At once, I was a child hiding in the cupboard again. My stomach felt as if someone had thrown a sack of bricks into it. I had few memories of my father before he left, though the ones that remained were potent in all the worst ways. One could never forget the sound of a hard slap, or the mother’s grief that came afterward. I spent more time hiding from his moods and his drunkenness than I spent in his arms hearing stories.
He did tell me one tale that stuck. “Remember, my girl,” he would say, bouncing me on his knee in one of his few moments of sobriety and kindness, “every man has his limits. From the smallest to the tallest, they all have a weakness. You have to know it, girl, but you have to know yours, too. See, I can drink one bottle of whiskey and keep my feet, but two more cups after that and bam! I’m on the floor. You drink the bottle and keep your feet. You don’t be tempted by those last two cups, you hear? See the wall before you crash into it.”
“What a father,” I breathed. I had all but forgotten that I was not alone. Mr. Morningside stared at me, but I felt no pressure behind the look. At last I reached for my tea and drank it, all in one gulp, fighting back a cough from the heat of the liquid and the strength of the brandy.
“Can I refuse to see him? Can you refuse him for me?” I asked, pushing the cup and saucer away from me.
“Of course I can. Is that what you wish?”
“I had one father already, and I can’t recommend the experience. How do I even know this one is telling the truth about our relation? It seems so . . . far-fetched.” But it would explain my odd abilities, which, one year ago, I would have found very far-fetched indeed.
Mr. Morningside nodded, tapping the letter on his desk with one fingertip. “You aren’t curious to read what he has to say?”
“Curious?” I searched the wall behind him, looking from bird to bird, watching them preen and sleep. “Morbidly so, perhaps, but I think I feel more . . . disappointed. The father I already have let me down, but I accept that now. I’ve worn that around and grown accustomed to the feeling. I don’t think I’d like to be let down that way again.”
I pushed away from his desk and stood, aware suddenly that I felt dizzy. It wasn’t the brandy, or that wasn’t the only culprit. For so many years my father had railed against my mother, accusing her of all manner of ridiculous things. Foremost among them? Infidelity. And now here was proof that at least one of his suspicions was true. I shook my head, silently deciding that it wasn’t worth giving this stranger and his story too much credence.
Why would anyone go to the trouble of finding you if it wasn’t the truth? Why would anyone care about a futureless, penniless daughter?
“There is another possibility,” Mr. Morningside said quietly. I had already begun to leave, but I stopped and took a few tentative steps back toward him. He folded the letter neatly and held it out to me. “You might be pleasantly surprised. You might even find kinship with him, considering that you’re both of the Unworld.”
“Or it’s just a bunch of nonsense and he’s some kind of criminal,” I replied. “Isn’t that more likely? Coldthistle House lures the wicked, you told me that yourself.”
He inclined his head, still offering me the letter. “I’m familiar with the criminal set. Nothing in this note leads me to believe he has ulterior motives. He sounds quite educated, in fact,” he explained, pausing for effect. “And wealthy.”
It was bait, and I was stupid enough to take it. No, not stupid, desperate. I still had little money to my name, only a scrimped pittance I’d saved from my wages. A wealthy father was what every poor girl hoped for, wasn’t it? Something out of a fairy tale. . . . I reached out for the letter but stopped, holding myself back.
What about my life had ever been a fairy tale?
“No,” I said, making a fist. “I don’t think I want it, not even if he’s the richest man in the kingdom.”
“It’s not mine to keep,” Mr. Morningside pointed out. “Burn it, if that suits you better, but I think you should be the one to decide its fate. And your own.”
My stomach throbbed again, and I blinked hard against the dizziness rising like a tide again in my head. I half expected the paper to burn my fingers when I touched it, but it was ordinary. Not that I took any comfort in that. Tucking the note into my apron, I curtsied and went to the door, eager to be alone, eager to dispose of the letter and never think of it again.
“It’s silly anyway,” I said as I left. “I have no idea how to read Gaelic.”
Behind me, Mr. Morningside laughed. I turned to find him cooing over one of his parrots, grinning, his old wry self returning. He seemed strangely satisfied. “You’re a clever girl, Louisa. I’m confident you’ll figure something out.”