Chapter Eighteen

Like I said, we know where to find Queen Mab. She lives in the New Town, with quarters in a house that seems to be occupied by an elderly couple, who act as a front for her business.

The problem right now is that it's still daylight, which means a visit to Queen Mab's place of business is risky. Or so I think, until I realize that having a steady stream of nighttime visitors would be even more suspicious. Queen Mab has figured out a solution to this problem, and it involves that elderly couple.

Jack tells me to bring Isla to the house in an hour, and to arrive at the front door with a bag, preferably containing clothing. If anyone asks—which she assures me they will not—we are visiting Mrs. Morgan, having heard that the expert seamstress is a miracle worker at fixing damaged gowns. It is particularly convenient then that I have a damaged gown.

Simon drives us by coach, in proper New Town fashion. Nothing to hide here.

As Isla and I climb the steps to the town house, two ladies are passing on the sidewalk, and I pull out the hem of my dress, saying, "I am not certain anyone can fix this."

"We will give Mrs. Morgan a try," Isla says, patting my hand. "She comes most highly recommended."

We are greeted at the door by a Black man with a spine as starched as his collar. A butler then.

I hate to admit that I've been surprised by the number of nonwhite faces in the city. I shouldn't be. We are in the time of the British Empire, with people moving about as they've never done before. But it's most common to see people of color either in trade or in service, like this man.

"Mrs. Ballantyne for Mrs. Morgan," Isla says. "I believe she is expecting me. I am hoping she might repair my young companion's dress."

The man bows and, without a word, steps back to let us in. He escorts us to a parlor and then half bows and leaves. Inside, an elderly white woman sits under a bright light, and she is indeed sewing. She would have been as tall as Isla in her youth, though her back has hunched. A cane lies beside her, and she wears spectacles.

Seeing us, she smiles and nods. "Please excuse me if I do not rise."

Isla moves quickly to assure her it is fine as she greets the woman and introduces us. Mrs. Morgan eyes the piece of my dress still hanging out of the bag.

Mrs. Morgan smiles broadly. "You really did bring me something to fix."

"If you could, that would be lovely," Isla says. "But it is hardly necessary."

"Oh, I'm quite happy to try. I am a seamstress." She winks. "It is easier to maintain the facade when people can honestly attest to my expertise."

Mrs. Morgan pulls the dress out. "My word, what did you do with this fine gown? Roll in the mud?"

"An unexpected trip through an underground tunnel after a party."

I'm making light, but her lips twitch. "Ah, yes, I remember being young. An unexpected trip to an underground tunnel for a lovely roll in mud. Hay is softer, though. You need to find a handy stable."

My cheeks heat, and Isla's hand flies to her mouth as she laughs.

"It wasn't that," I say.

The old woman sighs. "Youth is indeed wasted on the young. Perhaps next time. And forget tunnels and stables. At a party, there is always an unused guest room or two. Simply remember to lock the door. Oh, and also remember to visit Her Highness beforehand, rather than after. That is much more convenient. As for the dress, it will require lacework repair, which is fiddly."

She quotes a price, and before I can comment, Isla says, "Yes, please. Thank you."

Mrs. Morgan rings a bell, and a maid appears. She's also Black, and no more than sixteen.

"Please escort these ladies to the queen," she says. "And when they are done, take Her Highness a plate of lunch and make sure she eats it. She gets too wrapped up in her work."

"Yes, ma'am."

The maid leads us down the stairs. I catch sight of another member of the staff, an older Black woman. This is no coincidence, I suspect.

Queen Mab herself is Black. Part of her staff choices may be about offering good employment to domestic servants of color, but they would also provide camouflage for Queen Mab herself. The neighbors will have noticed that the Morgans employ Black staff, and so they will think nothing of it when they see Queen Mab coming and going.

The maid takes us downstairs to a tiny library.

"Miss?" I say. "I know the trick. May I show my friend?"

The maid smiles shyly, nods and leaves without a word.

"The trick?" Isla says.

"Oh, I'm going to let you figure it out. There's a secret door behind the bookcase. You need to remove the right book."

Isla's face lights up, and she fairly pounces on the bookshelf. She scans the books and then laughs.

"Queen Mab," she says, and tugs on the copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

The bookcase opens, and I can't help grinning along with Isla at that. We slip inside and pass through to where Queen Mab is working in her lab.

