April 12th, 1807
Devonshire
When Merry was a child, it had sometimes seemed that her birthday would never dawn. She had the same feeling now, as if time crept past at glacial speed. She stared at the walnut and gold spring-clock on her mantelpiece, and watched the minute hand move another grudging increment. Distantly, the great longcase clock in the entrance hall struck five times.
Another hour gone. Was Barnaby still alive?
Merry took up her chamberstick, let herself out of her room, and hurried down the dark, silent corridor. The servants weren’t yet up.
She quietly opened the door to the blue bedchamber. A fire burned in the grate and candles blazed in the sconces.
The servants weren’t awake, but Marcus was, sitting vigil at Barnaby’s bedside. He looked drawn and tired, and more than that, he looked like a man who had lost hope.
“Any change?” she whispered.
Marcus shook his head.
But there had been a change. Merry saw it as soon as she stepped close to the big four-poster bed. Barnaby’s skin tone was grayer, and a blue tinge had come to his lips.
Her heart kicked in her chest—he’s dead—and she reached for his wrist. No, not dead. Not yet. Her fingers found a faint, thready pulse. His skin was cold, though, despite the warmth of the room, and when she bent close, she barely heard him breathe.
Merry released Barnaby’s wrist and gazed down at him. The shape of his face was wrong—that dreadful lump on his forehead, the lopsided jaw. His eyelids were purple and swollen. It was as if a monster’s face had been grafted to Barnaby’s skull, all distorted features and discolored skin.
“He’ll be fine,” she told Marcus, with a confidence she didn’t feel. “I’ll heal him, just as soon as Baletongue comes.”
Marcus didn’t say anything. His expression didn’t alter. He knew as well as she did that they were running out of time.
Dawn came, and Woodhuish Abbey woke around her—Merry heard the creak of footsteps, the murmur of distant voices. She stayed in her bedchamber; Baletongue would only come if she was alone.
A housemaid brought her a breakfast she couldn’t eat, and an hour later removed it.
Merry sat at her little escritoire, the list of Faerie gifts spread out before her, and waited. And waited. The clock hands inched around the enamel dial, and the sense of time running out became stronger and stronger until she could barely breathe.
Another hour crept past. Merry read the list for the thousandth time. After Finding People and/or Objects, but before Invisibility and Levitation, were several different types of healing. Healing fevers. Healing illnesses of the mind. Healing physical traumata. Note that a healer gives of her own strength with each healing, someone had written in crabbed, old-fashioned writing. Only women in the most robust of health should consider requesting these gifts.
A shiver ran up the back of Merry’s neck. She jerked her head around and half-rose from the chair. “Hello?”
Her room was utterly empty, utterly silent—and yet a prickling sensation crept from the base of Merry’s spine all the way to her scalp. She knew what it meant: Baletongue was here. Her gaze jumped to the clock. Ten o’clock. “Hello?” she said more urgently. “Show yourself.”
A patch of air in the corner of the chamber shimmered like a heat haze—and between one blink of Merry’s eyes and the next, a woman came into being.
She looked as if she had stepped from an Elizabethan painting: the blood-red velvet gown, the lace ruff, the dark hair elaborately dressed with pearls.
Merry stared. Baletongue was inhumanly beautiful, her features cold and chiseled and perfect. But most inhuman of all were her eyes. They had no white sclera, no colored iris. They were purely black.
Merry discovered that her heart was beating fast and high at the base of her throat.
“Anne Ignatia Merryweather?”
Merry swallowed. “Yes. Good morning.” Her voice came out higher than normal.
Baletongue didn’t return the greeting. She stared at Merry scornfully, and there was such malice in those black eyes that Merry’s urgent words dried on her tongue. She understood her mother’s warning. Treat her with utmost caution. She delights in doing harm.
Merry swallowed again, and found her voice. “I would like to choose a healing gift. I understand that I may choose a single act of healing, performed by you, or I can choose to become a healer myself and heal numerous people.”
Baletongue stared coldly at her.
The safest choice would be to request that Baletongue heal Barnaby. There could be no doubt then that he would survive. But what about the groom, Rudkin, with his right shin smashed to smithereens?
“Can you please explain this particular gift to me?” Merry picked up the list and found the item she wanted. “Healing physical traumata.”
Baletongue stared at her without replying.
