CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

MORDECAI LAY IN his bed, propped up on two pillows. He was bored, but an attempt to read had ended in failure; the letters had marched across the page in all directions, evading his attempts to decipher them.

Phelps had told him not to worry, that his head would be right before the week was out, but Mordecai was worried. What if he could never read again?

A knock sounded on the door. Phelps opened it. Mordecai heard the murmur of voices—and then a most unexpected person walked into the room. For a moment he thought his eyes were deceiving him—I’m seeing things that don’t exist—and then the apparition spoke: “Hello, Black.”

“Cosgrove?” Mordecai said, astonished. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Came up to Exeter on business. Heard you’d been laid up. Took a few blows to the head, did you?”

“Yes.”

Cosgrove came closer to the bed and stood looking down at him. “How are you? Truthfully.”

“Truthfully?” Mordecai grimaced. “My head hurts like the devil and I’m unsteady on my pins.” And then he blurted: “I can’t read; the letters won’t stop moving.” The moment the words were out he wished them unsaid. His voice had been too high, too anxious, his fear audible. “But I have all my wits—and few days in bed will see me right.”

Cosgrove took the chair Phelps had been sitting in. “If your head doesn’t mend itself, I know someone who can help.”

“It will mend itself,” Mordecai said. I hope.

“Most likely,” Cosgrove said. “But you must promise to let me know if it doesn’t.” He glanced at Phelps, standing unobtrusively by the door. “Would you mind stepping outside? I have something of a private nature I need to discuss with Black.”

“Very good, sir,” Phelps said, and exited the bedchamber.

“What’s this about?” Mordecai said, groping for another pillow so he could sit up. “Something wrong?”

“Lie down, man. No, nothing’s wrong. I just need to tell you something.” Cosgrove eyed him for a moment, and then said, “I must have your promise that you won’t repeat what I tell you.”

“Of course I won’t repeat it,” Mordecai said. “My word on it.”

Cosgrove nodded, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, expression serious. “I’m going to tell you something that will sound very far-fetched. You won’t believe it. I didn’t believe it at first.”

“What?” Mordecai said, baffled by Cosgrove’s air of solemnity.

Cosgrove opened his mouth, closed it, grimaced. “It will sound ludicrous, but it is true. I swear it.”

“What?” Mordecai said again.

Cosgrove hesitated. He removed his hat, ran a hand through his hair, grimaced again, said, “I don’t know where to start.”

“At the beginning,” Mordecai said, slightly alarmed. Even at Jackson’s boxing saloon, stripped half naked, sweating and panting, Cosgrove had never been anything other than self-assured. But right now the man looked awkward, uncertain.

“You won’t believe it.”

“Cosgrove, for God’s sake, just tell me.”

Cosgrove blew out a breath. “It’s like this: there are Faeries.”

Mordecai opened his mouth . . . and then closed it again. His alarm became stronger. He’s lost his wits.

Cosgrove held up a hand, even though Mordecai hadn’t said anything. “Just hear me out. All right?”

Mordecai nodded warily.

“Five hundred years ago—or maybe six hundred, I don’t think anyone knows for certain—a woman won a wish from a Faerie, and her wish was that her daughters would receive wishes when they grew up, and their daughters in turn. You with me so far?”

Mordecai nodded, even more warily.

“My wife is descended from one of those daughters, and on her twenty-fifth birthday she received a wish. She chose metamorphosis, which means that she can change shape.”

Mordecai looked away. Oh, God, he’s dicked in the nob.

“The first time I saw it I thought I’d gone mad,” Cosgrove said.

Mordecai unwillingly looked back at him.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now is exactly what I thought then. I can guarantee it. When Charlotte tried to explain, I couldn’t believe it, because it was so . . . so impossible.” Cosgrove leaned even further forward on the chair. His gaze was fierce, intent, earnest. “But here’s the thing, Black: it is true.”

Mordecai shook his head.

“You saw it yesterday. The door Miss Wrotham burned down, the boots she set on fire—that was magic. Faerie magic.”

“How do you know about that?”

“She told me.”

Mordecai grimaced. He looked away from Cosgrove, towards the end of the bed.

Cosgrove was silent for a moment, then he said, “Going back to the beginning again, there were three daughters. Three different lines of descent. My wife’s line receive their wishes on their twenty-fifth birthdays; Miss Wrotham’s receive theirs on their twenty-third.” Cosgrove paused. “Do you know when Miss Wrotham’s birthday was?”

Mordecai shook his head.

“The day of the fire.”

Mordecai reluctantly looked at Cosgrove.

