A Star Shall Fall

PART THREE ^{FERMENTATIO Spring 1758}

In certain lights, there might almost be a face within the dark mass. A long snout here; two indentations there, that might be eyes, set predatorlike in the dust and ice. Hunger stirs within the dream. The sun’s radiance is warming the comet: heat, light, fire. Things the sleeper remembers. Like calls to like, and it is kindred to the sun, a wayward child sent farther than it was ever meant to go. There is nothing to burn, out here in the black; even the strongest spirit is vanquished by this absolute cold. They crafted better than they knew, those enemies, those jailers, when they banished their foe; this prison is a torture beyond any it has ever known.

But release is coming. Heat, light, fire. Things the sleeper remembers.

Things it will know again, and soon.

Niklas von das Ticken glared at Irrith as she came through the pillars into the antechamber of the Calendar Room. She could never tell whether he hated her particularly, or whether he turned that expression on the world as a whole. Even his conversations with his brother sounded like arguments—though admittedly, everything sounded like an argument in German. Either way, the red-bearded dwarf soon turned his scowl back to the half-built contraption on his worktable, ignoring Irrith as if she weren’t there.

That suited her just fine. Wilhas was far more pleasant to talk to anyway. “What’s he building, a birdcage?” Irrith asked, not caring if the other dwarf overheard.

“Drachenkäfig. A Dragon-cage,” Wilhas said. His fierce and bloodthirsty grin faded a moment later. “That is the idea. So far, though…”

“It doesn’t work.” Irrith didn’t ask why he wasn’t working on it inside the Calendar Room. She’d made that mistake precisely once, and gotten as her reward a half-hour diatribe from Niklas—she’d timed it by the assorted clocks—all throat-hacking consonants and spittle, the gist of which was that the chamber’s time out of time was only useful if you didn’t need to keep coming out to fetch things or question someone or test your results. And apparently that happened often.

Someone was in the Calendar Room right now, to judge by the closed door. Or more than one someone, perhaps. Wilhas talked endlessly about Körpertage, which Irrith didn’t fully understand; it had something to do with each person inside using up one day for every day the group remained in the room—but the sum of the collected time was great enough that no one other than Wilhas was overly concerned about how many they might be using.

If they didn’t find a solution, they’d never get a chance to use the remaining days anyway.

Irrith gave the Dragon-cage a dubious look. So far it was little more than a haphazard assortment of metal strips, like a barrel that had sprung all its staves, then lost about two-thirds of them. Whatever metal Niklas was using, it didn’t seem like much of a prison.

“That isn’t iron, is it?” she asked. Ktistes had made a passing comment about the dwarves trying to find a way to forge iron so it wouldn’t bother fae, but so far as she knew, nothing had come of it.

Wilhas shook his head, and she breathed a little more easily. Iron would seem like the logical choice; after all, the Dragon was just a kind of salamander—a really, really overgrown salamander—and therefore a creature of faerie-kind. But the box Lune had imprisoned the beast in at the end of the Great Fire had been solid iron, and that only worked for a little while. The Dragon’s power was just too great to be confined so easily.

Still, the box had given them ten years of peace, and its weakening structure held together for another six, until they hit upon the idea of exiling the Dragon to a comet. If Niklas could achieve half that result, it would still be more than they had now.

She hopped up onto the edge of Wilhas’s table, and got a scowl like his brother’s as he moved various tools to safety. The dwarves fascinated her almost as much as mortals did. They’d come to England when the crown passed to a German cousin, George I, and as near as Irrith could tell, they considered Lune the counterpart of the Georges: Queen over all of faerie Britain. So long as they didn’t say that where any of faerie Britain’s other monarchs could hear—or their ambassadors—Irrith supposed it didn’t hurt. At least it meant they worked hard on Lune’s behalf.

On various things, some more plausible than others. “What do you think?” Irrith asked.

“Of vat? Of my brother’s cage?” Wilhas shrugged, which was probably a wise move when Niklas was standing right there. Not listening, or at least not appearing to, but Irrith had already broken up more fistfights between them than she wanted to.

“Of the current plans,” Irrith said. “Or lack of same.”

The blond dwarf fiddled with a mirror, mouth twisted into a grimace. “There are plans. Many plans. Keep the Drache on its little star; trap it ven it comes down; kill it if ve can. Any of those vould be good, ja? If ve can make them vork.”

Which made them no plans at all, as far as Irrith was concerned. “Wayland made a sword once, ages and ages ago, that— Hey!” She gestured at the two stocky faeries. “You two are dwarves!”

Niklas spun to face her, a tiny hammer clutched in one meaty hand. “You are going to ask about Gram.”

“I’m from the Vale of the White Horse,” she reminded him. “Our King, Wayland Smith, was the one who made that sword. But he said Gram was broken and reforged before it was used to kill the dragon Fafnir—and that a dwarf did the reforging. Can’t you do something similar?”

“Reginn vas Nordmann,” Niklas said, face reddening to almost the shade of his beard. “Nicht Deutscher. You understand? Not from our land. Ve are not all the same, happy little Schmiede hammering away in—”

Wilhas clapped a hand over his brother’s mouth to stop the flood of words, fewer and fewer of which sounded like English, and Irrith threw her hands up. “I’m sorry I asked! I just thought— Never mind.”

Niklas had by then clawed free of his brother and gone back to his work, snarling more German under his breath. “Honestly,” Irrith said, “I’d rather it stay on the comet, or get trapped here, and we avoid battle entirely.”

Shaking out his hand—Irrith rather thought Niklas had bitten it—Wilhas said, “There is nothing wrong vith fighting.”

“There is when you don’t have a weapon! Segraine tells me they’re still wrestling with that jotun ice, but they haven’t gotten very far. Bonecruncher wants to hack chips off for shot.”

Wilhas chewed on an available bit of mustache, before shaking his head. “Even if you could make it round enough, I do not think the bullets vould survive the explosion. Too much fire, and ice is too brittle.” The chewing turned into a meditative sucking, and he rolled his eyes up to contemplate the ceiling. “Unless you could do it vithout fire…”

“Afraid of a little battle?” That came from Niklas, though he didn’t bother to turn around.

He sounded like he was trying to needle her. Irrith, however, felt no shame about her cowardice. “Have you looked at me? I’m not one of those fae who look like twigs and feel like stone giants; the Dragon broke my arm at Pie Corner, with just a swat of its tail. If battle comes…”

He turned his head far enough to sneer at her. “Vat? You vill run avay?”

Run away…

“Or hide,” she said, eyes widening.

Wilhas came out of his contemplation and shook his head. “You vould be safer to run. Hiding—”

“Not me,” Irrith said. “London.”

Now both dwarves were staring at her.

“Hide the city!” she said. Inspiration goaded her off her perch on the table; she had to pace. “The Onyx Hall is a place of power, right? The Dragon ate a little of it back then, and wanted more. Everybody’s pretty sure it will come looking for us again. But what if it can’t find us?”

“Then it vill go elsevere,” Wilhas said.

Then it will be someone else’s problem. Irrith didn’t say it, though. What if the Dragon went for the Vale, instead? “Hide all of England, then.”

She didn’t know if it was possible for someone’s eyes to literally bulge out of his head, but the dwarves’ were certainly trying. Irrith grinned. “I know, I know. A whole island—might as well toss in Scotland while we’re at it—I’m insane. You might have noticed, though, that we’re standing in a rather insane place. Ash and Thorn—who looks at the biggest city in England and says, I think we need a faerie palace underneath it? Who steals eleven days from millions of people and traps them in a room? If anyone can hide us from the Dragon, it’ll be someone in this court, if only because they’re too mad to realise it’ll never work.”

Niklas crossed his arms belligerently. “Say it vorks. Say ve hide England. Say the Drache stays on its comet instead of going somevere else—it’s a lot to suppose. But even then, it only delays the problem. The beast still comes back.”

He was just saying it to be contrary; the set of his glare had shifted. Irrith answered him anyway. “And in the meantime, you’ve had seventy-five more years to figure how to chip jotun ice into usable bullets.”

She got to enjoy a brief moment of pride; then Wilhas deflated her with a single word. “How?”

“Don’t ask me,” Irrith said, putting her hands up in protest. “I said someone would be mad enough to figure it out. I haven’t been here in fifty years; my lunacy’s out of practice.” Wilhas was still looking at her. “What? You need a puck for this, not a sprite! They’re the ones with all the tricks!”

“Then ve vill get you pucks,” he said, with a decisive nod. “How many do you need?”

“None. I came up with the idea; my work is done.”

Wilhas smiled. “Ve shall see vat the Queen says.”

Irrith realised, far too late, that she should have kept her mouth shut.

Remembering Irrith’s first visit to his chambers, Galen had told Edward to let the sprite through if she came calling again. When Irrith tried to barge past him without even the barest courtesy, though, the valet stopped her with one efficient arm. “Dame Irrith, I have told you—”

Her undoubtedly obscene response got swallowed when she saw Galen standing a few feet away, dressed save for his shoes and hat. Galen said, “My apologies, but I’m afraid I have an engagement. Can your matter wait?”

She answered with her usual impudence. “As long as you don’t mind losing another day.”

Edward dropped his blocking arm with a scowl. Like all good valets, he could read his master’s mind: if this had to do with the comet, then it couldn’t be postponed. The days ticked steadily away; already it was spring, and once winter came, astronomers would begin searching the skies.

His engagement was to escort his mother, Cynthia, Miss Northwood, and Mrs. Northwood through the British Museum’s collections in Montagu House, and Galen was looking forward to it, but he had a little time before he must depart. “Have you come up with an idea?”

“Yes,” she said, passing Edward with an expression just this side of sticking her tongue out at him. “And I told the dwarves, and that should have been the end of it. But now Lune wants me to make it happen.”

Her tone and posture clearly proclaimed that there was a problem somewhere in this. Galen could not see it. “What is it you wish me to do?”

“Convince her to have someone else do it!”

“Dame Irrith…” Edward was hovering with his hat and shoes, but Galen gestured him back for the moment. “I was under the impression you were interested in helping us.”

She shifted, not meeting his eyes. “I am.”

“Then where’s the problem?”

He heard the catch in her breath, before she turned and became very interested in the porcelain figure of a hound on a nearby table. “I can’t possibly do it. Because I haven’t the slightest idea how.”

That hound might have dragged the admission from her, it came out so strained. Galen bit his tongue. He was so accustomed to Lune, who rarely betrayed anything of her inner state, even when it was in turmoil; or her closest courtiers, who followed the model of their Queen. He wasn’t used to someone like Irrith, whose attempts at guile fell as flat as his own.

It gave him a sense of kinship with her, though. Neither one of us is half so polished as this place would like us to be.

“What is the idea?” Galen asked, and listened as Irrith summed it up. No one, to his knowledge, had suggested hiding from the Dragon; he had to admit the notion held some appeal. As for how to make it happen, though, he was forced to admit he had no more notion than she did.

Floundering for a starting point, he said, “Don’t fae have some means of hiding from mortals? Charms and the like?”

“Yes, but we aren’t trying to hide from a mortal, are we?” Irrith gesticulated with the porcelain hound, and Galen spared a moment to hope she wouldn’t throw it into a wall for punctuation. The piece was a gift from the French ambassador, the faerie one—though in truth, Galen wouldn’t miss it all that much.

What protected mortals against faerie-kind? Iron. Christian faith, whether expressed through prayer or church bells or other signs. But London was already armored with those—and besides, they didn’t conceal anything.

