Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Sorcha
We reached New York four days later. Neal sent word by telegram the day we left Washington, and the Outer Court outpost was more than ready to greet us when we arrived.
Ansel disappeared the second we cleared the city limits to go book passage to Liverpool. Which meant we reached the Outer Court building alone and entirely unprepared for the welcome being put on for me and—as they were continuously referring to Neal—my “consort.”
The Outer Court building stood four stories high, sculpted from white marble and dark slate shingles and wedged between rows of equally impressive brownstone townhomes.
Three courtiers met us on the steps in a flurry of bows and kissed hands as they took Neal’s and my bags and offered tea, a seat, a newspaper.
I’d planned to go straight to the library, get in touch with whoever kept track of the books and the histories, get to work.
That was not what transpired.
I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d ended up sitting in a tub of steaming, sudsy, lavender-scented water while an older Elven woman ironed a nightgown that definitely wasn’t mine. I also wasn’t entirely sure where Neal was, which was more than a little unnerving.
Unlike the printshop back in Washington, this felt formal, official, alien. No one had yet called me by my first name, only “High Lady Wilson.” I bristled at that. It was MacCairn now.
I’d corrected them a dozen times, but the staff only chuckled dismissively.
I was fairly sure the older woman with me now was named Zebrowska and was supposed to be my personal maid. I’d never had a personal maid. I was fairly sure I didn’t want a personal maid.
I respected the work Ansel had put in outfitting the post. I respected the surprising emotional intelligence he’d demonstrated in even attempting to build a full-scale equivalent of our European staff and library somewhere in the States to try and coax my father away from Santa Fe.
Over the months on the road, I’d also come to deeply resent my father for refusing the offer. I tried not to dwell on how much pain and difficulty it would have spared us if he had moved here to New York after my mother died. I shook the thought away. It wouldn’t help. What happened happened.
But no amount of appreciation for the attempt could negate how deeply uncomfortable I was with how Ansel had outfitted and staffed the posting.
“Where is my husband?” I asked once I’d finished washing and brushing my hair.
I appreciated the warmth, appreciated the chance to get clean, but I’d never taken well to pampering or luxury.
I wanted up, out, to get dinner quickly and then go find Neal so we could walk the city’s bustling streets until I was too tired to stand up any longer.
“His bathroom,” Zebrowska said simply.
“You have multiple?” I asked. “For one bedroom?”
“Of course, High Lady Wilson,” Zebrowska said, clucking her tongue. “Whenever you’re ready I’d be happy to set your hair and get you dressed for dinner.”
I looked at the clothes laid out on the dressing table. Notably, none of them were mine.
I frowned. “Where are my things?”
“We’ll get you new ones tomorrow,” Zebrowska assured me. “For now these will do. It’s informal. And you have the baby. So a tea gown is fine for dinner.”
I remained entirely lost but figured playing along was the quickest way both back to my husband and to get my hands on food. So I let Zebrowska help me out of the tub, fuss with my hair for what felt like an eternity, and dress me.
Neal was waiting when I got downstairs, and I tucked myself into his chest on instinct.
The entire house smelled like sherry and butter, and it made my stomach turn.
“Where were you?” I whispered, face pressed into his jacket. The smell of woodsmoke, wool, and gunpowder was almost entirely gone from him now, replaced with scented soap and what I thought must be aftershave. I didn’t like it.
“Kidnapped and forced to use soap I knew you’d hate and put this on,” he whispered back, hugging me tighter as he tugged at the lapel of his smoking jacket.
I heard murmuring from the gathered staff and glanced up at Neal with a mixture of uncertainty and something irrationally akin to fear. They were courtiers. Why was I so damn nervous?
“You’re in charge,” he murmured into my ear.
And I smiled, emboldened. Ansel had configured the outpost to meet exacting, stifling, high-society expectations.
But I was in charge. I was the sovereign.
And now I was present and opinionated. Which meant I didn’t have to tolerate the fussing and the judgment.
I could be called whatever I wanted. I only had to make myself entirely clear.
“High Lady Wilson,” someone said behind me, “dinner is getting cold, I’m afraid. And the chef has made . . .”
“Shut up,” I said, turning away from Neal and snapping at the courtiers.
An older man named Randall—something akin to a butler.
Zebrowska—the lady’s maid. Mrs. Farthington—the housekeeper.
And then half a dozen “aides”—mostly the younger or less magically gifted sons of high-ranking noble households.
I still wasn’t entirely clear which was which or what they did.
The entire throng fell silent immediately.
“We will take dinner in the drawing room,” I said, using the tone I’d heard Glen take with particularly uncooperative guards and ranch hands.
“You will not be dictating our sleeping or bathing habits. You will refer to me as Lady Sorcha or Mrs. MacCairn. Exclusively. And I want any official communications I missed on my desk, in my office by noon tomorrow. Zebrowska? I need dressmaker’s appointments tomorrow.
Mr. MacCairn needs one at the tailor as well. ”
I paused for breath and took the slip of paper Neal handed me. I unfolded it briefly and glanced over the meticulous list of everything I had and hadn’t thrown up in the last two weeks.