“You think Miss Wrotham started the fire,” Cosgrove said. “But the truth is that she put it out. She was in her bedroom watching the roofs burning when the Faerie came—and so for her wish she chose control of fire. She put out that fire, Black; she didn’t start it.”

Mordecai stared at him, and remembered plunging into the fiery stairwell—and flames snuffing themselves out all around him.

“I know it goes against the laws of nature,” Cosgrove said. “You don’t need to tell me that: I know it. But the thing is, there are Faeries and there is magic.”

Mordecai shook his head again.

“You know it’s true. You saw it yesterday.”

Mordecai couldn’t deny that.

“There’s magic in this world, and your Miss Wrotham possesses it. But it’s not evil. She’s not evil. She saved a lot of lives, including yours.”

That was an indisputable truth: Eleanor Wrotham had saved his life yesterday.

He thought of the flaming staircase again.

“I know you’re not in plump currant right now, so I won’t talk anymore—but believe me, Black. I’m not lying on this.”

Mordecai reluctantly nodded.

Cosgrove stood, and held out his hand.

After a moment, Mordecai took it.

Cosgrove’s handclasp was firm and his gaze was as intelligent as it had always been. He looked sane.

“I meant what I said,” Cosgrove said. “If your head doesn’t mend, I know someone who can heal it for you.” He released Mordecai’s hand, nodded farewell, and left the bedchamber.

Mordecai stared at the door for a long time, deeply unsettled. Cosgrove was someone he admired—for his intellect, for his boxing prowess, for his vocal stance against the slave trade. And yet the man believed in Faeries and magic?

CONVERSATION HALTED WHEN Lord Cosgrove returned to the parlor. “How did he take it?” Reid asked.

“Hard to tell. You know as well as I do that it’s not an easy thing to believe.” Cosgrove ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t tell him about Letty, if that sets your mind at rest.”

“Thank you.”

Cosgrove turned to Nell. “I’d leave him be. Give him time to think it over. He’s pretty knocked-up.”

“I will,” Nell said. “Thank you.”

The Reids stood. “I’ll make enquiries in Gandy Street,” Mr. Reid said. He examined her with those piercing gray eyes, and said, “I think you shouldn’t go out today, Miss Wrotham. Allow yourself time to recover. I’ll let you know the moment I have any news.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Reid said, taking one of Nell’s hands in both of hers. “You look quite done in. I would rest, if I were you.” She smiled wryly. “You may tell me I’m not your mother, if you wish!”

Nell was surprised into a laugh—and at the same time felt tears prick her eyes. “Perhaps I shall rest.”

Mrs. Reid released Nell’s hand. “I look forward to furthering our acquaintance.” When she smiled like that, she didn’t look regal, she looked like someone Nell would like to be friends with.

I think Letty Reid might be a kindred spirit.

Once they were gone, Nell stood for a moment in the parlor. She did feel tired. Exhausted. There was no doubting Reid’s ability to look for Sophia and Lizzie; he would learn more in one hour on Gandy Street than she would in four. Perhaps I will rest.

Wearily she went upstairs. Bessie was in the bedchamber. “Look, ma’am,” the maid said, and showed Nell the spencer.

“My goodness. It looks as good as new.” Nell took the garment and examined it. Bessie had cut out the ripped seams and sewn in gussets of the same shade of navy blue. “Where did you get the fabric?”

“I took out some of the lining,” Bessie said.

Nell turned the spencer inside out. Bessie had replaced the lining with scraps of ivory-white muslin.

“From your gown that was burned,” Bessie said. “And look . . .”

Nell looked. Her two ruined gowns were spread side by side on the bed.

“If I take two panels from this one . . .” Bessie pointed to the vandyked walking dress with the burned seams. “. . . and cut them down, I can use them to replace this panel.” She smoothed the torn sprigged muslin gown with her hand. “Do you see, ma’am?”

Nell did see.

“Of course, the fabrics won’t match, but if I do the same to the bodice—add a strip of this muslin here—then it’ll look as if it’s meant to be that way.” She glanced at Nell, looking hesitant and eager at the same time. “What do you think, ma’am?”

I think that you have guessed how little money I have. Nell swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “I think it’s a very clever idea.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Can you conjure bonnets from thin air, too?”

Bessie grinned, and crossed to the dressing table—upon which sat a bonnet.

It was a very ugly bonnet.

“A lady left it behind last month,” Bessie said. “None of the servants wanted it.”

I can see why, Nell thought.

“I’ll do it over,” Bessie said. “Get rid of all them tassels and that wreath. It’ll be much more the thing once I’m finished with it.”

Nell believed her. “Thank you,” she said, and then she hugged the maid—propriety be damned. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, Bessie. You’re the best maid in all England!”