Longshadow Read online

  Longshadow

  (Regency Faerie Tales, Book 3)

  Olivia Atwater

  Copyright © 2021 by Olivia Atwater

  https://oliviaatwater.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and stories are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons (living or dead), organizations, and events is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  The Atwater Scandal Sheets

  About the Author

  Also by Olivia Atwater

  Prologue

  Miss Abigail Wilder was not supposed to use her magic in front of the tea ladies. Never use your magic in front of the ton, her father had told her. Once you do, they’ll never let you rest—you’ll be doing useless magic tricks until you’re old and grey.

  Eighteen-year-old Abigail greatly suspected that the tea ladies were exactly the sort of nobility her father had warned her about. Once every month, the tea ladies met in her Aunt Vanessa’s sitting room for tea. Ostensibly, the ladies were there at Aunt Vanessa’s invitation in order to discuss the charity she intended to set up—but in practice, the tea ladies rarely did much other than take their tea and gossip about the rest of the beau monde. Often, in fact, their conversations turned to the subject of Abigail’s father, Lord Elias Wilder—England’s court magician, sometimes known as the Lord Sorcier.

  “Won’t you tell us at least a little bit of what your husband is up to, my Lady Sorcière?” Lady Mulgrew asked. She was a thin, pinched-looking woman with a high, reedy voice—Abigail sometimes thought she looked a bit like a horse. Lady Mulgrew had been a tea lady for months now, ever since Aunt Vanessa had started their meetings. As one of the few ladies who had donated any real money so far, Lady Mulgrew carried herself with a certain air of importance, enjoying Vanessa’s increased attentions. She always sat in a spot of honour at tea, just next to Vanessa herself.

  Abigail’s mother, Lady Theodora Wilder, did not respond immediately to the query. In fact, she continued sipping at her tea for a long while, as though she hadn’t heard the question at all. Abigail knew that her mother had heard the question, despite her lack of reaction—she was simply thinking through the implications, trying very hard to formulate an appropriate response. Lady Theodora Wilder had only half a soul, which skewed her social acumen somewhat. Long silences never bothered Dora in the way that they bothered most other people—and since Dora’s first instincts always suggested that she should be utterly honest and forthright, she often required those long silences in order to engineer a more appropriate, diplomatic reply.

  Lady Mulgrew blinked over her tea. “I’m not certain if you heard me, my Lady Sorcière,” she observed—very slowly, as though she were talking to a deaf woman. “I said—”

  “Oh yes, I did hear you,” Dora assured Lady Mulgrew. She set her teacup down on the table in front of her, buying herself further time to think. Dora turned her mismatched green and grey eyes upon Lady Mulgrew, considering her gravely. “I know much of my husband’s business,” Dora said finally, “but I do my best to keep it to myself. It is his duty to protect England from black magic—and from worse, sometimes. One never knows when a stray word might have unintended consequences.”

  This was not, of course, what Lady Mulgrew wished to hear. She leaned forward in her seat of honour. “But surely,” Lady Mulgrew insisted, “nothing terrible could come of sharing some small news of interest with us. We are hardly the sort of people from which the Lord Sorcier must protect England!”

  Abigail snorted into her teacup. Dora shot Abigail a sideways look—and though Dora rarely showed emotion on her face as other people did, Abigail knew that they were sharing the same thought: Lord Elias Wilder often implied that the aristocracy were worse than any black magicians.

  Aunt Vanessa probably had the best of intentions, asking Abigail and her mother to tea. Abigail was, herself, the product of Good Charity—as anyone could surely tell. For though Lord Elias Wilder called Abigail his daughter, and though he had loaned her his surname, he was truly just fostering her as his ward. And while Lady Theodora Wilder had dressed Abigail in creamy muslin and done up her hair with a green taffeta ribbon, Abigail’s skin was still covered in old pock marks, and her blonde hair was lank and straw-like. Abigail had made half an effort to improve her accent, mostly just to please her old governess—but she had to speak very slowly and with great concentration in order to manage her elocution.

  Aunt Vanessa thought that the tea ladies would be more willing to help other children if they saw how much Abigail had benefitted from similar charity. Abigail was… less convinced. But Aunt Vanessa had asked with such lovely, naïve sincerity that it was difficult to turn her down.

  Which all went a very long way to explaining why Abigail Wilder was currently settled in her aunt’s sitting room deflecting attempts at gossip, rather than practising magic with her father, as she would have preferred.

  Dora picked back up her tea—and Abigail realised that her mother didn’t intend to respond to Lady Mulgrew’s comment. Abigail sipped at her own tea, contemplating a reply. She had found Dora’s tea-sipping strategy to be terribly helpful, herself—for Abigail often felt tempted to say very honest things aloud, just to see how people might react. The tea, she found, stifled that impulse somewhat.

  What Abigail thought was: You will spread the slightest bit of gossip all over London, regardless of the consequences, and my entire family knows it.

  But Abigail swallowed down the words, along with her tea. What she said aloud was: “Magicians can scry upon people and conversations from a distance. Naturally, everyone here can be trusted… but I don’t believe that Aunt Vanessa has any magical protections cast upon her sitting room.”

