, Bessie,” Nell said. “It looks as if we’re in for another hot day.”
SHE ATE BREAKFAST in the private parlor with Mordecai Black, and it felt awkward at first—he’d seen her naked, she’d seen him naked, he’d been inside her—and then Black met her eyes and smiled, and it no longer felt awkward, it just felt right. Deeply and profoundly right. This is how it’s meant to be: the two of us together.
But as much as Nell wanted to spend the morning with him, she had to be alone in order for Baletongue to show herself. “I have a letter I need to write,” Nell said, once they’d finished eating.
If Black was disappointed, it wasn’t obvious on his face. He nodded, and said, “I’ll go for a walk. May I take that sketch with me? I’d like to show it around, see if anyone recognizes your sister.”
“Of course.”
Ten minutes later, Black left the inn. Nell went to the window, watched him step out into the street, and felt a sharp pang of regret. She didn’t want to wait for Baletongue; she wanted to be with him.
NELL WAS TOO restless to sit. Emotions churned inside her: a jittery, edgy impatience underlain by a prickle of fear. Baletongue was no benevolent Faerie godmother; she was dangerous. An ill-chosen wish can ruin your life, Lady Dalrymple had cautioned. Don’t let her trick you into something you’ll regret.
The church bells struck nine o’clock. Nell peered out the window again. Her impatience surged. Sophia was out there somewhere. “Hurry up, Baletongue.”
She pushed away from the windowsill. Her father, if he could see her, would rebuke her. Restlessness is a sign of an unregulated mind, he’d told her more times than she could remember. Go to your room until you can control yourself. And Nell had conformed to the cage he’d built around her, had learned not to fidget, not to laugh, not to run, not to raise her voice, not to be anything but calm at all times.
She wasn’t calm now. She was impatient for Baletongue to come, impatient to find Sophia, impatient to get on with the rest of her life.
Nell paced, and kept an eye on the clock.
The minute hand crawled around the face. And crawled. And crawled. And Baletongue didn’t come.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Nell told herself after twelve minutes of restless pacing. “Sit down and write Georgie another letter!”
She marched across to the little writing desk, located paper and ink and a passable quill, and started the letter: Dearest Georgie. The clock caught her eye again. Nell watched the minute hand make another creeping circuit—and then gave herself a sharp, mental shake. She bent her attention to telling Georgie about her decision to marry Mordecai Black. I know you’ll be alarmed by this news, but believe me when I tell you that his reputation as a rake is vastly overblown. He’s a great deal more virtuous than anyone gives him credit for. More virtuous, certainly, than Roger Lockwood-Smith. (I’ll tell you what I mean by that when we next meet face-to-face; it’s too shocking to be committed to paper.) But until we meet you shall just have to trust me when I say that he is the kindest and best of men.
I have no doubt that you’ll think I’ve lost my wits! I assure you I haven’t. And if you doubt my estimation of Mordecai Black, ask your mother for hers. I think you’ll find that she approves of my choice.
Lady Dalrymple liked Mordecai Black. In fact, if Lady Dalrymple had been ten years younger and widowed, she would almost certainly have been one of Black’s mistresses. The viscountess moved in the best circles, but there was nothing staid about her. She was everything that Nell’s father had deplored: outspoken, original, open-minded. Viscount Dalrymple hadn’t tried to mold his wife into the perfect lady, he’d let her be the person she was.
And Mordecai Black will let me be myself, too, Nell thought.
She glanced at the clock again. Three more minutes had passed.
Nell dipped the quill in the inkpot, and began a new paragraph: I wish Baletongue would hurry! I am in a fever of impatience—but I confess I am also a little afraid. If your mother was frightened by her, then she must be terrifying indeed—but I take courage in the knowledge that even if she scares me witless, I will be reunited with Sophia shortly—and for that, I would face down the fiercest of Faeries.
You’ll see Baletongue for yourself next month, dearest cousin. Be stout of heart! Baletongue cannot be too terrifying, or else our ancestresses would all have died of fright on their twenty-third birthdays. Although perhaps fright is why some of them have chosen so poorly?
As soon as I know where Hubert is I shall seal this letter and send it to you.
All my love,
Nell
BALETONGUE HADN’T APPEARED by noon. At twelve thirty, the servants began setting the table for luncheon. At twelve thirty-five, Mordecai Black returned to the inn. He came up the stairs fast, taking the steps three at a time, and one glance at his face told Nell that he had news. She took a step towards him. “Sophia?”
“I found someone who saw her last month.”
“Where?”
“Not far from here. We can go now if you like.”
Nell did want to go—desperately—but she said politely, “Do you wish to eat luncheon first?”
Black glanced at the table and shook his head. “Food can wait.”
Nell ran upstairs to fetch her bonnet. “Who’s this person who saw her?” she asked, as she and Black clattered down the stairs to the street.
“A costermonger.”
Outdoors, it was stiflingly hot. A bell pealed loudly nearby, clang-clang-clang.
