The Falconer (Elizabeth May) (4 page)

He smiles slightly. ‘Thank you.’ Moments later, he faints.

I think of how I enjoyed the sensation of the revenant’s death instead of immediately aiding Lord Hepburn. How I tracked it, more concerned with vengeance than anything else. Some hero I am. I don’t deserve his gratitude.

The stitchers complete their task and return to the metal box. Once they are safely back inside, I remove the contraption from Lord Hepburn’s chest and check his pulse. It’s steady under my fingertips. Another encouraging sign.

I lift his torso and pull him up onto the bed. I doubt he will remember much when he wakes. If he does, I hope he has the sense not to speak of an invisible assailant.

I study myself in the mirror next to the clock and assess the damage. Heavens, I’m a walking fashion nightmare. Springy copper curls have loosened from my once-stylish chignon and the bodice of my dress and my corset are shredded, my skin visible underneath and daubed with blood. The revenant sliced me deep enough that I’ll have to stitch myself, too.

I glance at the clock on the far wall and swear silently. The assembly is almost over and there’s no time to stay and tend to my injuries; I’m sure everyone has noticed my absence by now. The best I can do is correct my hair and clothing, and perhaps cut one of the thick ribbons from the bottom of my dress to tie over the torn bodice before I return to the ballroom.

With a sigh, I step over the dead faery towards the door. No one will notice if I leave it here – faeries decay to nothing in about an hour. Even if someone discovers the slumbering Lord Hepburn before then, it’s not as if the faery’s corpse would be visible.

I nod at my sleeping host. ‘Apologies, my lord. I would tidy up, but I have other matters to attend to.’

When I return to the ballroom, the last waltz has begun. Catherine stands alone by the long-case clock near the fireplace, her hair shining in the light from the lamp floating directly over her head. She shifts on her feet, watching the door, as though she’d rather be somewhere else.

I make my way to the refreshment table. The levels in the punch dispensers indicate they’re all empty.

Humming the tune for the waltz, I settle next to Catherine, gathering my stole to hide any blood that might have seeped through the ribbon tied clumsily around my bodice. ‘The headache’s gone,’ I say.

Catherine looks visibly relieved as she passes me my reticule. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. People have been asking after you and Mother has been pestering me about leaving. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold everyone off.’

‘You gem. I appreciate your efforts to keep my reputation intact.’ I nod towards the couples. ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’

‘You know my mother thinks the waltz is indecent.’

I watch the couples dancing. They spin around the room, bodies pressed together. Close, intimate. The way dances should be.

‘Your mother would find the sight of a chair leg indecent,’ I tell her.

Catherine sputters a laugh, a satisfyingly unladylike sound. ‘Aileana!’

‘What? I do believe the waltz has been acceptable for many years now.’

‘Oh, do tell
her
that,’ Catherine says drily. ‘I should dearly love to hear my mother lecture someone else about it.’

‘Where is the esteemed lady, anyway?’ I scan the room. ‘Using the opportunity to approach remaining gentlemen on your behalf?’

‘I’m afraid my introductions have already been made.’ Catherine nods to a place over my shoulder. ‘She’s, ahem, glaring at
you
.’

I turn. Lady Cassilis is surrounded by her friends, the other matrons of Edinburgh whose daughters are yet to wed. They have no doubt been discussing their plans to ensnare the poor, foolish men of Edinburgh, but the viscountess doesn’t appear to be listening.

Heavens. She could scare off a revenant with that scowl. I survey my crooked bow. Perhaps I look worse than I thought. Lady Cassilis is probably wondering yet again why she let Catherine badger her into becoming responsible for me at formal events.

With a sweet smile, I wiggle my fingers at the viscountess. Lady Cassilis couldn’t look more appalled if I spat on her.

‘I take it she’s angry with me, then?’ I grin at Catherine.

‘You missed five dances! Of
course
she’s angry with you. I hope your headache was worth it.’

‘It was,’ I say.

Catherine studies my hair, my face, then the awkward state of my dress. ‘Forgive me for being so blunt, but you look ghastly.’

Unconcerned, I wave a hand between us. Hair arrangement is not a great talent of mine. Nor, apparently, is tying ribbon over my dress to hide my injuries.

‘That’s a horrible thing to say,’ I tell her. ‘What if I’d just escaped a perilous situation?’

