A Star Shall Fall

PART FIVE ^{SEPARATIO Autumn 1758}

The beast hungers. It starves. There is too little sustenance in this stone, this dust and frozen matter; it needs more. There was wood once; there was plaster and straw, pitch and oil and tar. A feast for the flames. More than any creature could ever eat, but the more it consumed, the more its appetite grew, until all the world was not enough to sate it.

It remembers that. And it remembers something else, too: fuel of a different kind. There was a place, a city, a shadow beneath; there was power there, of a kind like the beast itself. Not kin like the sun, bright fire—this was cool and dark. Born of the sun’s eclipse, but shaped by creatures who, like the beast, were made of something other than matter.

They named it Dragon. They fought it, and trapped it, and bound it to this frozen prison, exiling it to the farthest reaches of the sun’s realm.

The Dragon remembers. And it hungers for vengeance.

No one would believe the story of the horse; that was why Galen had not tried it. Instead he’d taken advantage of his father’s bad opinion of him. That his only son might be set upon by footpads while heading toward a Covent Garden brothel was easy enough for Charles St. Clair to believe—especially when there was a witness. At Lune’s suggestion, he’d dulled the pain with wine, then dug Laurence Byrd out of his customary midnight carouse. Not ten feet out the door, a pair of disguised goblins had set upon them, one feigning the strike to Galen’s shoulder, before both fled Byrd’s enthusiastic fists. It left Galen’s father in a profoundly foul mood, but not a curious one, which might have led him to inquire where his son had been so late at night.

But his mother, eager to maintain the forms of gentility, had invented the tale of the horse. It served Galen’s purposes; that would make the respectable rounds, lending credibility to the Covent Garden tale. The subterfuge gave him something to think about other than the massive bruise that was painting his shoulder spectacular colors.

He looked a shabby thing indeed as he went to Mrs. Vesey’s house; the tight fit of his own coats was unendurable, and so he was wearing a castoff of his father’s. But to her he could tell the truth, and so he looked forward to the visit.

Until the footman escorted him into the parlor, where Galen almost dropped his hat in surprise.

Delphia Northwood rose from her chair and curtsied. Next to her, an insufferably smug Mrs. Vesey did the same. After a moment, Galen remembered himself and bowed. “Good morning, Mrs. Vesey. Miss Northwood—I thought your family had gone into the country, now that the Season is over.”

“They have, Mr. St. Clair,” she admitted. “But Mrs. Vesey invited me to stay here with her for a time.”

“Her mother was suffering vapors over her upcoming marriage,” Mrs. Vesey confided. “And speaking of which—come, Mr. St. Clair, the two of you are to be married. Surely it isn’t too much for you to address your intended by her Christian name? You wouldn’t mind, would you, my dear?”

Miss Northwood colored and looked as if she wished she hadn’t left her fan on the table by her chair. “Only if he insists on calling me Philadelphia.”

“I have nothing against Greek names,” Galen said, smiling. Jonathan Hurst had teased him upon that point, speculating as to other Greek-named fellows that might make husbands for Galen’s sisters. Which had plunged Mayhew into a melancholy over Daphne, of course. But perhaps, once the Northwood money was securely invested, Galen might persuade his father to let at least one sister follow her heart.

Mrs. Vesey was looking expectantly at him. “Then let it be Delphia,” Galen said, stepping into this brave new territory of intimacy. She shifted slightly, as if she, too, felt the thrill the word brought.

Their hostess beamed in satisfaction and said, “Come, let us have tea. And you, Mr. St. Clair, can tell us of your poor shoulder. Does it hurt you terribly?”

“No, I am quite well,” he said—a polite little lie.

The tea things were already set out on a table, except for the hot water; Mrs. Vesey rang a bell for it as they settled themselves once more. She then bent her attention to unlocking the tea box, but spared enough to go on questioning him. “Now, it is clearly utter nonsense that you were struck by a horse, for I know you would not be on foot in the middle of Fleet Street. I am no gossip, of course, and neither is Miss Northwood; you can trust us with the truth. What really happened?”

Too late, he saw the trap she’d so neatly laid. He’d come here anticipating the opportunity to speak freely; she, perhaps guessing that his injury had something to do with the fae, had deliberately surprised him with Miss Northwood. She could just as easily have asked Yfaen, but it seemed Mrs. Vesey had not given up on her mad notion that Galen should reveal the Onyx Court to his intended bride.

As if Mrs. Vesey did not know exactly what she was doing, Galen said repressively, “The tale is not fit for this company.”

It did precisely as little good as he expected. Delphia came unwittingly to his rescue, though, once the maid had brought in the hot water. “I believe it’s customary for young men approaching their weddings to enjoy one last bout of foolishness. I promise you, Mr. St. Clair, I will not hold it against you.”

Which gave him licence to recount an expurgated version of the Covent Garden story. Galen kept it to the footpads’ attack, declining to go into detail about what either he or Byrd had been doing there. Mrs. Vesey did not bother to hide her disbelief, and so once Miss Northwood had made appropriate noises of sympathy for his pain and approval for his valour, he fled to a safer topic. “Will you be in London long, Miss—ah, Delphia?”

She glanced sidelong at their hostess, who smiled into her tea. “Yes—ostensibly to ready myself for the wedding,” his bride-to-be said. “But Mrs. Vesey, as she hinted before, was rescuing me from my mother.”

“And there is a great deal of London Miss Northwood has not experienced,” Mrs. Vesey added serenely. “For one who has grown up here, she has seen shockingly little of the city. Perhaps we could arrange some excursions, Mr. St. Clair—what do you think?”

I think you are a meddling old woman. But he couldn’t put any real venom behind it. His proposal to Miss Northwood had been shaped by the desire for honesty; Mrs. Vesey’s suggestion offered him a way to remove yet more barriers of deception. For that, he could not fault her.

Still, it was out of the question. Telling the truth would mean telling Miss Northwood about Lune, and he feared the consequences if the mask that covered his adoration slipped in his future wife’s presence. Besides, Galen had enough to concern him already. “Well, if the purpose of your visit is to escape your mother’s watchful eye, M—Delphia, then perhaps I can arrange an evening at the theatre. Or have you ever been to the opera?”

By means of such diversions did he shift them to safer topics. Mrs. Vesey, however, let pass no opportunity to refer in cryptic fashion to the fae, until surely a girl as intelligent as Delphia had to wonder what second conversation was being conducted under her nose. Galen could do nothing about that, short of contriving to chide Mrs. Vesey in private, so he endured the awkwardness as best he could, and escaped as soon as it would not be abominably rude.

But as the sedan chair carried him home from Clarges Street, his mind kept drifting away from Dragons and faerie science in favour of imaginary conversations with Miss Delphia Northwood. His experience with Dr. Andrews had taught him valuable lessons, ones he could make use of…

Ridiculous, he told himself firmly. Dr. Andrews was making valuable contributions to their planned defence. This was a matter of sentimentality, nothing more, and not justifiable in its risk.

Still, he could not stop thinking of it.

You are a fool, Galen St. Clair. And that was one statement even his divided and disputatious mind could not argue with.

Three hundred sixty-four nights out of the year, Edward Thorne was a loyal protector of his master’s secrets.

On the three hundred sixty-fifth, he told Irrith, without prompting, where Galen could be found.

Or at least his general location. She unearthed the Prince in the third tavern she tried, spotting him with ease, even though he’d obviously made some effort to dress as less than a gentleman. After all, not every footpad here was a disguised faerie playing a trick. Galen wore a baggy, shabby coat over equally shabby clothes, but his wig was too neatly groomed. Irrith spotted it from clear across the tavern. Someone would steal it if he wasn’t careful.

He was staring moodily into a cup she hoped didn’t hold gin. Magrat had warned her that the poor of nearby Seven Dials still adulterated their spirits with turpentine or acid, and Irrith feared Galen was too sheltered a soul to know that.

When she dragged a stool closer, Galen glanced up only long enough to see her. “I’m too tired for guessing games,” he said, slurring the words.