Black set a brisk pace. “The costermonger says that Sophia was in the company of another young woman. Lizzie, I’m guessing. He thinks they were lodging in Turnagain Lane. He saw her several times.”
“Were lodging? They’re not there now?”
“He doesn’t think so. But there’s a good chance someone in Turnagain Lane will know where they went.”
Another bell began pealing. Clang-clang. Clang-clang. Clang-clang.
“What sort of neighborhood is it?” Nell asked.
“Better than the West Quarter.”
A third bell started ringing, and a fourth. It was as if every bell in this part of the city was suddenly clamoring. Nell heard steeple bells and a deep, booming workhouse bell and the brassy jangle of vendors’ bells.
Black halted abruptly and turned on his heel, scanning the sky.
“What?” Nell said.
A coachman’s horn sounded in the distance, loud and urgent blasts.
“Fire,” Black said grimly.
Nell followed the direction of his gaze—and saw smoke rising above the rooftops. Not a thin plume, as from a chimney, but a thick pall.
Even as she watched, the column of smoke swelled.
“Back to the inn,” Black said. “Now!”
They were only two hundred yards from the inn, but getting there was like swimming upstream against a river. It was as if a floodgate had opened, spilling people into the street.
Exeter’s panic was a tangible thing. Nell heard it in the wildly clanging bells, tasted it sharp on her tongue, felt it buffet her on all sides. People elbowed her, shoved her, trod on her feet. Black kept a tight hold on her arm. She clung to him, glad of his formidable size, glad of his strength.
They tumbled breathlessly into the relative calm of the inn’s yard. Walter crossed to them at a run. “Sir!”
“Tell Phelps to put the horses to,” Black said. “I want us gone within three minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Walter ran for the stables.
Nell could smell the fire now, a wild, acrid smell.
A cry of pain came from the street. Nell turned and saw a boy on the ground, rolling and scrambling, trying to regain his footing only to be knocked down again. She started forward, but Black moved even faster, shoving back into the crowd, scooping the boy up, hauling him to safety.
Black set the child on his feet in the yard. He was an urchin, scrawny and barefooted, no more than six years of age. “You all right, son?”
The urchin didn’t reply, just darted back to the street, plunging into the crowd, heading towards the fire, not away. He made it two paces before he was knocked down again.
Black hauled him back into the inn’s yard. This time he held on to the boy’s arm. “You’ll get trampled out there. Best stay with us.”
“I gotta help me ma!” the urchin cried, straining to break free. His face was smeared with dirt, and beneath the dirt was pure desperation. “She can’t get down the stairs wi’out me!”
“Where is she?” Black asked.
The boy kicked at Black with his bare feet. “Lemme go!”
Black shook him sharply. “Where is she?”
“There!” the boy said, tears spilling from his eyes. “She’s there!”
There was no doubting where there was, just as there was no doubting what needed to be done.
“We’ll come with you,” Nell said, catching up her skirts, taking an urgent step towards the street.
“No,” Black said.
“This boy’s mother—”
“I will find his mother. You’re getting out of Exeter.”
“But—”
“You’re leaving,” Black bellowed, and then he inhaled a deep breath and said in a more moderate tone, “You’ve got two minutes. Go and get Bessie.”
“I’m not a child,” Nell told him. “I can make my own decisions.”
“This is one decision you’re not going to make. Either you get in that carriage, or I’ll damned well put you in it myself!”
Nell’s temper sparked. She drew breath to tell him what she thought of overbearing men who treated women as if they were helpless idiots—and saw the implacable determination on his face and knew that it didn’t matter what she said or did: Black was going to make her get in the carriage, and if he had to abandon the boy and his mother to their fates in order to do it, he would.
Nell looked at Black, and then at the boy—small, dirty, desperate, straining to break free. She swallowed her anger. “All right,” she said. “You have my word I’ll get in the carriage. Go.”
Black rocked back on his heels as if he’d expected argument not capitulation. He frowned fiercely. “You promise you’ll leave?”
“I promise,” Nell said. “Now go!”
Black swung the urchin up on his shoulders, took a step towards the street, and looked back at Nell. She saw the conflict on his face: he didn’t want to leave her.
“I’ll be safe, Mordecai,” she said. “Now go. And be careful!”
He gave a curt nod, and stepped into the street. The crowd didn’t knock him down; it parted around him.
Nell watched him stride out of sight—a giant of a man with a grubby child on his shoulders—then she turned and ran across the inn’s yard. “Bessie!” She thudded up the stairs and hurtled into her bedchamber. “Bessie!”
The maid was standing at the window, wide-eyed and pale-faced.
“We’re leaving in two minutes. Go grab your things.”
Bessie nodded and ran from the room.
Nell snatched up her valise, threw her clothes into it, and hurried across to the window. The sky was dark with smoke. She tried to guess how far away the blaze was. Three streets? Four?
A prickling shiver crept up her spine. People are dying right now.
Bells rang wildly and voices rose from the street below, high-pitched and urgent.
Nell leaned out to see more clearly. The thoroughfare was choked with people, a great throng that surged and heaved yet seemed at a standstill—and then she saw why: a cart had locked wheels with a wagon.
