The Accidental Afterlife of Thomas Marsden (8 page)

“One hopes,” said Deadnettle, and it would take a sharp ear, a faery ear, to detect the insincerity in the words.

For a human, Mordecai had remarkably sharp ears. He looked up, dark eyes flashing beneath dark, greasy hair. He was clean-shaven, and this was unfortunate, for it allowed Deadnettle to see all of the malevolent smile now fixed upon him.

“I have been generous, Deadnettle. Your people are safe and fed. I keep iron and bells away, so that you may live in safety and comfort. The enchantment laid upon you is only one of many to which I could subject you.”

You keep us here against our will, away from our home,
snarled Deadnettle in his mind, his mouth clamped shut.
Tell me, what greater torture is there than that?

“Trust me when I say,
faery
, that you do not wish to find out what else I could do to you. I ask little of you, of all of you. Do not make me demand more.”

Deadnettle did not respond. What could he say? That there was nothing more the faeries could give; they had nothing left. To admit this aloud would be to give Mordecai an even greater power—the knowledge that the faeries had none and that the faeries knew it.

Deadnettle would not do that. Never. He would die first, in that rotten basement. Underground. A grave of the living.

“That little one . . . Marigold, did you say? I will never understand your ridiculous names. At any rate, she did well in your place today. I am pleased.”

An ache grew in Deadnettle's chest. Marigold had seemed happy enough when she greeted him, but she was young and resilient. He knew she did not enjoy the process any more than the rest of them.

“I am holding another gathering in”—Mordecai checked an ornate golden pocket watch—“forty-five minutes. See that she returns to the blue parlor in thirty.”

“You cannot use her again today.”

“Oh, but I can.” Mordecai was on his feet, rounding the large desk piled with ink bottles and heavy books. “I may do as I like, creature, and you would do well to remember that. You are here to serve me, not the reverse.”

“She is tired,” argued Deadnettle. Dangerous, yes, but while the sorcerer seemed not to care overmuch when one of their number . . . left . . . he would not put his own delicate hands to Deadnettle's throat.
Use me,
he nearly said, biting his tongue against it. He had an appointment to keep, one best conducted while Mordecai was occupied in the blue parlor and unconcerned with what the rest of the faeries were getting up to far below.

“Then she shall have a nice rest in the cage, shan't she? I grow weary of your obstinacy. You may go.”

It was no great hardship to flee the sorcerer's presence. Closing the door behind him, aware the building, save for the study and the basement, were now entirely empty, Deadnettle went down the main, wide staircase. A cheeky luxury, a small revenge. Here, the floors were thick with carpet, the walls lined with fancy papers. Everything smelled of the silver and gold it had taken to buy each object.

Deadnettle wanted to scream.

On the ground floor, the doors to the many parlors stood open, waiting to be filled with humans and ghosts. Other such rooms were all over London, but these were different.

In these ones, it would truly happen.

He stood in the entrance to one, gazing at the sapphire draperies on the windows and around the polished oak table with its matching chairs. The people who came to sit at those chairs and visit with the spirits of their departed loved ones would feel the soft, plush velvet of the drapes brushing their knees on the way to the floor. They might rub it between thumb and forefinger to feel its richness, or remark on the beautiful color.

But they wouldn't know what was hidden behind. Mordecai would never let them see. That would reveal his secret.

And whichever faery he had chosen for the hour would lie, utterly still and silent, in the cage beneath the table. Smaller than the ones under the table on the stage in the grand concert hall, but big enough for a single faery, and for these intimate gatherings, a single faery was all Mordecai needed.

Oh, Deadnettle couldn't look anymore. He knew too well the darkness inside, the stillness and fusty air, the sound of the lock as the cage clicked shut.

“When are we leaving?” Marigold asked, dragging him to the farthest corner of the basement as soon as she spotted him, speaking in barely a whisper.

“I am going shortly,” Deadnettle replied. “You . . . Mordecai has asked for you again.” He did not repeat the bit about the sorcerer being pleased; it was no achievement to be proud of. “Yes, I know you are tired, dear one. But please do this for me. If he is happy, and busy, he will not think to speak to me again this evening. I can leave and return undetected.”

Marigold pouted. “I want to meet the”—her voice dropped lower—“changeling. Properly, I mean.”