“Irrith,” she said. “I thought you might like company.”

He went back to his contemplation of the cup. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“Never said you did.” Irrith leaned forward and sniffed. The familiar burn of gin reached her nostrils, but she didn’t smell anything wrong in it. Good; he bought the legal kind. “One question, though, and then I’ll hush up and help you drink yourself under the table. Edward says you go drinking every year on this night, but usually someplace nicer than Covent Garden. Why so grim this time?”

She had observed of him before that he often tried to discipline his expression, and also that he was very bad at it. On this occasion, he didn’t even try. Irrith saw the full play of his shame, despair, and hopeless love. Galen choked down a sip of the bitter gin, then said, “Because this year, I am betrothed.”

Since it was Galen, Irrith tried hard to understand why that should matter. True, it was the Queen’s mourning night. Until dawn, Lune would keep solitary vigil in the night garden, grieving for her first Prince, who lay buried in the Onyx Hall. She did so every year on the anniversary of his death. It was a painful reminder to Galen that her love was not for him—but why should his own step toward marriage drive him to cheap gin in a filthy tavern? It didn’t put Lune’s heart any further out of his reach than it already was.

She tried to understand, and failed. Instead she said, “I think you need distraction. But finish your drink first.”

He lifted the cup, paused, and said, “Please, for the love of all that’s unholy—change your glamour before I go anywhere with you.”

Irrith grinned. She’d forgotten she was disguised as a rough young man. While Galen downed the remainder of his gin, she went outside and found an unoccupied shadowed corner; by the time she came back, this time as a woman, he’d given the tavern’s owner a shilling for the best room in the house. It wasn’t a good room, especially for that price, but it was preferable to the Onyx Hall on this night—or Leicester Fields on any night—and if the mattress was home to a troop of bugs, neither of them was in a mood to care.

Afterward, they lay curled together against the chill of the October night. Irrith ran one hand over Galen’s short hair, soft against her fingers. Without his wig and coat and walking stick, she reflected, he was not Lord Galen, Prince of the Stone, nor the gentleman Mr. St. Clair. Only Galen, a tumultuous human heart wrapped up in a body that seemed scarcely able to contain it.

Those absences made him vulnerable; the darkness made him brave. “I sometimes think,” Galen whispered, “that it would be better if she knew.”

“Which one?”

An injudicious question. He curled tighter, like a snail pulling into its shell. But his shell was draped over the rail at the foot of the bed, or dropped carelessly on the floor. After a moment, he said, “Both, I suppose.”

Irrith didn’t know Delphia Northwood. She did know Lune. Before she could doubt her own impulse, Irrith said, “The Queen does know.”

That sent him flying away from her as if propelled by a bow, almost falling off the narrow bed before fetching up against the rail. He said, helplessly, “Oh God, no.”

The word glanced off the protection of the tithe, but Irrith flinched nonetheless. Then she pushed herself upright, studying him. The light coming through the room’s one narrow window was scant indeed, only what filtered in from the inadequate lanterns on Covent Garden square; it was just enough to trace the wing of his collarbone, the line of his uninjured arm clutching the rail, the right-hand side of his face. Not enough to see his eyes.

No way out but through the truth. Some of it, anyway. Galen didn’t need to hear that the rest of the Onyx Court knew it, too. “She’s known for a while.”

He stayed motionless for three heartbeats, then buried his face in his hands.

“You said it might be better,” Irrith reminded him. “Think about it, Galen—if it bothered her, you would know.”

His reply was muffled by his palms. “Except now I must face her. Knowing that she knows. Damn it all, Irrith—why did you have to tell me?”

Because I thought it would help. Because I still can’t tell how your heart works, what will make you happy, what will send you off in despair.

This time, she’d clearly done the latter. Galen dropped his hands and said, “She never should have chosen me.”

The dark hid her second flinch. Irrith hadn’t forgotten what the Goodemeades told her. Would this man have been Prince, if Lune had another choice?

It didn’t matter. He was Prince, and was striving with everything he had to be a good one. This doubt was his greatest enemy. “Lune isn’t stupid,” Irrith said forcefully. “You love her; don’t you trust her? She wouldn’t have chosen you if she thought you weren’t suitable.” No matter what her courtiers said. Lune had ignored them before, when she had to; she would have done the same here.

Irrith wasn’t sure he’d even listened to her. After a moment, though, Galen spoke. “Do you think I’m a good Prince?”

She was as bad a liar as he was. A simple yes would be obviously trite; a longer assurance would give away her own doubts. And she’d always preferred honesty, anyway. “I think you’ve been dealt the worst hand of cards of any Prince I’ve ever known. Comet, Sanists, your own family interfering with your life… and then there’s Lune. The old Princes all had problems of their own, but you had yours from the start.”

“So you think I’m a failure.”

“No. You didn’t let me finish.” Irrith tucked her feet up, leaning forward to seek out his eyes in the shadows. “The Princes have all been different sorts of men, who bring different kinds of strength to the Onyx Court. They’ve all shared one thing, though: they care too much to give up. Whatever trouble the court faces—and believe me, there’s been a lot—they keep fighting. If the day ever comes that you run away, then I’ll call you a failure. But not before.”

His back had stiffened at the thought of running away, proving her very point. Galen seemed to realise it, too. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then sat thinking. One hand scratched absently at his ribs, and Irrith thought she felt something crawling up her own leg. They might be ignoring the bugs, but the bugs weren’t ignoring them.

“If she knows,” he said at last, “then I cannot possibly tell Miss Northwood.”

“About the Onyx Court?”

He nodded. “I had considered it, but—no. Mere foolishness.”

“Why? There’s always the risk that a mortal will attack us, or tell everyone we’re here, but we risk it just the same. What are you afraid will happen—that she’ll cry off once she knows what you do with the other half of your life?”

His drifting hand stilled, then lowered to his thigh. “I had thought—” Galen began, but stopped.

Irrith waited patiently. This time, she was fairly certain that anything she might say would frighten him off.

Galen sighed, with less of a melancholy sound than she expected. “I’d considered the possibility of telling her after our marriage. But you are right; if I did it before, she might cry off.”

Which he would consider a good thing. He wasn’t thinking of his family right now, Irrith could tell. Only of Lune, and of the voice in his head that told him it wasn’t right to serve two mistresses at once.

On the other hand, this would give her a chance to observe Miss Delphia Northwood for herself. Irrith had of course spied on the young woman a little, because she was curious, but turned up nothing worthy of remark. Seeing her with Galen would be much more interesting.

“I think you should,” Irrith said. “It’s only fair.”

He made a wordless, frustrated noise. “But I’ll have to ask the Queen first. And that will be…”

Uncomfortable. To put it mildly. Oh, how Irrith wished she could be a fly on the wall for that conversation.

Another, heavier sigh. “I’ll consider it,” Galen said.

Irrith crawled over to where he sat and put her hands on his shoulders. “Tomorrow. I think you’ve done enough thinking for tonight.”

Since establishing his residence in the Onyx Hall, Dr. Andrews had thrown himself into the work the fae set for him. Podder had unearthed notebooks belonging to Jack Ellin, a previous Prince, which indicated that he suspected the refraction of a prism might have an unknown effect upon the Dragon’s spirit; that was why they’d used a modification of Newton’s reflecting telescope for its exile. Andrews, remembering their startling results with the experimentum crucis, had decided to conduct further optical experiments with the salamander.

Galen was delayed by Mrs. Vesey’s insistence upon him dining with her and Miss Northwood, but he hurried to Billingsgate as soon as he could and descended into the warren that held Andrews’s chambers. Upon entering the laboratory, he found Andrews pacing in agitation. The man’s face was pale and dewed with sweat, and the rims of his eyes were red. “What result?” Galen asked.

The doctor gestured to the other end of the room. “See for yourself. The light faded too fast for me to try.”