Edward coughed discreetly. Galen looked up, ready to insist on just a few more minutes’ delay, and found his servant had put aside the hat and shoes. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I believe there’s a way for mortals to hide from faeries. Dame Irrith—if a man turns his coat inside out, doesn’t that give him a measure of invisibility?”

Her shifting green eyes went wide. Irrith stood, gaping, and then a grin split her face. “You’re a genius,” she announced. “What’s your name, anyway? Geniuses should have names.”

The servant gave her a shallow bow. “Edward Thorne, ma’am.”

“Edward Th—” Curiosity flared to life. “Are you Peregrin’s son?”

A second, deeper bow. “I have that honor, yes.”

“Hah! You’re cleverer than your father, Mr. Thorne. Ask me sometime about when he first came to Berkshire, the adventure he had with a milkmaid. Just don’t ask when he’s around.” Irrith bounced on the balls of her feet. “Inside-out clothes! I should have thought of that.” Her face fell as she turned to Galen. “But London isn’t wearing any clothes.”

He didn’t have an answer to that, but Edward had at least given him a notion of what advice to offer. “Her Majesty may have instructed you to make this happen, Dame Irrith, but I doubt she meant you must do it on your own. May I suggest recruiting help? Others may have useful suggestions, which you can coordinate into a proper plan.”

Irrith wrinkled her nose at him. “Do I look coordinated to you?”

“You are a model of grace.”

“That isn’t what I meant, as you well know,” Irrith said, but she colored a little. Galen had spoken the words in jest, but they were also true; she moved like a young fox, with natural rather than studied elegance.

Edward had picked up the shoes and hat again. Galen sighed and beckoned him forward. “I have every confidence you can make this happen, Dame Irrith, and it may do us crucial good. If time in the Calendar Room would aid your thoughts, I’m sure her Grace will approve it. In the meantime, I must beg your forgiveness, but—”

She was nodding before he finished. “Right. Sorry I kept you. But this helped a lot.”

“I’m glad,” he said, settling the hat upon his head. “Let me know if I can be of further use.”

Ktistes might have been a statue of a centaur, his hooves planted foursquare on the grass, looking off into the distance where several courtiers were chasing each other around a fountain. Their giggles and false shrieks of surprise made Irrith want to bellow at them to be quiet, but she had no illusions as to the weight her knighthood carried. Even if she told them she was trying to save their frivolous little lives.

“Difficult enough,” the centaur finally said, “to hide London. The City itself, within the walls, that could be done; it is only a square mile or so. Since that is the part reflected in the Onyx Hall, and the power of this palace is what the Dragon craves, it might be enough.”

Irrith shook her head. “Do you really want to wager that it will be? It’s already burnt enough, Ktistes. I’m not going to let it do the same thing again.”

He sighed, hooves shifting restlessly, breaking the illusion of the statue. “Then will you hide the entire world? There are cities elsewhere, and faerie realms, too. You cannot be certain it will not strike the Cour du Lys, or my brethren in Greece, or folk in lands you’ve never heard of. Folk who are not prepared.”

“It might,” she admitted. That was the worry that, as the mortals said, kept her awake at night—or would, if she slept. The nervous intensity of Galen and all the rest had infected her, making sleep a luxury for later. “I don’t think it will, though.”

The centaur rarely wasted words; he merely studied her patiently, awaiting an explanation.

Biting her lip, Irrith said, “You never saw it, Ktistes. I did. I was there when it tried to eat the Onyx Hall. After it’s eaten London, it will turn somewhere else—all those other places you named. Because it can never eat enough. But it won’t move on until it has this place.” It had the scent—or rather the taste—like a bloodhound. And it needed no huntsman to chivvy it on.

“Then as I said before: you need not cover the entire island.”

She grinned. It was better than showing her uncertainty. “Well, I don’t want to bet it wouldn’t gobble up Oxford on its way to London. Better not to let it get a foothold, right?” The grin faded, though she tried to hold on to it. “Never mind the scale. Help me figure out how to do this, and then we can argue over whether it can be done so widely. What counts as clothes?”

Ktistes lifted one hand, letting the quaking leaves of an aspen trail over his fingers. “What clothes the land,” he murmured to himself.

Then his horse part swung around sharply, so that he faced his pavilion. A dazzling smile split his face. “There is your answer, Dame Irrith.”

She stared. “Your… pavilion?”

“Buildings! Towns. Houses, and churches, and all the things mortal kind has built upon the face of the land. Do they not clothe its nakedness?”

Irrith blinked once, then a second time. Her voice seemed to have gone missing. When she found it again, it came bearing words. “You want… to turn London… inside out.”

Ktistes paused, hands in midair, where he had swept them in a grand gesture. “How would that be done?” he mused. The note in his voice was pure curiosity, a clever mind given something to play with. “The Onyx Hall—but no, this place is not the inside of London, and to put it ‘outside’ would only deepen our problems. Perhaps an earthquake, though, to open the buildings themselves? We caused two some years ago, quite by accident, but if we arranged one deliberately—”

“Then it would destroy London,” Irrith said. “And every other town you want to hide. Ktistes, the idea is to prevent destruction.”

His face fell. After a moment, so did his hands. “True,” he admitted. The powerful centaur briefly sounded like nothing so much as a little boy, chastised by his mother. “I did not think of that.”

This is why Lune has a Prince. The thought flew out of nowhere and lodged in Irrith’s mind like an arrow. Ktistes was Greek, and had spent most of his life somewhere in that Mediterranean land; the differences between him and the English fae were many. In the final weighing, however, he had more in common with Irrith than Galen. They might hover on the fringes of mortal places, drinking the intoxicating wine of mortal passions, but that was not the centre of their world, the first thing their minds went to; human life, human society, was an afterthought.

That was why Lune kept at her side a man for whom it was the first thought. However much effort she devoted to considering mortal needs, there would always be these moments, when they slipped from her mind. As they had slipped from Ktistes’s. And only a mortal could be trusted to always do as Irrith had done this once, and catch the Queen when she slipped.

The centaur was still thinking, oblivious to Irrith’s distraction. One front hoof tapped a restless beat against the ground. Does he miss galloping? Irrith wondered. The night garden was large, but nothing like the open grass of Ktistes’s land. Or did he, as a learned centaur, live so much in his own mind that it hardly mattered where he made his home?

Maybe that was why she’d thought to stop him, when he spoke of earthquakes in London. The prospect of losing her home—either of them—horrified her to the depths of her faerie soul.

“We’ll think of something,” she said. Perhaps she should take Galen up on his offer of the Calendar Room? The thorough shudder that followed the possibility was answer enough. Locking herself in the same room as that clock, for days on end… fae were capable of madness, in their own way. She had no desire to experience it herself.

“I will continue to ponder,” Ktistes said, still repentant.

So would Irrith. But not here, with all these black shadows stifling her spirit. The Queen had commanded her to find a solution to this puzzle; surely that would be good for squeezing a bit of bread out of the royal stone.

If she was to turn London inside out, she would have to go study it in person.

Irrith could not quite believe her ears when the Queen told her to go ask the Lord Treasurer.

She had enough experience of the Onyx Court to know that Lune, like England’s mortal rulers, surrounded herself with a circle of people who were both advisers and deputies, dealing with various matters so the Queen herself didn’t have to. Wayland did the same thing, though without the fancy titles and so on. But Irrith thought she’d heard of them all, and the Lord Treasurer had been nowhere on the list.

It seemed, however, that the problem of tithed bread was serious enough that Lune had taken the precaution of appointing someone to oversee it: what came in through the Onyx Court’s trade with other lands, who it was paid out to, and—as much as anyone could track this—what happened to it after that. Trade wasn’t the only source of bread, of course; some fae kept mortals on a string just to provide them with a regular tithe. And all of it, regardless of source, was hoarded, wagered, gifted, stolen, used as bribes, and given over in underhand deals, before eventually being eaten; attempting to record those transactions was nothing short of madness.

“Come to think of it,” Irrith said to the clerk behind the desk, “Ktistes told me a story once, of a fellow damned to roll a stone forever up a hill… have you heard it?”

The clerk, an officious little wisp of a thing, was unimpressed. “I do as her Grace and the Lord Treasurer bid me. At the moment, they have given me no orders concerning the disbursement of bread to you. But if you would like to present your case to my master—”

“I would.” It came out through Irrith’s teeth. Mab have mercy: they’re treating it like coin. Irrith had always thought secrets the most valuable currency in the Onyx Hall, but it seemed that was changing, as the mortal world did its best to shake off the faerie superstitions of its past.

She presented her case to the Lord Treasurer, who surprised her by being a stolid, methodical dobie named Hairy How. Most of the officers of Lune’s court were elfin types, but she supposed that when it came to careful bookkeeping, a hob was ideal. This one seemed more sensible than your common dobie—too sensible, in fact. Convincing him was none too easy. But the magic key word of Dragon, combined with a believable explanation for how her use of bread could benefit the court, finally talked him around, and he commanded the clerk to give her a week’s worth.

Irrith would have liked more; she owed more than seven pieces to various fae already. Segraine might be willing to let the debt go for a century, but others would not. Unfortunately, this was obviously as much as she would get today. She watched, bemused, as the clerk counted out the seven pieces with excessive care, then counted them a second time before making his tally and wrapping them in a handkerchief. When Irrith tried to pick it up, he swatted her hand. “All disbursements from the royal treasury must be recorded,” he said, getting out a pot of ink and a moth-eaten griffin feather for a quill. “It’s the law.”

“Law!” The clerk, by his glare, didn’t appreciate her scornful laughter. “That’s a mortal thing.”

“And a faerie one, too, Dame Irrith. By order of the Queen and Lord Alan.”

One of the old Princes. Irrith waited, not attempting to hide her impatience, as the clerk made a note in his ledger, then wrote out a receipt, which he handed to her.

The slip read, Seven (7) pieces from the Treasury, as follows: three (3) rye, two (2) barley, one (1) brown wheat, one (1) white wheat. Disbursed to Dame Irrith by Rodge, Clerk of the Treasury, on 4 October 1757.

Irrith threw it away in disgust. “You might as well be a mortal clerk, with your dates and numbers.” A small clock sat on the desk in front of him: probably the work of the von das Tickens, and the reason why the clerk could date the receipt. The Onyx Hall wasn’t detached from human time as the deeper realms of Faerie were; it would render interactions with the mortal world too difficult. But in the unchanging darkness of those stone halls, most fae lost count of the date. And few of them cared.

Rodge apparently saved his lack of care for the fae he dealt with. He didn’t even look up as Irrith took the bread and departed.

She stowed six pieces with Ktistes; the centaur was always near his pavilion, and few would risk stealing from him. But the safest place in the world was her stomach, where it could do its inexplicable work, shielding her from threats. Irrith ate the white bread, grimacing at its chalky taste, and went into the streets above.

Darkness greeted her, but this time it wasn’t the strange murk of last fall; just ordinary nighttime. The sky was overcast enough that she couldn’t guess the hour, though. Irrith had chosen the Billingsgate door, which put her in a less-than-savory part of the City; after a moment’s consideration, she cloaked herself in a charm that would encourage strangers to look past her. Cutpurses and other criminals were as fascinating as any other part of mortal society, but not one she wanted to experience right now.

Voices from the direction of the fish market told her it must not be long until dawn. Soon boats would crowd the little harbor, unloading the day’s catch; then the fishwives would go to work, with their powerful arms and vivid profanity, hawking their wares to the cooks and cooks’ servants, laboring housewives, and finally the poor on the edge of starvation, who would buy what no one else wanted, after it had begun to smell.