  Abigail worked to keep her vowels crisp and rounded—but she knew from the way the other women shifted in their seats that something was still subtly wrong with her diction.

  “I have no such protections, of course,” Aunt Vanessa said with a smile. “I have never felt the need to hide my social gatherings from strange magicians.” Vanessa reached up to tug self-consciously at one of her blonde curls, however, and Abigail suspected that her aunt found the topic of conversation a bit discomforting. Aunt Vanessa was a very proper woman, and she disliked the idea of prying into other people’s business. Lady Mulgrew was the only tea lady to have shown genuine interest in Vanessa’s charitable endeavours so far, though, and so Vanessa’s attempts to deflect Lady Mulgrew’s gossip were often halfhearted.

  “You must know much of magic yourself, Miss Wilder?” Miss Esther Fernside piped up. At seventeen years old, she was the youngest lady present. Miss Fernside was a recent addition to the tea ladies. She had only joined them for last month’s tea—and even then, Abigail couldn’t remember Miss Fernside having
said a word. She was a young, mousy woman of quiet demeanour; her curly brown hair had already mostly escaped its neat bun after only an hour of tea, and her smile was dim and hesitant.

  “It would be strange if I didn’t know anything about magic, wouldn’t it?” Abigail replied carefully. The last thing Abigail needed was for Miss Fernside to realise that she could do magic—the resulting conversation would probably derail the entire tea.

  “Oh yes, I suppose that would be strange,” Miss Fernside admitted sheepishly. She looked so embarrassed by her own question now that Abigail felt a moment of pity.

  “I’ve read many of my father’s books,” Abigail elaborated. “We talk about magic an awful lot. There are two kinds, you know—mortal magic and faerie magic. Almost all magic done in England is mortal magic, but faeries work the strangest spells by far.”

  This distinction was one of the very first things any magician learned—but it tended to impress people who knew nothing about the subject. Miss Fernside brightened at the discussion, sitting up in her chair once more.

  “I knew that!” Miss Fernside assured Abigail. “My mother used to read me faerie tales. She said that faeries are wild and dangerous and wonderful. She said they can do just about anything, if you pay them the right price.”

  Abigail shivered with sudden unease. Miss Fernside had no way of knowing that Abigail herself had been stolen away by a faerie—it wasn’t precisely common knowledge. But the reminder did little to improve Abigail’s already lacklustre enthusiasm for tea.

  “Faeries are dangerous,” Dora said softly. “And… yes, wild and wonderful. Which is why you should hope never to catch their attention.”

  Dora, too, had been stolen away to faerie. Abigail could still remember the day they’d met, in the awful halls of Hollowvale’s Charity House. At the time, Abigail had been convinced that they would never leave again. But Dora had assured her that they would escape… and then, of all things, Dora had killed their cruel faerie captor.

  No one in the sitting room—Aunt Vanessa included—would ever have imagined that mild-mannered Dora was capable of murdering a faerie. But Abigail did know… and in fact, it was one of the things she loved most about her mother. None of the other women here, Abigail thought, would have dared to do what was necessary to save her from Charity House.

  “Faeries are terribly dangerous,” Lady Mulgrew interjected, in an attempt to regain control of the conversation. “Why, I’ve heard other ladies and gentlemen of our acquaintance speculate that the recent deaths in London are to do with a faerie. I assured them that the Lord Sorcier was surely looking into the matter… but of course, no one here could possibly confirm such a thing.” Lady Mulgrew smiled specifically at Dora, with only a hint of annoyance.

  “What recent deaths would those be?” Abigail asked sharply. She fixed her gaze upon Lady Mulgrew, discarding her other thoughts.

  Lady Mulgrew raised her eyebrows. “Why, I assumed that you would know, Miss Wilder,” she said. “Such awful business. The Season has lost several fine ladies in the last few weeks. They pass overnight, in their sleep—with the western window open.”

  This last statement should have meant something to Abigail, perhaps. But she didn’t dare admit that it had gone entirely over her head. Abigail glanced at her mother—but Dora’s expression was, as always, blank and serene.

  “Is it possible that the Lord Sorcier is not investigating these tragedies?” Lady Mulgrew asked Dora archly.

  Dora looked down at her empty teacup with vague surprise. “Oh,” she said. “I have finished my tea.”

  And then—with absolutely no preamble—Dora stood and smoothed her gown. Abigail hurried to follow suit, just as her mother turned to leave the room.

  “We have an appointment,” Abigail lied. It was barely an excuse—but it was something, at least.

  Aunt Vanessa smiled ruefully at Abigail. She knew, more than anyone, how different Dora’s social perceptions were. “It was lovely having you both here,” Vanessa assured Abigail. “I appreciate that you came.”

  The words held more meaning than most of the tea ladies likely appreciated. Aunt Vanessa had almost surely noticed Abigail’s discomfort today.

  Abigail curtsied awkwardly, and left to join her mother.

