The warm, close mustiness of the library was a comfort after Amelia’s endless twaddle. Over many months I had managed to put the place in some kind of order, sweeping the dunes of dust away and shelving the books that had collected on the floor in toppling towers. Nobody had seen me tiptoe down the hall and into the room. Lee was no doubt playing valet to Mason Breen; what Poppy and Chijioke were plotting I could only guess.
I cleared a spot in the back of the library near the windows and behind a row of shelves. If anyone wandered by, they would not see me shirking my chores. Leaving the mysterious letter on the windowsill, I began searching among the rows and rows of books for something useful. Mr. Morningside—or so I assumed, for I could not even imagine what Mrs. Haylam might read in her spare time—had amassed a collection of dramas and romances. I smirked and kept searching, fingers brushing across dozens of love stories. When I had still been at Pitney, it was a common fantasy to think a wealthy, available bachelor was waiting out there somewhere. Those vague notions were for the prettier girls, who had at least a minuscule chance of landing a solid match, one that would at least provide them shelter and his modest income. A vicar, perhaps, or a soldier.
I had never entertained any such dreams, though I had to admire Amelia’s certainty that whatever grave sin she had committed to win Breen and climb fortune’s ladder was worth it. And here I had a chance to do so by simply reading a letter.
Simply. There was a barrier, of course, to understanding the contents of the note. My parents had taught me snippets of Gaelic as a child, but only as far as it was needed for songs and fairy tales. But I had been taught languages at Pitney, and if I could just find a suitable translation guide, or even side-by-side comparisons of English to Gaelic, I might stand a chance of deciphering the letter.
After all, it was mine. Why shouldn’t I read it? Anyone would be curious, and now the bait of a new and better life hung there, just ahead and above me, shining like a brass ring.
Something in that library would help me reach up and take it. Or so I thought. And hope remained for the first hour of searching, but waned as I slumped into the second. I would soon be missed. Nuncheon was approaching, and if I did not appear in the kitchens to help serve, then Mrs. Haylam would come looking. Nothing about her mood that morning made me want to cross her, and so I glanced through book after book. Each promising book contained nothing but translations without a single passage of Gaelic for comparison. Some, those with titles all in Gaelic that made the fires of hope burn a little brighter each time I glimpsed them, were unintelligible from cover to cover. I was accomplishing nothing other than creating a mess for myself that I would soon need to tidy.
At last, I spied a book with a green cover on the bookshelves nearest to the door. The spine was decorated with gold leaves, and read Dagda, The Warrior and just next to that, Dagda, An Laoch. This could contain the side-by-side comparison I might use as a base of knowledge. Breathlessly, I scurried back to my hiding place, crawling into the windowsill and tucking up my knees. Cracking the cover, I flipped through the first few pages, feeling a hot, prickling sensation climb from my chest to my neck and higher. Useless. The book was useless. Another full English translation with little to help me.
That book, perhaps the thirtieth I had found and discarded, made something come loose inside me. Furious, I let out a cry of frustration and hurled the book across the room. It landed with a dull thud in the corner. Nobody came running. I was alone and foolish, red and sweating with anger. I picked up the letter and tore open the seal, cursing at it as I took it in both hands and began to tear, enraged, ripping it cleanly down the middle.
And then I stopped.
Fury. Rage. It must have pulled at the power inside of me, for in front of my eyes the words began to change, as legible and clear as if I spoke the language fluently.
I had changed it. I could change a spoon into a knife and into a key, but with enough need and desperation, shift language to language. It was astounding. Gasping, I watched the words shimmer as they waited to be read, my so-called father’s looping hand preserved in all its intricate beauty.
My Dear Louisa, it began. At long, long last I have found you.
My entire body shook as I read the letter, carefully holding the two halves together. I read it once, twice, and then a third time, leaning back against the windowsill for support. He had lived not far from where I was born, and described my mother, our town, even our house, with perfect detail. There was no mention of love for my mother, only passion, and then embarrassment when he realized their liaison would produce a child. Me.
I fled north, and in my confusion I failed you both. I always knew I would return to look for you, child, but I did not know whether I would have the courage to offer the apology you so dearly deserve.
He spoke of riches made from hunting rare flowers and ambergris for perfumes. Enfleurage. If what he said was true, my father—my real father—was the kind of person who knew what enfleurage was. Wealthy. Posh.
That was one sharp barb to bear; the second came in the next paragraph.
Strange powers have always run in my family, and through my blood you are gifted or cursed, however you choose to interpret it. Perhaps, as I did, you always knew that you were different. Or maybe you have yet to know the full depths of what you are. This strangeness in your blood can be harnessed to take you far, or you can crumble under the burden of society’s expectations. Whatever you choose, I should be there to shoulder the burden with you, as I am the architect of your fantastic reality.
Another surge of anger burned through me. While this coward was off picking flowers and making a fortune, we were scrabbling in the dirt to eke out a living, crowded into no more than a shack while my father—my false father—drank himself to death. None of this needed to have happened. I did not need to end up with my cruel grandparents or the crueler Pitney School. I need not have endured beatings and neglect. I need not have run away and drifted to Coldthistle House.