She drifted, silent and invisible as a ghost, in the direction of the wharves, for they showed more life than the predawn streets. The river was little more than a black sloshing sound, wavelets receding from the mudflats of its banks, their tops gilded by the occasional bit of torchlight. Here, in the darkness, it was easy to forget about all the changes that entranced her; Irrith could half-convince herself she’d stepped out into the London she first saw a hundred years ago. Many things stayed the same.

Indeed, that was what made the changes so entrancing.

The sun gradually emerged as a flat gray disk on the eastern horizon, barely penetrating the clouds. It allowed Irrith to see the buildings around her, the eighteenth century replacing that fleeting illusion of the seventeenth. Brick and stone, not the timber and plaster of the past, which had burnt in the Fire. But some places were familiar, beneath their new clothes; rich men still gossiped in the Exchange, the Bow Bells still rang out over Cheapside, and a cathedral still crowned the City’s western half.

How was she supposed to turn all this inside out?

The streets slowly filled with people. At this hour, London belonged to its lower classes: the servants and labourers, porters and beggars. Men thick with muscle, and men wasted down to skeletons from illness and starvation. Women in the drab clothes of maids, hurrying to buy for the day’s meals. Yawning apprentices, surly cart drivers, a half-grown girl with a flock of chickens. Watching them go by, Irrith thought of her words to Ktistes. The buildings didn’t matter so much, but the people… they were the ones Lune, and Galen, and all their allies were trying to protect.

Ktistes thought like an architect. He saw the land, whether he was on top of it or inside it, and the structures that could be shaped to it. People mattered because they would use what he built, but that was the only point at which they entered into his plans. When it came to hiding England, he didn’t think of them. He thought only of the land.

It won’t be enough, Irrith realised. London wasn’t its fabric; it was its people. Lune had taught her that. And surely it was true for other places, be they Berkshire or Yorkshire or Scotland.

She had to hide all of it: the ground, the trees, the houses and shops and churches, and most especially the people.

If the buildings weren’t the clothing, then what was?

Something smacked her shoulder hard, and knocked Irrith sprawling into the chilly mud.

“Blood and Bone!” she swore, and got baffled stares from the porters carrying kegs into a nearby tavern. Irrith swore again, then threw a hasty glamour over her faerie face, so that they blinked in confusion and went back to their work. A charm of concealment could make people look away from her, but it did nothing to protect her from collision, and the attention that brought.

Time to get below, or to find a quiet place where she could improve her glamour and continue her wanderings.

But before she could climb to her feet, something caught her eye—and then she began to laugh.

Flat on her back in the mud, with the porters staring again and carts rumbling past her unprotected toes, Irrith laughed and laughed, because the answer was right there, wrapping England in a gray and frequently rainy cloak.

Clouds.

Lune laid her head against the back of her chair in a rare gesture of frustration. “I don’t suppose any clever mortal has designed a scheme for influencing the weather?”

“Designed one?” Galen said. “Almost certainly. Executed it successfully? That, I fear, is another matter.”

She sighed in acknowledgment. “Then it must be faerie magic.” One pale hand rose to rub at her eyes. “We have some ability to call rain when we need it, but nothing of sufficient force, nor duration—not to hide this entire island, certainly not for months on end.”

Silence ruled the chamber for a few minutes. They were not alone; Lune had called a small convocation of her closest companions: Amadea, the Irish lady Feidelm, and Rosamund Goodemeade, whose sister was occupied elsewhere. With an air that suggested she knew her words would be unwelcome, the little brownie offered, “We do know folk who might manage it.”

Lune winced. Rosamund, upon Galen’s quizzical look, said, “Those who live in the sea.”

“Mermaids?”

“And stranger things,” Lune replied, lifting her head. “You’re right, Rosamund, and if we must, we will ask them. But I would very much like to find another way. For aid of this kind, we’d be heavily in debt to them, and the folk of the sea are strange enough that I cannot begin to predict what they would demand in return.”

A faerie was calling someone else strange? Galen bit down on the urge to ask whether that meant they were of surpassing normality. The unease Lune showed at the thought of dealing with them told him now wasn’t the time for such a jest.

The chamber door opened, and Lewan Erle slipped through. The foppish lord bowed in meticulous apology before approaching the Queen, a sealed letter in his hands.

She broke the seal and perused it, first with a disinterested eye, then with a very interested one indeed. Upon finishing her second reading, she turned to the waiting lord. “He’s in the Onyx Hall?”

“Yes, madam. But he waited at the Crutched Friars entrance until Greymalkin found him—I believe he was there at least an hour.”

“Very courteous.” Lune folded the paper again and turned to Galen. “This is a letter of introduction from Madame Malline le Sainfoin de Veilée, formerly the ambassadress of the Cour du Lys. It recommends to our attention a certain foreigner now waiting—”

“Still at Crutched Friars, madam,” Lewan Erle supplied, when Lune paused.

She passed the folded letter to Amadea and rose. “We shall receive him in the lesser—no, the greater presence chamber. And Lord Galen and myself will take the time to dress more formally. If he is the first faerie of his land to set foot in England, then we can at least make his initial impression a grand one.”

Bewildered, Galen likewise rose from his chair. “What land is that, madam?”

He heard an echo of his bewilderment in Lune’s answer. “Araby.”

Galen couldn’t help but wonder whether Lune, like him, drew some strength from elegance of dress, and for that reason had ordered a delay while they both changed into more suitable clothing. Whether she did or not, he was grateful for the deep-cuffed coat and powdered wig Edward put him into; they helped him stand proud as the massive bronze doors of the greater presence chamber swung open to admit the traveller.

The chamber itself was such a wondrous space that Galen might have thought any additional wonder would seem at home. Soaring black pillars served as a frame for panels of silver filigree and faceted crystal, bestowing a degree of lightness on what otherwise would have been a grim and ominous space. The figure who entered, though, brought with him a different kind of wonder entirely.

It wasn’t that his countenance was especially grotesque. His bearded face was darker skinned than Galen expected of an Arab, more like a Negro, with a powerfully hooked nose, but beyond that he looked almost human. His dress was moderately odd, being a long, straight robe confined at the hips with a broad sash, and of course his head was wrapped in a neatly folded turban; that was not the cause, either. In the years Galen had been among the English fae, their alien natures had become almost familiar—but this fellow awoke that frisson again, the awareness that there was always more strangeness beyond his ken.

The lords and ladies assembled for this audience rustled and murmured amongst themselves, watching him approach. When the visitor reached a courteous distance from the dais upon which Lune and Galen sat, he sank gracefully to both knees, bowing his head just shy of touching the floor. “Assalamu alaykum, O fair Queen, O wise Prince. Peace be unto you. I am called Abd ar-Rashid, Al-Musafir, At-Talib ul-’ilm, of the land known to you as Araby.”

“Welcome to the Onyx Court, Lord Abd ar-Rashid,” Lune said, smoothly enough that Galen suspected she had practiced the foreign name while dressing. “Never before has our realm been visited by one of your land. Do you come to us as an ambassador?”

“I do not, O Queen.” The stranger had risen from the lowest part of his bow, but remained on his knees. The stone of the presence chamber carried his voice to them, clear despite the distinct and oddly French-tinged accent. “I an individual only, travelling the faerie Europe courts these many years.”

Galen, content to let Lune manage the niceties of welcome, had been studying that hook-nosed face, chasing a wisp of memory. It was the French letter of introduction that did it; his tutor had given him several books for practicing the language, years ago, and one of them had mentioned something like this creature. Galen’s mother had confiscated the volume in horror once she saw the title—too late to protect him from the scandalous bits—but he’d read enough to remember the word. “If you will pardon me for asking, sir—are you a genie?”

Abd ar-Rashid’s white teeth flashed a startling contrast against his dark skin. Smiling, he said, “A genie indeed, O Prince. Read you the Thousand and One Nights?”

Floundering for useful memories beyond the bare word—and succeeding only in recalling more and more of the scandalous bits—Galen caught sight of Lune, out of the corner of his eye. Without ever so much as uttering a word or changing the serene pleasantry of her expression, she somehow communicated her intentions to him. You know more than I do of this stranger. Deal with him as you will.

God help him. Galen had stood at Lune’s side on various state occasions, fulfilling his duties as her mortal consort, but never before had he been the chief voice in such a matter. And now to hand him an Arabic faerie, sent to them by some French lady he’d never even met…

Well, it could not hurt to be polite. He hoped. “What brings you to England, Lord ar-Rashid?”

The smile flickered out of existence a heartbeat before the genie bowed again. “I beg your kindness, O Prince. I am not Ar-Rashid, The One Who Knows, being his servant only. I am called Abd ar-Rashid, meaning this: I serve the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate.”

Apparently his attempt at politeness could hurt. Galen had no choice but to forge ahead. “No, the apology should be mine; I did not realise.” Then, belatedly, he took note of the way the faeries had whispered amongst themselves at his words. The Merciful and Compassionate—does he mean God?

Did this faerie just claim to be a servant of God?

That question seemed even more likely to drop him into a pit than the simple use of Abd ar-Rashid’s name had. Galen fled back to his original query. “Is it some task set by your sovereign that brings you to our shores, Lord Abd ar-Rashid?” Did genies even have sovereigns?

The Arab’s answer didn’t enlighten him. “It is not, O Prince. These years have I been journeying across Europe in the service of my own curiosity, and it brings me now to England.”

At the distance that separated the genie from the dais, it was unlikely he noticed Lune stiffening; Galen, at her side, could not miss it. “Curiosity of what sort, my lord?” she asked.

“That of a scholar, O Queen.” His accent made subtleties of intonation difficult to discern, and in the cool light of the chamber, Galen had equal trouble making out the expressions on the dark face. “I come here to ask of your Prince introduction to the Royal Society gentlemen.”

Had he asked for an introduction to King George II, Galen could not have been more surprised. “The Royal Society? The philosophers?” Perhaps it was some error in the genie’s English.

Abd ar-Rashid soon disabused him of the notion. “Once a great flower of wisdom grew in my land, but in recent centuries it has withered under the hand of the soldiers and the officials. Araby was the mother of medicine and alchemy, astronomy and the making of clocks; now the infant she reared has grown to manhood, and travelled to Europe, where he finds a more friendly home. Taqi al-Din has been succeeded by your John Harrison and James Bradley and Isaac Newton. I have no interest in war and the operation of government; therefore I come here, following in the footsteps of knowledge.”

It had the sound of a rehearsed speech; indeed, Galen suspected the genie had delivered it in French to the Cour du Lys—with, of course, suitable replacements for the English scholars he’d named. Bemused, Galen said, “And you believe I can grant you admittance to the Royal Society.”

The Arab hesitated. “Out of your kindness—if French would be possible—” Lune nodded, and Galen thought he saw relief flash across that dark face as the genie bowed again. In much more fluent French, he said, “In the Cour du Lys, I heard that the Queen of London kept a mortal man at her side, who governed all matters relating to the human world. When news came that this man had become a Fellow of the Society, I made arrangements to come here.”

His French was good enough that Galen, far more rusty in the language, had trouble keeping up; but he was able to catch where rumour had gone astray. “I am not a Fellow, sir,” he said, painfully aware of his own bad accent. “Only a visitor among them.”

The genie’s stillness came as a surprise, after all the bowing. “Was I in error, O Prince? Have I asked something not in your power to give?”