Queen Mab has a physique that befits someone who names herself after a fairy and a dress that befits someone who names herself after a queen. She's less than five feet tall and slender, with dark skin and hazel eyes. Gold combs hold back her dark curls. Her gown would have turned heads at the mummy party, and yet apparently, that's just how she dresses, even when working in a laboratory. Today's gown is silk, golden brown and olive, with black lace trim at the collar and three-quarter sleeves, and black buttons that I'm sure are semiprecious stones.

I'd say this gown represents the advantage to having a first-class seamstress as a tenant, but I suspect the tenant is a first-class seamstress because it's to Queen Mab's advantage. Her only concession to work is an apron, which is better quality than any of my dresses. Oh, and goggles. Like Isla, she wears goggles in her laboratory.

Queen Mab lifts the goggles. "Mrs. Ballantyne," she says, her accent a mix of London and Paris with an undercurrent of the West Indies. "You will excuse me not sitting down with you for tea. I am in the midst of a delicate procedure that I cannot leave, but I am free to talk."

As Queen Mab lowers her goggles, Isla takes a moment to openly survey the laboratory. Her gaze pauses on a dried pink flower.

"Is that balmony?" Isla asks.

Queen Mab smiles as she measures something into a flask. "It is."

Isla sighs with envy. "My source for North American herbs is ridiculously expensive, and their products are in dreadful condition when they arrive. I can barely tell one from the other."

"Then you must allow me to help you find a new supplier."

I leave them to their shoptalk while I resist the urge to poke about the room.

"And Miss Mallory is being exceedingly patient with us," Queen Mab says finally, "but I have heard she is here on official business, that being the investigation of Sir Alastair's murder last night."

"It is," I say. "Thank you for seeing us."

Queen Mab lifts the flask to goggle level and peers into it. "Thank you for going through Jack. I appreciate the consideration. In future, if you wish to speak to me, simply have one of your staff ask Mrs. Morgan for an appointment time." She lowers the flask and looks at Isla. "And I would like to have tea with you someday, my dear, if you can spare the time."

Isla beams. "I would be delighted."

"I know we approach the science from different aspects—yours being chemical and mine primarily herbal—but I would love to chat about medicine."

"As would I."

"Now, Miss Mallory… I am most curious to know how you think I can help with a man who, by all accounts, died of either strangulation or suffocation." She takes a jar from the shelf. "Or, if it was suffocation, being bound in a mummy's wrappings, then he would have needed to be sedated. That, however, would be more Mrs. Ballantyne's area than mine."

"Actually, it's not about his murder, per se. Before I ask, I'm not saying you're involved in the sort of thing that I'm asking about, only that you might be able to set us on the trail. We're looking for those who trade in illegal medicines."

"Oh, now that is interesting. While I appreciate you clarifying that you do not think I would trade in such things, it is unnecessary." Her lips twitch. "I have traded in many substances that are considered less than legal if they seem the best way to treat an ailment."

"Well, this isn't a way to treat anything. It's quack medicine." I pause, uncertain that's a word used in this time and place. "I mean it's fake."

"Yes," Queen Mab says. "I know what ‘quack medicine' means. I am nothing if not well traveled. There is a great deal of that out there, and I am familiar with most of it, particularly substances derived from the horns of large beasts."

"Elephant and rhino tusks," I say.

"And unicorns. Nothing is as valuable as the horn of a unicorn. Did you know any poisoned food placed into it will immediately become safe?"

I look from Isla to Queen Mab.

"She is having fun with you," Isla says. "You must forgive Mallory. Being new to the world of medicine, she is never quite certain which old beliefs we still cling to."

"It is true that people did believe in the purifying quality of unicorn horn," Queen Mab says. "After all, the beasts are associated with virgins. Pure as the driven snow. They sold for astronomical fees, mostly to royalty. The unicorn horns, that is, although I'm sure the virgins did, too. Then explorers traveling north discovered a true dragon's hoard of treasure. Unicorn horns, right there on the beach."

Both their gazes rest on me, and if I feel like a child being given a riddle, I don't begrudge them their fun. At least not when I have the answer.

"Narwhal tusks," I say.

"Clever girl," Queen Mab says.

"But aren't narwhal tusks as long as a person? How big were these unicorns?"

