With Fate Conspire (19 page)

Which he had been doing, even in her absence. “I wanted to warn you,” he said. Quietly, as if he didn’t want his words carrying beyond the sacristy door. “Fergus Boyle’s been spreading trouble.”

Bloody Fergus.
She stopped herself from saying it out loud. “What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s been lads from Special Irish Branch up and down Whitechapel, asking questions. Some of them about you. They think someone here is helping the Fenians, and maybe ’tis you. Maggie Darragh’s kept her mouth shut, but I’m not sure Boyle’s done the same. I’ve heard some rumors you’d gone to the West End, looking for some kind of work there. If he knew anything about that, then ’tis a good bet Scotland Yard knows it now, too.”

This time the curse did escape her. Father Tooley didn’t blink; he’d heard worse before.
I should have known it was Boyle that sent the bobbies after me.
“He doesn’t know much,” Eliza said, trying to remember what she’d let slip while gathering what she needed to apply for the position in Cromwell Road. Not much, surely, or Sergeant Quinn wouldn’t have been going from house to house through all of South Kensington. “Just that I—”

The priest stopped her with a finger on her lips. “We aren’t in the confessional,” he reminded her. “Don’t tell me anything you wouldn’t want known, if the police asked. But Eliza … if you
have
anything to confess, come back late tonight. I’ll wait up for you.”

She shook her head, and when he took his hand away, said, “Not like that. I’m no Fenian, Father, and that’s the truth of it. I was at Charing Cross, yes, but not because I went there to blow anything up.”

“The peelers think there’s more trouble planned for the Underground; I got that much from the fellow they sent to question me. If you know anything about it—”

He broke off as her expression changed. Eliza shook her head again, meaning to say that no, she didn’t know anything about it—but it was a lie, because she
did
know something. She knew that faeries had helped the men who bombed Charing Cross, and maybe the ones at Praed Street, too; and they must have had a reason for it.

Iron,
she thought. She’d always assumed it was just goblin mischief, or maybe sympathy for the Fenian cause; maybe Irish faeries immigrated during the Great Hunger, just as mortal folk did, and wanted to see their homeland free of British rule. If they were striking at the Underground in particular, though … but why hadn’t they bombed railways before?

It was all speculation. Just as likely the Fenians were the ones planning more Underground trouble, because it was a good place to make people afraid. With their dark tunnels and clouds of choking steam, they were already a little like Hell on earth.

“Eliza,” Father Tooley said gently.

She gripped his hands in her own and said, “’Tis all right, Father. If I find out anything, you may be sure I’ll not just sit on it. I don’t want to see anyone hurt, any more than yourself—or the peelers, for that matter.” Hesitantly, her mind ventured past that hazy day when she would have Owen back, and thought about what she could do once he was safe.
Could be I can do more than just help him, and myself. And that might get the Special Branch boys off my back at last.

He kissed her on the forehead, then blessed her. “But you still need confession,” he said, with kind sternness. “If you’ve spent the last six months as a lily-white saint, then I’m a Methodist.”

Lying, spying, threatening Louisa Kittering. No, not a lily-white saint. But it wasn’t worth the danger of coming back to a place where the constables knew to look for her. “I will when I can, Father,” Eliza promised.

If God granted her prayer, “when” might even be soon.

Cromwell Road, South Kensington: April 14, 1884

When Eliza went up to air out Louisa Kittering’s bedding the next morning, Mrs. Fowler was not on guard at the door, and the bedroom itself was empty.

“Mrs. Kittering reckons church yesterday did her some good,” Ann Wick said, when Eliza questioned her. “Won’t let her out of the house yet, but she’s at least free of her room.” The other housemaid frowned at Eliza and added, “I don’t know what nonsense went on the other night, but you’d best not repeat it, if you know what’s good for you. Mrs. Kittering won’t just have you beaten; she’ll find a way to toss you into prison, she’s that vindictive.”

It hardly mattered. Louisa Kittering was free—free enough that Eliza could contrive a way to speak with her privately—and that meant her time at Cromwell Road might be drawing to an end at last.

