Page 36 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘Well, it is all a delicious mystery, then.’ Pitch eyed the carriages, looking to see how far along he’d have to travel to reach first class. ‘Do you know what began this connection with Charlie’s family?’

Silas, at that moment, tripped over himself or perhaps the feather-hatted lady’s short train. ‘No, no. No, I’m not sure.’

Well, well. The ankou had lied about that. Silas was a miserable liar. His face splotched with red patches, all the more evident without his beard. But there was no time to question him on the lie. The ankou handed over their tickets and went inordinately red again when Pitch demanded a goodbye kiss from his husband in front of the ticket collector, as they were to be parted and he could notbearit. Choking on his laughter, Pitch waved as he headed off towards the front of the train.

‘That one there,’ he called, seeing the ankou hesitate when he realised he could not read the numbers on the carriages and had no clue where to go.

The walk up to the first-class carriages took some time, Pitch drifting through the steam that slunk out from between the wheels and driving rods like a low mist.

He found his seat, essentially a dust rose upholstered armchair, halfway down the cabin. The gentleman opposite appeared too eager for a chat, so before he could utter a word, Pitch seated himself and hid a delicate yawn behind his hand. He settled in, unclasping his cloak, spreading his skirts around him, and wiggling about until the corset did not pinch at his belly. He closed his eyes as the stationmaster’s whistle pierced the air. Just a short nap, then he’d order that bottle, maybe a dessert.

#

The sharp rap of knuckles on glass woke him.

‘Mrs Bellingham, wake up,’ a muffled voice cried.

It was Silas banging on the window. Standing on the platform. The Cambridge Station platform. They’d arrived. And Pitch had slept through the entire journey.

‘Fuck.’ He leaped to his feet, turning about to find the gentleman opposite staring at him open-mouthed. ‘What?’ Pitch touched at his face, trying to blink himself awake quickly. He’d slept deeply. ‘Is there something on my face?’

‘It is what came out of your mouth that concerns me, madam,’ he sniffed, and turned away, shaking at his paper like it were a wet dishrag.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Pitch muttered, pinning his cloak back into place as he limped as fast as he was able down the length of the carriage.

Silas was there at the door and very nearly had to catch Pitch as he tangled himself in his skirts and made the most appallingly inelegant departure from the train. The novelty of a dress was wearing very thin.

‘I thought you were about to end up in Norwich.’ Silas grinned. ‘They wouldn’t let me on to wake you. You were quite dead to the world.’

The prickling at Pitch’s back returned with the nearness of the pendant watch. The sensation still made his skin crawl despite Silas’s quaint effort with the lead box. And though he’d assured the ankou it was more tolerable, the watch made a liar of him. At least though the heat at Pitch’s core seemed as sleepy as he.

‘Gods, I don’t think I moved for a couple of hours. One of my arse cheeks is numb.’ He rubbed at the offender, receiving a few looks in return.

‘I envy you. There was no such respite in second class. A poor woman had a teary babe, who has apparently been most unwell. Very unsettled, wailed at the top of her lungs for half the journey. Poor woman was beside herself, and everyone was being rather unkind. In the end, I offered to hold the child, and quite astonishingly, she fell asleep in my arms for a good hour or so.’ Silas rounded his shoulder before he proffered his elbow to Pitch. ‘I’ve a rotten ache in my arm though.’

Pitch slipped into place beside the ankou, stifling a yawn. ‘Children are dreadful for the constitution. I’d have demanded it be set down at the next station.’

Silas grinned before tilting his head down closer to Pitch. ‘It was the most curious thing…’ His pause was dramatic, as were his furtive glances to ensure they were not being eavesdropped upon. How he decided that was the case, Pitch had no idea. It seemed half the train had alighted, and half the town was seeking to board. They were fighting through a swarm. ‘The child was fae,’ Silas whispered at last. ‘But the mother certainly not.’

‘A changeling perhaps. Surprisingly common. The child didn’t show any sign of seeing your true nature, did it?’

‘Tilly was her name. And she had little to say, save formummaandno.’ Silas edged himself forward to stop a distracted man who was trying to light his pipe from running into Pitch. ‘A dryad…that’s what the melody called her anyway…fae, dryad. But I’ve no clue of the specifics.’

‘Hmm, well a dryad changeling is a rarer thing but a sign of the times perhaps. They are tree fae. Forest dwellers mostly, though I’ve known a few to linger in Hyde Park. I played cards once with a chap who had taken up residence in St James’s Park. They liked to watch the queen, evidently. Anyway, the humans tend to make sport of destroying their habitats. The dryads are all up in arms about it of course.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe this fae’s folks decided it a case of better the devil you know. Place it with the humans before it had nowhere else to live.’

‘Her name’s Tilly, and she’s not an it.’

‘She might be, have you asked?’

Silas waggled his head, all frowny and irritated. Adorable, really. ‘But if she’s a changeling, does that mean the woman’s true babe was stolen by faeries? That’s the tale, isn’t it? I have no idea why I recall that and not other things.’ A bit more adorable shaking of his head followed. ‘Anyway, it is dreadful.’

‘The only thing that’s dreadful about it is that the purebred got another babe in return. Freedom was so close for her.’ Pitch shuddered. But then sighed at the worry lines creasing Silas’s face. ‘There is not necessarily a stolen human child, you soft-hearted fool. The fae child might have been abandoned, or the woman may have entered into an agreement to raise the child here in the human world. The fae do so love a deal. Believe me, there’s more than one way to make a changeling.’

‘I suppose that’s a consolation.’

‘If you say so.’

Cambridge Station was not a showy structure: a single main platform with one track either side; and a station building that held a ticket office, a few seats, and not much else of note. Tired travellers grumbled about the late hour. Some were desperately unhappy that the pubs had closed some time ago, and Pitch did not blame them. It must be nearing midnight, if not already past the hour that Satty had told him he should be home. Like he was a dutiful child who might actually listen to her.