A tiny shift in Lune’s body told Galen she’d been about to speak, then stopped herself. He could guess why. She never turned visitors away from her court empty-handed; unlike most faerie realms, this one was composed of strangers who had come from a dozen other homes, some merely visiting, others resettling themselves within its dark shadow. Interaction with the mortal world was not the only thing that separated this court from others in England.

She didn’t turn visitors away—but neither did she give gifts without hope of something in return. “An introduction is within my power,” Galen said, wishing to Heaven that he’d been given some warning of this, so he could think through his reply without the genie, Lune, and the assembled courtiers watching his every move. “But it is no small thing, sir, to bring you into company with the gentlemen and lords of my acquaintance there. You are a stranger to me as much as to them, and a foreign stranger at that. I don’t know how these things are done in your land, but here, if a gentleman introduces another in that manner, he risks his own good name; he vouches to his friends that the new man is a trustworthy fellow, and worthy of their company. I mean no insult to you, but I cannot in good conscience give such assurances for someone about whom I know virtually nothing.”

He realised too late that he had lapsed back into English. Perhaps it was just as well; he would have embarrassed himself, trying to say all that in French. The genie’s eyes had narrowed, but whether it was a sign of hostility or merely difficulty understanding him, Galen didn’t know.

He hoped the latter, and that Abd ar-Rashid understood enough to see the opening Galen had provided. And indeed, after a silent moment, the genie bowed. “I would die a hundred times, O Prince, before I bring shame to you by my behavior. I am content to wait. Perhaps in that time I find some service for yourself or your Queen, and prove my character to you?”

Now Galen turned to Lune, gratefully handing off the burden of this negotiation. The notion of introducing, not just a faerie, but a heathen faerie to the philosophers of the Royal Society was a staggering absurdity his mind could scarcely encompass, but perhaps it would be possible to disguise Abd ar-Rashid with a glamour of an Englishman, and to improve his English. Or just to conduct the entire affair in French. In the meantime, Lune could decide what price she wanted to put on Galen’s help.

With a rueful quirk of her lips, Lune asked, “Do the powers of a genie, by any chance, extend to the weather?”

The effort to find a weapon against the Dragon had sent Lune’s ambassadors farther than ever before—but never beyond Europe. For the first time in her reign, she found herself with a visitor about whom she knew precisely nothing.

A state of affairs she did not permit to last for long. A week and a half after the genie’s audience, she convened a small meeting of fae: Sir Adenant, Lady Yfaen, and the puck Beggabow.

Sir Adenant had not even brushed the dust off his boots, so recently had he returned from France. “My report, madam,” he said, handing over a sheaf of papers with a bow. “I judged it more important to get this information to you rapidly than to uncover every detail, but this is the essence of it.”

He was far from her best spy, but he’d gone to France before, and had friends in the Cour du Lys. “What did you learn?”

“He’s definitely a traveller, madam. Before France, it was Italy and Athens; his home, inasmuch as he has one, is Istanbul. But he seems to have gone there with that fellow he mentioned, Taqi al-Din, nearly two hundred years ago, and they met in Egypt.”

Beggabow whistled. Lune felt like doing the same. Most fae looked oddly even on those who served as ambassadors; travel was not something they did much of. But perhaps genies had a greater fondness for it. “Why all the movement?”

Adenant spread his hands. “It seems to be as he said, your Grace. A thirst for information. Madame Malline told me those later parts of his name mean ‘the traveller’ and ‘the seeker of knowledge,’ or some such.”

“What about the first part? ‘Servant of He Who Knows’?”

The faerie knight shuddered. “That’s the strangest part. They say he’s a heathen—that he follows the Mohammedan deity. And he isn’t the only one, either. He claims several genies are ‘of the Faithful.’”

Lady Yfaen laughed, a bright, disbelieving sound. “Surely you don’t mean they pray.”

“They do,” Beggabow said. “Or at least he does. Five times a day. I’ve been watching him the last week, wondering what in Mab’s name he thinks he’s doing.”

The puck was one of Aspell’s spies, diverted from the Sanists to follow Abd ar-Rashid. “Where is he living?” Lune asked.

“In Wapping,” the puck said. “Bold as you please. Makes himself look like a Turk, and rents a room from some Lascar near the Frying Pan Stairs, right by the river.”

Now it was Adenant’s turn to whistle. “Does the Lascar give him bread?”

Beggabow shook his head. “Not as I can tell. He don’t seem to need it. Iron don’t bother him, and neither do holy things, him praying and all. Wish I could learn that trick.”

It explained why he hadn’t asked for shelter in the Onyx Hall. Lune had been uneasy about that, not certain whether she wanted to offer it to him or not. Strangers were common enough, but not strangers whose capabilities and motives were entirely opaque to her. And while it seemed, at least so far, that this genie’s motives were honest enough, his capabilities were still a dangerous unknown.

Adenant’s report might contain something of that. So, too, might Yfaen’s contribution. The sylph had a tall stack on the table at her side, books and loose papers alike. “This is all I could find, madam,” she said, with an apologetic duck of her head, as if she hadn’t assembled a month’s worth of reading. “The Thousand and One Nights he mentioned—a French translation, and two English ones. Also a few other books, and a manuscript from Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. I don’t know if it says anything about genies, but her husband was the English ambassador to Istanbul about fifty years ago, and she went with him; this is what she wrote about her experiences. It may help.”

Anything that chipped away at Lune’s ignorance would help. She sighed, foreseeing a great deal of work ahead. “My thanks to all three of you. If you learn more—”

Beggabow snapped his fingers, then blushed and tugged his forelock in apology for interrupting her. “Sorry, your Grace. I just remembered. There’s a Jew around the corner from where he lives, a lens-maker named Schuyler; your Arab has him and a silversmith working on some kind of mirrored bowl. Not sure what that’s for, but it’s big.” The puck held out his arms, indicating something at least a yard across.

A chill ran down Lune’s spine. “I’ll have the Lord Treasurer disburse more bread to you. Watch him, and watch this Jew. We need to know what that bowl is for.”

“Mr. St. Clair,” Elizabeth Vesey said in a disapproving voice, “I am beginning to think you left the better part of yourself at home.”

One of the ladies let out an unregenerate cackle. She was an older woman, and not one Galen knew, but their brief introduction had made it clear she had a filthy mind, and no shame about it, either. Though she hadn’t voiced her interpretation of Mrs. Vesey’s words, Galen still blushed, and got another cackle for his pains.

“My apologies,” he told his hostess, shaking himself to alertness. “My mind was indeed elsewhere—though I assure you, in a place more pleasant than home.”

He realised too late how that would sound to the scandalous old woman. Her third cackle was even louder than the first two. Ah well, he told himself, resigned. Learn to do that on purpose, and you might pass muster as a wit.

But social reasons were the least part of his purpose here tonight. At one end of the room, Dr. Andrews was preparing his materials for a presentation. This was not the Bluestocking Circle per se, but a gathering of learned ladies and some gentlemen, and Galen was attending to continue his evaluation of the man. The days were passing, and he was painfully aware of them; but he was also aware that the consequences of trusting the wrong man could be severe.

In the meanwhile, other plans were proceeding apace, and that was reason he had come. Across the room, a redoubtable woman in her early fifties conversed with Mrs. Montagu. Galen waited for a suitable moment, then approached and bowed to her. “Mrs. Carter, good evening. My apologies for interrupting, but I was wondering if I might beg a favour of you.”

He didn’t have to feign respect. Elizabeth Carter’s learning and skill with words shamed that of most men; her translations of Stoic philosophy were renowned, and they said Greek was only one of the nine languages she spoke.

Of the other eight, one—according to rumour and Mrs. Montagu—was Arabic.

She gestured with her fan for him to continue. “I’ve recently come into possession of a strange item,” Galen said, “which the former owner claims comes from somewhere in the Ottoman lands. It’s a mirrored bowl, quite large, and bears an inscription in a language I believe to be Arabic. Might I prevail upon you to examine it, and translate the words if possible?”

If Abd ar-Rashid was telling the truth, the bowl would aid them in their attempts to veil the sky. No one wanted to use it, however, until they had some confirmation of that. Mrs. Carter said, “It might be a ‘magic bowl,’ as some call them; they have been used for centuries in that part of the world, and not just by the Arabs. Though usually they are quite small. I would be delighted to study it for you, Mr. St. Clair.”

Should the bowl prove to be what the genie claimed, it would be a great boon to Irrith’s plan. Galen thanked Mrs. Carter profusely, and made arrangements to have the bowl delivered to her house. These were scarcely completed when Galen felt a delicate hand upon his arm. “Mr. St. Clair, I believe you are acquainted with Miss Delphia Northwood?”

Galen was at the nadir of his bow before he realised he knew that name… sort of.

“My lady of the mixed metaphors,” he said, straightening in time to see Miss Northwood stifle a laugh. “Indeed, Mrs. Vesey, we met at Vauxhall, and have had the pleasure of each other’s company several times since then.”

Delphia. Had Cynthia used that nickname? It suited the young woman far better than the ponderous weight of “Philadelphia,” as did her gown tonight. The pale rose gave warmth to her complexion, and while nothing could transform her plainness to beauty, the simplicity of her dress at least suited her scholarly air. Miss Northwood smiled and said, “Indeed we have. Mama has been most… eager to see me in the company of new friends.”

“Is she here?” Galen asked, glancing about. A foolish question; his one previous encounter with Mrs. Northwood had established her as a woman not easily overlooked. She lost no opportunities to scrutinise any young man that came near her daughter.

“No, indeed. Our dear Sylph is a good friend of the family, and therefore, in Mama’s opinion, a sufficient chaperone for my good behavior.” Miss Northwood smiled at Mrs. Vesey.

The girl’s mother would probably not think that if she knew their dear Sylph kept company with an actual sylph, Lady Yfaen. Their hostess, smiling as if she had precisely that thought, excused herself to make certain Dr. Andrews had everything he needed. Watching her go, Miss Northwood added, “Of course, Mama thinks tonight is a harmless card party, with no topic more mentally strenuous than, say, the current fashion in hats.”

“You lied to her?”

She smiled at his shocked reply. “And do you tell your family the truth of everything you do, Mr. St. Clair? No, I thought not.”

He wanted to say he kept secrets for greater cause, but that would open him to far too many questions. Making comparisons between his father and her mother struck him as invidious, so instead he asked, “She would not approve of tonight’s presentation?”

“She fears—quite rightly—where it might lead me. As she has reminded me on many occasions, neither grasping for patronage nor battling with publishers is a suitable pastime for a young woman desiring respectability, and if I hope to make a worthwhile match, I should lay aside such dreams—at least until after my marriage, whereupon it will be my husband’s decision as to whether I may write or not.” Miss Northwood shrugged, with no particular rancor. “She is correct, of course. But I still flout her as I can.”

Galen could only gape. “You—you write, Miss Northwood?”

Her rueful smile came with a bit of a blush. “I put pen to paper, Mr. St. Clair. I do not publish. Not yet, at least.”

He could understand her mother’s concern. Learning in a woman was not a shameful thing—at least he did not think so—but the public activity that went with it could be, particularly when it involved wrangling over business like some common Grub Street hack. Elizabeth Carter had done it, but Galen suspected her quiet and retiring life at least partly a stratagem for maintaining her respectability. And was it coincidence that she had never married?

Grasping for some fragment of wit to lift the shadow from Miss Northwood’s face, he said, “If you would like, I can pretend I do not see you here, so as to preserve at least one of your marriage prospects.”

