It was late when I opened my eyes and found the door to my room ajar. Bartholomew must have left, and I was all alone. I shivered in the darkness. One of the candles I had left burning was still clinging to life, just a smear of wax with a dying flame flickering out beside the bed. I still felt so tired, though I must have slept, and distant from myself, as if my thoughts were an arm’s length away at all times.
Laughter. Distant laughter. It was too late for anyone to be up at this hour. . . . I longed to go back to bed but felt drawn to the sounds of celebrating. Clinking glassware. Amiable conversation. Had the guests in the pavilion stayed and moved their merrymaking into the house? I doubted Mrs. Haylam would allow such a thing. Taking up the little candle stub in its holder and pulling on a shawl, I tiptoed out of bed and down the hall.
The black ragged tails of Residents disappeared just ahead of me. There were three of them, all heading down the stairs toward the foyer. I passed the bird paintings cluttering up the wall, though the images seemed hazy, my eyes bleary with exhaustion. A dread cold hung over the house, as if the warmer months were long gone, the depths of winter returned. I saw my breath on the air and felt my skin prickle as it did in the moments before the sky broke and snow fell.
I followed the Residents, always just a step behind, watching them float ahead of me and toward the kitchens. Perhaps they, too, sensed something was amiss. The laughter was far off again, too far off, moving whenever I drew near. With chilly bare feet I crossed the foyer and peered into the kitchens, seeing the ghostly fringe of a Resident drift out the door and onto the lawn. Where the devil were they going? I had never seen any of them leave for the grounds except Lee. Faster I chased after them, faster, shielding the candle flame with one hand as it threatened to die.
The air outside stung, but the laughter was getting clearer. Oh, but it sounded like a jolly gathering indeed. The Residents sped across the grass, swift, black shapes that went with no hesitation to the pavilion and then forced their way inside. My heart ached. It felt like a joke I was not privy to, like a conversation whispered in the next room, a conversation you know is pure gossip and all about you. I ignored the candle flame, running hard, slipping across the lawn before better judgment could intervene and send me back to bed.
When I plunged into the tent it was brightly lit, though dyed silvery blue. All the wonder and beauty of it was gone, replaced by a deadness on the air and a horrible smell that made me gag and press my wrist over my mouth. The trestle tables had been removed. The pavilion seemed to go on forever, a long, horrible gauntlet of enduring that stench. It was worse than the docks at low tide. Worse than the stables on a hot day. It was old, bad flesh, a butcher’s cart in high summer. It hung around me thick as a fog, but at last I had found the source of the laughter.
There, at the far, far end of the tent was the gathering. I recognized everyone from behind—Mr. Morningside, of course, and Chijioke, Mrs. Haylam, and Poppy, but also Finch, Sparrow, the shepherd, and his dog. What could possibly make them all so happy? And why would they go there to have a revelry in the middle of the night?
It was all wrong. It was a dream, a nightmare, and I knew it then but to my horror found that I could not wake myself. I was locked into this endless walk and would not break out of the dream until I saw it through.
And so I ran on and on, feeling breathless and hopeless, convinced that I would never reach my destination. They were laughing harder now, uproariously, and the smell was so aggressive I could only breathe through the fabric of my shawl, and even then tendrils of the stench clawed at the back of my throat. At last it was over and time slowed, and it was like watching them underwater, their voices distorted and low, the laughter insane, forced, only for my benefit.
I stopped dead. It was a joke I wish I had never been in on. Their faces were messy with gore; they had been eating sloppily. My body was on the table in front of them, all of it torn open, unrecognizable but for the face. And there my eyes were missing. I saw then that Poppy was holding my eyes in her palm; she squealed with too much delight and popped them into her mouth.
“Her eyeballs exploded!” she giggled, gray juice running down her chin.
There was almost nothing of me left, just the head with its empty sockets, Big Earl rooting around in the viscera left on the table, his jowls slick with blood. Even the shepherd had feasted, his lips limned in red, eyes wild and ecstatic as he chewed and chewed.
I tried to back away, feeling my stomach give out and my limbs go soft, but Mr. Morningside took me by the shoulder and pulled me in. I could smell the reek on him, see stains all down his once immaculate suit.