  Chapter 1

  Abigail hurried after Dora, hiking up her skirts over her half-boots. Aunt Vanessa’s servants winced and looked away as she sprinted through Crescent Hill’s entryway, no doubt scandalised by the sight of Abigail’s calves.

  “Mum!” Abigail gasped breathlessly. “We have to wait for Hugh!”

  Dora paused in the doorway. She turned back towards Abigail with a look of mild recollection. “Oh yes, Hugh,” Dora murmured. “I begin to fear that I am very terrible at this mothering business. I am sure that none of the other ladies would forget their own son.”

  Abigail smiled ruefully. “You can’t see him, Mum,” she said. “I know you try to remember when he’s with us, but it makes sense you’d forget sometimes. Anyway, it’s all right. I bet he’s down in the kitchens again. I’ll go fetch him, if you’ll wait in the carriage.”

  Dora smiled distantly back at Abigail. Most mothers probably smiled more broadly at their children—but Abigail wouldn’t have traded her awkward mother for all of the brilliant smiles in the world. “Thank you, Abigail,” Dora said softly. “I’ll wait for you both.”

  Abigail turned for the green baize door that led down to the kitchens. Servants darted out of her way as she descended, faintly alarmed… but it couldn’t be helped. Most people didn’t notice Hugh Wilder, which meant that he could wander rather anywhere he pleased. Abigail had no such advantage—though she technically knew of spells to make herself seem less interesting to look at, she was not very good at actually casting them.

  Abigail came out into the kitchens, where Mrs Montgomery currently worked to plate more sandwiches. Aunt Vanessa’s cook was a short, brown-haired woman with broad shoulders and a military sort of bearing. Mrs Montgomery did not particularly enjoy the idea of ladies entering her kitchen uninvited—but she had always forced a certain politeness towards Abigail regardless, during the few times that she had visited.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs Montgomery,” Abigail said carefully, as she slipped through the doorway. “Sorry to trouble you again.”

  Mrs Montgomery glanced sharply towards Abigail, but she kept her tone even. “You’re no trouble, Miss Wilder,” the cook assured Abigail.

  Abigail snorted. “Many people would disagree with you, Mrs Montgomery,” she said. “But I appreciate the sentiment. Mum and I are just headed off, and I was hoping we could take with us one of your lovely…”

  “Apple tarts,” a young boy’s voice cut in, very quickly.

  “…your lovely apple tarts,” Abigail finished obediently.

  Abigail glanced towards the corner of the room, from whence the voice had originated. Her younger brother Hugh stood there, staring longingly at a plate of apple tarts that had been set aside on the counter.

  Hugh was dressed for the occasion today, though Abigail was probably the only person who would ever see him. He wore a neatly tailored blue vest and trousers, and freshly polished shoes. A black silk kerchief hid Hugh’s missing eye; Abigail often told Hugh that the kerchief made him look like a pirate. Hugh looked in most respects like a well-mannered eight-year-old boy… but the truth was that he had been eight years old for ages and ages now, ever since the day that he had died.

  “Of course, Miss Wilder,” Mrs Montgomery said. “Take as many tarts as you like. And please give your mother my best.”

  “Those tarts look so good,” Hugh sighed. “You could take two, an’ give one to Mum.”

  Abigail dropped into a clumsy curtsy. “Thank you kindly, Mrs Montgomery,” she said. She gathered up two of the apple tarts in her handkerchief. Abigail nearly tried to stow the handkerchief in her pocket—but since she was dressed as a lady today, she didn’t have any pockets. As such, she had to hold the handkerchief awk
wardly to her chest as she turned to flee the kitchens.

  Hugh followed Abigail back up the servants’ stairs. “I haven’t seen those sandwiches before,” Hugh said. “Are they delicious?”

  Abigail hid a small smile. “I think they’re cucumber sandwiches,” she said. “Mum likes ‘em, but I think they’re squidgy.” Talking with Hugh always lured out Abigail’s normal, lower-class accent. Being dead, Hugh had never needed to polish his elocution.

  “Other Mum lets us eat all kinds of things,” Hugh murmured. “But faerie food just doesn’t taste the same. Wish I could have just one real apple tart—just so I know what it’s like.”

  The other half of Lady Theodora Wilder’s soul currently lived in faerie, with all of the children who hadn’t made it back from Hollowvale alive. Hugh and Abigail called the other half of Dora’s soul Other Mum whenever they were in England—but most other people who knew of her at all called her Lady Hollowvale.

  Abigail heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry, Hugh,” she said. “I haven’t found a way to let you eat food yet. But I’ll keep lookin’, I promise.”

  Hugh quickened his steps—it was a bit eerie having him around, since his shoes made no noise upon the stairs. “You already figured out how to get me out of Hollowvale,” Hugh said. “It’s more’n you should’ve done. I’ll just watch you eat the tarts, if you don’t mind. You can tell me how they are.”

  Abigail walked through the green baize door once again, turning to hold it open for Hugh. Her younger brother giggled as he walked past her. “I can walk through doors, you know,” he said. “Walls too.”