The apparatus stood facing a sheet tacked to the wall, a prism on a stand. The stand’s platform held a blackened pair of tongs and—

Galen poked at the shrivelled thing with one fingertip. “What is this? It doesn’t look like a salamander.”

“It’s the heart of one.”

He shot upright. On the table nearby lay an empty cage and an unmoving form: the corpse of the captured salamander. Its belly gaped open, revealing a charred cavity where the heart had been.

“A curious thing,” Andrews said, still pacing. “I would swear the creature had nothing but a heart. No lungs, no intestines. I can’t be sure; even making the incision without being burnt was difficult. And everything seemed to alter subtly when it died.”

Horrified, Galen spun to face him. “You cut this creature open while it lived?”

That finally halted the doctor. Andrews, much taken aback, said, “How else am I to understand how it functions?”

“But—you—” Galen flung one hand toward the prism. “I thought this was an experiment with light!”

“It was.” Andrews came forward and collected the leather gloves he’d evidently dropped on the floor. “And how was I to get that light? Oh, certainly the creature spat fire while it lived—but it was only fire. I could detect nothing strange about it at all. It is the essence of the creature we wished to pass through the prism, and I’m told it was the Dragon’s heart they used before. Unfortunately, this one burnt out too quickly.” He paused, gloves in hand. “Animal vivisection is a common practice in medicine, Mr. St. Clair. We must know how the body works before we can heal it.”

Galen could not stop looking at the salamander’s corpse. He knew well enough that their research sometimes involved uncomfortable things; he had, with reluctance, authorised Andrews’s work with Savennis, observing the effects of prayers and church bells both with and without the protection of bread, and the faerie’s sensitivity to the proximity of iron. This went further, though—and Galen had not thought to include the salamander under his authority. It wasn’t an intelligent creature, of course, not like Savennis. Still. He, as Prince, had brought into the Onyx Hall a mortal who killed a faerie.

“You should have consulted me before you did this,” he said quietly.

Andrews, tidying up his equipment, paused again. “Ah. I didn’t realise. Will this anger the Queen?”

“I don’t know. And that is why you must consult me.” Galen yanked his hat off, then made himself stop before he could fling it across the room. Is this not what you brought him here for? To apply mortal methods of learning to your faerie problem?

The doctor nodded with good grace. “I see. My apologies, Mr. St. Clair. I did not mean to cause trouble.” Then his expression brightened. “Oh—but my experience with the salamander gave me an interesting thought. Come, let’s sit down, and I will tell you about it.”

Sitting down meant going to the other end of the room from the corpse and its shrivelled coal of a heart. Galen doubted that was coincidence. He went willingly, but waved away Andrews’s offer of coffee.

“It had to do with what that Arab fellow said,” Andrews began, “concerning alchemy. Now, most alchemists were mountebanks or poor deluded fools, and I very much doubt if any of them ever made an ounce of gold out of anything else, unless it was the hopes of their credulous clients. But what if it works here? Among the faeries?”

Galen frowned. “Dr. Andrews—I love a good conjecture as much as the next man, but how does this help us against the Dragon?”

“It doesn’t,” the doctor said, with far more excitement than those words merited. “But it may provide a way to make the Dragon help us.”

Which explained the excitement, but not its cause. “I don’t follow you.”

“Do you know anything of alchemy?” Galen shook his head. “It wasn’t just about turning dross into gold. That transformation, as they conceived it, consisted of purging a metal of its flaws and impurities, bringing it into a more perfected state. And the same thing, Mr. St. Clair, could be done to the human body.”

Galen shook his head a second time, still not following.

“I am talking,” Dr. Andrews said, “of the philosopher’s stone.”

He’d heard the phrase, in much the same way he’d heard of faeries before he saw Lune in the night sky. A foolish fable, indicating something dreamt of but unreal. In this case, the means of achieving mankind’s dearest dream.

Immortality.

But what could the Dragon have to do with that? Dr. Andrews said, “The details are complicated—indeed, over the centuries men devised a hundred variants upon the theme, and as I said, I doubt very much if any of them worked. Much of it, however, comes down to two substances: philosophic sulphur, and philosophic mercury.

“These are not to be confused with the substances we know, brimstone and quicksilver. They represent principles, an opposing pair. Sulphur is hot, dry, and active; it is fire and air, the red or sun king, brightly burning.”

“In other words,” Galen said, his mouth drying out, “the Dragon.”

Andrews nodded. “It seems very likely that this beast is the embodiment of the sulphuric principle. Mr. St. Clair, if the alchemist can conjoin and reconcile those two opposing principles… he creates the philosopher’s stone.”

Had they been sitting in Andrews’s house on Red Lion Square, it would have seemed absurd. The philosopher’s stone? Immortality? But they were in the Onyx Hall, where even the mundane trappings of chairs and carpets and tables could not disguise the fey quality of the place, the hushed mystery of London’s shadow.

Here, perhaps, it might be possible.

Andrews might as well have reached inside Galen’s head and turned his brain upside down. Not to fight or imprison or banish the Dragon, but to use it. Transform a threat into a tool, and once they had done so…

Galen’s fancy immediately slipped its leash, imagining not just the defeat of the Dragon, but the consequences of that success. Fame, fortune—the King was almost seventy-five. What might he give to the men who could restore his youth?

A dose of common sense helped. “As I understand it, alchemists worked with laboratory equipment, boiling and distilling things. How in Heaven’s name are we to wrestle your philosophic sulphur into any kind of conjunction, when it will be trying to burn us all alive?”

“I haven’t the first notion,” Andrews said. The gleam in his eyes chilled Galen, even as the possibility that sparked it quickened his breath. “That, Mr. St. Clair, is what we must devise.”

Under most circumstances, Irrith would have enjoyed the chance to go into the city on someone else’s bread. After all, every bite she got from another was a bite that didn’t come out of her own meager store, and then she had a whole day of safety in the world above.

Most circumstances did not involve Valentin Aspell, and a meeting she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to attend.

They shared a hackney, which put her much closer to him than she wanted to be. The uncomfortable silence lasted for a few minutes before Irrith said, “Aren’t you going to make me swear an oath?”

His whisper-thin eyebrows rose. “An oath?”

“Not to tell anyone about this.”

Aspell glanced out the window of the carriage, at the crowded streets creeping by. “Dame Irrith, do not insult my intelligence. At the first hint of such a demand, you would run as far from me as you could—and with good cause. Oaths are for conspirators with something to hide. The people you will see today practice a degree of secrecy, yes, because it would be easy for someone to use our words against us. But I assure you: those you will meet are no different than you.”

She squirmed uncomfortably on the stained bench. If they’re no different from me… then I’m no different from them.

But Aspell had assured her the purpose of this meeting was to discuss a means of preserving the Onyx Hall, against both its fraying and the Dragon. True, clouds blanketed the sky above them; the ritual had done its work. That didn’t get rid of the beast, though. And it did nothing to reverse the Hall’s decay.

Hence today’s meeting. Irrith wasn’t surprised to find it taking place above. Lune kept a good eye on both worlds, but there was no way she could watch London as closely as the Onyx Hall. If fae wanted to do something secret, their chances were better among the humans, whose teeming masses would take little notice of anything they did. Still, the choice made Irrith frown. Aspell had handed her a piece of bread without so much as a blink—not that he blinked often anyway. That kind of generosity wasn’t normal, especially nowadays.

She thought again about the black dog that ambushed her on her way into the city. Had there been other such attacks? If so, Lune had kept them quiet. But she would, wouldn’t she? Doesn’t want anyone to know if she can’t keep the tithe safe.

Her stomach was doing a queasy dance even before they arrived at their destination and she discovered it to be another damnable coffeehouse, under the sign of the Grecian. Foul drink; just what her nerves needed. If Aspell insisted she have some, she would run away.

They didn’t sit at the tables, though. Aspell spoke briefly to the owner, then led Irrith into an upstairs room, where a coal fire tried to warm the air and mostly just stained it with smoke. Several people already waited there. Fae, obviously, concealed under glamours, just as she and the Lord Keeper were. It had the feel of conspiracy, however much Aspell insisted on their good intentions.