Queen Mab sighs. "You are bringing logic into the realm of fantasy. Also, have you not seen medieval tapestries of unicorns? The horns are very long and thin."

"Because they were based on narwhals. The horn part, at least. Got it."

"As for elephants and rhinos, yes, their horns are used, along with parts of other wild beasts. Some of it is traditional medicine from those areas, but when it is used here, the appeal is the exotic qualities of the beasts. Everything from a foreign land can be magical, including the people. A woman like Mrs. Ballantyne can be accepted as a chemist, even if some might be suspicious of her motivations. They will still suspect her of brewing poison because that is what women do, like the witches of old tales. As for me, I must be brewing potions from deepest Africa, even if that is not where I was born or raised. My herbalism must derive not from a knowledge of plants, but from a knowledge of magic."

"Ugh."

She shrugs. "Sometimes, it is to my advantage. I have given up being taken seriously, so I surrender myself to being Mab, queen of the fairies. If you have questions about so-called quack medicine, though, I suspect I can be of help. I do not dispense such cures, but I am asked about them often enough that I know where to send people. One of these days, a man is going to find his way to my doorstep looking for my excellent male shields. Until then, I need to know where they can buy what they really came for."

"Aphrodisiacs?" I say.

Her eyes glitter. "If they ask me for that, I can help. I give them something harmless. Aphrodisiacs exist in the mind. They only need to think they have been given one." She sobers as she checks her flask. "And more often than not, I suspect they want the aphrodisiac to slip into some woman's lemonade. In such a case, at least if I sell it, I can be certain it is harmless. No, most men who come to me are looking for extra help. Their sword metal has softened over the years. Or they wish for a longsword when they possess a dagger. Or a broadsword when they have a rapier. Or their sword has the bend of a scimitar, and they wish to straighten it. If men spent as much time worrying about their swordplay technique as their equipment, women would be much happier for it."

Isla's face flames. That's the thing about having red hair and pale skin. She can't hide a blush, and if she blushed any harder she'd incinerate. But she's also smiling and nodding in agreement.

Victorian women aren't the prudes we might imagine. They simply don't have experience discussing sex, even with friends—at least not if they're in Isla's social class. Here, the old saw "good girls don't" would be "rich girls don't."

"This isn't an aphrodisiac," I say. "Or any other male aid." I pause. "Or I hope not. I really hope not. It's about mummies."

Her brows shoot up. "Mummies? As in the Egyptian dead?"

I nod. "You know Sir Alastair was wrapped as a mummy. Well, the original mummified remains are gone. Someone broke them into pieces and secreted them out."

Queen Mab stares at me, slow horror replacing her usual amused glint.

"Sorry," I say. "I could have phrased that better."

"You do not need to cushion the truth for my sake, child. I am appalled by the thought, but I am not surprised. You think they took the body for medicine? Could they not have merely removed it for disposal?"

"There were places in the room to hide the remains, and taking them out was a much greater risk than leaving them. Someone wanted the body, but not enough to keep it whole, which means it isn't for a collector. It could be for science, but Dr. Gray doesn't know of any significant demand for mummy parts. According to Lady Christie's brother, though, there is a medical market for powdered mummy, which Dr. Gray and Mrs. Ballantyne have both heard of."

"Unfortunately," Isla murmurs.

"As have I," Queen Mab says. "Also unfortunately. So you are not here to confirm that, but rather to understand where one might sell such remains."

"Yes."

"The underground market."

I nod. "That's what I figured. Some sort of secret network of tradespeople."

Queen Mab laughs softly. "Oh, I did not mean that figuratively, Miss Mallory. I meant the actual underground market. A market that is, well, perhaps not ‘underground' in a literal sense, but held in what we call the underground here. The vaults."

I know about Edinburgh's vaults. They're under the South Bridge. When the bridge was built, the areas under it were divided into a warren of rooms, some as small as a few meters long. Larger ones were sold or rented for storage, while smaller ones became shops. That was at the end of the last century. In this century, they became slums, with brothels and pubs and all manner of criminal activity. I thought that was largely gone, but apparently not.

"So down in the vaults, there's an actual marketplace that sells stuff like this?" I say.

"‘Stuff like this,' and so much more." Her eyes twinkle. "But you would have no interest in visiting such a thing, would you? Such a sweet and pretty child, who would not care to dirty her white gloves and muss those golden tresses—"

"Where can I find it?"

