It was a lot harder than the last time I scaled a wall. I was heavier, for one thing, and the muscles in my fingers were out of practice. It took me three attempts.
I dropped silently to the other side. Lincoln landed beside me a moment later. He got over the wall with his first try.
"Good," he said simply. "A fair effort."
"Fair? It was bloody good," I said, slipping into my street cant.
"It was fair, Charlie. You used to be better."
"Huh. I see you're as brutally honest as ever."
He stopped suddenly. There was just enough light from the hissing streetlamp for me to see his frown. "Did I hurt your feelings?" he asked. "I thought I was making a simple observation."
"I know, Lincoln, and no, you didn't hurt my feelings. But if you ever observe that I've gotten fat, you should lie."
"I'll keep that in mind."
I rolled my eyes but he wouldn't have seen in the dark. "A better response would have been: 'You'll never get fat, Charlie. Yours is the sort of figure that couldn't put on a lot of weight.'"
"I'll keep that in mind too."
I laughed. I was no longer sure if he was serious or teasing me. "Come on. Let's visit the princess in the tower."
We waited across from Gillingham's house and watched as Lord Gillingham left in his carriage. Light edged the drapes in one of the third floor windows. The curtain briefly fluttered, revealing Lady Gillingham, before closing again.
We waited another hour in the shadows for the passing coaches to thin. Being winter, no one was out walking, and the street grew quiet. Lincoln tied the rope around both our waists and we silently approached the house. With a quick glance to see that we weren't observed, he used the external plumbing pipe to scale the wall. My eyes had grown used to the darkness, and I was able to see where he placed his feet and hands. I easily followed him. Neither of us spoke, and my body settled into a rhythm, as if it remembered how to move up a vertical surface. It was exhilarating and more satisfying than I could have imagined. I paused only once as he took a moment to look down and check on me.
"Keep going," I whispered.
We reached the third floor faster than I expected. Lincoln tapped on the window where we'd seen Lady Gillingham-Harriet-earlier. By the time I located holds for my fingers and feet, the window sash flew up. Harriet's face appeared. She smiled at Lincoln, then saw me and gasped.
"Charlie! When I heard the knock on my window, I suspected it would be Mr. Fitzroy, but not you. My goodness, come inside before you fall."
"She won't fall," Lincoln said.
I smiled at his faith in me. He helped me through the open window and didn't let go until I planted both feet flat on the floor. He untied me from the rope coiled around his waist.
"I enjoyed that," I said, dusting off my hands. We hadn't worn gloves, the better to grip onto pipes and ledges.
Harriet's bedchamber was very large and pink. From the dusky rose shade of the curtains to the bolder cerise of the bed cushions, it matched the woman's girlish nature. The room was cold, however, with no fire in the grate. Our breaths frosted in the air. Fortunately, I was warm from the exercise.
"You're braver than I," Harriet whispered, glancing at her door.
"We saw your husband leave," Lincoln told her. "You're safe."
"Yes, but the servants … they spy for him."
"Spy?" I blinked. "What sort of husband spies on his wife?"
"The sort married to an ugly beast." She plopped down on the bed, her pretty face a picture of misery.
I sat next to her and went to take her hand to squeeze it as a show of support, but stopped myself. Her station was far above mine. As friendly as she was, she might not like me touching her. "The servants know nothing of your shape shifting, do they?"
She shook her head. "Gilly told them that I'm unwell and must remain in my rooms tonight. Even if I ask to leave, they're not to allow it."
"He's keeping you prisoner in here?"
"I'm sure I'll be allowed out in the morning." She lifted one shoulder before it slumped further than before.
"He's the beast," I muttered. "Not you."
She blinked tear-filled eyes. "Thank you, Charlie."
"For what? I haven't done anything. And to be perfectly honest, we're here because we want something from you, although if I'd known you were being kept prisoner, we would have come sooner-and perhaps brought something to make your imprisonment less dull."
"Sherry?"
"I was thinking of a deck of cards."