“You will. Soon. This, I promise you.”

“Go, then.” She held up one finger and ran off, came back a moment later with his cloak. “Be safe. Stay away from the churches. It is Evensong tonight. There will be more bells than usual.”

Clever girl. How did she learn these things? Where did she find the energy? But curiosity is its own strength, Deadnettle knew. He was counting on it when it came to Thomas. And Marigold was yet young enough to be curious.

Once outside, feet dragging over stone, Deadnettle's darker thoughts consumed him. Now was the time to fear that the boy would not come, or that some danger had
befallen him during the hours since Deadnettle had sent him the note. It had perhaps been a mistake to give the child so much silver, but the coins were the only birthright that could be returned to him. At least the boy could set eyes on his mother's face, even if just etched in profile and unknown to him.

It was, equally, the time to fear that the boy
would
come and that Deadnettle would have to tell a story he suddenly wished he could avoid. Thomas had been raised by humans; he was only marginally more trustworthy than they were.

Deadnettle would be early, but that was preferable to the alternative. The lamps lining the path to the middle of the enormous park were blinding spots in the night and stung his sensitive eyes, but they'd be helpful to the boy. This was the only place in all of London where Deadnettle's breath came easy, the pain lessened by as much distance from any iron as possible. The lush green lawns almost, almost reminded him of home, in their vivid naturalness. He had once nearly decided to bring the other faeries here, escape with them and live in peace, but it was not a peace that would have lasted long. Mordecai knew about iron, and bells, and that they couldn't pass his magical barrier to flee London itself. It would not have taken him long to find them.

And Mordecai knew this place well.

There, fifty yards ahead, were two trees grown together, with a gap between just wide enough for a faery to slip through. The gap in which Thistle's sad, last breath had been drawn. Deadnettle would not ask the boy to try tonight, but he would show him. He would explain.

He would beg, if he must.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Meeting and the Truth

T
HE COINS WEIGHED THOMAS DOWN.
They were not so very heavy as all that, but never before had he watched every man and woman, lord and lady who passed him, one hand gripping tight to the satchel. To be fair, he'd never before seen anyone he thought might
be
a lord or a lady, but surely some of these fine people who passed him were, so fine were their clothes and carriages.

London spread around him, somehow much larger now that he was in the very center of it, the bustle of crowds around him like a swarm of so many bees.

Finding a place to lay his head had been a challenge. Snowflake note in hand, he had walked the city, yawning after his sleepless night, unsure where he would be safe. Out
of doors was much too dangerous, no matter how firmly he held his bag. And if he were to find a soft, feather-filled bed in one of them fancy hotels, he might sleep right through to the next day, or the next week, and not meet the person who had sent him the note.

That he must do. That person held the truth, cupped in hands that might be strong or dainty, smooth or calloused. Might be human . . . or not.

Old ones, old ones, old ones.

He was sure, in the scouring light of day and with some time to think, that he didn't believe the fortune-teller or anything Lucy had said. But it was a pleasantly fanciful notion, and regardless of why, someone was leading Thomas on an adventure the likes of which he'd never had in his short, dull, dingy life.

Whoever was leading him on this adventure had also filled Thomas's belly with so much food he felt rather ill at the moment. At every stall or barrow he passed, he traded a perfectly ordinary copper penny or shilling for whatever they were selling. Unfortunately, this made him want to sleep even more, for hours or days or perhaps even a year, and not wake up until someone kissed him or pricked him with a pin, like in one of the stories Lucy had sometimes told him before bedtime, when he was too young to go out to the graveyards with Silas. But that had
been years before, five at least, and Thomas was too old for stories now.

The graveyards . . . that had been it. The graveyards were how he knew London, and how he had thought of where he could safely close his eyes for a short time.

The nearest large one had been a fair ways away. Thomas trudged on, past shops and theaters and houses with rosebushes still slumbering from winter beside their stoops.

At long last, he reached the gates.

He had always felt comfortable in graveyards. Watched, yes, never alone, but the presence was always soothing. The crimes Silas committed, and made Thomas himself commit, were not the fault of the bodies buried within, for they were just trying to sleep too.

