York, England 1805

The carriage stopped in the city to change horses. After having ridden from London, where upon her arrival from Jamaica she had stayed a fortnight with friends of Mrs. Waters, Mercy had begun the journey north. At the dinner parties held by the Godesdones who had hosted her, she had earned many a shocked and fascinated inquiry to her plans.

One gentleman, a highly fashionable man named Drawlight who had made the party fourteen, had suggested she find a way to wiggle out of her obligations. Perhaps he could talk to some lawyer friends of his to see if she could forego the doom waiting her in the northern wilds. He claimed that a lovely, young lady as herself shouldn't be left to such a fate, it was unconscionable. She had thanked him kindly but declined his help. Though well connected, she quickly observed that men like Drawlight often leeched on to those who seemed the best means of upward social mobility. Wealthy, young and though not beautiful but pretty just the same, Mercy knew she made such a target.

As diverting as London society proved to be and as easily as she had slipped into it's glimmering trance, Mercy was drawn to the mystery of her father's last wish. Mr. Norrell, though presumed moneyed and landed, wasn't a name any were familiar with. It seemed none knew of him. Even as she crossed into Yorkshire and waited for the horses to be refreshed, those she met in the tavern knew little of him.

With the grit of the road dusting her skirts and her nerves raw from miles of rough roads, she found a quiet anteroom adjacent to the pub. The bar keep, smelling money in her fine clothes, had drawn a thin curtain over the doorway and promised her solitude. After taking her request for tea and a plate of seed cakes, he left her to the quiet crackle of a small hearth. Mercy removed her gloves and bonnet. Rubbing her aching neck, she closed her eyes.

A shudder passed over the quiet room, the walls creaking as though a heavy gale accosted them outside. The fire behind the iron grate dimmed and the twin tallow candles bleeding greasy wax flared. The forlorn chime of clock echoed somewhere in the tavern. Numbly, she noticed that the voices of the men at the bar had muted as though underwater. Or perhaps she was the one submerged.

"Miss Savage, how you have grown."

Mercy peered through the shadows as the curtain was tugged aside. A man entered the room and meandered towards the hearth, perching an elbow against the mantle with a smug grin. His yellow hair was too long to be considered proper, it put to mind certain romantic poets with wicked reputations. Dark, deep set eyes under heavy black brows took her in approvingly.

"You have your mother's easy social grace to be sure, I can only imagine how many proposals you would have received had you stayed any longer in London. Though from those keen eyes of yours, I believe you possess your father's intelligence as well. But perhaps not his mental strength. We shall see."

Mercy squinted in the odd light. "I am sorry, but have we met?"

His oxblood coat rustled around his legs as he moved towards a seat by the small window. Mercy could have sworn there wasn't a tree branch scraping against the glass pane a moment earlier. Arranging himself elegantly in the chair, the crisp white cravat at his throat loose, he regarded her again with the same strange, half smile.

"Oh many years ago. You would not recall. You were only a small child when your father brought me to you. You were asleep in bed, I did not want to disturb you." He reached towards her ear with long, pale fingers. She froze as he curled a strand of her hair around a knuckle. "You seem to be missing something, my lady."

Mercy blinked out of her stupor and tore away from his touch. "Sir, I beg your pardon, but what right have you to speak to me in such a way. I have no memory of our acquaintance-"

"But you see, I do have certain rights where you are concerned, Mercy Savage. Your father saw to it. And you should be more concerned about your manners in my presence."

Mercy gave a stunned scoff. "And why is that?"

"I come from a place far grander than seen in your world. My kingdom, Untold-Blessings, is one of the most beautiful of faerie. Soon I shall be king, once my brothers are all done away with, one way or another." The prince of Untold-Blessings cocked his head to the side in a predatory fashion. "And soon, I shall need a consort."

Wetting her lips, Mercy smoothed out her skirts. She felt the same revulsion towards this stranger as she did with Mr. Drawlight at the dinner party. Though the setting had taken an odd turn, he was the same kind of man bent to use her for his own means. "Sir, I am tired. I have traveled a great distance today and I would appreciate my privacy."

The oxblood prince rose to his feet with a consenting nod, hair the color of antique paper tumbled over his shoulders. "Of course, my lady. Please forgive my intrusion. I felt this was the best time for our introduction. When you arrive at Hurtfew Abbey, I am not sure when I may see you next. But do not fret, I will return."

The curtain in the doorway sliced open and blew out one of the candles on the hearth. The fire roared to life and the window outside reflected the red brick of the building next door. Except for herself, the room was empty. Mercy rubbed her eyes as though she had awoken from a quick sleep, her senses dazed.

"Oh I am most sorry, Miss! I do hope I didn't disturb you-" the bar keep exclaimed, the tea pot and plate with the yellow cake rattling on a tray.

"No, not at all." Mercy waved a hand in the vague direction of the squat table in front of her. "I must have dozed off. Thank you."

After finishing a cup of tea, Mercy found she had no appetite for the cake. It was for the best as the coachman entered the tavern to inform her that the carriage was ready to take her the final few leagues to Hurtfew Abbey. Fighting a wave of exhaustion, Mercy moved to replace her bonnet on her head. She ran her fingers through the mussed curls above her ear and supposed she must have worried them while she had slept.