His brow knitted with concern as bloodied fingers tilted my chin up and he studied me intently. Mr. Morningside pouted and let his head fall to the side. “Are you lost, child? Are you lost?”
“Are you awake, Louisa? Louisa! Wake up!”
I was. I was? Strangely, my eyes were already open, but only then did normal sight return. And I was still choking, gagging. I coughed, hard, nearly crashing my head into two pairs of concerned eyes. Poppy and Bartholomew both sat on the bed, leaning in close enough for me to feel their breath on my face. My chin felt wet. I couldn’t stop coughing. What was the matter with me? Could a dream really be so powerful? I wiped at my chin, expecting to find an embarrassing amount of drool from the night; instead the back of my hand came away stained with pink foam.
Shit.
“Why are you spitting up pink stuff?” Poppy asked, poking at my hand. “That is very unusual, Louisa. Are you ill? Shall I call for Mrs. Haylam? She will know what to do!”
“No!” I said too loud. Too panicked. I grabbed the shawl draped on my bedside table and wiped furiously at my mouth. God, there was a lot of it. “It’s . . . a Changeling thing.”
Poppy’s brows shot up. Bartholomew did not look convinced. “Is it? That must be very inconvenient.”
“Oh . . . it is,” I said, forcing a smile. “It, um, happens sometimes when we have a bad dream. I have been meaning to ask Mr. Morningside about it; he does know a lot about Unworlder things.”
“That is a grand idea,” Poppy replied with a laugh. She bounced her way across the bed and the dog followed, though much more slowly. My lap was blazingly hot from where Bartholomew had spent the night guarding me. I looked to the door, shuddering, convinced I could still smell that awful stench, as if it lingered from the dream at the back of my mouth.
“Oh!” Poppy twirled at the door, leaning on the frame and sticking a knuckle between her teeth. Her eyes darted nervously about the room. “About why I came to wake you. Yes, well, you should really hurry and clean up your face. You have a visitor, Louisa.”
“A visitor?” I pulled the blanket up, hiding the soiled shawl underneath. “Who would come to see me?”
“Your father, silly. He’s waiting downstairs!”
I had asked for this, and yet it was the last thing I needed.
Pink foam. Foam. Just like in the journal, the two girls . . . Oh God, and now my father, my real father. My real father who abandoned my mother and left us to suffer poverty and degradation, who left me for a drunken half-wit to berate and abuse. Oh God. Oh God.
It took longer than usual to get dressed, as I not only wanted to buy myself time but also make certain I looked presentable. There was little I could do to gussy up a servant’s simple bodice, skirts, and tucker, but at least I could make sure my apron was straight and my hair nicely plaited. While my nerves gathered like a storm at the edge of the horizon, I tried to take a modicum of satisfaction in making him wait. Croydon Frost. What did I expect? What did he expect?
Not a long-faced, lank-haired plain girl with black eyes, I wagered. Most fathers must imagine their daughters to be great beauties. Lord, did he have a surprise in store.
I walked calmly down the hall when I was ready, or ready enough, reminding myself not to seem too eager. I confess, there was a part of me consumed with a giddy curiosity. Even if he was a vile, abandoning cur, I couldn’t help but feel a tad excited. It was a solved mystery, a gift opened at last on Christmas morning, or maybe not; maybe it would be the shock of a snake waiting in the grass to bite.
Mary’s door was shut as I passed by, and I paused outside, then tapped on the door. I heard nothing inside, but tapped again and said softly, “I promise to visit later. There’s so much I need to tell you. Rest well, Mary.”
I was stalling and I knew it. But I also had an advantage while I lingered upstairs. The first floor looked out onto the foyer; they shared the same vaulted walls and ceiling, the same horrendous bird art. So I moved back a few steps and then slowly toward the banister, peering ever so gradually over the edge, trying to spot the man before he spotted me. I felt owed a look at him, a long look, one that lasted for whatever duration felt necessary. Maybe it would dispel the fear. Maybe it would give me courage.