He counted them swiftly and nodded. “We are all here. Let us begin.”

This was all? Irrith made it only eight in the room, not counting the two of them. Then again, it would be too suspicious if a lot of fae all vanished at once. No doubt some of these would report back to friends of theirs. And Aspell must have some means of identifying those who came, or a spy could join them without anyone knowing. He was too clever for that.

She wished the word spy hadn’t crossed her mind.

“We have a newcomer among us today,” Aspell said, gesturing to her. Irrith was glad of her habit of masculine glamours—then she wondered. Everyone in the Onyx Hall knew of that habit. Should she have looked female today? At least Aspell had the wit to use the right pronoun when he said, “I have asked him here to tell us what he’s seen of the Queen.”

Blood and Bone—she hadn’t expected to be shoved into this so quickly. Rising, Irrith made an awkward little bow, and tried to figure out how to begin. “Er—the Queen. She’s… at first I thought it was that she’s tired. And, you know, that could be from a lot of things. We don’t have to sleep like mortals do, but working all the time the way she does—that would tire even a hob.

“But I don’t think it’s that. She’s tired, but there’s something else, too.”

Irrith swallowed hard. Hob was another word she shouldn’t have thought; it summoned up an image of the Goodemeades. What would they say, if they knew she’d come here today?

She’d come for a reason. Not for Aspell’s sake, or out of disaffection with Lune and the Onyx Court. No, she was here because she didn’t want to see those things lost.

Irrith said, “I think her Majesty’s fading.”

With those words out, it was easier to go on. “My best guess is that the Hall is calling on her strength to hold itself together. Only a little; it’s hard to see the effect. I wouldn’t have noticed it except I—” She caught herself before she could say anything that would betray her identity. “It’s slow. But if Ktistes can’t find a way to mend it, and especially if the mortals tear down more bits…” Irrith gestured helplessly. “It will only get worse.”

“Like two cripples holding each other up,” one of the fae said. “Keeps either one from falling over, at least for a while. But it doesn’t make either one whole.”

“The Queen isn’t crippled,” Irrith said sharply, forgetting Lune’s hand for a moment. That’s only a hand, though. “And Ktistes already made the entrances work again, after they burnt in the Fire. He’s clever; he’ll probably find a way to repair this, too.”

Aspell made a placating gesture. He’d disguised himself as a pale-faced clerk, though he’d forgotten to put inkstains on his fingers. “All of us are here because we share a common goal, and that is the preservation of the Onyx Hall. If the centaur could restore our home to health, we would all be satisfied.

“But he cannot, because the foundation is too badly cracked. The sovereign is her realm. It cannot be whole unless its ruler is.”

“Has anyone tried healing Lune?” Irrith asked.

It produced grumblings around the table. No doubt they’d been through all of this before, maybe years ago. And she’d just made it obvious that whoever she was, she’d only recently come to the Onyx Hall—if they hadn’t guessed that already. “Well, have they?”

The man at the far end of the table said, “There was talk of getting her a silver hand, like that Irish king. But silver doesn’t make you whole.”

“And besides,” another added, “there’s the iron wound. You can talk all you like about healing her hand, but nothing heals what iron does to you.”

Nothing they knew of. Irrith wondered if Abd ar-Rashid could do it. Apparently iron didn’t bother his kind, and he said he knew a lot about medicine. If he could heal the Queen, this whole problem would go away.

Or would it? Irrith honestly didn’t know whether making Lune whole would do anything to help the Onyx Hall. It might rob the Sanists of their best argument against her, and that would be something—but the real malcontents would still say that Lune had failed as Queen, because her first duty was to hold her realm together.

Aspell said quietly, “There is another issue.”

The grumbling and argumentation quieted. The Lord Keeper waited until he had perfect silence, apart from the noise of the coffeehouse downstairs, before he spoke again. “The Dragon.”

“We’re hidden from it,” someone said immediately. “Aren’t we?”

Irrith bit back her answer; that really would betray her identity. Aspell gave a sinuous shrug. “We’re hidden, yes. And the Dragon was imprisoned; and the Dragon was exiled.”

And all of it, ultimately, had failed. Irrith wished she could argue, but the concealment had been her own idea in the first place. She, of all people, was aware that it might not last.

She asked, “What does that have to do with the Queen?”

He placed his hands carefully on the table, bowing his head. The tallow dips around the room didn’t give off much better light than the smoky fire, but despite the gloom, he looked more weary than sinister. Irrith just wished she could tell whether that was a pose. “An unwelcome thought has come to me,” Aspell said. “One I have labored mightily to dismiss, but it will not go. It is my great hope that we find some other defence against this threat; I want no one here to doubt that. If, however, we do not find another answer, then we must consider this, our last, most desperate resort.”

Irrith’s heart sped up with every word out of his mouth. Whether he meant malice or not, his need for such a preface could not bode well.

The Lord Keeper sighed heavily and went on. “While the Queen hunts answers in the world above, we cannot afford to lose sight of our own world, and the lessons it teaches us. She spent a great deal of time some years ago soliciting advice from other lands, asking after great dragons in their past, and what had been done to address them. In this, I believe, is an answer we must consider.”

“Just say it already,” Irrith snapped, unable to bear the delay any longer.

He lifted his head and met her gaze. “The sacrifice of a woman to the dragon.”

No one said anything. A fellow somewhere beneath Irrith’s feet shouted merrily to one of his companions, until she wanted to run downstairs and bid him be silent. A strange day, this is, with faeries above and mortals below.

And a far stranger day, Irrith of the Vale, when you stand here and listen to Valentin Aspell propose feeding Lune to the Dragon.

Because that had to be what he meant. “You cannot be serious,” Irrith said, through numb lips.

“She’ll take the whole damn Hall with her!” someone else exclaimed.

The Lord Keeper straightened swiftly, hands raised. “Hear me out. First and foremost, I tell you this: I intend nothing against the Queen’s will.”

It broke through the shell of horror that had encased Irrith’s body. Her heart, which seemed to have stopped, leapt back into action with a bone-jarring thud. “I am not advocating regicide,” Aspell went on, distinctly enough that Irrith spared a moment to hope someone had done something to keep their voices from escaping the room. Regicide was not a word to toss around lightly in either world. “But let me explain my reasoning to you, and the course of action I see before us.”

Again he waited for his audience to quiet. When they had done so, he spoke in a softer tone. “The Dragon has had a taste of her Majesty. It knows her scent, if you will.”

Irrith shook her head. “It knows the scent of the Onyx Hall.”

“Both, then—but in such circumstances, as I understand it, as to make the Dragon connect the two. And certainly, as matters stand now, they are connected. The loss of her Grace would almost certainly mean the loss of the Hall.”

Loss. A delicate word, much less ugly than the two it replaced. Death. Destruction.

“However,” Aspell went on, “were the Queen to be separated from her realm—to be no longer the Queen—then I believe she would still attract the Dragon’s interest, without endangering the palace. And in that manner, we might divert the beast from its purpose.”

Some of the gathered eight were shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Others had an avid gleam Irrith did not like at all. One of the shifters said, “What’s to stop it from devouring her, then moving on to the rest of us?”

The man next to him nodded. “I’ve heard those stories, too. A maiden a year, or some such. Appeasement isn’t safety; it’s just a bit of breathing space.”

“We could use it to bind the Dragon, though,” another said. “Not just one year, but seventy-five years of safety—or seventy-six, or however long it is.”

“And how much good has more time done us? The Queen’s got that Calendar Room of hers, but it hasn’t given her an answer, has it?”

More voices rose, the entire thing degenerating into just the kind of squabbling that Irrith most hated. But arguments aside, she realised, this was the closest thing to an actual plan she’d heard anyone offer. It was already autumn. The comet would reach its closest point to the sun in March. That meant that even now it drew near, and only a thin veil of clouds protected them. It was all well and good to say that natural philosophy would save them, but so far it didn’t seem to have provided any real proposal for how to do that.

