The Longest Night: A Drake Chronicles Novella (10 page)

Mrs. Lawton didn’t drift forward like pollen or moonlight or any of the things poets
claimed. Ice skittered over the floorboards as she slammed into Moira, mouth opening
wide to show rotted teeth. Her breath was toads and mushrooms and mildew.

Moira clamped between her teeth an iron nail she’d dug out of a rafter. The iron helped,
but it didn’t banish Mrs. Lawton completely. The ghost’s hand closed around Moira’s
throat. Her touch burned even as frost filled the space between them.

Mrs. Lawton shouldn’t have been able to do that, even as a recent ghost. There were
wards over London. Locks on mystical gates and portals. Binding spells. The Order.

Mrs. Lawton didn’t seem to care for any of those fail-safes.

And for a dead old lady, she packed quite a punch.

Moira’s feet felt branded, as if she didn’t already know she needed to get out of
here.
Now.
She was weak as boiled turnips. Her vision started to go gray and blotchy.

Marmalade knocked the teapot over. The handle cracked ominously.

Mrs. Lawton turned her phosphorescent head so quickly her neck snapped.

Marmalade batted the teapot as if it were Strawberry’s mouse, rolling it closer and
closer to the edge of the sideboard. Mrs. Lawton’s grip loosened. She ground her teeth
so savagely, one fell out and corporealized when it hit the ground.

Marmalade flicked the teapot once more and as it tumbled, Mrs. Lawton lunged for it,
momentarily forgetting Moira. Moira scooped up the dead woman’s tooth and tucked it
next to her glass eyeball before diving out of the window. She scampered up the first
drainpipe she found, flattening herself onto the roof to catch her breath. Her black
hair tangled around her, catching in the shingles. A neighbor thundered out of his
door in his nightshirt.

When Marmalade jumped up beside her, Moira rolled over onto her feet, brandishing
a dagger. The cat calmly licked her paw. Moira let out a shaky laugh. “That did not
go as planned, Marmalade,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

She walked the ridge like a circus girl, balancing lightly and keeping her chin high.
When she reached the edge she turned right, intending to head home.

Pain gnawed at her, as if her boots were full of angry bees.

She stumbled to a stop, cursing. She wanted to go to her favorite summer rooftop made
of slate tiles that held the heat pleasantly. There was even a spot of thatch she’d
used to plug up a hole that made for a fine pillow. She kept excellent care of the
roofs, as all Madcaps did. A leak meant ladders and repairmen and sometimes the Order’s
Greybeards with their spells and pointy swords. But without a reason to look up, most
shop owners didn’t have the time to bother, at least in the East End.

It was different in Mayfair, where rooftops were spelled to keep Moira and her kind
away and gargoyles crouched, stuffed with magic. Madcaps had long learned the trick
of pacifying gargoyles, if nothing else. And anyway, Moira preferred the East End.
Home was home, whatever it smelled like. And however many hungry, crazy ghosts roamed.

And it was safer here, so long as she kept to the chimney pots and the shingles. Mrs.
Lawton couldn’t follow, not while her body still lay in state. And the other Madcaps
left symbols scratched into the tiles, warning of unsteady roof timbers, vermin, Greybeard
patrols, and recruiting men. They were even worse than the ladies who came with baskets
for the poor and pamphlets about the dangers of living on the street. As if any of
the street urchins, Madcaps, or regular orphans ever chose St. Giles or Whitechapel
because it was the better alternative. Just ask her brother.

Before the Order had caught him.

A flock of vampire pigeons circled overhead, sending children below shrieking for
cover. Moira wasn’t worried. Madcaps never fretted over the pigeons. They’d trained
them with bloody leavings from the butcher stalls at Leadenhall market. It was one
of their few weapons against the Greybeards and even occasionally, the ordinary night
watchmen. London was not kind to the poor or the supernatural.

She preferred to control her own life even if it meant sleeping wrapped around a chimney
pot for warmth. Dirt and cold rain didn’t scare her, not like having her essence trapped
in a Greybeard’s bottle.