That makes Queen Mab and Isla both laugh.

"I fear the market only opens every fortnight," Queen Mab says. "But you are in luck. It will be open tomorrow. That does not resolve all our problems, though. First, I must take you, as both an escort and a sponsor. However, vouching for you is not enough. You would need something to offer."

I frown. "But I'm looking to buy. That would be my cover story. I want to buy mummy powder."

She shakes her head. "The market does not operate like that. Do you know what a goblin market is?"

When I hesitate, Isla says, "Ms. Rossetti's poem. ‘Goblin Market.'"

"Oh!" I say. "I know that one. My—"

I'm about to say my dad teaches it, but I stop myself. I wasn't even sure the poem had been published by now.

"When did that…?" I begin carefully.

"It came out a few years ago," Isla says.

Queen Mab continues, "In the poem, the girl has no money so she trades a lock of her hair. The goblin market of folklore uses a barter system. So it is here. Of course, transactions for money are not unknown, but you must have something to offer in order to enter."

"I have lots of hair," I say.

"Will you let them shave it off for a wig?"

"Er…"

Isla smiles. "Our Mallory is not vain, but nor does she wish to try conducting her secret investigations as a bald woman. Could I help? Something I can concoct?"

"Can you make anything magical?"

Isla and I exchange a look.

"The market is a place of magic," Queen Mab says. "Not true magic. I don't believe in such things. But it is a place of superstition and lore, particularly regarding the fairy folk. I think that is why they allow me in. They cannot believe that the queen of the fairies does not traffic in magic. Surely I must, for those I trust. Which means they all want to earn my trust." She smiles. "It is very beneficial."

"Fairy… folklore… superstition… Wait! I have a Hand of Glory."

Queen Mab's brows shoot up.

"It's from folklore," I say. "I don't know whether it's fairy lore or not. It's a hand that's used—"

"For thieving," Queen Mab says. "The hand of a hanged man, coated in wax and used as a candle."

Isla slowly turns to stare at me. "Where on earth did you come by that?"

"Your brother gave it to me last week. As a gift."

Isla stares harder, and Queen Mab bursts into musical laughter, which Isla joins with a sputter.

"Such a lovely present for a young lady," Queen Mab says. "So much better than a bouquet of flowers. Far more useful, at least. Your brother is terribly romantic, Mrs. Ballantyne."

"He does know the way to a woman's heart." Isla sneaks me a sly look. "Or to the heart of one woman, at least."

I roll my eyes. "It's not that kind of gift. He found it in a shop and brought it home for us to dissect together."

"To dissect together," Queen Mab says with a swooning sigh. "And to think I only meet men who want to take me on promenades and picnics."

Isla snickers.

I lean against the lab table. "While I do hate to interfere with your fun, you do realize the stereotype you are perpetrating, right? That no man is going to offer a woman a job unless he wishes to get under her skirts. Really, I expected better."

Queen Mab gives me a stern look. "You aim low, Miss Mallory."

"She always does," Isla says with a sigh. "Fine. We will stop teasing you, now that you have called us out on it, but be aware that you have spoiled our fun, and we shall certainly hold it against you. Also…" She leans toward me. "We are well aware you only said that to make us stop."

"Like the queen said, I'm not above low blows. So I have a Hand of Glory. The problem is that Dr. Gray does expect us to dissect it, and I'm not sure it was meant as a gift in the sense that it belongs to me. He found it, thought it was interesting, and gave it to me as a joke. More of a shared project than an actual gift that I'm free to dispose of as I like."

"Duncan is always willing to lend a helping hand," Isla says. "Even if it is not his own."

I snort at that and shake my head. "Fine. If the hand would work, I can talk to him. Will it work? And would I need to give it away?"

"It will most certainly work," Queen Mab says. "For giving it away, that will depend, but you had best be prepared to do so, though I would expect something in trade for it. Perhaps a severed leg?"

"He already has one of those. Keeps it in a jar. Okay, so the hand gets me in. Who else can come? Mrs. Ballantyne? Dr. Gray?"

Queen Mab shakes her head. "Neither could affect a proper disguise, and the fewer people I bring, the better."

"So I need a disguise?"

"Oh, no. You are a pretty housemaid who works for a notorious mad scientist. That is all the disguise you will need."