Merry’s temper sparked. “If I choose this gift, exactly what traumata may I heal?” she demanded. “Injuries to bones, as well as injuries to the flesh?”
“Correct.” Baletongue’s tone was dismissive, disdainful.
“And how do I do it? How does one heal?”
“When you lay your hands on the patient, you will understand what needs doing. As to whether you can do it or not . . .” Baletongue’s upper lip curled contemptuously. “That depends on your strength and your willpower.”
“There’s a man, three rooms from here.” Merry gripped the list tightly. “His skull is broken. And his jaw. If I choose this gift, will I be able to save his life?”
Baletongue’s gaze shifted fractionally. She was silent for a long moment, and then she blinked, and her pale lips curved upwards. “It’s more than just his skull and jaw.”
“Can I save his life with this gift?” Merry cried urgently.
Baletongue’s lips twitched in amusement. “You’d have to hurry.”
“I take the gift. Now.”
Baletongue smiled, showing foxlike white teeth. “Done.” A snap of her fingers, a heat shimmer in the air, and she was gone.
Merry dropped the list and ran, wrenching open her door, spilling out into the corridor. Now the seconds were dashing past too fast. Hurry. Hurry!
She jerked open the door to Barnaby’s room so hard it slammed against the wall.
Marcus recoiled out of his chair. “Jesus—” And then he took in her expression. “She came?”
“She came.”
Merry hurried to the bed and placed her hands on Barnaby’s head. His hair was stiff with dust and blood.
For a moment, nothing happened . . . and then awareness flowed through her hands. She had no word for it—intuition, knowledge, insight—but whatever it was, it told her exactly what Barnaby’s injuries were. Baletongue had been correct; it was more than just his skull and jaw.
“His neck’s broken, too.”
“His neck?” Marcus said, aghast. “Christ, Merry!”
“I can fix it,” Merry said. Strength and willpower, Baletongue had said. And she had both of those.
She hastily dragged Marcus’s chair closer to the bed and sat. “Keep everyone out, except you and Charlotte.”
“The doctor—”
“Especially the doctor.” Merry took Barnaby’s limp right hand in both of hers.
“He’s here now,” Marcus said. “He’s talking of amputating Rudkin’s leg.”
“Amputating?” Her head jerked around.
“He says it’s too badly broken to heal.”
“For God’s sake, don’t let him!”
The tension in Marcus’s face eased fractionally. “I won’t.”
Merry turned back to Barnaby and bent her attention fiercely to him. She didn’t notice Marcus leave the room and quietly close the door.
Baletongue had said that she would know what to do, and she did. It was simply a matter of requiring certain actions to occur—bones mended, torn muscles repaired, accumulated fluid redirected. Requiring the action caused it to happen.
Merry worked methodically. Her gift told her which were the most urgent actions, and she attended to them first. But there were dozens of urgent actions. And scores of less urgent actions. And each action took effort and focus and time. Edges of bones didn’t instantly bond, nor did swelling subside and severed nerves knit together; it was a slow, creeping process, and she had to concentrate hard while it happened, had to will it to happen, or it didn’t.
She was vaguely aware of Charlotte and Marcus slipping in and out of the bedchamber. Refreshments were placed within reach, teapots refilled, the fire banked.
The healing went on—and on—and on. Bones and blood vessels. Muscles and nerves. Repair after repair after repair, until at last her magic told her there was nothing more to be done. Merry released Barnaby’s hand and sat back in the chair, feeling stiff, tired, hungry, and a little light-headed.
“How’s it going?” a quiet voice asked.
Merry jumped slightly. She hadn’t realized Charlotte was in the room. “He’s healed. But his body needs rest. It’ll be hours before he wakes.” She yawned.
Charlotte poured her a cup of tea and held it out. “Hungry?”
“Starving.” Merry looked at the clock, and blinked. Had she been sitting here for eight hours?
Charlotte picked up a tray that was sitting on the hearth, and placed it on the table beside Merry. There was a little silver soup tureen, and a covered plate. The smell of roasted meat made Merry’s mouth water. She lifted the gleaming tureen lid. “How’s Rudkin?”
“In considerable pain.”
Merry met her eyes. “Bad?”
Charlotte grimaced. “We’re keeping him sedated with laudanum. When he’s awake, he cries.”
Merry lost her appetite. She replaced the lid. “I’ll see him now.”