In the pause that followed, he realised what he had just said. It should not have mattered; Miss Northwood knew he was looking for a wife, as he knew she—or at least her mother, on her behalf—was hunting a husband; to say it out loud should change nothing. Yet it did, introducing a sudden and palpable awkwardness broken only by Mrs. Vesey’s voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated; we are ready to begin.”

Normally their hostess preferred to arrange her guests into scattered groups, the better for them to enjoy conversation with one another, but for Dr. Andrews’s presentation she had set the chairs in rows. Galen, fleeing embarrassment, took a seat next to Mrs. Montagu; Miss Northwood ended up two rows behind them. He tried not to wonder whether she was staring at his back as Dr. Andrews began his lecture.

He began by thanking Mrs. Vesey, but soon embarked upon his topic. “The French philosopher René Descartes,” Dr. Andrews said, “spoke in his writings of the division between Body and Mind. The body operates like a machine, according to the laws that govern physical things, while the the mind is immaterial, insubstantial, and is not constrained by physical laws. But each can influence the other: if I raise my hand, thus, it is because my mind directed my body to do so. The passions of the body can likewise influence the mind, as when anger leads a man to make a rash decision.

“But what is the means by which this interaction occurs?”

Mere abstraction would have been weighty enough for an evening’s lecture, but Dr. Andrews soon proceeded to detail, speaking first of Descartes’s obsolete notion that the pineal gland was the point of connection between Body and Mind. From there it was on to the ventricles of the brain and other matters Mrs. Northwood certainly would not have considered appropriate for ladies of any age.

And indeed, Galen saw some expressions of distaste when Andrews delved too far into anatomy. For others, though, fascination was the much stronger force. These were the same kinds of women for whom Mrs. Carter had translated Sir Isaac Newton’s Philosophy Explain’d for the Use of Ladies, from the Italian. Physics might be a cleaner subject, but their curiosity did not end there.

“There are times,” Andrews said, “when no physician can tell what has brought life to an end. No discernible cause explains it. Or one man suffers a wound that defeats him; another, wounded just the same, lives on. The ultimate cause of mortality, perhaps, lies not in the body, but in the mind: if it can transcend the body’s control, and become the sole master of the self…” He broke off with an embarrassed, affected laugh. “Well, short of a reversal of the Fall, that isn’t likely to happen. But we can at least dream of such a day.”

Weaken the mind, Galen thought, not even certain what he meant by that phrase. Perhaps that’s why the Dragon could not be killed. Its mind is more powerful than its body.

The lecture was done. Distracted, he rose from his chair and went to the table at the side of the room, where he poured a cup of punch for himself. Then he stood with it forgotten in his hand, biting one thumbnail, still thinking.

Mrs. Vesey found him there. “Well, Mr. St. Clair, inquiring busybodies wish to know—when do you intend to offer for her?”

Her question was so unexpected, and so little in keeping with his current thoughts, that he almost didn’t understand the words; she could have been speaking Arabic. Once her meaning became clear, he glanced across the room to Miss Northwood, who stood in animated conversation with Mrs. Montagu. “I have until the end of the Season, as you well know.”

“She is free,” Mrs. Vesey said, “but not likely to remain so forever. Not with parents so ambitious to see their daughter matched well.”

Galen liked to believe that Miss Northwood looked kindly upon him. He might not be the only man so favoured, though. He sighed. “Free—as I am not. Mrs. Vesey, whatever shall I do? How can I, in good conscience, take a wife? It’s one thing to have interests and business separate from marriage and one’s wife—every man does so—but when they must be kept secret…”

Mrs. Vesey pursed her lips, then said, “You could tell her.”

“About—” Far too loud, especially for the words that had nearly come out of his mouth. Galen waited until he could speak more moderately, then whispered, “You must be mad.”

“Must I?” She seemed unconcerned by the prospect. “I know you aren’t the first man to be in your position. They cannot have all been bachelors, and surely some told their wives.”

Galen had no idea whether they had or not. It was not something he’d ever thought to ask the Queen. On the surface of it, there was no reason Mrs. Vesey should be wrong; after all, as Lune had reminded him, if he wanted to reveal the secret of the Onyx Court to some mortal, he had the authority to do so. Yet in his mind, mortal had always meant man. Even standing here, within whispering distance of a woman who had tea every week with a faerie, he’d never thought to include the gentler sex.

But of course Mrs. Vesey’s suggestion only addressed the objection of secrecy. She knew nothing of his love for Lune, that would make him unfaithful to his wife from the moment they were wed.

Galen gritted his teeth. I thought I left that objection behind in my father’s study. Apparently his conscience would not let go so easily.

Mrs. Vesey said, “Well, do consider it. I think Miss Northwood is a proper match for you; she, of all girls, might be able to accept that truth. And if you wait until the end of the Season, Mr. St. Clair, you may well lose her to another gentleman. Think on that, too—and while you do, please take this punch to Dr. Andrews.”

On her way to the night garden, Irrith passed a surprising number of fae in the corridors of the Onyx Hall. They fell neatly into two groups: the rough-clad, non-elfin ones were going to the arena to watch a mortal boxer stand up against the yarthkin Hempry, and the elfin ones in fanciful dress were on their way to one of the greater halls, for a masquerade ball.

Near the branch that led to the Temple of Arms, she ran into and almost did not recognise Segraine. For once the lady knight looked more lady than knight, in a dress woven of mist that complemented her eyes. “You aren’t going to watch the boxer?” Irrith said in surprise.

Her friend scowled. “A pair of mermen showed up in Queenhithe this morning, come to negotiate with her Majesty about the clouds. She didn’t expect them; this might be the first time they’ve deigned to come so far upriver. The hope is that it’s a good sign. But it means she wants a big retinue at the ball, to impress the sea folk.”

The speculation on Segraine’s face made Irrith say hastily, “I have nothing suitable to wear, and couldn’t possibly find anything in time.”

“And if I go looking out a gown for you, you’ll vanish while my back’s turned.” Segraine made a frustrated noise. “Rumour has it Carline will be showing up in a dress made of flame. I liked her better when she was scheming; then she wanted something, and was willing to display the tiniest bit of tact in order to get it.”

The reasons for Irrith not to attend the ball kept mounting. She said, “I was going to the night garden, to talk to Ktistes. He says his people have ways to talk to the winds, and I think that might help me with the clouds.”

“Better the Greeks than the merfolk. Their desires are far more comprehensible.” Segraine brushed her hands across the false hips of her dress, sending mist eddying outward, and said, “Her Grace is waiting for me. If she asks, I’ll say I didn’t see you.”

Irrith barely waited to express her gratitude before bolting for the night garden.

The place was eerily silent. Normally there were fae scattered around enjoying the fountains or the flowers or conducting an assignation under a bower, but tonight Irrith had it to herself—except for Ktistes, of course, who showed no interest in masquerades, and preferred wrestling to boxing. On her way to his pavilion on the far side, though, Irrith realised there was one other person in the garden.

Galen sat on a low bench next to a slender white obelisk. What he was doing there, Irrith didn’t know; he should have been with Lune, preparing to greet the ambassadors from the sea. Certainly he was dressed for court, in a deep blue coat heavily crusted with silver embroidery and a diamond-buttoned waistcoat. He sat unmoving, though, and his expression was a complex blend of melancholy and speculation, and it drew her like a moth to a flame.

She made enough noise that he heard her coming and rose. “Dame Irrith. Is her Grace calling for me?”

“Probably,” Irrith said. “I came to visit Ktistes. What are you doing?”

The Prince gestured toward the plaque at the base of the obelisk. “Just… thinking.”

Irrith drew closer and knelt in the grass, the better to read the inscriptions at the base. They turned out to be a list of names and dates.

And above them, in large letters, PRINCES OF THE STONE.

The numbers made her feel very odd. It was such a human thing—of course, the men commemorated here were human. But to see the years of their reigns laid out in marble like that… it was as if she normally flew above the landscape of time, and this forced her briefly down to earth.

From behind her, Galen said, “You knew some of them, didn’t you?”

“Three.” Irrith reached out with an uncertain hand, brushing her fingertip along the names. “Lord Antony. Jack—he rarely used his title. And Lord Joseph.” After that, she’d been in Berkshire.

“How many were married?”

Irrith twisted around to stare at him. Galen still had that look on his face, the melancholy and the speculation. And a bit of apprehension, too. “Of the ones I knew? Lord Antony and Lord Joseph.”

Now melancholy was winning out. “And the first one, too, I think. Even if they were never wed in a church, I know he loved the Queen. And she loved him back.”

Irrith glanced past him, to the canopy of ever-blooming apple trees on the other side of the path. The greenery in between hid the second obelisk—the one that marked Sir Michael Deven’s grave. “Yes.”

Galen let out his breath as if trying, and failing, to banish his gloom with it, and sank back down upon the bench. There being nowhere else to sit but next to him or on the grass, Irrith stayed where she was. She could almost taste the sentiment churning in his heart, and perhaps it was that which led her to speak recklessly. “She won’t stop you from marrying, you know. Even if you are in love with her.”

The transformation to shock, horror, and embarrasment was instantaneous. Galen sputtered out several half-finished words before he managed a coherent sentence: “I’m not in love with her!”

“Ah.” Irrith nodded wisely. “Then I misunderstood. I thought the fact that you watch every move she makes, light up when she smiles, grovel like a kicked dog when she’s disappointed, and would do absolutely anything she asks in a heartbeat meant you were in love with her. But I’m a faerie; I know little about such things.”

She managed not to laugh at Galen, even though he was staring at her like the very spirit of the word aghast. It was funny, but she also felt a pang of sympathy for him. It could not possibly be pleasant, tying your heart to someone else’s heels like that.

Sunset still flamed in his cheeks when the strangled whisper emerged from his frozen mouth. “Please tell me she doesn’t know.”

“She doesn’t,” Irrith agreed. After all, he was the Prince; she had to do what he told her. Also, he wouldn’t be able to help Lune with the mermen if he went and buried himself under a rock to die of shame.

“You cannot tell her,” Galen said. For the first time since she met him, he sounded authoritative—if a little desperate. “My… sentiment is my own concern. Her Majesty will not be burdened with the knowledge of it.”

Irrith hardly listened to the last of that; she was distracted by something else. “No wonder you almost never use her name. Other Princes have, you know. She doesn’t require formality of them. Are you afraid she’ll guess, if she hears you say it?” It would be hard, she supposed, to sound like an ardent lover while wrestling with cumbersome forms of address.

Galen said stiffly, “Until such time as I can show her the proper respect in my heart, I must rely on the respect of speech.”

Good luck, Irrith thought. “How did it happen, anyway?” She wrapped her arms around her knees, like a child awaiting a story. She’d once spent a few years spying on such children, trying to understand the nature of family. It still escaped her, but she’d learned some entertaining tales.

His teeth caught his lower lip, a charming bit of off-centre uncertainty. “I caught a glimpse of her one night, returning from a journey outside of London. She shone like the moon…”

Irrith shivered. That was it, right there: the sound of adoration. It thrummed in his voice like a low string, plucked once.

Galen took sudden and intense interest in his fingernails. Seated below him, Irrith could still see a little of his face: the wings of his brows, the clean slope of his jaw. Not his eyes. “I knew nothing of the Onyx Court, and scarcely more of faeries; our nursemaid told other kinds of stories. But I searched London high and low, seeking hints of my vision, and ended up following Dame Segraine to an entrance.” He laughed quietly. “Which wasn’t my cleverest decision ever. But it worked out in the end.”