Catherine examines me from head to toe again. ‘Barely, I assume.’

‘Your confidence in me is inspiring.’ I glance around. No one is paying us any attention. Some groups have begun to filter out through the doors, finished for the night. ‘See, no one else has even noticed I look different.’

‘They’re all tozy from the punch. Someone must have emptied a considerable amount of spirits into it.’

So that’s why the dispensers were empty. ‘I can’t believe I missed that,’ I say. ‘How very disappointing.’

‘Don’t change the subject. Tell me what happened.’

‘Very well. It was a faery.’ I decide to betray a bit of truth, just to see how she responds. ‘An especially nasty one, like the one you used to be afraid lived under your bed.’

‘Fine,’ Catherine says drily. ‘Keep your secrets. But I demand extra shortbread at luncheon in recompense for abandoning me half the night.’

‘Done.’

After a few long goodbyes among Lady Cassilis and her friends, she, Catherine, and I take the air coach for the hour-long journey home from the Hepburns’ estate in the countryside. Catherine attempts polite chatter, but eventually even her manners fail. Lady Cassilis stares austerely out the window the entire time. The only noises are the whisper of the engine and the flapping of the coach’s wings as we slice through thick clouds.

The coach is still silent as we land in Charlotte Square. Lady Cassilis’s coachman helps me onto the street and shuts the door behind me. Lady Cassilis pulls the window aside, inclining her head towards me in silent dismissal. Clearly she has not forgiven me.

I nod back and – petty creature that I am – smile only at Catherine. ‘Goodnight, Catherine.’

‘I’ll see you at luncheon,’ Catherine says. ‘Sleep well.’

Lady Cassilis huffs and pulls the window shut.

The coachman and I step onto the pavement in front of my house. A tall, white building of neoclassical design, Number Six is the largest residence in the square. Nine windows grace its front façade – something my father is particularly proud of, despite how blasted expensive the window tax is in this country – with stone columns between the six upper ones. It’s dark inside, except for the sliver of light between the curtains of the antechamber.

A cold breeze picks up and ruffles my hair. I shiver and tighten the stole around my shoulders as the coachman escorts me up the steps and deposits me at the door.

The door is always unlocked so I have no need to ring for a servant. ‘Thank you,’ I tell him. ‘You can leave me here.’

The coach’s engine starts with a shrill whistle and a chug as the wings along the side of the machine flap thrice. With a groan, it lifts off the cobblestone street. Warm steam blows towards me as the vehicle slowly ascends, disappearing into the thick rain clouds.

Chapter 5

B
oisterous laughter erupts from the basement as I step into the antechamber; the kitchen staff must be relaxing after their duties. All the other quarters are empty, since my father is rarely at home.

A wee lantern on the far wall is lit, casting dark shadows around the hall. I flip the switch to turn it off and climb the staircase to my room, past the portraits of my ancestors. The painting of our family used to hang at the top, until my father put it in one of the other rooms after my mother died. The hook that held it is still there, stark against the light wallpaper.

In my room at last, I pull the lever by the door to turn on the lighting mechanism. Gears along the ceiling click and purr. Hanging lights attached to the overhead beams flicker, then brighten.

My room resembles the interior of a ship. The walls are panelled in teak, with small bulb lights between the wood panels. The helm from a Scottish schooner is mounted on the far wall, framed by maps of the Outer Hebrides and strung sea-glass my mother and I gathered from beaches on our various holidays.

The room has been built to my precise specifications. My mother used to sit for hours sketching the plans with me. This had been another of our projects, just one among many. It wasn’t until after she died that I hired the crew to have it built, and even contributed a few hidden aspects of my own.

As usual, it’s a mess. My current attempts at engineering weapons to kill faeries are littered on the mahogany work table in the centre of the room. The rest of my arsenal is hidden in a locked trunk next to the red velvet settee.

Wearily, I move to sit and pull off my slippers when there is a knock at the door. ‘Aye?’

The door opens and my maid peeks inside. ‘May I come in, Lady Aileana?’

‘Of course.’

Dona closes the door behind her. My father hired her three weeks ago to dress and help prepare me for social events. No older than fifteen, Dona is a shy lass with light blonde hair tucked under a linen cap. A fair bit shorter than me, she frequently has to stand on her toes to comfortably reach the topmost buttons of my dresses.