And she didn’t particularly like Mayfair, which was fine since its inhabitants loved
it enough for everyone.

Which made her wonder why she was now running
toward
it.

But she’d learned, even before Mrs. Lawton, that when the bottoms of her feet itched
the way they did right now, she ignored them at her peril. The last time she’d ended
up dodging the nightwatch for an hour and a half after she was caught with a handful
of stolen pocket watches. The Order might claim you, but the nightwatch could clap
you in irons and shuffle you into a poorhouse. She shuddered at the thought and kept
running, her trousers rolled above her ankles and her boots marked with sigils for
speed. She stayed well south of Newgate prison, raced past courtesans waiting outside
the theater on Drury Lane and along the Strand to Pall Mall.

All because her toes itched.

The alleys between buildings widened. She left the shops that tilted together like
dandies holding each other up after drinking themselves sick. She ran until the worn
shingles turned to copper flashing and marble columns. The clubs and shops were made
of white stone, gleaming like bones. She wanted to stop on one of the flat roofs to
catch her breath, but pain stabbed up her ankles and all the way to her knees when
she paused too long.

It only receded when she kept moving, kept running, and
only toward Grosvenor Square of all places, all mansions and columns and balconies.
A single mansion could have taken up an entire block in Whitechapel. They were fit
for aristocrats and royalty, not Madcap girls dressed as boys with pockets full of
stolen goods. The gargoyles became elaborately carved art in rose-colored stone and
marble, not river clay fired in a coal grate. They still stank of magic though, that
curious mixture of fennel seeds and salt.

She kept running, though she didn’t know why.

Until she turned around.

She slid down the pitched roof of a window overhang and dangled off the edge, her
fingers cramping as she struggled to hold on. Not precisely an improvement.

But what could you expect from magic that made your feet itch?

The sigils painted on her boots gave her cat’s feet on the rooftop, but they weren’t
enough to make her fly. Not only were her arms screaming, but if someone happened
to look out of the window, she’d be hauled off to prison as a housebreaker. Gritting
her teeth, she swung herself like a church bell, back and forth, back and forth, until
she’d gained enough momentum to let go. Flying, it turned out, felt a lot like falling.
She hit the steep roof of a stable, landing with a painful thud that made her wince.
The neighbor’s poodle began to bark.

All around her came the cracking of stone and the splintering of shingles. She heard
it even over the clatter of carriage wheels on the street below, the restless horses
in the stable, and an orchestra playing music for the fancy folk. They danced
while overhead, the magic wards they didn’t even know protected them, broke.

Gargoyles of all shapes and sizes, all sneers and smiles, deserted their posts. A
few crumbled to dust but most—too many—launched off roof points, dormer windows, and
rain spouts. They took to the air, the stretch and flap of their wings leathery and
brittle. They cast off pieces of shingle and stone all over London. Moira had never
seen anything like it.

With the gargoyles gone, the rooftops weren’t safe.

London wasn’t safe.

It was the most boring event
of the Season.

Emma was promised dashing young gentlemen in starched cravats dancing until dawn,
and kisses in dark gardens. Instead, there were only whiskered old widowers in creaking
stays who smelled like lavender water and arthritic cream, and more wallflowers than
seats. As if being a wallflower wasn’t bad enough, being forced to stand in uncomfortable
shoes that pinched while debutantes cast her pitying glances—and the few young men
cast her none at all—was so much worse.

She longed for the forests of Berkshire and the stars overhead. She stifled a yawn
since her chaperone, Aunt Mildred, would lecture her all the way home that yawning
was neither pretty nor polite behavior. Neither was tapping one’s foot to the music,
eating too many pastries off the buffet table, or laughing loudly. In short, anything
remotely amusing. Worse yet, Gretchen was
hiding in the library and Penelope was in the garden with the very handsome and muscular
Mr. Cohen. Penelope somehow managed to consistently flirt with social scandal and
skip away unscathed. But that left Emma alone, once again.

