Oh no. It couldn’t possibly be, could it?
But the baby in Lord Hollowvale’s arms cried again, and Dora knew with certainty that George Ricks had sold the faerie the very same unwanted child whose mother he had tried to leave out on the street before.
Theodora’s mouth dropped open. Her mismatched eyes blazed with unspeakable anger. Dora knew that it was really her anger, but she also knew that it was likely to get them both into terrible trouble.
Dora reached out to press her palms firmly to either side of Theodora’s face. Slowly, she shook her head and focussed keenly on that faint connection between them. Patience, she thought. We have to be patient. Both George Ricks and that awful faerie will pay, but we cannot confront Lord Hollowvale now.
Theodora clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. Dora could tell that she was struggling to control herself, in much the same way that Dora sometimes struggled to focus on the matter at hand. But something about Dora’s physical presence must have helped—because Theodora began to breathe in and out very carefully, and she closed her eyes and started counting to ten in French.
Lord Hollowvale’s steps began to take him closer to their side of the table.
“I’ll take the kid!” Abigail blurted out.
Lord Hollowvale’s steps paused. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked curiously.
“I’ll teach ‘em virtue and such,” Abigail said. “Stayin’ quiet, smilin’ at strangers. That’s hard work, so it’ll make me better too, right?”
The marquess considered this for a long moment.
“What an idea!” Abigail laughed nervously. “Me, proposin’ nice things. Guess all this hemp pickin’ really is workin’ on my soul, isn’t it?”
“How delightful!” Lord Hollowvale said finally. And he did sound delighted this time. “Yes, your charity becomes you, little girl! I knew that all of my efforts were not in vain.”
He snapped his fingers, and Abigail’s hands stopped their work. She blinked down at them in bewilderment, even as the faerie placed the crying bundle into her little arms.
Abigail quickly shushed at the baby, rocking it in her arms. The motion did little to calm the poor thing, but Dora thought that the newborn must have at least been more comforted in the arms of a human than being carried by a mad faerie.
“Since you have the creature well in-hand, I must be off,” Lord Hollowvale said. “I have my own daughter with which to deal.”
He turned on his feet and strode back for the entrance. As the door closed behind him once more, Theodora let out a ferocious hiss.
“I hate that creature!” she said. “I hate, hate, hate him! Stealing babies now, what won’t he do?”
Dora pushed back up to her feet. “The marquess did not steal the baby,” she sighed. “I fear that he bought it. As awful as he is, all of his evils would not have been possible without Englishmen willing to indulge him.”
Theodora hesitated. “...and Englishwomen, too,” she said slowly. “Isn’t that right?”
Dora didn’t need to parse Theodora’s meaning. It was her thought, after all.
“Mother sold me,” Dora said softly. “I think that she must have regretted it eventually. But that is not the greatest comfort in the world.” A dull sadness settled into her chest.
Tears gathered in Theodora’s eyes—but this time, she wiped at them and pressed her lips together. “Nevertheless,” she said. “We must undo what we can of this. If you need a washing tub for whatever you are doing, then we will find one for you.”
Dora glanced towards Abigail, who was staring down at the newborn in her arms in abject confusion.
“Thank you for holding off the marquess for us,” Dora told her. And now, she did reach out to hug the little girl gently, careful of the baby between them. “I will not give up until you are home, I promise.”
Abigail smiled ruefully at that. There was a chip off of one of her front teeth. “Closest thing I’ve got to home is with Master Ricks,” she said. “And isn’t he the one that sold me off?”
Dora set her jaw. “George Ricks will not see you again,” she said. “You are sleeping in a clean, cozy bed, with a lovely woman named Mrs Dun looking in on you. I cannot believe that Elias would send you back to the workhouses after going to so much trouble to save you. But if he does, then... then we will find you a new home.”
Abigail shrugged, and Dora knew that the little girl didn’t believe her. But Lord Hollowvale had to be searching for her and Theodora even now, and there was no time to insist. Dora released the little girl again reluctantly.
Dora had visited the laundry room once or twice with Miss Jennings—the way there was the same as it had been in the Cleveland Street Workhouse. As she and Theodora descended the stairs, the scent of lye grew overwhelming, and they both began to cough.
The tubs downstairs were full of fresh, soapy water, though there was no laundry to do and no one there to perform the washing. Perhaps, Dora thought, Lord Hollowvale had simply wished to recreate the atmosphere of a real, true workhouse as closely as he was able.
Pale, wavery light streamed into the semi-basement from barred windows near the top of the walls, barely bright enough to light their way. Dora headed to the tub closest to one of those windows and settled down onto her knees before it.
“This is far from ideal,” she sighed, as she looked into the soapy water. But she could see a faint, distorted reflection in the water nonetheless, and Dora knew that it was the closest she was going to find to a proper mirror on such short notice. “It will simply have to do.”
“You’ll be able to talk to Elias this way?” Theodora asked urgently.
“I don’t know,” Dora admitted. “He has wards against such intrusions, and I have never gotten past