“Have your chef work off this,” I said, shoving it in Randall’s direction. “We’re taking a walk. Have something I can actually keep down ready at seven.”
I took Neal’s hand, made for the door, and heard Zebrowska try to protest.
“If you’re about to say something about not being dressed appropriately please save your breath,” I said simply. I heard Zebrowska’s footsteps retreat.
“So somebody’s figured out how to manage a household staff,” Neal chuckled, taking my arm as we made our way down the steps.
“Somebody doesn’t like to be watched while she bathes and called a title she hates and separated from her husband,” I muttered in response.
I slept hard that night, making a mental note that silk sheets were on the short list of things I wanted to keep at this outpost. I’d been up for hours after dinner, retching into an oddly intricate porcelain chamber pot while Neal held my hair and rubbed my back.
But I rose early, shrugging into the same dress I’d worn the night before and pinning my hair up before the sun had fully cleared the horizon.
I was behind—too long on the road, too much time sick. I had work to get done. I slipped downstairs silently, careful not to wake Neal.
I found Ansel in my office, thumbing through the stack of missives casually, already sipping a coffee. He must have gotten in after we’d gone to bed.
“Seems you decided to come in and make some changes?” he asked.
“Nothing substantive,” I replied. “Cost cutting. Less obnoxiously self-aggrandizing menus. I like the sheets though.”
“Tell Neal and he can get them for Edinburgh and Islay,” Ansel said. “I can have them get you tea?”
“Do that,” I said, taking the papers from him. “Updates on disproving Iksura’s legal claim on my title?”
Ansel shook his head. “They’re almost done in review, and so far there’s no precedent for denying you the title due to age, but there’s another three hundred years of documents to check before we can be entirely sure.”
“I’ll try to be patient,” I said. “Anything else interesting to report?”
“General interesting? Portal interesting?” Ansel asked. “Be more specific.”
“No,” I replied. “Anything interesting.”
“There’s four or five issues with faeries and cryptids that need handling,” Ansel said.
“I’ll get telegrams out and have it dealt with.
There’s another two dozen portal sightings recorded.
I’ve started keeping an index. I also put out word about the cult connection.
Nothing on that yet. No direct threats from Iksura here yet.
But I’m sure they’re coming. But in the meantime? You’ve got appointments.”
“Appointments?” I asked.
“Three,” Ansel replied. “Meeting with the Ironmoot. Something about mining rights and peryton out in California. Some kind of social call with an Inner Court expat noblewoman. And then a ball.”
“We are not going to a ball.”
“But I think you’ll find that’s not an option, lass,” Ansel said.
“I thought I was in charge?” I countered.
“Unfortunately part of being in charge is honoring your constituents’ feelings,” Ansel said, “and rejecting a ball invitation wouldn’t be very diplomatic.”
“Fine,” I agreed through gritted teeth, “I’ll find a dress at my appointment today.”
“Oh good, someone’s already scheduled that?” Ansel asked.
I had forgotten that I actually liked going to the dressmaker. And now as a grown adult without my father or Nokona giving commentary? It was even better.
Ansel was vague about our accommodations on the ship. Simply saying the rooms were “nice.” Which—knowing Ansel—could mean anything from the better part of steerage to the penthouse. Neal was trying to track down ticket details. But had so far been unsuccessful.
So I wanted to have my bases covered.
The dressmaker and her two apprentices were sweet, attentive, and not at all fazed when I repeatedly excused myself to be sick in the alley behind the shop. And best of all they were genuinely good at their work, suggesting colors, cuts, and materials with an eye for both function and aesthetic.
I settled on two linen day dresses and two wool in simple, practical cuts but expensive fabric, three tea gowns—I was almost positive there’d be a point where those were the only thing that would fit with my belly—a few nightgowns and a new robe, two new corsets—finally getting my hands on the silk and net that Ansel had promised back when he’d destroyed mine in the Texas desert—a dozen chemises, a dozen stockings, a couple hats, since only one worn wool-felt bonnet had survived our trip across the desert, a dinner dress with one modest and tasteful bodice for normal nights, and another cut low off my shoulders and trimmed in beetle-wing sequins—since Ansel insisted on a ball.
All of it made to measure, cut carefully to accommodate my belly and all the growing it had yet to do.
Neal was waiting when I got back to the house—with news.
“So about those cabins Ansel booked for our trip to Liverpool,” he said the second I got through the front door.
“What about them?”
“What exactly did you buy at the dressmaker?” Neal asked by way of reply.
I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because apparently we’re in the room next door to some French marquis,” Neal said.
“I repeat . . . why?” I asked.
“Because Ansel, his words not mine, feels bad about all the awful places we’ve slept the last few months and wanted to make it up to us,” Neal said.
“That’s fine, I guess,” I said. “I need to be on Wall Street for that meeting with the Ironmoot in an hour. Ansel’s gonna take me.
I’m not going back and buying another silk dress that I won’t use.
But I do need to change. Just can you make sure everything is actually settled for these tickets?
I don’t think I can take another logistical disaster at this point.
And then make sure they make dinner I can actually eat. Please?”
“Sorcha, love,” Neal said, smiling, “you’re literally asking me to do the tasks I trained for as a Steward. I promise you it will be fine.”