She giggled into her hand. "Thank you for cheering me up a little. But please, don't blame Gilly entirely for this. He is only doing what he sees as right."
"Right?" I blurted out. "If he sees this as the proper way to treat a woman, he needs spectacles to improve his vision. It is never right to have your freedom curtailed."
"Gillingham will hear from me in the morning," Lincoln said.
"No!" Harriet sprang up but sat down again just as abruptly, as if she'd surprised herself with her vehemence. "Please don't mention you were here. It will only make things worse."
I looked to Lincoln and shook my head. His flattened lips were the only sign he'd comply with her wishes.
"Better times are ahead of us," Harriet said, her childlike voice full of hope. "If only I can have a baby. All I have to do is convince him to … " Her hands screwed into her skirt, and she studiously avoided our gazes.
"Right," I said. "Well then. The reason behind our visit. We want to know what you were about to say to me when your husband interrupted us. You said you might know of something that could help us learn who the imposter is."
"Yes, of course." She plucked at her skirts. "It's not much, and I hope I haven't brought you here under false pretenses. You see, it may not work."
"Work?" Lincoln asked with a small frown.
"I know so little about what I am, but there is someone who knows more. Much more. He may have the answers you seek."
She knew of another like her? She had claimed not to. Had she lied, and there was a family member, after all?
"I see," Lincoln said simply. He turned to me and I blanched at the odd look in his eyes. A worried look.
What did I have to do with any of this?
And then I understood. Harriet meant her father could help us. He was the only other person she'd ever known who could change shape like her. But he was dead.
I drew in a deep breath to steady my suddenly pounding heart. "It's fortunate that I came."
"Will you do it?" Harriet nibbled the skin on her top lip and glanced between us. "Will you summon his ghost here?"
"It seems like a good idea," I said. "Indeed, it's the only idea we have at present. What's his full name?"
"Wait." The single word dropped from Lincoln's lips like a stone. "He's a supernatural."
"A shape-changer, nothing more," I assured him.
We'd once encountered a midwife capable of breathing temporary life back into the newly deceased using a spell. Her magic had allowed her spirit to ignore my commands when I directed it back into her body. If she'd been a cruel, hateful woman, she could have done enormous harm to the living in those few hours. We did not want a repetition of that incident.
Lincoln crouched before me and rested his hand on my knee. He didn't speak or offer counter arguments. But I knew from the look in his eyes that he was remembering the midwife too.
I placed my hand over his and touched the amber orb tucked beneath my clothes. It throbbed in response. "He's a shape-changer," I said again. "Not a necromancer or whatever Estelle Pearson was."
"Good heavens, no," Harriet said. "Why would you think that?"
Lincoln swallowed then gave a single nod. He stood and glanced at the door then the window-deciding which to guard, I assumed. He chose the window.
I turned to Harriet. "What's your father's name?"
Chapter 8
The heart of the imp inside my amber necklace beat steadily, albeit faintly. It held no fear of the spirit coalescing into the shape of a tall, solidly built man with an equine nose and untidy mutton chop whiskers. I wasn't afraid either, merely uneasy. But until I knew that the barefoot man wearing a nightgown was harmless, my gut would continue to churn and I wouldn't let go of the orb.
"Good evening, my lord," I began.
Harriet's gaze darted around the room. "Where is he?"
I nodded at the figure, an imposing man, even in death. The mist shimmered, as if the spirit couldn't quite keep his form, then steadied.
"Harriet?" he murmured. "What are you doing here?" Then, louder, "What is the meaning of this?"
"You're dead," I said quickly.
"I know that. Are you? Is … is she?"
"No, she's alive. We three are, but only I can see you."
"I'm alive and in excellent health, Daddy," Harriet said cheerfully. "Don't worry about me."
Lord Erskine's wooly brows drew together. He studied his daughter and then Lincoln, standing impassive by the window. "Who're you? And who's he?" I put up my hands to stop his questions, but he ignored me. "What are you doing in my daughter's bedroom? And why has my rest been disturbed? Where's Gillingham?"