“You must have been terribly young.”

“Nineteen,” Galen said defensively.

Irrith blinked. “And you’re how old now?”

“Twenty-two.”

There was a profoundly tactless response to that, and Irrith might have made it had a puck not come running down the path just then. He ran past the two of them, slid to a halt, and came leaping back almost before he’d gotten his body turned around. “Lord Galen. The Queen needs your presence urgently—the masquerade—”

Galen was already on his feet. Despite the messenger’s obvious hurry, the Prince offered a hand to Irrith, and helped her up from the grass. “Are you attending the ball, Dame Irrith?”

It would almost be worth it, just to watch Galen try not to sigh over Lune, but even that could not drag her into so elegant an event. “No, I must talk to Ktistes. But I hope it goes well.”

He bowed, and then followed the twitching messenger out a nearby arch.

Left alone, Irrith knelt again and touched the plaque. Dr. Hamilton Birch: 1750–1756. It was… 1758 now, she thought. Galen was twenty-two. Nineteen when he came to the Onyx Hall.

She didn’t know when his birthday was, nor when in 1756 he’d succeeded Lord Hamilton, but he couldn’t have been in the Onyx Hall for more than a year or two before he became Prince of the Stone.

Quick elevations had happened before. Usually it was because something had happened to the previous Prince. And Hamilton Birch had reigned for only six years.

Then gave way to an uncertain young man whose chief qualification seemed to be adoration of the Queen.

Irrith liked Galen well enough. He clearly had a generous heart and an overwhelming desire to serve Lune faithfully. He was, however, also naïve enough to make Irrith feel like a jaded politician. Why had the Queen chosen him? Especially at so crucial a moment, with the Onyx Hall itself in mounting danger. Lune must have her reasons, but Irrith could not fathom what they were.

But then, Irrith didn’t know Galen all that well. She’d managed to accumulate a little bread, though—enough that she could spend some time sniffing around in the world above.

The time had come, she decided, to take a closer look at this new Prince.

Leaving behind the seventh draft of a note explaining the necessity of his decision, Galen St. Clair rode south out of London.

Darkness and the threat of tears obscured his vision as he crossed the new Westminster Bridge, descending into the open fields of Lambeth. Galen tried to force the latter down. He’d wept enough already; all of them had, from his mother down to little Irene.

All except his father.

Fury made his best guard against misery. Charles St. Clair had refused to share the details of the disaster, but Galen had gotten them from Laurence Byrd; he now knew to an excruciating degree of fineness how his father had gambled his fortune on a series of dubious investments, and lost it through the same. They were not penniless—his father kept saying so, louder every time, as if that made the situation more palatable. Not penniless, but they would have to practice a great deal of economy, and even that would not save the three St. Clair daughters. Their marriage portions would be small indeed.

Unless money was found, somehow. And so Galen wrote a letter, sealed it, and left it on his father’s desk, then took horse for Portsmouth and the Royal Navy. Britain was fighting France in the Ohio Country; there was hope of proper war, and with it, prize money.

In the madness of his desperation, this was the life Galen had chosen for himself.

He pulled his horse to a stop in the middle of a narrow lane, bracketed by hedgerows. His breath came hard in his chest, almost crossing the line into sobs. Could he do this? Abandon his mother, and his sisters, and the soil of England itself, to go to sea and court death in hopes of a brighter future?

It seemed to him that the darkness lifted a bit, as if the clouds had cleared, uncovering the moon. Galen’s breathing slowed when he realised two things: first, that the night was already clear, and second, that the moon was new.

He looked up into the sky.

High above, silver-radiant against the tapestry of the stars, rode a goddess. Her hands rested lightly on the reins of an enchanted steed, and her hair streamed free like the tail of some glorious comet. No road bore her weight, nor wings; the horse galloped upon the insubstantial air.

Behind her came a host of others, but Galen had no eyes for them. He sat rapt, his own mount forgotten beneath him, and turned in his saddle to watch the goddess go by. His memory, trained since childhood by a mother who loved the stories of the pagan Greeks and Romans, whispered names in his ear: Artemis. Diana. Selene. Luna.

Perfection, beyond the reach of mortal kind.

And she was riding to London.

There was no mistaking it. The enchanted host changed their course, lowering to the grassy fields just before Southwark’s edge. His heart ached to see them descend to earth. They were airy things, and her most of all, that should not be contaminated by the heaviness of the world.

Yet they were of London. He’d seen it in the serenity of her beautiful face: she was coming home. Somehow that filthy city, choked with dung and coal smoke and the cries of the poor, that maw that ate up fortune and spat out ashes, was beloved to her. Wherever she had gone, she rejoiced at her return.

I must know who she is.

Galen tugged unthinking at his reins. Nothing happened. His horse, he saw, had bent to graze on a thick tuft of grass. Growling, he yanked harder, and dragged the reluctant beast onto a neighbouring lane. But however much he spurred it onward, he wasn’t fast enough; by the time he reached Southwark, the enchanted host had vanished.

His heart pounded with passions that could not be put into words. That vision—who she was, what she was, and why she dwelt in London—

He could not leave.

A few moments ago, he’d been uncertain. Now there was no question. He could not turn his back upon the glory he had seen. Galen would stay, and search the city from Westminster to Wapping, tearing up the very cobbles of the streets if need be, until he found the lady again. And when he did, he would offer her his services, even unto death.

With tears once more upon his face, Galen turned his weary horse homeward.

But this time, they were tears of wonder.

The crowds of Fleet Street were bad enough in the evening; at four o’clock in the afternoon, they were nothing short of absurd. This time, Galen’s choice to ride in a sedan chair had little to do with economy, and a great deal to do with common sense; as slowly as he was moving, a carriage would have gone even slower. Andrews had chosen the same mode of conveyance, and as they crawled through the press, the doctor’s rear chair-man was able to carry on an entire conversation with Galen’s forward man.

By the time he and the doctor stepped out at their destination, the early heat had called forth sweat from every pore of Galen’s skin. Andrews had gone so far as to take off his wig, and was fanning himself with his hat as Galen rejoined him. “God, I hate London in the summer,” the man said with feeling. “But the food will make up for it, I assure you; we’ve had a gift of turtle recently. Come, follow me.”

They escaped the clamour of the street for the quieter—though by no means quiet—interior of the Mitre Tavern. Men sat at their dinners all along the tables, and waiters scrambled to attend to them; Galen was almost run over by one plate-laden fellow as Andrews led him toward the stairs. The private room above was a relief by comparison, even if the air within was stuffy with pipe smoke, and the gentlemen there distinguished enough to put Galen to shame.

Most of them were members of the Royal Society, but this, the similarly named Society of Royal Philosophers, was a much more select group. According to Andrews, their membership was limited to forty, and the dues collected to pay for their weekly dinners would have sent Galen’s father into an apoplexy. Though it was far from the most expensive or exclusive club in London, it was more than enough to intimidate Galen, who once again was attending only as a guest.

Andrews made the rounds of introductions. Encouragingly, a number of the gentlemen remembered Galen; those who didn’t, came rarely or never to the meetings in Crane Court, which took place after this dinner every Thursday. And there was another young man there, perhaps five years older than Galen, who was likewise a newcomer and a guest. “Henry Cavendish,” Dr. Andrews said by way of introduction, when they came face-to-face. “Son of— is your father here, Mr. Cavendish?”

The answer came in the form of a gesture toward a man Galen remembered from his first Royal Society meeting. Once again he stood in conversation with Lord Macclesfield, who was president of both societies. “You are the son of Lord Charles Cavendish?”

A nod. Galen glanced fleetingly at Dr. Andrews, perplexed by the other’s silence. But his companion was distracted. “Ah, Mr. Franklin! Good to see you again. Hadley was telling me your thoughts on evaporation—”

When everyone sat down to dinner, Galen found himself with Andrews on one side and Henry Cavendish on the other, with Franklin—who, it transpired, was a Society Fellow visiting from the colonies—across the table. His conversation with Andrews had moved on to electricity, about which Galen knew very little. While the waiter brought out the first course, Galen addressed himself to the challenge of drawing Cavendish into conversation. “Your father is the Vice President of the Royal Society, I believe. Do you have an interest in natural philosophy as well?”

Another nod, as the fellow piled his plate high with pheasant, cod, and pork. What was it going to take, to make him open his mouth? Perhaps it was simple snobbery; if Galen remembered lineages correctly, Henry Cavendish was the grandson of not one but two dukes. On the other hand, it was hard to ascribe snobbery to a man so shabbily dressed; his coat, to choose but one example, was not only plain but frayed at the cuffs and collar.

Faced with the prospect of eating in silence, or else of ignoring his companion to join in conversation elsewhere, Galen opted for a third course of action: he began to talk about whatever came into his head, with frequent pauses that invited Cavendish to contribute. Taking his cues from those around him, he kept his focus on matters philosophical, but within those constraints he gave his curiosity free rein. From Lord Charles’s work on thermometers he went on to something Franklin had said about electricity, and thence to astronomy, which—as it always did—led his tongue to fire.

“It’s a topic of great interest to me,” Galen admitted. Somehow he’d managed to empty his wineglass, wetting his throat; he would have to be more careful, lest he inadvertently make a drunken fool of himself. “I’m fascinated by an account I just read of the work done by a German, Georg Stahl—do you know of it?” He paused for the now expected nod. “I’d never considered that the calcination of metals and the combustion of wood might be the same thing, the release of phlogiston from the material. And who says it ends there? After all, the transmission of electrical fluid can cause fires, as lightning strikes have shown; perhaps that fluid is phlogiston in pure form, or at least contains it in high proportion.”

With the general chatter filling the room, Galen almost didn’t hear the response. “If it w—if it w—” Cavendish stopped and tried again, with better success. “If it were pure phlogiston, we should expect to see electricity leap into the air as a log burns.”

It was two answers in one: a refutation of his notion, and an explanation for why Henry Cavendish had not opened his mouth before. The gentleman’s high-pitched voice squeaked like a nervous girl’s, and strain showed in his eyes and jaw as he forced himself past the awkward pauses.

Galen felt instant remorse for having thought the man a snob. Nothing could change that unfortunate voice, but surely a gathering of this sort, filled with strangers and free-flowing conversation, made his stammer worse. No wonder Cavendish was quiet.

Having achieved the tiniest bit of success, though, Galen was not about to abandon the effort. “I suppose that’s true. I confess, I’ve only just encountered Stahl’s phlogiston theory; a friend gave me the book last week.” One benefit to Cavendish’s reticence; he wouldn’t ask about the friend, and therefore Galen wouldn’t have to come up with a lie with which to disguise Wilhas von das Ticken. “Have you done any experiments on the matter?”

The conflicted expression in Cavendish’s eyes was familiar to Galen: a profound desire to indulge in his passion, warring against an equally profound reluctance to speak of it. Their respective situations might be very different, but the result looked remarkably similar.

“Hard to do,” Cavendish finally mumbled, after another excruciating set of attempts to get the words out. “Need to isolate phlogiston. Might be able to do it with iron filings and acid—Boyle’s experiment. Drive the phlogiston out of the metal and ca—and ca—”

Galen stopped himself just short of saying “capture it.” Interrupting someone of Cavendish’s stature would be rude in the extreme. Besides, even as the words formed in his mind, the association they called up startled him so badly he dropped his fork. Perhaps it’s already been captured.