He'd made a good choice. The folks buried there must've had coffers full of gold while they breathed, and spent it on the big slabs of marble that formed small buildings. Tombs. Thomas found one tucked away whose flowers were bedraggled, neglected, bitten again and again by frost. No one had visited here in an age, and likely they wouldn't today. He fished in his pockets for his tools and clicked open the lock, rusted from weather.

The smell inside was too old to be bad, just stale earth and the merest hint of something sweetly rotten. When he
closed the door behind him, the darkness was absolute, as was the silence.

As was the feeling he was not alone.

“'M not here to rob you,” Thomas whispered, feeling a fool, but unable to stop himself from speaking. “Just need a sleep. I'll leave soon.”

All right,
Thomas imagined a cracked, dry voice answering in his head. The air settled and warmed, or Thomas told himself it did. From his satchel, he took the bundle of clothing to form a nice cushion. Cobwebs brushed his arms, and the space between the coffin and the wall was scarcely wide enough for him, but it wasn't much harder than the blankets he'd slept on before, and it was better'n anywhere else he could've found even if he'd searched London the whole day.

He awoke when the sun was setting, though he didn't know this until he pulled open the door and peered outside. The red light and the fug of soot that hung over everything made the city in the distance look as if it were on fire. He was alone, as far as he could see, any visitors to other graves having headed home for their suppers.

It wasn't time yet to go to the park—what an odd place to meet—nor did Thomas have anyplace else he needed to be. This was as comfortable as anywhere, as much
home
as anywhere. More than, if he'd truly been found in a grave
himself. Had someone put him there because they knew it was safe and he'd be found soon? Or had someone put him there knowing the ghosts would watch over him?

Or both?

He counted the hours by the ringing of the church bells. “See, didn't steal nothing,” Thomas said, standing, his satchel once again over his shoulder, clothes wrapped around the silver coins. “Sleep well.”

Thank you,
answered the imagined voice.

Neat paths had been laid between the graves. Thomas wandered up and down, reading names and dates. This, more than Lucy's tattered books, had been what'd taught him his letters, to string them together into words. Into people. He always read their names right before plunging the shovel into the earth, if he could.

Whatever they said, he was keeping the shiny coins. His, now, weren't they? He'd found 'em, even if someone'd left them there to find. Thomas dared not hope the answers would be more than that, that the person would know about who he was and where he'd come from.

He bought himself a pie going cheap from the back of a wagon and ate it on the way, the thin soles of his boots feeling the cobbles from Gracechurch Street to Mayfair. Perhaps he should buy a new set of shoes with his riches. The wide expanse of green lay before him, and as he neared,
the Serpentine River shimmered in the moonlight. Thomas kept to the path, stopping only to stand beneath a flickering lamp and read, once more, the now-grubby bit of paper.

There, just there were two trees grown together, and was that a man beside them?

“Hullo,” said Thomas.

“Do not be afraid,” said the figure.

It turned and pulled back its hood.

•   •   •

Thomas couldn't stop his gasp. It looked . . . well, p'raps like a man, if you weren't inspecting too closely. But the ears were pointed and eyes much too bright, as if with fever. No white showed at their edges; no dark floated in the middle. Below, the teeth that showed through the smile were long and sharp.

“Do not be afraid,” it said. “I swear an oath. I am not here to harm you. My name is Deadnettle.”

“Nobody's name is Deadnettle,” said Thomas before he could stop himself.

This only made it smile wider. “Mine is. I think you will find, Thomas, that my name is the smallest of strange things I am about to tell you. We might have a problem if that alone is too odd for you to grasp.”

Its words were strong, with a hint of humor, even, but there was something a bit wrong about them too. It—the
creature—was nervous and trying to hide it. Well, Thomas couldn't blame it for that. Nobody liked a coward, Silas always said. And he would know.

“Isn't,” said Thomas defiantly, feeling anything but defiant. The fortune-teller screeched inside his head, chasing out the imagined voice from the graveyard. “Right, so that's your name. Who are you? What are you? And how do you know who
I
am?”

It was not quite the proper question.
Do you know who I am?
was what Thomas truly wanted to know, and he was suddenly, chillingly, certain it did.

The thing named Deadnettle edged closer. Now that it moved, it seemed old, frail. Its steps were weak and halting. Its hands shook ever so slightly before it noticed and clenched them into fists.

“Well, that is one thing sorted. You know I'm not human. That's a good start.”