The sacrifice of the Queen might be the only option.

And Lune would do it, too, Irrith thought. The Sanists’ ordinary arguments might fall on deaf royal ears, but the Dragon could well be a different matter. Aspell didn’t have to intend anything against the Queen’s will: if the beast stood before them, and no other option presented itself, then Lune might sacrifice herself freely, for the sake of her people.

Which was the thing Carline had never understood. Whatever mistakes Lune had made, she always put the interests of her court ahead of her own. That was a rare thing in a ruler, faerie or mortal. Who else could be trusted to do the same?

“We will decide nothing here today,” Aspell said at last, cutting through the general clamor. “As I said, this is a matter of final resort. But we must bear in mind the possibility.”

He looked at each of them in turn as he said it, and last of all at Irrith. She nodded, awkwardly, as if her head were on a string held by some careless puppeteer. A strong part of her wished she had never come to this place, to hear the possibility that Lune’s death was the only thing that could save them.

The rest of her was glad she had. Because if it came to that desperate pass, Irrith would throw herself at the Queen’s feet and beg. If Lune could save them, then she must.

For mortals, Sunday was a day of rest—or at least it was supposed to be. Lune knew quite well that many of them nowadays went walking outside of London, or enjoyed less respectable diversions. Galen was required to attend church with his family more often than not, though, as many Princes before him had done, and so she’d formed the habit of spending her Sundays on work that did not involve the mortal world.

This week, that meant efforts to keep her court from disintegrating. Only a few had left so far, but many more were planning to do so; Lune didn’t need spies to learn that. The prudent ones had chosen dates for their departure, based on their assumptions of when the Dragon would appear. The more reckless—which was most of them—thought they could run when it did.

She intended to consult Rosamund and Gertrude, possibly even to slip away in secret and go to Rose House. Keeping below, for the comfort of her court, was threatening to drive her mad. Before she could make plans, though, a knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” Lune called.

It proved to be her attendant Nemette, who curtsied. “Your Grace, my apologies. Lord Valentin wishes to speak with you.”

Good news, or bad? Nemette could not answer that question for her. “Send him in.”

The Lord Keeper’s expression told her no more than her attendant had. “I am sorry to disturb you with what may just be an idle rumor, your Majesty, but—”

She waved him past the rest of the courtesies. If it was important enough for him to call on her, rather than waiting for one of their ordinary meetings, then she would listen. “It may be,” he said, “that the Sanists are considering a more… political solution to their concerns than we thought.”

Now she understood his ambivalence. A “political” solution could be good news, or not. “Of what sort?”

“They seek a successor to your throne.”

His choice of term gave her pause. Those who took power without leave were more commonly called “usurpers”; his phrasing implied something more legal. Inasmuch as such a word could be used for a faerie realm, where laws were haphazard things, when they existed at all.

But her realm had more laws than most. And while faerie monarchs rarely designated heirs as mortals did—after all, they could in theory rule forever—it wasn’t an absurd thought here.

“How did you learn of this?”

Aspell spread his hands. “Fourth-hand rumor, I’m afraid; it may be entirely false. But I believe there was a meeting yesterday, of the Sanist cabal. Somewhere above.”

Lune laid aside the pen she was still holding and frowned at the stain where it had dripped. “Where do they expect to find this successor?”

“Not Lady Carline—I beg your pardon, the former lady—if that is what you were thinking, madam. Possibly elsewhere in England. Some faerie monarch with whom you could be persuaded to form an alliance, perhaps, and who in time would rule here.”

As if she were a mortal Queen, to wed and pass power to her husband. Lune cleaned her pen, to give her hands something to do while she thought.

Aspell waited, then said delicately, “Madam, without meaning to give any sanction to the Sanists… might it not be a wise choice, to make some kind of provision for your court? If it should come to pass that—”

He didn’t finish the sentence, for she stopped him with a glare. “Do you recall Elizabeth Tudor? She, too, had councillors who pressed her to name an heir, and she, too, resisted. Because she knew the moment she declared the succession, her own position would weaken; others would begin to look to the next monarch, and she would become…” Lune’s lip curled. “Dispensable.”

She heard him draw slow breath. Were it someone other than Valentin Aspell, she would have said it was to steady his temper. “I do recall her,” the Lord Keeper said. “And I also recall the uncertainty her people suffered, wondering what would become of them when she was gone, and the intrigues that resulted.”

“Yes, well, unlike Elizabeth Tudor, I have the option of living forever.” Lune stacked her papers and stood. “If any of my fellow monarchs are approached, I’ll hear of it. In the meantime, continue with your own work, and trouble me no more with talk of a successor.”

Galen expected a lecture when he came in the front door of his house. Or at the very least a summons to his father’s study; he could hardly expect the man to wait around on the staircase in anticipation of his feckless son’s return. Especially when that return had become so unpredictable of late. But the footman took his cloak and hat without comment, leaving him free to follow his valet up the stairs. “Just turn down the sheets, Edward,” he said through a yawn. “I need sleep more than food.” And if it was scarcely sunset, he didn’t care. Galen could not remember the last time he’d slept properly.

With his thoughts full of soft pillows and warm blankets, and the anticipated threat of his father escaped, Galen thought himself out of danger. He was entirely unprepared when the door beyond his own flew open and Cynthia emerged, dressed only in her shift and stays and trailing a scandalised Jenny.

“There you are,” his sister said, and seized his arm. “We need to talk.”

She hauled him into his own room before he had a chance to say anything. “Out,” she commanded Edward, who, to his credit, stood his ground long enough to receive Galen’s nod. Then he shooed the wide-eyed maid out and closed the door behind them both.

Cynthia let go, leaving Galen adrift in the middle of his floor. “Cyn, what’s wrong?”

“You can tell me that better than I can,” she replied. “Where have you been?”

His father wasn’t the only one capable of noticing his absence. Up until now, however, Charles St. Clair had been the only one who made noise about it.

Galen sank wearily into a chair. It was true; he hadn’t been home much of late. Too much time in the Onyx Hall—maybe more than was good for him—but what else could he do, with their time running out? If it weren’t for the eleven days that would elapse, he would have long since taken his chances with the Calendar Room. Abd ar-Rashid was in there right now. It should be Dr. Andrews, who had proposed this matter of the philosopher’s stone in the first place, but his health wouldn’t permit it. When the genie emerged, Galen hoped, they would have a way to translate Andrews’s mad alchemical dream into reality.

None of which he could tell Cynthia. “Your friends came by yesterday,” she said. “Mr. Hurst, Mr. Byrd, and Mr. Mayhew. They said you haven’t been to your club in weeks—nor have you answered their letters.” She nodded at his writing desk, which held an entire pile of unopened envelopes he hadn’t noticed. “I’d thought you might be carousing with them, one last bit of bachelor wildness before you settle down with Miss Northwood… it wouldn’t be like you, no matter what Father thinks, but perhaps you decided to try. Apparently not, though. Galen, where have you been?”

That was twice she’d asked. A third time, and I’ll have to answer, he thought vaguely. Like a faerie. Not that it was true for faeries, not that he’d noticed. But perhaps some of them were bound in that way. Stranger things had happened.

“God,” he moaned, and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t even think straight. Cynthia, my dear… I’m sorry.”

She sank to her knees on the carpet in front of him and took him by the wrists, in a gentler grip than she’d used before. “You don’t have to apologise! Mother all but jumped over the moon after you offered for Delphia; you could light her boudoir on fire and she’d forgive you. Even Father hardly cares what you do, so long as you march down the aisle and collect a bank note from Mr. Northwood at the other end. But I’m worried for you. When was the last time you slept?”

He couldn’t have answered that if he wanted to; it was in the Onyx Hall, and he didn’t often check his pocket-watch while there. “I was intending to go to bed now,” he said, lifting his head so he could nod toward his pillow. Edward had gotten halfway through the task of turning down the sheets, and a pan of coals was warming for him in the hearth.

