There was something both familiar and comforting about climbing down a tree again, though Dora had not done anything of the sort since that fateful day when she had first met Lord Hollowvale. Below her, Theodora snagged her fine dress upon the tree branches and tore at her silken slippers, but there was a joyful smile on her face that suggested she was having fun.
“How long do you think the marquess shall be at his appointment?” Dora called down to her other half, as she navigated her way carefully down.
“Not for long, I fear!” Theodora responded. “He is careless with his bargains, and he always gladly overpays. He will be back with another child soon enough, I am sure.”
Dora’s foot missed the next branch, and she found herself sliding down the last bit of the tree, until her feet hit the ground with a hard thud. Theodora, still a few feet up the tree, looked down at her with concern. “Is there something the matter?” Dora’s other half asked her.
“You mean to say that the marquess has been buying children?” Dora said. Her tone was level, but even as she spoke, she saw the horror in her heart reflected in Theodora’s eyes.
“Oh!” said Theodora. She hopped down the rest of the way and covered her mouth. “That is awful, isn’t it? I’ve grown so used to terrible things here, since the faeries are all so casual about it.”
“Are those children like us—I mean, like me?” Dora asked her. “Trapped in Hollowvale, I mean? Where has the marquess put them?” A dreadful suspicion had arisen at the back of her mind, and she knew she would have no rest until she confirmed it.
Theodora gave her a wary look. “He keeps them all at Charity House,” she said. “It is a foolish name, by the way. There is nothing charitable about it at all.” Theodora pointed across the misty garden before them, towards the tall, foreboding building on the other side.
Dora started in that direction immediately, pushing her way through the garden’s brambles. She had expected the thorns to be sharp and wicked, given the wild look of the roses—but they were nearly insubstantial, the way that Elias had felt when she’d tried to touch him while scrying. The white rose petals wavered beneath her fingers like the mist that surrounded them.
“Faerie stuff isn’t very certain of itself,” Theodora said from behind her. “It’s why the marquess prefers his English trophies, I think.”
Dora was about to respond to this—but she found herself brought up short as Charity House finally came fully into view. A faint nausea tingled in her stomach, tinged with familiar recognition.
“I have seen this place before,” Dora said. “Charity House looks just like the Cleveland Street Workhouse, back in England.”
“I have never seen the Cleveland Street Workhouse,” Theodora said. “But I am sure that the marquess has twisted up its purpose entirely. I managed to get a peek inside, just the other day. It’s terrible! Only a faerie could engineer something so awful and bizarre!”
Dora tried the door out front and found it unlocked. As she pushed it open, she was assaulted by the sharp, familiar stench of lye. The workhouse inside was a facsimile of the one she had visited in England; the hallways were cleaner and quieter, but the air was still laden with that acrid steam.
As Dora crept towards the place where she remembered the mess hall, she saw inside perhaps twenty children of varying ages, all sitting down at a long table. Those on one side of the table were twisting up a rough hemp rope with their little hands; those on the other side seemed to be untwisting the very same rope with quiet, fanatical concentration, much as the people at the Cleveland Street Workhouse had been doing.
“Half of them seem to be picking oakum,” Dora whispered in puzzlement. “But the other half are reknitting the strands again. Why?”
Theodora sighed heavily. “You must cease asking why when it comes to faeries,” she said. “I am sure there is an explanation, but it will not make any more sense than you expect.”
Dora’s eyes caught on a particular little girl with straw-like hair and a pockmarked face, who was currently working at unpicking her bit of rope. A burst of surprise rippled through her; and though Dora made no sound herself, Theodora let out a loud gasp next to her, without quite knowing what it was she was gasping at.
A few of the children at the table glanced up at them in curiosity—but none of them stopped working, even for a moment. Jane shot Theodora only the briefest of annoyed glances before returning her concentration to the task before her. Closer up, Dora could see that the little girl’s hands were scarred and bleeding from the rough hemp.
Dora stepped forward, unable to help herself. “Jane?” she asked. When the girl failed to respond, Dora remembered belatedly that Jane was simply the name which they had given her. She took a few more quick strides across the room and brought her hand down on the girl’s shoulder.
Jane flinched at first—then she scowled, and tried to slip Dora’s grasp. “What d’you want?” she asked in a rough voice. “I’m goin’ as fast as I can.”
“And what would it matter if you went any faster?” Theodora asked, as she came up behind them. “The other children will only undo it all!”
Jane narrowed her eyes at the rope in front of her. “You don’t have to rub it in,” she said sourly. “I couldn’t stop if I wanted to, anyway.”
“You were at the Cleveland Street Workhouse in England,” Dora said. “I saw you asleep in the corner. The Lord Sorcier has spent days now trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.” She wanted to sound more urgent, more relieved, more tearful—but as usual, the words came out with unnatural calmness instead.
At this, Jane did turn to look at Dora. “He what?” the little girl said. “You’re jokin’. This