Bitter, furious tears spilled down my cheeks. I set the letter aside and wept, wishing for even the smallest comfort of friendship or understanding. I missed Lee. I missed Mary. One or both of them, once upon a time, might have known what to say to me in that dark despair. The sadness soon twisted into spitefulness. Perhaps I should invite this monster to the house of monsters and rob him of everything he had. Maybe it was better to have a worthless drunk for a father than whatever this person fancied himself.
By his absence he had made me small and poor and blighted with dark magic.
I wiped at the tears on my face and folded up the torn letter, placing it back in my apron. It was no use wallowing there in the windowsill, not when tantalizing thoughts of revenge danced in my brain. As much as I was loath to admit it, he was right—this shirker, this thief, this Croydon Frost—I could wither or rise, and I would not let his letter or his existence make me crumble.
The mess of books I had made would have to wait for later. I stormed out of the library and into the hall, startling one of the shadowy Residents, one that had apparently been attempting to eavesdrop on me. It reared back and vanished in a puff of black smoke. I cared not, for there was nobody it could tattle to who wouldn’t soon have the truth of it from my mouth. Farther down the corridor I found Poppy sweeping the landing, her head bent over her work as she hummed an idle tune.
“Oh! There you are, Louisa, Mrs. Haylam was—”
“Not now,” I said, brusque, quickly turning at the landing and bolting down the stairs. “She can find me later!”
“But she will be cross with you! Louisa!”
“I don’t care.”
I felt alive with anger, speeding along on a current of fire. When I reached the foyer, I could hear Mrs. Haylam in the kitchens preparing the afternoon meal, but I quickly dodged out of her sight and toward the green door leading to Mr. Morningside’s office. As usual, the air beyond the door was close and unsettling, but I banished any thoughts of hesitation and flew down and down, then through the antechamber littered with portraits.
Money. One could do so much with money. I could recover the life that had been stolen from me, yes, but I could do more. Chijioke and Poppy were employed through contracts at the house, and they certainly relied on the room and board provided. But what if I could provide? They had become my friends, and with a true fortune I could change all of our lives. I could buy a house—no, a mansion—and let Chijioke, Poppy, Lee, and that massive dog live however they chose to, without the burden of killing and concealing.
That thought was even more inspiring, pushing me faster. My only misgivings came when I at last reached the door to his office and felt an unmistakable tension waiting on the other side. He cursed, loudly, and slammed a fist on his desk so hard the entire house around me seemed to rattle with his rage.
Taking in a deep breath, I tapped on the door. It was a soft and sheepish sound, which was why I jumped when Mr. Morningside’s voice thundered through, unnaturally strong.
“What?”
And again I made a tiny sound, this time with my voice. “It’s . . . It’s Louisa. I wanted to speak with you about my father.”
There came a sigh and then a pause. He muttered something and groaned, “Go away, Louisa.”
“No. No, I won’t go away. I want to speak with you right now—”
The door blasted open, revealing Mr. Morningside at his desk, both fists digging into the wood as he snarled at me.
“This is a very bad time,” he warned.
Carefully, I took a few shuffling steps inside and cleared my throat, trying not to cower in the face of his displeasure. His office had become even more of a mess, and his normally coiffed, perfect hair had come undone, tousled to the side. Opened books, quills, and parchment were scattered before him, though one strange journal sat directly in front of him, between his fists. It looked handwritten, but it was just filled with drawings and scribbles.
“I want to meet this man,” I said, drawing the two halves of the letter from my apron. “I’ve . . . Well, I’ve read what he has to say and I’m not satisfied. I believe he owes me a debt, a large one, and I intend to collect. I want his money, you see. I have plans for it.”
A wicked, slow smile spread across the Devil’s face, but he did not change his posture. “Translated it, did you? Who helped?”
I balked. “Nobody helped me, I did it on my own.”
“Indeed. And with what materials? There are no Gaelic dictionaries in the library, to my knowledge. . . .”
“It doesn’t matter how I did it,” I shot back, irritated. “I want to meet him. Can you arrange it?”
At last he relaxed a bit, sitting back in his chair and fixing his hair with a snort. His cravat was askew and he addressed that, too. “I’m afraid, little bird, that it does matter. You tell me how you managed to translate the letter and I will arrange this revenge for you.”
“It isn’t revenge,” I spluttered, looking at my feet.
“It obviously is, Louisa, and there is nothing at all wrong with that. Just as you stated, he owes you a debt, just as you owe me an explanation.” Mr. Morningside lifted both dark brows and nodded toward the letter. “How.”
He probably could have just as easily guessed how I managed it, but I obliged, slapping the torn letter onto the desk amid his terrible mess. “With my powers. I’m a Changeling, so . . . so I changed it.”
His golden eyes narrowed dangerously. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Leaning back farther, he rubbed his chin and studied first the letter and then me. Finally, his eyes slid to the journal opened just in front of him. “That’s remarkably advanced for someone so newly awakened. You’re absolutely certain nobody helped?”
I nodded, growing impatient.
He slapped the journal on his desk and chuckled, looking boyish, even excited. “How badly do you want to meet this man? How badly do you want to enact these plans?”
“Badly,” I replied, feeling again that surge of anger and the determination that came with it. Croydon Frost owed me a different life and I would not soon forget it. “Very, very badly.”
Mr. Morningside tented his fingers and peered at me over the top of them, giving me a cat’s languid smile. “Very, very badly, is it? Badly enough to make a deal with the Devil himself?”