In that instant she realized that they’d not get the carriage out of the yard. There were too many people, too much panic.
Nell glanced at the rooftops again. Was that a glow of flames, writhing and orange, beneath that black pall of smoke?
A shiver prickled up her spine, up the back of her neck, crawled over her scalp—and Nell suddenly realized what it meant.
She spun around.
A woman stood behind her, silent and unmoving. Nell recoiled against the windowsill. Her brain seemed to freeze. Baletongue.
The woman’s gown was the color of blood, her face as pale as white marble, and her eyes were black. Pure black.
Nell’s heart began to thud loudly.
“Eleanor Margaret Wrotham?” Baletongue said, and her voice was light and sibilant and cruel.
Nell moistened her lips and swallowed. “Yes.”
Baletongue said nothing more, just watched her with those terrible black eyes, waiting for her to make her wish. The shiver crawled up Nell’s spine again, not because of Baletongue’s eyes or the inhuman perfection of her face but because of the cruelty that clung to her.
This was a creature without mercy.
Nell suddenly understood why so many of her ancestors had chosen poorly. Not just terror, but because Baletongue had no compassion, no kindness. She’ll feel no remorse if my wish leads to my destruction.
Nell took a shallow breath. She heard the clanging of bells and the cries of people in the street, inhaled the smell of smoke. For days she’d known what she would wish for—but that certainty had evaporated. People are burning to death at this moment.
Baletongue’s lips quirked, as if she saw inside Nell’s head and understood her dilemma—and was amused by it.
Oh, God, what should I wish for?
Nell listened to the bells and smelled the smoke. Mordecai Black would have reached the blaze by now.
What if he burned to death? What if Sophia did?
Nell opened her mouth, heard Lady Dalrymple’s voice—Choose something that will last a lifetime—and blurted: “I wish for control over fire.”
“Done,” Baletongue said, and between one blink of Nell’s eyes and the next, she vanished.
Nell spun round and stared out the window. In the distance, a rooftop was in flames. “Stop!” she told it firmly.
The rooftop didn’t stop burning.
Nell gripped the windowsill, leaned out, and screamed, “Stop!” as loudly as she could.
The flames didn’t quench. The rooftop stilled burned.
I have to be closer.
Nell wrenched open her bedroom door and ran along the corridor, down the two flights of stairs, across the yard, and plunged out into the crowded street. “Out of my way!” she cried. “Move!” And she pushed and shoved with all her might, using her elbows, not caring if she stepped on people’s feet, battling her way towards the fire quite as desperately as the young urchin had.
She fought her way forward fifty yards, sixty yards, and then suddenly broke free of the crowd. The street was much emptier, only a few laggards in her way: the elderly and the lame. Nell picked up her skirts and ran as hard as she could. Stupid! Stupid! She should have told Baletongue to quench the fire. A one-time wish. Lifetime wishes didn’t matter when people were dying now.
The air was thick with smoke. Charred scraps of paper and cloth spun in the currents like thousands of black moths. She reached the end of the street and turned the corner, chest heaving, lungs straining—and there was the fire. Not flames on a far-off rooftop, but three buildings at the end of the block, tall and half-timbered and well ablaze, flames pouring from their many windows.
Nell halted, gulped a breath, and shouted, “Stop!”
The buildings went on burning, flames cascading from the windows and bending upwards to the sooty sky.
Nell ran again. The street wasn’t empty; people were frantically hauling possessions from their homes and businesses. Half a dozen men were wetting down the front of a shop—yet another Reid & Houghton bakery—throwing buckets of water in what even she could see was an act of futility. The whole street was half-timbered; if one building burned, they would all burn.
If Black died because she’d chosen the wrong wish . . .
Nell ran even harder, until it felt that her lungs might burst, until the fire’s fierce heat beat at her, until she heard its roar in her ears, until it seemed her clothes would catch alight—and then stumbled to a halt. “Stop!”
Her voice was weak and breathless, and the fire took no notice.
Nell staggered to the nearest house and slapped her hand against the rough, hot plaster. The building was shuddering, as if the timbers inside had already succumbed to the flames. She inhaled a gasping, sobbing breath, and cried: “Stop!”
The world stood still for a moment—and then came a sound like a vast thunderclap. There was an instant of intense heat, when Nell felt as if she burned from the inside out, and then the heat vanished as abruptly as it had come—and all her strength vanished with it. The fire collapsed inwards on itself, sucking back into the windows, and Nell collapsed, too. Her heart stopped beating, her lungs stopped working, and she experienced a moment of sharp clarity—I’m going to die—and on the heels of that realization came a brief burst of emotions—disbelief, despair, rage—and then they snuffed out, too, and she felt nothing but a strange, detached calmness. She had the sensation that she was floating above herself, gazing down at her crumpled body, and she felt nothing, not even sorrow—and then Nell suddenly fell back into herself. Her cheek was pressed to the hot, gritty flagway and she was coughing and gasping and alive.