London, September 1850
Isaac Fairfax opened his eyes and beheld his moonlit image in the glass. How like his father he looked tonight; he could almost be his ghost. Grey eyes, a square jaw, and a hint of mustache. Marigold had always said how much she liked it.
Marigold. Sweat sealed his hair to his brow. His flesh ached for her touch. Her absence tore at his soul, leaving a wound where his heart had been.
Short breaths cut between his lips. His fingers were stiff on the buttons of his waistcoat, but he didn’t call for a servant. No one was to know that he had left the house.
His head was throbbing. Why, why did it have to be her? How had Marigold caught the eye of the Erl-queen? She was quiet as a doll, and delicate, too, more of a household spirit than a living girl. Even he would never have noticed her had George, her elder half brother, not shown her to him. He had been hers from that first moment, when he had seen her through the window of the Sinnetts’ house. She had been kneeling beside the stove in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor with care, never rushing in her work. Her hair had been tumbling from its cap, obscuring most of her face, and her hands had been raw.
That hiddenness about her, the sense that she could never be known, was what made her such a desirable maid. Employers did not like to know their servants as people—it was an uncomfortable thing, to imagine them as more than silent pairs of hands—but he had known her. He had known her more times than he could count. And every time had been a risk. Forbidden in the eyes of proper society.
His gaze had cast a light on her, elevated her from obscure to divine, and, oh, he had worshipped her. Her skin had been his altar; her lips, his confession.
Yet there had been other eyes on her, too, watching from the deep forests of Britain.
Isaac walked to the chest at the end of his bed. Inside was his sword, polished to a star-bright gleam. He would have Marigold back, and he would have her tonight—even if it meant taking her from the Erl-queen by force. Even if it meant facing whatever lay in the Forest of Erl, which swallowed all who entered it.
There was no enchantment on the weapon. There was no need for that. The Erl-queen feared steel. And iron, and clockwork. It was why she abhorred industry and, by extension, the industrious men with whom she shared her land.
His fingers skimmed the blade; he caught his own eye in it. Why had the foul creature wanted her, of all people? Why his Marigold? She was sixteen, far older than the girls the Erl-queen usually took, but they did say that her son had an eye for human women. Rumor had it that he frequented London’s brothels, disguised as a man—but Marigold was no common whore. She would never have been unfaithful to him, never. She loved him—she had said so. No virtuous woman would allow an erl to court her, in any case, knowing their insatiable lust for mortal captives of the fairer sex. The Erl-queen’s son might have known who she was, but she could not have known him.
His heart was all aquiver. In the coffeehouses and supper rooms of London, it was whispered that the Erl-queen’s son was taller than any natural man. Instead of teeth, there were thorns in his mouth, hidden behind petal lips. His ears were gently pointed, like the tips of willow leaves. The moon was always in his hair. He moved like water, and his eyes were black through, without so much as a glimpse of white. They glistened in a face as ancient as Stonehenge.
They said Marigold had wept when Queen Victoria agreed to the exchange. That she had begged for mercy. Heartsick, Isaac closed his eyes. She must be terrified. She was terrified of almost everything in the world. And he, the man she loved, the man she trusted, had let that Erl-prince steal her away.
“Good evening, Isaac.”
Sharply, he turned. When he saw the familiar smile, so like hers, he let out his breath.
“George,” he said, and smiled back. “My friend.”
George Beath stood in the doorway. Tall and fine of feature, with a head of golden curls he must have purloined from an angel, he might have been the most eligible bachelor in London if not for his name—Beath, a name that reeked of scandal. Everyone with ears knew about his late father’s affair and the child he had brought back from India. His wife had chosen to take poison rather than live with the shame of his infidelity, and the man himself had soon followed her to the grave. George had been six years old at the time.
Now he was nineteen, and although he shared blood with Marigold, he was nothing like her physically. Marigold took very much after her mother; he took after his. Where she was dark and brittle, George was broad-shouldered and fair as a snowdrop. His clothes were always a little behind the fashion, and he often wore the same attire for several days at a time.
Isaac had long since forgotten to mind. Londoners had remarkable memories when it came to scandal, but George Beath was his dearest friend and had helped him countless times throughout their three-year acquaintance.
“The Erl-queen has had my sister for long enough.” George showed him his pistol. “Let us teach her what we do to thieves in England.”
Isaac nodded silently.
“You look pale.” George clapped him on the back. “Better have a little brandy before we leave. Marigold won’t want a milksop saving her from the Erl-queen, will she?”
“No. Yes, of course. But I shan’t need brandy.”
“Come, now, Ise. We all need a little brandy now and then.”
“No. Thank you, but no. My head must be clear.” He risked a glance at George and found a look of faint disappointment on his face. How he hated to turn down his counsel. “We are about to enter the Erl-queen’s lands,” he said with a nervous laugh. “And I doubt very much that her warriors drink brandy before battle.”
“Oh, of course they do—or some preternatural cousin of it, in any case. Elves are hedonists.” George took his hip flask from his coat. There were shadows under his eyes, mirrors of the ones beneath his own. “Come. Her Majesty will forget about the treaty once her nemesis is defeated. Put some fire in your belly.”
The hip flask was presented a second time. Isaac looked at it weakly before gulping a little. It burned him to the navel.
He had never cared for brandy.
“How can you be so certain?” Already, he felt light-headed. “Even if Queen Victoria remains ignorant of our plan, the Erl-queen will know. They say she can feel every movement in every forest. She knew as soon as Princess Alice entered.”
“Princess Alice was not armed with steel.” George grasped his shoulder. “You are no child. You are no woman. You will be the one to slay the Erl-creature, Ise. For Marigold. You will be a hero of the empire, and to her, you will be king of it.”
A handkerchief was presented. Isaac used it to smudge the perspiration from his temples.