Captured—and exiled to a comet.

Salamanders, according to the fae, were the embodiment of fire, and the Dragon was that same concept writ large. And what was phlogiston—the substance that escaped wood when it burnt, and metals when they calcined—but the fundamental stuff of fire?

“Dangerous,” Henry Cavendish said, in an overenunciated squeak, apparently responding to some speculation he’d made while Galen wasn’t listening.

He was far more correct than he knew. “I think,” Galen said, his thoughts racing ahead almost too quickly for his own mind to catch, “that I might have a notion of another way to do it. To obtain a pure sample of phlogiston—or close to pure, at any rate. If I brought such a thing to you, would you—”

He didn’t even have to finish the sentence. Henry Cavendish’s eyes blazed from the phrase pure sample onward. Behind the awkwardness was revealed the sort of mind Galen had hoped to find when he first came to the Royal Society. This grandson of dukes might not be another Sir Isaac Newton, bringing fundamental revelation to the world, but neither would he be a mere dilettante scholar, writing rambling letters to the Society about the curious rock he found on his estate. The passion for knowledge was there, and the intelligence necessary to seize it.

From the other side of Galen, Andrews said, “Pure phlogiston? If you obtain that, Mr. St. Clair, you must share it with the Royal Society at once! Not merely the substance, but the means by which you isolated it. This could be a tremendous advancement.”

Far too much attention was falling on Galen now. Bring a salamander to Crane Court? It was unthinkable. Using his dropped fork as an excuse to hide his face, Galen mumbled, “Well, I—I am not confident it will work. And I would have to, ah, repeat my results, to be certain they’re reliable. You understand.”

The waiter saved him. He entered the room just then, followed by two of his fellows bearing a large silver platter. With a flourish, they lifted the cover to reveal the promised turtle, and Galen’s reckless declaration was forgotten in the ensuing approval.

By most. Andrews, however, did not forget. While the dish was being served, he leaned closer to Galen and said, “If you need any assistance, Mr. St. Clair, do not hesitate to ask. I know this is quite aside from my usual studies, but I would be extremely interested to see that result.”

“You shall,” Galen said, arriving at a decision without warning. I’ve dithered long enough. There are minds here who can help the Onyx Court—but only if they have information to work with. Cavendish was too new; Galen had known him for less than an hour. Andrews, on the other hand, he’d been studying for six months. The time had come to make a decision.

Andrews saw the change in him. Softer yet, he asked, “What is it, Mr. St. Clair?”

Galen shook his head. Not here, and not until he had a chance to notify the Queen. But once that was done…

“Might I call on you tomorrow, Dr. Andrews?” The older man nodded. “Excellent. I have a few things to share with you, that I think you will find very interesting indeed.”

Galen half-wondered why no one commented on the strange drumbeat coming from within the sedan chair. Surely his heartbeat was audible all the way to the river. Lune’s encouraging words last night had fortified him enough to propel him out the door, but now that he was here, the magnitude of what he was about to do threatened to overwhelm him.

Momentum alone carried him out of the chair, up to the suddenly menacing door, into the cool entrance hall of Dr. Andrews’s townhouse. The words he’d carefully rehearsed all through the Royal Society meeting last night, through the hours when he lay unable to sleep, through the breakfast he didn’t eat and the journey to Red Lion Square, now ran about like frightened mice in his head, scattered and incoherent. Telling himself that others had done this before him didn’t help; he hadn’t taken the time to study preferred methods of revealing the Onyx Court, and now it was too late.

The obvious solution—fobbing Andrews off with some other topic, and trying again later—was out of the question. Galen knew himself an occasional coward, but that was a retreat he could not accept.

“Coffee?” Dr. Andrews offered, once he’d emerged from his laboratory and washed his hands clean in a basin the maid brought. “Or brandy, perhaps?”

That his host should offer spirits told Galen just how visible his nervousness was. Licking his lips, he thought, Delaying will only make it worse. I must do this now, or not at all.

“No, thank you,” he said, and somehow those commonplace words of courtesy steadied him. “Dr. Andrews, I do not wish to give offence, but—are your servants the sort to listen at keyholes?”

The older gentleman’s eyes hardened. “They are entirely loyal to me, Mr. St. Clair, and they know I will not tolerate indiscretion.”

The frostiness, Galen thought, was not directed at him. A household like this, without a wife to manage it, was often an ill-run menagerie; it took a wise choice of housekeeper and a stern disciplinary hand to prevent gossiping, pilfering, and general shabbiness of service. Dr. Andrews, it seemed, had achieved that success.

“What I have to say to you is very private,” Galen said, unnecessarily; he’d already made that much obvious. His nerves would not rest, though. “I don’t mean to impugn your control of your servants, but it would be disastrous for many people if word were to slip out.” No doubt it had happened before, in the centuries of the Onyx Court’s existence, and no doubt the fae had methods of dealing with it; otherwise all London would know of their presence. But they could be ruthless in protecting their secrets, and Galen had no desire to provoke a demonstration.

Andrews gestured toward the door. “If you’re truly worried, Mr. St. Clair, we could walk in the fields around the Foundling Hospital. It’s a pleasant day, and we should have no worries of being overheard.”

Only when relief broke in a cold wave over Galen did he realise how much the servants had been worrying him. “That would be ideal.”

With no further ado, Andrews bowed him through the doorway. Red Lion Street, lined with rows of smaller houses, opened without warning into placid fields, just a few blocks to the north. A broad avenue led to the brick heights of the Foundling Hospital, but Galen and Dr. Andrews went left, along a footpath into the Lamb’s Conduit Fields.

He breathed much more easily out here, and not just because the nearest people were well distant, hard at work in the little market gardens that served London with fresh vegetables and flowers. The sunlight was warm without being oppressively hot, and the buttercups blooming along the sides of the path unknotted his shoulders just by their cheerful color. In such surroundings, the existence of a dark and hidden world beneath London seemed more like a point of curiosity than a threat. That was the greatest risk: that someday the Onyx Court would be exposed to one who saw them as an enemy. Galen was determined to protect himself, and the court, from that error.

Dr. Andrews gave him the time he needed to marshal his thoughts. They ambled along in silence, until Galen took a deep breath and launched into the speech he’d so carefully prepared.

“I must confess, Dr. Andrews, that while I’ve been grateful for your patronage in the Royal Society, from early on, I had an additional motive in cultivating your acquaintance. I hoped you might be able to provide me with a touch of assistance on a rather pressing matter. The questions you pursue—the nature of mortality, and the relationship between mind and body, spirit and matter—those have very direct bearing upon my concerns. I saw in your quest the opportunity not just to solicit assistance, but to offer it to you in return. You see, sir, I have these several years now been closely involved with a number of individuals upon whom mortality has no hold.”

Andrews had been walking this entire time with his hands clasped at the small of his back and his eyes raised to the sky, enjoying the scents of summer. Now he lowered his chin, so that his face fell into shadow, and turned a look of astonishment upon Galen.

He said nothing, though, for which Galen was grateful. If interrupted now, he might lose the thread of his explanation for good. “I’m well aware of the extraordinary nature of that claim. I assure you, Dr. Andrews, that I am entirely serious, though what I’m about to say to you may seem otherwise. These individuals live in London, but in secret; they never go about in public undisguised. Some of them have been here for centuries, and could tell you at first hand what it was like to live under the Tudors. They aren’t perfectly immortal—they can be slain—but in the absence of violence, they live forever.”

Here he paused to swallow, wishing he had some drink to wet his terribly dry mouth, and in that pause Dr. Andrews responded. “And who, may I ask, are these extraordinary immortals of which you speak?”

Dr. Johnson’s scornful face rose, unbidden, in Galen’s memory. He’d avoided the word deliberately, putting the meat of his explanation first, because he recalled the mockery of that great man, and did not wish to invite it a second time. But the word must, inevitably, be said.

“I speak, sir, of faeries.”

Andrews didn’t laugh. He didn’t make any sound at all.

“They aren’t the silly creatures of Shakespeare’s fancy,” Galen said. Well, some of them were—but those didn’t matter. “They exist in many varieties, from regal to foul, and not only might they teach you the very secrets you wish to learn… Dr. Andrews, they need your help.”

They had drifted to a halt in the middle of the path, surrounded by foxgloves and sunshine and the hard-packed dust of the ground. In the near distance, ordinary Londoners went about their work, blissfully free of the screaming apprehension that gripped Galen’s throat again, strangling him more with every moment in which Dr. Andrews did not respond.

He has to believe me. He must.

“Mr. St. Clair,” Andrews said, then stopped.

His chin was down even farther now, the brim of his hat concealing his expression. His hands were still behind his back, and in the set of his shoulders Galen saw rigid tension. It was to be expected; no one could take such a revelation in stride. But once he had a moment to assimilate it—

Andrews raised his head, and met Galen’s eyes with sober concern. “Mr. St. Clair, I’m not certain what possessed you to bring me out here with such a story. My guess is that you have been deceived by a mountebank—perhaps one offering wild promises of restoring your family’s fortune; perhaps one merely preying on your admirable heart, with these tales of faeries in need of a savior. I shudder to think what assistance he has asked of you.”

“There is no mountebank!” Galen exclaimed, horrified. “Dr. Andrews—”

The gentleman’s mouth hardened. “If no one has deceived you, then I must conclude that you are attempting to deceive me. I do not wish to know what your request would have been. Should I learn that, I would be forced to go to your father and share the news of this unfortunate encounter. As it stands, Mr. St. Clair, I offer you this much: I will not tell your father, nor will I bring any trouble upon you for wasting my time and goodwill. But in return, I must insist that you cease to attend the Royal Society. I can no longer in good conscience admit you as my guest, and should you persuade your father to do so again, I will speak against it to Lord Macclesfield. Have I made myself clear?”

He could have torn Galen’s heart from his chest and stomped it into the dust and he would not have been more clear. Galen wished he could sink into that dust, or leap into the sky and flee on the wings of a hawk—anything that would remove him from this sunny lane, and the disgusted gaze of Dr. Andrews.

Like an automaton’s, his mouth opened and formed words, without the instruction of his brain. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Andrews made a curt bow, barely more than a slight twitch forward. “I believe you can find your way home from here. Good day, Mr. St. Clair.”

Around the point when Irrith followed Galen to Red Lion Square, she had to admit she was spying on him.

How else was she to satisfy her curiosity? He was ludicrously easy to follow; a simple glamour, and she could shadow him wherever he went. Not into Royal Society meetings, where she would have to pretend to be one of the members, but other places were open to her. She visited his favourite bookshop, and saw what titles interested him. She loitered in his favourite coffeehouse, drinking the foul, bitter tonic while he played games of chance with his friends. She even investigated his house, with his three sisters and his tyrannical father.

It wasn’t spying. It was…

Very well, it’s spying.

And it sounded a bit shameful when she admitted that. Especially since she was neglecting the task Lune had set her, the concealment of England. Well and good to say she was waiting on the Queen’s negotiations with the Greeks and the folk of the sea, but Irrith had better things to do with her time than spying on the Prince.

She’d been considering sneaking into the house of the Marvellous Menagerie, to overhear what Galen might be saying, but now it didn’t seem like such a good idea. She was on the verge of convincing herself to go home when Galen emerged once more, this time in the company of that man. Dr. Andrews. The one with the fake satyr.

Following someone through green fields wasn’t shameful; it was one of her favourite pastimes in Berkshire. And she was very, very good at it. Freed from her doubts, Irrith crept close enough to hear Galen’s unbelievable speech, and Andrews’s unbelieving reaction.