Any further doubts that God had heard her prayer were banished when she carried the ashes out to the bin behind the house. The gardener, Mr. Phillips, caught her before she could go back inside. “Miss Kittering says she wants to see you, girl. In the conservatory.”

Eliza thanked him, and added a second, silent thanks to God as she hurried to the conservatory, wiping her hands clean on her apron.

Inside, the glass roof of the structure magnified spring’s faint warmth; that and the blooming flowers made the place a miniature Eden. It formed a pretty background for Miss Kittering, who stood in an ivory morning dress in the far corner, fingering the half-opened buds of an Oriental poppy.

They were alone, and as long as no one shouted, the gardener would not hear them outside. Eliza still dipped into a curtsy out of habit, thinking as she did so that this was not the best way to begin following up on a threat. Before she could say anything, though, Miss Kittering spoke.

“You addressed me in a very unacceptable fashion the other night.” Her fingers brushed the brilliant tips of the poppy petals, then curled around the stem. “In fact, I would go so far as to say you attempted to blackmail me.”

Eliza’s breath drew short.
I should have done this sooner. Before she had time to think about it.
But if Miss Kittering thought strength of will alone would be enough to protect her, she was wrong. “Call it whatever you like, miss; it doesn’t change anything. I can still tell your mother things that will make life very hard for you, whether they’re true or not.”

“You can—but you won’t.” Miss Kittering turned to face her. The young woman’s face looked pale and bruised, as if she’d not slept well during her captivity, but above the dark circles her eyes glittered like two brown agates. “Because I heard two interesting things lately. One was gossip about a constable who came to question my father the other day. And the other was your voice that night—sounding very distinctly Irish.”

At those words, a lump of lead took the place of Eliza’s heart. It felt like her blood had truly stopped flowing, and metal coldness spread throughout her body.

“I may have secrets,” Miss Kittering said, a small, triumphant smile curving her lips, “but so do you. And it seems we’re each in a position to ruin the other. So
this
is our agreement: that you will say nothing, and neither will I. Out of gratitude for your assistance the other night, I will tell no one of how you threatened me; but that is all the help you will receive. Whatever further price you intended to extort from me, you can give up on it now—for if you attempt to force me, then you will end in prison. However little I inherited from my mother, I can promise you, that is one thing we share.”

All Eliza’s hope of a moment before had crumbled into ash. Darkness at the edge of her vision made her realize she wasn’t breathing; when she gasped air in once more, Miss Kittering’s smile deepened. How could she
rejoice
? A boy’s life was at stake, maybe his very
soul
—

But Eliza had never told her that. And now it was too late. Miss Kittering might have believed, had she heard the tale sooner … but not now, not after Eliza’s terrible misstep. Or rather, if she
did
believe, she still would have no reason to help. What did a rich, sheltered young miss from South Kensington care what happened to a poor Irish lad from Whitechapel? She wouldn’t give tuppence for Owen, any more than the peelers had when he disappeared.

Eliza refused to give up. Not when she was this close. “Then let me help you,” she said, coming forward with her hands raised in supplication. “If you sneak away again, your mother will thrash you within an inch of your life; but what if I helped you hide it? Say you’d gone to call on a friend, or—or close the windows behind you, if it must be at night.”

Miss Kittering laughed. She’d pulled the bud off its stem, and was now shredding the delicate, half-formed petals, letting them fall to the ground like drops of bright blood. “I have better allies than
you,
and shan’t have to worry about my mother much longer. Now get out of here; I’ve said what I must, and have no desire to hear anything else you might say.”

Eliza went. There was nothing to be gained by staying; she had missed her chance. But like a drunken man in a brawl, the hits she’d taken only made her angrier, and more determined. Louisa Kittering could go to the devil; Eliza O’Malley would rescue her friend.

She went about her duties like the clockwork doll she’d once seen exhibited in Covent Garden, while her mind wrestled her problems toward a solution. The next meeting of the London Fairy Society was in a bit more than a fortnight. Eliza would be there if she had to quit her position to go—but in the meantime, she might as well stay here. Her long vigil in Newgate had produced nothing, and her earnings as a costerwoman were barely enough to keep her fed. Better to stay where there was actual money, and look for another opportunity to get the upper hand over Miss Kittering. Given the young woman’s behavior, surely she’d have one before long.