And there he was. My first impression was that he was extraordinarily tall. He had removed a glossy top hat, revealing black curly hair speckled with silver. A long dark coat embroidered with green trim with an attached cape hung from his lean frame. Three modestly sized fabric bags were lined up beside him, and he had a small birdcage tucked under one arm, though I could see no bird in it. His face was . . . Well, not like mine exactly, but I could certainly note the resemblance. His eyes were also dark, even blacker than mine, and he, too, had a narrow face. It was dominated by a hawkish nose, too big, some would say, but it balanced a square, cleft chin. All in all he was not necessarily handsome, but striking, and stood with a casually authoritative tilt to his hips, as if, after mere moments, he belonged in this place.
He shifted the birdcage to his other arm and let his eyes roam around the room, and that was when he saw me.
It was time to go downstairs and come out of hiding. I pretended like I had not been spying on him, but of course my pale cheeks flamed with embarrassment. That would not do. I pulled my shoulders back and marched down the stairs like a queen about to address her subjects. He had sent a letter groveling for my acceptance, after all, and that meant I had the upper hand. I had begun to wonder if he was suffering from some terrible illness and wanted to make amends before he passed. Men always became frightfully concerned about their reputations when death hovered near.
“There you are,” he said as I reached the bottom step. The severity of his face changed, and he gave a full-bodied sigh, brows tenting with relief.
“Does Mrs. Haylam know you’re here?” I asked, keeping a safe distance. I crossed my wrists primly in front of my waist. There would be no leaping into arms or embracing today.
“She does,” he replied. He put down the birdcage carefully on the floor and took a few steps toward me, gesturing with his top hat. “I . . . told her to wait on accommodations. It is your decision whether I stay or go.”
I had expected him to have an accent like mine, but travel or time had worn it down, altered it, until it was not Irish or anything else, but uniquely his own.
“Then Mr. Morningside extended an invitation,” I said. “I had no idea it would reach you so soon; this is all very . . . hasty.”
“Oh! Oh.” He bit down hard on his lower lip and worried the edge of his hat with both hands. “There was no invitation, Louisa. I came on my own.” He must have seen the rising fury in my face because he held up a hand as if to keep me from lunging. “Please don’t be angry. Please. I just needed to see you with my own eyes. If you want me to depart at once then I will.”
I closed my eyes, feeling my hands turn into fists, the nails biting hard into my palms. The nerve of this man. The enduring nerve. I took in a deep breath, promising myself it was not worth throttling him then and there. Still. I was hurt, beyond hurt, aching in a place in my heart I didn’t know existed. Breathe. Breathe. “How did you even find me?”
“I hired a few men,” he said with a shrug. “They started in Waterford, spiraled out from there. They found your old school, but the headmistress had not seen you in months. There were only so many towns near enough to walk to, so they started again there.”
“You hunted me down like a thief,” I murmured, icy. “How flattering.”
“How this would all look when I found you was not my most pressing priority,” he said, gaining a little sternness of his own. But he backed it down, hanging his head, playing the beleaguered father. “I suppose I should have given that more thought. I’ll go.”
“No!” I hated myself for how fast it came out, how little control I had over the word. “No . . . Not yet. There are things I want to know, things I want to hear from you, and then you can be on your way.”
“I had hoped to leave with you,” he admitted. “Foolish, I know, but one does dream. What father does not want to spoil a child who deserved spoiling all along?”
“You don’t know me,” I shot back. “You don’t know what I deserve.”
“Well then, I should like to change that.” My father, for he was that—the resemblance could not be denied, especially now that I saw him more closely—came toward me. He stopped a polite span away and bowed at the waist. “Croydon Frost; our meeting and these introductions are long overdue. Longer than you can possibly imagine.”
“I can imagine. I was alive for all of it.” But I gave a short curtsy and sighed, sweeping by him and inspecting his luggage. The scent of pine perfume drifted from his possessions. “Don’t expect me to, I don’t know, love you or something. Or act like your daughter.”
“Very well.”
From the kitchens, I saw both Poppy and Mrs. Haylam spying on us intently. They did not even attempt to hide their interest. “And when I ask you to leave for good you had better do it.”
“I understand,” he said, but I heard the sadness in his voice.
“I have work to do here, so I can’t spend all my time with you. I’m quite busy, you know, so don’t expect courtesy.” He said nothing, but there was agreement in the silence. I picked up one of his bags and gestured to Poppy. “Mrs. Haylam can decide where to put you. Welcome to Coldthistle House.”