6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Kat
“The slippers—the slippers don’t matter,” I tell myself, ignoring the pulsating longing of my own heart as I pace over the uneven floorboards of my room. “Bartholomew matters. I need to get her back. But I cannot marry Lord Boreham for multiple reasons.” A shiver of disgust runs down my spine—one reason. For another, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror if I allowed such an excuse of a man to claim my fortune. And for a third, he’s planning to marry me before our biggest fae raid! We’ll be off at the coast for a dreadful honeymoon. Which means a dozen people won’t be free of their abusive fae masters.
Mary sneaks in, carrying a basket of folded laundry that she takes to the wardrobe.
“I need to get out of this house,” I say by way of greeting.
“Oh, Kat.”
My throat thickens when she looks at me that way—with so much sorrow and compassion—but I swallow it away. “I need to run away, but I must stay in the city so I can keep doing my raids. Long enough that I can turn twenty-one before I wed and claim my money. I’ll need to be in disguise, so no one recognizes me.”
Mary raises one brow. “You’re going to hide in the streets.”
“No, no, that would be a terrible idea. I need to—”
I stop. It’s like the plan just suddenly floats down from heaven in a glittering cloud, right into my open hands. My grin spreads across my face.
A fae come to live in Harbright . . .
“That face scares me,” mumbles Mary.
I grin even wider. “Oh, it should.”
“You do not look like a boy,” says Mary as we stand before my bedroom mirror. I wear the clothes she fetched me: a pair of worn, baggy breeches, a dust-colored tunic, stockings, thick-soled shoes. “You can get away with it as the Ivy Mask when you have a cloak. But this is different.”
“We can work with this,” I say, looking at myself from all angles.
“Boys don’t have hips. Or—”
“Yes, yes, but we’ll figure out how to disguise that. I think I’m going to need a size larger of breeches to make this look convincing. And some sort of chest binding—”
“You think a few scraps of tightly bound fabric will suffice?” She points at my chest.
I wince. “I’ll just . . . have to skip a few meals, wear baggy clothes . . .” My mind works as I keep surveying myself.
“You’re going to cut your hair.” Mary groans. “Saints preserve me.”
“We’ve got to go all the way for this to be convincing! And it must be convincing by the time Lord Boreham comes to propose to me. I need to be gone by that morning.”
We don’t cut my hair just yet. I skip the noon meal with my stepfamily, claiming a headache, and only emerge from my room midafternoon to join them in the drawing room. I’m shaking so hard I prick myself multiple times with my needle as I try to distract myself from my gnawing hunger with my embroidery. My stepfamily says nothing to me, and I say nothing to them. We sit in silence filled only by Edith drilling the same section of her piece on the harpsichord over and over again.
“Katherine,” says Agatha, “you should be aware of a rumor that is circulating.”
I tense. If she brings up Lord Boreham one more time—
“There are reports that a fae has moved to town and intends to marry.”
Not Lord Boreham. I relax and wave my hand. “Baron Cranswick’s son told me that at the ball.”
Bridget looks up from her own needlework. “But did you hear that he arrived today? Mellie Thompson said one of her servants saw him—and he’s terribly frightening. She said he’s taller than any man she’s seen, and he’s got long, pointy ears. You know what they say about fae beauty, don’t you? Apparently, it’s true. Mellie said her servant said—or maybe it was a friend of the servant’s—that he is tremendously beautiful and very strange.”
Edith scoffs from her place at the harpsichord, mercilessly pounding out the section of the piece she’s drilling. She shouts to be heard over the noise. “She also said he has white hair. Before you know, the reports will continue until he’s over seven feet tall, with a nose the shape of a candlestick, bright purple skin, and biceps made of iron.”
“Ladies!” Agatha chides. She closes her eyes briefly, in which Edith and Bridget exchange an amused look. I glance between them, hoping to be included, but they don’t look at me. “Nothing has been confirmed except his arrival. His intent to marry is also uncertain, but it seems highly likely. You should be aware, Katherine, of his possible attentions.”