Failing that, she could at least get a bit of revenge in parting.

Lips peeled back in an expression that might have been mistaken for a grin, Eliza went about her work.

Sewerside: May 1, 1884

“Remember Moor Fields?” Gresh asked, spitting tobacco juice onto the floor.

He’d been kind enough to spit in the other direction from Dead Rick, and so the skriker didn’t bite his head off for bringing up the painful subject of memory. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s May Day, old chap! We ought to be outside, with bonfires and feasts and such. Dancing. Music. Nymphs from nearby villages, willing to spread their legs for anyone. Mortals we’d lured in, that we’d be nice to for once.” Gresh spat again, then fingered something out of his mouth that didn’t look like tobacco leaf. “But they’ve gone and built all over it. So we sits ’ere and gets drunk, and it’s no different than any other day.”

Dead Rick bent his attention to the dirt under his fingernails, as if that could be his excuse for not answering. Fields, and celebrations in them: two more things he didn’t remember. He felt like punching Gresh.

But an approaching scent brought him into a wary crouch, not sure whether he was about to growl or show throat. Nadrett swept into the room, trailing a trio of other fae: the fetch Nithen, a thrumpin named Old Gadling, and a sprite Dead Rick didn’t recognize, who was lugging an unwieldy leather case.
Showing throat it is.

“On your feet,” Nadrett said. Dead Rick stood, warily, not liking the sense of purpose in his master’s posture. “Take these.” His hand flicked outward, twice; Gresh and Dead Rick both caught what he threw. “Now come with me.”

Dead Rick uncurled his fingers, his nose telling him what he held before his eyes did.
Bread.
Nadrett was taking them outside.

Gresh cackled and threw his piece up into the air, catching it in his mouth as it came down. “Moor Fields!” he said to Dead Rick, chewing. “Think ’e’s laid on any nymphs for us?”

Nadrett was far enough ahead by then that he either didn’t hear or, more likely, didn’t think Gresh worth answering. Nithen did it for him. “Moor Fields has been paved over as Finsbury Circus, idiot, and the only way you’re going to see a nymph there is if you get a head full of Po’s opium first. Now shut up.”

They were still in the Goblin Market; Nadrett would have ripped the guts out of anyone stupid enough to say anything of their purpose where others could hear. It didn’t take Dead Rick long to figure out where his master was leading them, though. There were only four ways out of the Market: two passages to the rest of the Hall, one concealed entrance to Billingsgate above, and the sewers.

His hackles rose as he remembered bringing Irrith here. Had Nadrett learned about that?
Stupid whelp; ’e wouldn’t give you bread if ’e ’ad.
But they
did
have bread, which meant they could have gone through the door into Billingsgate without worry. The sewers were mostly used by unprotected fae, willing to brave the filth and the danger of drowning in order to avoid the worst of the iron.

Could be what Nadrett sought was
in
the sewers.

The black stone of the Hall gave way to a brickwork wall, with a hole knocked in it big enough for a faerie to slip through, so long as he wasn’t a giant. This wasn’t one of the proper entrances, built into the Hall’s fabric; it was a break, a spot worn thin and finally through by the cast-iron gas main running alongside the great intercepting sewer. They couldn’t keep a glamour over the hole for more than a short while, and mostly only bothered when men came through to inspect the tunnel. Any tosher who spotted the gap and climbed through was fair game for the Market inhabitants on the other side: a small compensation for when the sewer flooded through to their chambers.

Dead Rick helped the unnamed sprite maneuver his case through the hole. “Careful, that’s delicate—” the sprite said in a distinct French accent, but swallowed his words when Nadrett spat a warning curse. Dead Rick sniffed, but couldn’t smell anything beyond a hint of leather over the sewer.

He dropped through the gap last, into water that came up past his knees. Nadrett produced a hawthorn box from one pocket, and slid aside a disk on one end until a will-o’-the-wisp floated out of the small hole there. It was considerably safer than a lantern, which could ignite the bad air and kill them all, but Dead Rick didn’t put good odds on the wisp’s survival. Those things couldn’t eat bread. Nadrett covered the hole again and put the box away. “Follow me.”