She bit down on a curse. While the two men took their leave of each other, going separate ways, she fought the urge to chew on the brambles that concealed her. I should have warned Galen. I knew, when I asked him about satyrs—this isn’t a man who wants to believe in faeries. But she hadn’t realised that was what the Prince had in mind.

If she hurried, she might catch Andrews before he came among the houses once more, and then she could make certain he never reached them. Never had the chance to repeat what Galen had revealed.

But no; the Prince thought Andrews would be useful. She couldn’t simply kill him, even if he’d proved his lack of use.

It gave her another idea, though.

Irrith cut across the open ground, relying as much on the cover of hedges as faerie charms to keep herself concealed. Andrews was almost to the back of those big buildings near the town’s edge. She had only an instant to wonder if this was truly a good idea before she flung a glamour over herself, then flung herself into the path.

The mortal stopped abruptly. He drew a surprised breath, but it set off a fit of coughing; disgruntled, Irrith waited, as he fished out a handkerchief and spat something into it. Once his wind had returned, he looked up, and said with some confusion, “Miss Dinley?”

She’d remembered the look she put on for that visit to the menagerie, but not the name. What a helpful fellow. “Are you all right, Dr. Andrews?”

He waved his free hand at her, tucking the handkerchief away with the other. “You startled me, is all. What—” Now he looked around. “Are you out here alone?”

The temptation to play an elaborate role tugged at her. Under the circumstances, though, it was best to dispose of this quickly. “I saw you walking with Galen St. Clair.” She paused, holding Andrews’s gaze. “I know what he told you.”

The man scowled. “If you are a friend of his, Miss Dinley, then I would ask that you advise him to stop playing games.”

“But I like games,” Irrith said—from behind him.

She almost ruined it all by laughing when he squawked and spun around. It was an easy trick, the sort of thing pucks dismissed as beneath their efforts, but she hadn’t planned for this; she had to work with what she had.

Which was enough to impress Andrews. Or to frighten him, which was just as good. “What—how did you—”

“Get back here?” Irrith gave him a mocking curtsy. “Perhaps I moved faster than your old eyes can see.”

She read his intentions with plenty of time to spare. Andrews didn’t get two steps farther down the path before she moved again, blocking his way. “Of course,” she said, “I’m older than you are. Far older. But you don’t believe in creatures such as me, do you, Dr. Andrews?” She had to pause to concentrate, but that was all right; the man wasn’t going anywhere. His feet seemed rooted to the ground as the glamour masking her rippled, replacing Miss Dinley with a red-haired young gentleman in a foppish coat. “I’m just a mountebank, preying on his admirable heart.”

And then her final move, that went so hard against her instincts she had to grit her teeth to make it happen. Standing in the open, with the townhouses of sprawling London less than a quarter mile behind her, Irrith dropped her glamour entirely, and showed her true face to Dr. Rufus Andrews.

“I assure you,” she said. “Every word Galen St. Clair spoke was the truth.”

Galen had no thought in his head as he walked away, except to go somewhere Dr. Andrews was not.

The enormity of his failure was like a drowning sea around him, and nothing he could do would lift his head above the waters. It was no consolation at all to think that his caution had served him well; since Galen betrayed nothing of the Onyx Hall’s location, and brought no faerie as proof, Andrews had no way to cause them harm.

But that same caution had made it all too easy to dismiss Galen’s words.

Had I gambled more, would I have won?

Galen lifted his gaze and found he’d wandered across to the New River Head, the reservoir glittering incongruously bright. Beyond it lay a road, one direction leading to London, the other to Islington. He should have solicited the help of the Goodemeades, who would have been only too happy to advise him.

Yet he was the Prince. There had to be a point at which he could handle such matters on his own.

I certainly must do so now. However I mend this—and mend it I must—I don’t dare ask for help.

Pounding footsteps made him whirl. Despairing as he was, Galen’s first, overwrought fear was that some footpad had decided to murder him for the gold he wasn’t carrying.

Instead, he saw Dr. Andrews.

The old man stumbled on a stone and crashed to the ground, wheezing and coughing. His pallor was worse than ever, and his cheeks flushed with hectic spots. Throwing their argument to the wind, Galen rushed to his side. “Dr. Andrews! What has happened? Are you all right?”

Stupid questions. The man couldn’t tell what had happened, because of course he wasn’t all right; he was a consumptive who had just run much too far. Galen shuddered in horror when he saw the bright red spots on Andrews’ handkerchief.

Even before he had regained his breath, though, Andrews began trying to answer him. “F—f—”

Galen’s heart dropped like a stone.

“Faerie,” Andrews said, rasping the word out on an indrawn breath. “Near the—Foundling Hospital. A g—” More coughing. “A girl.”

Lune? Not a chance. Galen could not have been walking for more than a few minutes, though; who could have been so nearby, to cause such an immediate change?

Andrews was whispering something else. Galen bent close to hear.

“I’m sorry,” the older man said, addressing the dust between his hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t believe you. But she—her eyes—” He spat bloody saliva into the dirt, and spoke more clearly. “Not human. No one’s eyes are so green…”

Irrith.

Galen straightened with a jerk, staring wildly about as if the sprite would come sauntering up behind Andrews. Irrith, of course, was nowhere in sight. “What did she do to you?”

“Showed me.” Andrews was trying to get to his feet; against his better judgment, Galen helped him. “What she was. Is. I—” His spectacles had been knocked askew; he took them off, then stopped just before he could rub his soiled handkerchief over the lenses. Galen offered him a clean one, which he took with gratitude. “I’m ashamed to say I ran like a child.”

Galen didn’t want to ask further, but he had to know. “What did she do?”

A breath huffed out of Andrews, not quite a laugh, not quite a cough. “Nothing to warrant me running. Oh, a bit of trickery, to make her point. You—you did not send her?”

“Certainly not!” Galen exclaimed. “I would never do anything to frighten you like this.” I’m going to kill her.

Or possibly kiss her.

Because the look Andrews turned upon him held no more doubt. It was eradicated utterly, replaced by hope as fragile as a butterfly’s wing. “She said you spoke the truth. Can they truly help me?”

With the bloody handkerchief in his hand, the possibility took on a sharper edge. Galen didn’t want to foster it falsely. “They may. I cannot be sure. Lest you think them altruists, however—I can promise you they’ll want your aid in return, with a problem they face.” He took in Andrews’s dishevelled appearance, and realised he was being an ass. “Let me fetch you a chair, for returning to your house.” He hated to leave the man here on his own, even for a few short minutes; but conveyances did not make a habit of idling around the New River reservoir, waiting to rescue consumptive gentlemen frightened by faeries. Unless Andrews were to ride a cow home, Galen would have to go in search.

But the doctor stopped him with one hand on his arm. “I am well enough to walk,” Andrews said, “if we go slowly. And you were right; this is something my servants should not hear. Come, Mr. St. Clair, and tell me more.”

Irrith sat with her back to the wall, eyes trained on the opening that led to Newgate above, waiting for Galen to fall through.

She couldn’t be certain he would come this way—at least not any time soon—but she preferred waiting to facing the Queen with news of the Andrews incident. Galen could do that part. It was his duty anyway.

So why am I waiting for him? He can thank me later. But she wanted a chance to explain herself, before he questioned too much why she’d been following him. Assuming she could think of a believable explanation that wasn’t the truth.

She’d been waiting only a short while when Galen came floating down into the chamber, confirming her guess. Before Irrith could say any of the things she’d thought of, though, the Prince saw her—and flared into sudden fury.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded, with no prelude. “The man could have died, Irrith; he’s a consumptive! And what were you doing out there in the first place?”

Anger made sense, on the face of it—but she’d never seen Galen angry. His mild blue eyes took on a fire she wouldn’t have believed possible; Irrith had to stop herself before she could retreat. Summoning up what she could of her usual confidence, Irrith said, “You needed an example. Something he couldn’t ignore. If you’d told me you were planning such a thing—”

“I didn’t tell you,” Galen said through his teeth, “because I didn’t need your help.”

She confined her doubt to her eyebrows, and tried to make her spoken answer more conciliatory. “It was helpful, though, wasn’t it?”

Galen bit down so hard she swore she could hear his jaw creak. It wasn’t anger, though—or if it was, his eyes were lying. As was his reply. “I’m the Prince of the Stone, damn it. I should be able to do these things without help.”

“And who told you that?” she asked, bewildered.

“Lune trusts me—”

“To do everything yourself?” Irrith snorted. Ash and Thorn, he really is young. “She cares about results, Galen, not methods. So long as you don’t bring half of London down here on a Grand Tour, she doesn’t care how you do it. Or whom you ask for help.”

But he did. That was painfully obvious. The notion that Lune might be more impressed by a few shreds of common sense than some heroic determination to do everything himself was clearly very foreign to him.

Galen asked the floor, “Did she send you to follow me?”

“No,” Irrith said. Now they were both embarrassed. “I, er, was keeping watch over you. For the good of the Onyx Court.” That was close enough to the truth to pass.

He laughed soundlessly. “And so you saved me from my own mistake. I suppose you were worried he would say things he shouldn’t, tell someone about that mad St. Clair boy and the nonsense he spouts. Well, I have his assurance of secrecy now, so you can rest safely.”

“He didn’t believe you,” Irrith said. That still rankled. The need to make Galen understand why drew her closer to him, across the black stone floor. “Men like him don’t, not anymore. As far as they’re concerned, I don’t exist. And someone like you, who does believe… if he weren’t so angry, he would have laughed at you. I couldn’t let that stand, for me or you.”

Galen’s head came up, and only then did Irrith realise just how near she’d drawn. They stood bare inches apart, and then his gaze flickered, in a way she’d seen countless times across the countless ages.

But he didn’t move. So she did it for him, closing that last gap and capturing his lips with her own.

He wrenched back an instant later. “Dame Irrith—”

“What?” she asked, confused and a little hurt. “I saw your eyes move. You wanted to kiss me.”

“No! Well, yes, but—” He shook his head, hands up in midair as if warding something off. “It isn’t right.”

“Why not?”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a man with several explanations competing to come out first, none of them entirely satisfactory.

Irrith sighed. “You aren’t married. You aren’t even betrothed. Are you a virgin?”

“What? I—no—it’s none of your business!”

As if he were the first gentleman to make use of a whore’s services. Irrith guessed it was a whore; the sort of young man who seduced servant girls or the neighbour’s daughter usually didn’t blush like that. “So fornication isn’t the problem. Do you think it’s especially sinful, with a faerie woman? But you don’t mind being in love with—”

He didn’t have to stop her; she stopped herself. The answer was so obvious. But Irrith wasn’t used to accounting for such things. “But—she doesn’t even know how you feel.” Or so he liked to think.

Galen said, very stiffly, “That doesn’t matter. I know, and would feel ashamed.”

“But why should you?” Irrith advanced; he retreated. Step by step, they crossed the roundel beneath the entrance; mercifully, no one chose that moment to fall from the City above. “She doesn’t love you back, and you know it. You’ll never be with her, and you know that, too. Why not have what you can?”

Galen halted just before he would have hit the far wall. “Do you love me?”

Of course he would ask that. Irrith couldn’t remember the entirety of her existence, but surely she would remember if she’d ever encountered another man ruled so deeply by his heart. It defined him—and that, of course, was why he fascinated her so much.

“No,” Irrith said. “But I don’t need to.”

This time when she reached for him, he didn’t try to escape.