“I have been so silly, my little Theodora,” a woman whispered softly. “I thought I needed money in order to marry the man I loved. But now I have you, and I know the awfulness of what I have done.”
The memory passed in such a blur that Dora nearly missed it among the others. She tried to find it again, but it was lost among the rest of the gown. I am sure that was my mother, Dora thought. Had that been Dora’s own forgotten memory, from when she was very young?
“I do not believe in such a thing as love,” Elias scoffed. “Perhaps attraction, or companionship, or friendship. But so many men act as though love is a special sort of magic. I feel that I am qualified to say it isn’t so.”
“Well, but you have just described love, I think,” Albert replied in bemusement. “Attraction and companionship and friendship. Is there nothing special about those things, especially if they are all together at once?”
The sound of the faerie servants ceased, and Lady Mourningwood instructed Dora to open her eyes. She glanced down and saw a dress of tattered grey gossamer that shimmered in the misty light of the window. The gown was more unnerving than it was beautiful—but there was still something rare about it that made it seem more dignified than its ragged layers should have suggested.
As Dora looked over the dress, the baroness draped a long strand of oily, iridescent pearls around her neck. They felt unnaturally chill against Dora’s skin, and she shivered. “Er,” she said. “Are these normal pearls?”
“Heavens no,” Lady Mourningwood said evenly. “These are children’s tears. They are a bit common, I suppose, but we have them in special abundance here due to Charity House.”
Dora’s stomach twisted. She had to fight the instinct to tear the pearls from her neck. “I see,” she said instead, unable to formulate anything more polite in the moment. “Could I perhaps look at myself in a mirror? I would like to know that I am properly dressed.”
Lady Mourningwood shook her head in displeasure. “Mirrors are a dangerous thing in faerie,” she said. “They are not for looking at oneself.”
But that is exactly what mirrors are for, Dora thought. She kept the words to herself though, and changed her tack. “Then perhaps I might see Theodora—”
The door behind them opened, interrupting her, and Dora heard the distinctive uneven click-clack of Lord Hollowvale’s cane against the floor.
“Marvellous!” said the marquess. “You are ready, then. We must go to the ball, so that you may be happier than ever before.”
Dora glanced back towards him with faint alarm. “Already?” she asked. “But a proper ball takes weeks to prepare, back in London.”
Lord Hollowvale laughed. “Ah, back in London perhaps!” he said. “But in faerie, balls happen all of the time, whenever we please!” He offered out an arm towards Dora, as though to escort her. She did not dare to refuse—but something shivered inside her as she placed her hand on his sleeve. As she did, she noticed that Lord Hollowvale was now wearing at least one more jacket than he had been wearing before.
“How many jackets are you wearing?” Dora asked him, before she could stop herself.
“Five in total!” the marquess beamed, clearly pleased that she had noticed. “One in each of the latest styles, you know. I have it on very good authority that wealth improves a man’s virtue, especially if it is visible—and they are all quite obviously expensive.”
“Oh,” Dora managed. “Then you must be very virtuous indeed.”
“Everyone agrees as much,” Lord Hollowvale said cheerfully.
“Wealth does not improve a lady’s virtue, of course,” Lady Mourningwood informed Dora from her other side, as they headed out into the halls of the Hollow House. “But a good chaperone is essential to her reputation. Naturally, I will be your chaperone—and if you look any men in the eyes, I shall be sure to pluck your own eyes from your head in turn.”
Lord Hollowvale nodded in approval at this, as though it were completely normal. “Lady Mourningwood is the very best of chaperones,” he said. “None would dare to impugn her honour!”
How on earth has Theodora managed to stay in one piece for so long? Dora thought. I would close my eyes for the entire ball, except that I must be sure to sip my wine whenever Lord Hollowvale does.
Dora had not seen the ballroom before, but it was every bit as ridiculous as she might have expected of a faerie’s residence. A great domed ceiling rose above the impossibly-sized room, which was surely as large as five of Lady Cushing’s ballrooms all put together. The floors were an uncanny black and white marble that looked more like a chess board than a dance floor. White candles burned upon every surface with an eerie blue light that reminded Dora of the lantern that Elias had carried at Carroway House.
There were tables of finger food set up along the walls, with bizarre centrepieces on display. One of them had what looked like a single black Hessian boot covered with impressive ribbons—Lord Hollowvale proudly told Dora that this was one of Lord Wellington’s very own boots. Another had a very large porcelain gravy bowl which he said had once belonged to Queen Elizabeth, and one had an actual pillory, prominently surrounded by a whole pile of pineapples—this one, he said, had once been used in the Tower of London. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it, but the faerie seemed inordinately pleased with every display, regardless.
Phantom strings floated upon the air, but Dora could not see any orchestra, nor any dancers or attendees. She knitted her brow. “Has the ball not started yet?” she asked Lord Hollowvale next to her.
“Of course it has started!” the marquess replied with enthusiasm. “But you have not been formally introduced to any of the attendees. It would not do for you to see them until you have formally made their acquaintance!”
Some unseen