If only Lord Durntley would trip on his way to ogle Lady Angelique’s bosom. If only
he’d crash into the footman and toss the tray of custard tarts so it could land on
Lord Beckett’s abysmal toupee.

If only something
interesting
would happen.

She leaned against the wall, even though young ladies weren’t supposed to lean, slouch,
or otherwise bend. With nothing left to distract her, she took the small bottle out
of her reticule, winding the ribbon around her finger and letting the candlelight
shine through its murky depths. It was rather strange-looking to be jewelry and didn’t
appear to contain any kind of perfume Emma would ever want to smell, let alone smear
on her wrists, but it was the only thing she had of her mother’s. She carried it as
a sort of talisman.

She’d only actually seen Theodora Day, Lady Hightower, three times in her entire life.
Three identical Christmas mornings at their country estate, chaperoned by the housekeeper,
five footmen, and a great-uncle she hadn’t seen since. Each time, her mother sat in
a chair by the window, staring at the woods, pale as the snow outside. She hadn’t
even blinked when Emma approached to sing her a carol. She never spoke, except to
scream the one time Emma tried to hold her hand.

Four debutantes drifted Emma’s way, giggling and trailing chaperones and admiring
younger sons of earls and viscounts. “Lady Emma,” Daphne Kent simpered formally, even
though
their families were friendly and they’d known each other since they were children.
Now that they were out in society, they were meant to acknowledge each other with
long boring titles and curtsy and talk about nothing at all. “What a unique bauble.”
Her eyes sharpened. Emma had no idea why. She’d never been interesting to Daphne,
and likely never would be.

The other girls, Lady Lilybeth Jones, Lady Sophie Truwell, and Lady Julia Thorpe curtsied
a greeting, perfectly in unison. They wore identical white dresses, ornamented with
beaded ribbons and ostrich feathers in their hair. Emma curtsied back, barely stopping
herself from rolling her eyes. Gretchen wouldn’t have stopped herself at all.

“Isn’t it just a lovely ball?” Sophie smiled. “I vow, I’ve never seen such beautiful
roses.” There were enough yellow roses in the ballroom to sink a ship. Their scent
mingled with perfumes, hair pomades, and the melting beeswax from the candles.

Emma stifled a sneeze. “Lovely,” she agreed.

“Did you hear? Belinda has had an offer already!” Lilybeth squealed as if she couldn’t
help herself. “From Lee Hartford!”

Julia glanced away, mouth tightening. “She’s only sixteen.”

“Don’t be jealous,” Daphne said. “You’ll get your chance. Anyway, he’s only a baron’s
second son. Your father should look higher.”

Lilybeth tittered. Sophie looked sympathetic. Emma just blinked. It was as if they
were speaking a foreign language.

“Pardon me,” Julia murmured before walking away, the pearls in her hair gleaming.
Her hands in their elbow-length gloves were fists at her sides.

“Never mind her,” Daphne confided. “She’s quite desperate.
She fancied herself in love with Lee. Worse, she fancied him in love with her.”

“You’re positively wicked,” Lilybeth said.

“Hush,” Sophie added. “We’ll be overheard.”

Daphne, for all her fluttering eyelashes and simpering smiles, looked smug. Until
she realized the young men were watching, and then she blushed prettily. Emma felt
bad for Julia. The other girls turned to look at her expectantly. She didn’t know
what to say. She didn’t want to get married. She didn’t want to poke fun at others
to be noticed. She didn’t want to wear white dresses, as expected of all debutantes
in England. She simply didn’t fit. She never had.

“I think Julia’s very nice,” Emma said finally, just to fill the silence.

Daphne shook her head on a sigh. “Let’s go, girls,” she added, pityingly. They moved
off like a flock of geese, whispering and giggling. One of their beaus trod on Emma’s
foot as he hurried to follow and didn’t notice enough to apologize. Emma gave serious
consideration to tripping him. Especially when he jostled her hard enough to make
the ribbon slip off her wrist.