“Old one,” whispered Thomas.

“Indeed. Faery, if you wish.”

“You're real.”

“I am. Real enough to tell you a story that you will not believe, or want to. It is, however, true.”

“The fortune-teller—”

“Was right,” Deadnettle finished for him. A good thing, as the park and the city and the entire world around
Thomas seemed to be spinning altogether too quickly. “Now, in fairness, she was right because she said the things I told her to say. She was rewarded for her part in this. Have no fear of that.”

“But I'm not—I'm not a faery,” Thomas said. He was just a boy. Not special in any way at all.

“That's not quite true,” said Deadnettle. “You are not
magic
. There is a difference, and while I do not often hope that I am wrong, this is one of those rare occasions.”

The ground wobbled under Thomas's feet. “Wrong about what?”

“Come. Sit.”

There was a bench nearby, thick oak planks and beautiful iron scrollwork. The faery winced as they neared it. Thomas could just about think of him as a
he
, now, and not an
it
, and he gestured for Thomas to sit, but did not do so himself. Instead, he knelt on the grass in front, knees creaking beneath his robe, and folded his hands carefully in his lap.

Thomas watched him, his pointed ears and pointed teeth. The skin of his face was much too thin, showing strangely curved cheekbones and a ridge right down his forehead, stopping between his near-glowing eyes.

“Your mother was queen of the faeries,” said Deadnettle suddenly. “Her name was Wintercress, and she was my dearest friend.”

A tiny part of Thomas wondered for an instant whether this might be enough. He had wanted to know where he came from, and those few words said everything while explaining nothing. So easily, he could slip past this Deadnettle creature and run. Live off the coins until the last copper was spent and then return to Silas and Lucy, or not.

Of course, it was not enough. Nowhere near. He'd come this far, and if the best he got out of it was a story full of cobblers, well, that'd be better than nothing.

Especially when the story made him the son of a queen, a prince. He liked the sound of that. He'd always liked that sort of story when Lucy'd told them at bedtime.

Thomas didn't move. Neither did Deadnettle, who appeared to be waiting for Thomas to make his decision. Only when Thomas shifted his satchel farther onto his lap did the faery begin, once more, to speak.

“Wintercress was both kind and brutal, fair and as shifting as the tides. Powerful, oh, yes. Her ancestors—your ancestors—had ruled the faery realm since the dawn of time, and done it well.”

“Where is she now?” asked Thomas, who had noted the use of
was
.

“She is dead,” said Deadnettle simply, and the light in his eyes flashed brighter for an eyeblink. Then it was gone. “She was one of the first to die, after we . . . came here.”

“And my father?”

Thomas wasn't sure that twist of the lips could properly be called a smile. “You do not have one. Our kind are different. It is down to the mother, who gathers the magic of the elements together in a, well, a ball of magic. Something like an egg. It is why our young are called hatchlings. It takes an immense amount of power and energy in an ordinary case, but it took even more where you are concerned.”

“Oh,” said Thomas, who didn't know where human children came from. Far as he knew, it wasn't much different. “Why did she die, if she was so powerful?”

“
Because
she was so powerful.”

Deadnettle had been right. Thomas didn't believe a whirling word of it, but it was a shocking fine start to a story, and he found he wanted to know the rest. “How d'you mean?”

The faery took a deep, lung-rattling breath. “There is a . . . man, who lives right here in London. A sorcerer, a magician, a devil, call him what you may. His true name is Mordecai, and somehow, Mordecai taught himself how to summon us from our home, bring us here. Greed, it was, simple greed. You see, we have a gift humans lack, and wish for. It is not difficult to imagine that one might decide to use us for it, if one could only learn how.”

“What gift?”

“The ability to speak with the dead. Or, to be precise, to let them speak through us.”

“Ghosts, you mean?”

“If you like. So, Mordecai brought us here and trapped us. He cast an enchantment that closed the many doors back to our home for good, so we may never return. He keeps us in this city . . . this city full of the iron of industry and the bells of your churches, both of which are poison to us. Every day, we grow weaker. Every day, we lose more hope that we will ever see our beautiful faery realm again.”

“So what happened to my—” Thomas could not say
mother
, not yet. That'd make it look like he believed it. “What happened to Wintercress?”