Why does everyone think this fae is going to be interested in me? I doubt they would want my money; Faerieland runs a different currency.
“He’s not going to take two looks at either of us, that’s for sure!” Bridget says sourly.
Edith lifts her chin, never pausing her drilling. “I don’t want to marry a seven-foot-tall monster with purple skin and a candlestick nose. Katherine can have him to herself.”
“He’s not seven feet tall, you imbecile! And are you a devil from hell sent to torment us with your music?” Bridget finally snaps, whirling on her sister. “The rest of your piece is getting lonely from your worship of those four measures!”
Edith bangs on the keys. “I don’t enjoy it either! Botsov is a misery, and no one does his work justice, so the unfortunate duty falls upon me.”
I’ve suffered in their presence long enough. It’s time I do what I came to do. When no one is looking, I stick my finger in the back of my mouth. Then I heave, grabbing the nearby scrap basket.
“Kat!” shrieks Bridget, shooting up as I empty the meager contents of my stomach into the basket.
“Mary!” calls Agatha. “Take Katherine to her room at once. She is ill.”
“No, I’m quite fine,” I say, wiping my mouth and pressing a hand to my hollow middle. I’ve got to put up at least some struggle here. “I feel much—”
“You are ill. Go upstairs. Mary will tend your needs,” orders Agatha sharply.
I nod and find myself actually needing to lean on Mary as we make our way up the stairs. “I feel so weak.”
“It’s your own fault for pursuing this harebrained idea.”
“Do you have a better plan for getting me out from under Agatha’s thumb?” I hiss. “While having the privilege of spying on someone who could give me the information I need to more effectively do . . . business ?”
Silence is her only reply.
“I thought so,” I mutter.
The moment we’ve entered the haven of my bedroom, I collapse beneath the sheer white canopy of my bed and lay with my arms and legs in every which direction.
“I’m so hungry I could eat this quilt,” I groan. “Look at how shaky my hand is!”
“You cannot lose every ounce of curve in three days of fasting,” Mary says.
“No, but I can become a little gaunter and paler.”
“It’ll be impossible for you to be hired if you’re gaunt and pale. And shaking so much! Being a servant is hard work, and you must be able to manage it.”
“I’ll make it work.”
Mary sighs, shaking her head. But then she pulls something out of the pocket of her petticoats. She holds it up to me. “I was up almost all night working to get it done.”
I study the handstitched garment. “Is that . . . what I think it is?”
“A substitute to starving yourself? Yes, indeed. Try it on.”
The chest binding is sturdy, yet thin and easy to fasten by myself—which is a very necessary feature. Mary pulls my ensemble out of the back of my wardrobe, hidden beneath my lacy stockings and drawers. I quickly don everything and stand before the mirror after Mary locks my door.
Her eyes widen. “Oh, saints have mercy.”
“Flat as a board! Look at your stitching! This thing could flatten a pregnant belly!” I’m almost laughing, forgetting my starvation for the span of a few glorious seconds.
“Now you’re flattering. But it’ll work, you think?”
“Oh yes , this will more than work!” I sling my breeches a little lower, so they sag on my hips and belt them. “Add a little grime to the face and cut the hair—and I’ll be the perfect—”
“Little boy of twelve.”
I snap my fingers at her. “That’s brilliant. Without the cloak I use for my raids, I cannot pass as a grown man, but perhaps a child? Especially with the dirt—”
“You cannot be completely caked in grime, or else no one will hire you. No one wants filthy urchins serving them.”
“Maybe I should cut across my face and then I’ll have a scar that—”
Mary’s gaze turns fierce. “If you do that, I will take that chest binding and rip it to shreds.”
“It’s not like having a scarred face will ruin my marriage proposals,” I say, laughing. “I could have a dozen extra toes in unfortunate places, and no one would care.”
“Some men don’t care about money,” Mary says.
“When you find one,” I call over my shoulder as I get back into my regular clothes, “introduce me.”