“I won’t keep you long,” Cynthia promised. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed you avoiding my question.”

Fortunately, she didn’t ask it a third time. Faerie weakness or no, he wasn’t sure he’d have the wit to give her a safe answer. “Attending to affairs,” Galen said after a moment.

“Gaming debts?”

“No!” He stared at her, appalled, and she smiled an apology, stroking his arm. Galen wished she’d chosen the other arm; his still-healing bruise ached under her hand. He controlled his wince, though, lest he get her thinking about his supposed encounter in Covent Garden, and whether that might have something to do with his “affairs.”

Taking her hands in his own, Galen said, “Cyn… I’ll be like this a while longer, I fear. It’s all right, though. I need to get more sleep—you’re right about that—and I promise I will try.” His stomach rumbled embarrassingly, and he laughed. “Also more food. I forget to eat, sometimes.”

“By the time you wed, you’ll be a stick,” she said chidingly. “You’ll be half the man Delphia said she would marry.”

Delphia. Galen’s grin slipped. “I’ll fatten up for the wedding. Fat and gouty, just like Father.” She smacked him on the knee. “In all seriousness… thank you.”

“For what?”

“For caring.” Lack of sleep made him too easily tearful; he fought the urge back, though his vision swam a little. “As you said, all Father cares about is Delphia’s dowry. And Mother isn’t here, making sure I eat and rest. You are. And I cherish that.”

Cyn rose up on her knees so she could hug him more easily. Galen laid his cheek against her hair. She was and always had been his favourite among his sisters, and the one thing he would miss when he and Delphia established their own household.

“You had better take care of yourself,” she said into his shoulder. “Or I’ll follow you with a plate in one hand and a pillow in the other.”

More laughter bubbled up. “I will.”

And thank you, dear sister, for the favour you did unawares. This ambush, Cynthia concerned for his well-being, curious about his absences—it settled the question that had plagued his heart since May.

He did not want Delphia to suffer such doubts.

By his prerogative as Prince, he would tell Miss Philadelphia Northwood of the Onyx Hall.

The library of the fae was a marvel. Galen laughed at the thought; everything in this place was a marvel. More than a year since he’d gained entrance to the Onyx Hall, and he still gaped like a country squire come to London for the first time, stunned afresh by each new wonder.

No one could blame him in this instance, though. The shelves rose in three levels around him, rimmed with silver balconies and ladders of ivory, a temple to the written word. Surely even the great library of Alexandria had not been this grand. He saw works in Greek and Latin, French and stranger tongues—and then, as if to bring him back to earth before his thoughts grew too lofty, shelf after shelf of common novels, including all twenty-three volumes of La Calprenède’s Cléopâtre and what looked like the complete works of Mademoiselle de Scudéry.

“Novels are very popular among the fae.”

He would have recognised that clear, musical voice blindfolded. Galen turned and bowed deeply to the Queen of the Onyx Court. “Your Grace. I did not hear you come in.”

She moved like a ghost, to approach unheard in the hush of the library. There had been others in here when he entered—an Irish lady he’d seen before, a mortal man who seemed to be the place’s caretaker—but they had vanished, leaving him alone with the Queen.

Who looked ghostlike indeed in her white gown. She wore it for mourning, he knew; black was too common a colour in this dark realm for it to carry the significance mortals gave it. Court rumour said she would wear it until she chose a Prince to replace the one who had recently died. Galen didn’t know what had befallen Lord Hamilton; rumour had plenty to say about that, but none of it agreed with any of the rest. The man hadn’t been seen in months, except by Lune’s closest advisers, and then one day she told the court he was gone.

The Queen beckoned for him to follow, and led him away from the novels to one of the tables at the centre of the library. Someone had moved a chair away so that it faced the open carpet, and here Lune settled herself, white skirts floating down like a cloud. There was no chair for Galen, but he wouldn’t have felt comfortable taking one anyway. She came here seeking me. Why?

When he first came to the Onyx Hall, he’d counted himself lucky to glimpse the Queen from afar. He attended her court audiences as often as he could purely because they afforded him a chance to watch her, regal as sovereignty itself, seated upon her great silver throne. In the last few months, though, his luck had grown beyond measure: he’d been invited to attend upon her in the lesser presence chamber, or to escort her during an idle walk in the night garden. Thus he’d found that her mind was as great as her beauty, and turned often to varied subjects, from Britain’s strife with France to the reception of the latest opera. Indeed, that was how he’d discovered the library; the Prince’s valet, Edward Thorne, had told him that many newspapers and magazines could be found there. If Galen was to keep the Queen’s interest, he needed to read more widely than his restricted allowance would permit.

Now this—a private audience…

She said, without preamble, “Mr. St. Clair, I have come here today to say something that may seem like a generous offer. I assure you it is not. Rather call it a favour—one I must beg of you, for the good of my court.”

He had to be dreaming. God knew he’d dreamt this many times: Lune coming to him, some deed only he could accomplish, and then her gratitude… embarrassment and surprise made him fumble his reply. “Anything for I— that is, anything I can do for you, madam, I’ll do without hesitation.”

Her silver eyes were grave. “No, Mr. St. Clair. I want you to hesitate, for I want you to consider this with all due care. But I have come to offer you the title and office of Prince of the Stone.”

It was a dream. Galen would have pinched himself, only he didn’t want to wake up.

“You know the danger that threatens this realm,” the Queen went on. “Whatever Prince stands at my side will be in peril; he cannot escape it. But without a Prince, I am weakened. The Onyx Hall needs both a mistress and a master. I have chosen you to replace Lord Hamilton, but the ultimate choice is yours. If the burden I would place on you is too great, you are free to refuse.”

With every word she spoke, reality struck more strongly home. This was not a dream. She was truly here, and so was he, and she wanted him to be Prince of the Stone.

I’m not qualified.

He’d seen Lord Hamilton. A gentleman of about forty, with a sharp mind and connections throughout society; that was what a Prince should be. Not the twenty-year-old scion of an impoverished family, who had been in the Onyx Hall for scarcely a year.

Some fragment of that last thought must have escaped his lips, for Lune smiled. It was the first bright expression he’d seen on her face since Lord Hamilton’s death. “You might be surprised to hear that you’re far from the rawest newcomer to be elevated in this fashion. Other Princes have had less time. And they’ve done perfectly well.”

But surely they were more prepared! He managed to keep that reply behind his teeth. Under no circumstances could the Queen be permitted to know his doubts.

If he was concerned about that… then he had already made up his mind.

Prepared or not, qualified or not, Lune had come to beg a favour of him. He would have cut off his left arm and given it to her if she asked; he could do this, too.

Belatedly, Galen sank to one knee. The sapphire toe of her shoe extended past the hem of her skirts, and upon this he fixed his gaze. “Your Grace, everything I am, everything I have, and everything I can do is at your disposal, now and forever. If you want me as your Prince, then I can do nothing but accept.”

And pray I don’t disappoint you.

The sixteenth draft of Galen’s intended speech to Delphia went into the fire along with its fifteen predecessors. How did one go about telling his wife-to-be that he consorted with faeries?

He was glad to be rescued by Edward Thorne, knocking at his study door. “The genie is here to see you,” his valet said.

He shot to his feet. “Bring him in.” As Abd ar-Rashid passed Edward, carrying a sheaf of papers, Galen added, “Oh, and summon Dr. Andrews—”

The genie held up a hand to forestall him. “If you please, O Prince, I would like first to speak to you. Alone.”

The valet paused, looking to his master. Galen, though puzzled, nodded agreement. “Very well. Coffee, then, Edward. My lord, please, be seated.”

He didn’t ask how long the genie had been inside the Calendar Room. Few wanted to talk about it after the fact, whether it had been a month or ten years. Galen simply asked, “Can it be done?”

“That cannot be known, Lord Galen, without attempting the work directly. But yes—I believe it to be possible.”