I stand, and Dona slips behind me and immediately sets to work unbuttoning my dress. If she weren’t here, I would be tempted to rip the intolerable thing off and toss it across the room.

‘Did you say something, my lady?’

‘Hmm?’ God, did I speak aloud without realising? I rub my eyes. ‘I’m just tired.’

‘Did you have a splendid time at the assembly?’ she asks.

Oh, aye. Killed a faery. My fifth this week.

I clear my throat. ‘Quite.’

Dona unbuttons more, then pauses. ‘Begging your pardon, my lady, but was this ribbon here before? I don’t remember—’

‘I added it,’ I reply quickly. ‘If you could undo my corset, I can remove the rest myself.’

In my exhaustion I had completely forgotten about the ribbon. Even the most discreet lady’s maid might panic at the sight of my shredded bodice and injuries. I’m just lucky the blood hasn’t seeped through. I am quite a skilled liar if the occasion calls for it, but even I would struggle to explain that.

Dona hesitates, but says, ‘Very well.’ She finishes with the buttons and begins unlacing my corset. ‘I was wondering: have you noticed any mice about?’

‘No. Do we have an infestation?’

‘Not . . . precisely.’ Dona leans forward to whisper, ‘I’ve heard scratching, my lady. From your dressing room.’

‘Really,’ I reply drily. If only that were mice.

‘And I thought I heard singing,’ she mutters, low enough that she might have been speaking to herself.

‘Singing?’ I go entirely still and cold crawls up my spine.

‘It’s nothing,’ she says quickly. ‘I’m sure I imagined it.’

I swallow hard. ‘All the same, I’ll have MacNab inspect my dressing room tomorrow.’

I’m tempted to give her a handful of notes – enough to last until she finds a new position – and tell her to get the hell out of my house and never come back to Edinburgh. Nay, Scotland.

Dona finishes unlacing my corset. ‘Just watch for the faeries,’ she says with laughter in her voice. ‘My auld-mother used to tell me they sometimes reside in closets and dressing rooms.’

I heard stories of faeries myself when I was wee. No bairn in Scotland is raised without them, or without a healthy measure of superstition.

But they have always been presented as nightmarish tales, certainly never as fact. Catherine’s brother used to tease us with stories, tell us to sleep with one eye open lest the faeries nab us from our beds. Eventually, I stopped believing in such nonsense. Until I learned that all the stories are true.

There are other Scots who still believe the fae to be real, but they’re becoming fewer in number. Very few humans are able to perceive the fae, and believers have been whittled away by the Church of Scotland’s attempts to denounce beliefs they consider uncultured. Even still, faeries persist as children’s stories in this country.

‘What else did she say?’ I can’t help but ask.

‘The fae will complete every task you’ve ever dreamed,’ Dona says, ‘in exchange for your soul. That I should always keep iron on my person, for protection.’

I swallow. I wish I could tell her that iron doesn’t work, it never has. That I nearly died once because I believed it would protect me. ‘Well, that’s just silly, isn’t it?’

‘It is indeed,’ Dona murmurs hesitantly. I’ve no doubt she half-believes her grandmother’s tales. She steps aside. ‘Will you be needing anything else?’

‘No, thank you. Goodnight.’

I close the door after her and wait until her footsteps fade down the hall. ‘Derrick,’ I tell the empty room. ‘Get the hell out of that dressing room.’

The door swings open and slams against the wall. The faint taste of spices and gingerbread settles on my tongue a moment before a ball of light, no bigger than the size of my palm, barrels out of the dressing room.

Chapter 6

‘
W
hat a silly little baggage,’ Derrick says. ‘What would I do with a soul?’

Despite his size, Derrick’s voice is as deep and masculine as a man’s. He flies over my work table and settles on a piece of scrap metal. The light around him fades to reveal a small, handsome creature with an elfin nose, pale skin and a patch of dark hair atop his head. Thin, translucent wings stick out from his lawn shirt and frame his tiny body. A muslin bag hangs from his shoulder and rests on his hip.

Derrick resides in my dressing room, where he mends my clothes for the price of a bowl of honey a day. Although sometimes he does the exact opposite of
mend
. I recognise the fabric of his black trousers from one of the mourning dresses I neglected to throw out weeks ago.