The philosopher’s stone. Galen’s heart skipped a beat. “How?”

Abd ar-Rashid rose and went to a nearby table, looking to Galen for permission. At his nod, the genie carried the table over to their chairs, so he could lay his papers out where they both could see. Diagrams and notes in multiple languages covered them, ranging from English to Latin and Greek and the incomprehensible scribble of Arabic. “The ultimate intention,” Abd ar-Rashid said, “is what your alchemists have called the ‘chemical wedding.’ This, according to the writings of Jabir ibn Hayyan, is the joining of philosophic sulphur to philosophic mercury: two purified opposites, reconciled to one another, producing perfection.”

His English had improved. Had the Arab really spared the time and attention within that room to better his command of the language? It made no difference for those waiting on the outside, and certainly there were days enough to spare, but it spoke volumes about the genie’s dedication to his purpose. “And that perfection is the philosopher’s stone,” Galen said.

“Yes. Ordinarily the alchemist begins with some base substance, the prima materia, and this he subjects to many processes in his laboratory—from calcination to congelation.” The genie pointed to a list on the second page. “He does this in order to obtain sophic sulphur and sophic mercury in their pure forms. Purity is necessary: without it, you have the same corrupt matter that all metals are made of, instead of the philospher’s stone.”

“But we aren’t working with metals.”

“No. And that is why I wished to speak with you privately.” Abd ar-Rashid settled back in his chair, folding his hands together like one at prayer. Like a Christian, at least; the genie regularly went above to carry out his scheduled prayers, five times a day, but Galen had never watched him at it. He had a difficult enough time understanding that this creature could be both a faerie and a worshipper of God—even the Mohammedan God.

Despite the detailed notes in front of him, Abd ar-Rashid seemed to have difficulty articulating his concern. “The notion of Dr. Andrews is that the Dragon is sophic sulphur. I think he may be correct. This allows you to escape the labour of purification—for one substance, at least. But you also need sophic mercury.”

His reluctance was clear; the cause of it was not. “That is a challenge,” Galen conceded, “but with the Calendar Room at our disposal, I’m sure we have the time to think of a suitable source—”

The Arab frowned more deeply. “I have already done so, Lord Galen. But I fear the answer is not one you wish to hear.”

Galen stilled. After a moment, he said, “You needn’t fear any retribution from me, Lord Abd ar-Rashid, for anything you say. Tell me what you know, and we will continue from there.”

The genie said, “Your Queen.”

It was more unexpected than offensive. Galen had been thinking of the Thames; they said it was home to an old god, that fought the Dragon back in the days of the Great Fire. But no one had spoken with Father Thames since then, except perhaps the river fae, and maybe not even them. “Don’t you need a spirit of water?”

“Water and earth are the elements associated with sophic mercury, yes. But it is also other things: feminine, for one. And also this.” Abd ar-Rashid handed another paper to him with a bow. It held a sketch, copied with painstaking care from some old woodcut, showing a richly dressed man and woman joining hands. The symbolism of both figures was clear. “As philosophic sulphur is the sun king, so is mercury the moon queen.”

Lune. They called her a daughter of the moon; for all Galen knew, it was literally true. She certainly looked the part. Abd ar-Rashid was right; that wasn’t an answer Galen wished to hear. “She’s already fought the Dragon once, sir, and been wounded badly for it. But no—we aren’t talking of fighting, are we? So you would want to—”

It died in his throat. Abd ar-Rashid said, “As I understand it, sophic sulphur was obtained by cutting the heart of the Dragon from its body. The obvious answer would be to obtain sophic mercury the same way.”

Galen set the paper down with excessive care. “Obvious, perhaps—but not acceptable.” He’d promised not to punish the genie for speaking; he had to hold to that. Whatever he felt inside.

Abd ar-Rashid held up a mollifying hand. “And this is why I asked to speak in private, Lord Galen. Others will think of this. The image of the moon queen is widespread in European alchemy; no one can look into the matter without encountering it. And the connection to her Grace is clear. If it is not too presumptuous of me to say—be very cautious with whom you share this plan.”

The door opened, and Galen almost jumped out of his skin. But it was only Edward, bringing in the tray with its coffee and bowls. Galen dismissed the valet and poured for himself and the genie both, needing the coffee to steady his own hands. “Thank you,” he murmured, out of sheer habit. “I will. Be cautious, that is. You said this is a thing of European alchemy—does Arabic practice offer an alternative?”

“If it did, I would have presented it to you already,” the genie said, with obvious regret.

Then they would have to find their own alternative. Some other source for the mercury, or a way to obtain it without harming Lune. Surely there would be something.

Galen burnt his tongue on the coffee, hissed in pain, and set it down. “May I see those papers?” Abd ar-Rashid handed them over with a bow. A quick perusal told him very little; his Latin and Greek were even rustier than his French, and the Arabic escaped him entirely. “Translate these for me, if you will. The original we will keep in strictest security; my copy will be shown only to a very few.”

“Dr. Andrews?”

The man had such hopes for this plan. Galen could not blame him; the philosopher’s stone was said to cure all ills. Including, perhaps, consumption. But under no circumstances would Galen allow Lune to come to harm. “I’ll tell him myself. The Queen will decide what to say to the court as a whole.”

The genie bowed again, accepting the papers back. “I trust to your wisdom, Lord Galen.”

After her visit to the Grecian, Irrith was ashamed to be offered a position among the Queen’s ladies when they rode out on All Hallows’ Eve.

It was an ancient tradition; not even the concerns of the Sanists, that it wasn’t safe for Lune to absent herself from the Onyx Hall, could put a halt to it. All Hallows’ Eve was one of the great nights of their year, and Lune had duties she must maintain. Tasking them to another would only create more fear than her departure from the palace ever could.

Riding with the Queen was the sacred part of the tradition, if that word could be used for a faerie activity. Others in the Onyx Court would find their own, coarser amusements. This was the dark mirror to Midsummer’s gentle diversion. Black things would happen tonight, frights and horrors and hauntings, with the court’s goblins leading the way. But while they entertained themselves in the streets, Lune and her companions would ride above, collecting the ghosts of the dead.

Hairy How, the Lord Treasurer, distributed bread to them all. Irrith ate hers slowly, feeling the mortal weight upon her tongue. Such labour went into it: the farmer in his field, planting and reaping the grain; the miller grinding it to flour; the country housewife mixing and kneading and baking it into bread. Or perhaps this was one of Dr. Andrews’s tithed loaves, bought in a London marketplace, or carried from house to house by a street-seller. So many humans, doing so much work—and how many of them knew of the fae who ate the result?

A few more, if they looked up at the right moment tonight. But grand faerie spectacle had gone out of fashion with the Puritans; even now, when folk went rambling in the countryside on Sundays instead of attending church, it wasn’t wise to draw too much attention. They would ride because the fae owed a duty to the dead, not because they wished to announce their presence to London.

“You’ll have new chance to mock my riding skills tonight.”

Irrith jumped. When the Queen rarely went anywhere without a host of attendants, it was easy to forget that she could move very quietly indeed. Lune stood behind Irrith, wearing a riding habit of black. She only wore the colour on All Hallows’ Eve. It cast a grim pall over her usual serenity.

A pall that was somewhat countered by the dog frolicking at her side. Teyrngar, a cream-coated faerie hound, knew full well what night it was, but the solemnity mattered less to him than the chance to run free. Smiling, Lune scratched behind his red ears.

With her good hand, of course. The left, as always, hung in a stiffened claw. Irrith wondered if it hurt her, as the iron wound surely did.

Belatedly she remembered her manners and dropped into a curtsy. “I would never mock you, your Majesty.”

Lune’s smile turned wistful. “You used to. I confess a part of me misses it.”

It was true that the Queen was a terrible rider. Living in the Onyx Hall, she rarely had cause to sit a horse. But the terrible weight of knowledge and doubt inside Irrith’s head made her reluctant to open her mouth, for fear something might slip out that shouldn’t.

“Ride alongside me,” Lune said, taking Irrith’s arm with her good hand. “Then you can catch me if I fall.”

If she fell, it would be the fault of her mount. The tatterfoals and brags changed before they passed through the Old Fish Street arch into London, dropping to all fours and growing into horse shape. But the arch was too low to admit a rider, and so they went in pairs into the small courtyard outside, where the riders climbed astride and rode out onto the larger street. When their company had formed up, all thirteen riders and the hound, well masked by charms, Lune gave the command—and they leapt into the sky.

The surge took Irrith’s breath away with delight. It’s been too long since I rode beneath the moon. Not that there was any moon now; it was in its dark phase, and the ever-present clouds veiled the stars. The only real light came from London below, lanterns marking the better streets, candles burning late into the night. Still. Free air—above the coal smoke for once—and a horse beneath me, and no politics to concern us.

Old Fish Street was the easiest passage for horse-shaped beings, but they had to ride east to begin the night’s work. Irrith marvelled as she saw how far the city stretched: past the Tower, past the docks, houses stringing out along the river, the water clogged with ships at anchor. “Wapping,” Lune said at one point, nodding downward; that was where Abd ar-Rashid lived. Though he was more in the Onyx Hall than not, lately—him and the mortal doctor both.

When they’d reached Lune’s chosen point, she gave the command, and they turned westward once more. Irrith’s gaze swept the ground below, seeking the telltale flickers that would indicate a ghost. A goblin in the Vale had said once this ritual was like a housewife sweeping her floor: it didn’t get all the dirt, but without the effort, filth—or ghosts—would pile up until there was no living among them. With the number of people London held, she imagined they had more shades than most.

Cries rose from three throats at once, but Irrith was the first to move. Her horse swooped downward, carrying her with terrifying speed toward a dingy house. Irrith leaned sideways in her saddle, hand out, and concentrated as she skimmed over the battered roof tiles. Goblins were better at this than sprites, but she was here first, and she was determined not to miss.

A feeling snagged her fingers, like fog. She seized hold and wrenched upright, and when her mount leapt upward once more, a tattered wisp of white trailed from her fist. It moaned as she rejoined the company above, bearing their first catch of the night. “My child,” the dead woman sobbed, face rippling in the wind. “Oh, my poor child, lost, lost…”

“What happened to your child?” Irrith asked, but the ghost showed no sign of hearing her.

“Few of them will converse,” Lune said. The Queen made a regal figure on her white tatterfoal—so long as you ignored her good hand’s desperate clutch on the reins. “The ones with that awareness often resist joining us, because they know they must go on at the end of the night.”

Teyrngar dove to retrieve a second ghost. “What makes them stay?” Irrith asked, studying the ground once more. “Any of them—the ones we clear away each year, or the ones that go on haunting. These aren’t all the dead mortals; we’d have to sweep the city every week for that.” The children alone would form a train to the far horizon.

Lune shook her head, gazing out over the city with a melancholy air. “Any number of things. Love for kin who still remain—that seems the most common. Sometimes it’s hatred instead, especially among those who were murdered. Or attachment to material things, their wealth or their home… anything a human cares passionately about can tie them to this world.”

Riders flew up and down, harvesting the night’s crop. Already they’d gathered enough ghosts that Irrith couldn’t get an accurate count, and they were only now passing the Tower again, heading west. The eastern end of London had contained a great many specters. “Or interaction with faeries,” Irrith said.

“Yes,” Lune said softly. “Sometimes.”

Thinking of her dead lover, no doubt. Irrith wished he’d had the consideration to die in the spring, further from All Hallows’ Eve. Or to leave a ghost, so Lune would have him in some form.

She went down several times more, but the goblins, annoyed by her early victory, outraced her to most of the ghosts. Irrith ended up mostly riding by the Queen, sighting the shades for others to catch. After calling out three in quick succession, she said, “I’ve often wondered what it must be like, knowing there’s something after death. Hell wouldn’t be so pleasant, of course, but there’s always the chance of Heaven—and maybe something, however bad, is better than nothing at all.”

A howl snapped her attention downward. The fetch Nithen rode toward them, cackling, one hand dragging a struggling ghost by the scruff of his neck. That one, it seemed, was not happy to leave. Perhaps he knew he was destined for Hell.

She almost missed Lune’s response in all the noise. “They say, you know—some scholars do—that not all faerie souls come to an end when their life does. That some go onward, though where, they do not know: perhaps Heaven or Hell, or the deep reaches of Faerie, or somewhere else entirely.”

Curious, Irrith asked, “Do you believe it?”

“I do.”

They were no longer riding in a straight line along the river; with London stretching so far north, they had to make gentle bends, sweeping the city and even crossing into Southwark. Their ghostly horde grew ever larger. Lune tried turning to survey their ranks, but quit when she slipped in her saddle. “I’ve seen it happen—at least, I think so. The faerie in question vanished, so who can say what happened to her. But I believe her spirit continued on.”

Irrith had heard the stories, but dismissed them as—well, as mortals dismissed stories of faeries. Charming fictions. Then again, faeries were not fictions, so perhaps their continuance wasn’t, either. But this wasn’t the certainty mortals had, one of two choices, or maybe Purgatory if the Catholics were right. It was a true mystery, with nothing but guesses to light the path, and all of those guesses possibly wrong. Maybe there was nothing for the fae but black void, the end of all existence.

“Which would you choose?” Irrith asked. They were crossing above the western city now, from the hovels of Seven Dials to the townhouses of Grosvenor Square. She wondered who left more ghosts, the poor or the wealthy. The poor died in greater numbers, certainly, but who clung harder to this world?

The Queen bent her head until her chin almost touched the black shadow of her riding jacket. “Sometimes I envy the mortals their assurance of continuation. But when I am weary, then I think it preferable to end as we do—a true end, with nothing after. Rest at last.”

Valentin Aspell’s voice whispered in memory, saying, a sacrifice.

Weariness. Had it worn on Lune so much she would welcome that end? Especially if it would save her people?

Irrith suddenly wished she’d never come out this night, never accepted Lune’s invitation to ride at her side. And she spared an additional wish that they’d been riding sticks of transformed straw instead, rather than two faeries who had no doubt been eavesdropping on this entire conversation.

Fortunately, they were almost done. Lune had timed their ride well, no doubt from centuries of experience: as they flew above Hyde Park, leaving the habitations of London behind, distant church bells began to toll. Twelve strokes for midnight, and Irrith twisted in her saddle to watch as behind them, the ghosts began to fade away. Their mighty host, a thick veil of white, thinned and fluttered apart, voices whispering their last. He’ll regret. Remember me. My child…

Then the thirteen fae and their mounts were alone in the night sky, with Teyrngar loping a circle around them, and it was All Saints’ Day.

“What would you choose, Irrith?” The Queen patted her mount’s neck with her crippled hand, and he turned homeward. “I doubt He would permit us into Heaven, but if you had a choice between the torments of Hell, or nothing whatsoever.”

Irrith didn’t even have to think about it. “Hell. Anything’s more interesting than just stopping.”

Lune’s smile shone briefly in the night. “I am not surprised. Well, fate willing, you will not face that choice soon.”

Despite the press of time, Galen hesitated to tell anyone what Abd ar-Rashid had said. He had James Cole, the mortal keeper of the Onyx Court’s library, dig out what old alchemical manuscripts they possessed, and lost himself in a welter of incomprehensible symbolism: green lions and dragon’s teeth, playing children and mating dogs, severed heads and homunculi and strange hermaphrodites. He could make little sense of it, but the genie was right on one count; the image of the moon queen appeared again and again.

In the end, there was nothing he could do but tell Lune. She listened in silence, and when he was done, merely said, “We should discuss this with Dr. Andrews.”

Summoning him would invite an audience of courtiers, or else avid whispers when Lune sent them away; instead, the Queen and Prince went to his laboratory. Since their conversation a few weeks before, the doctor had set up an entire table full of pendulums, whose purpose Galen could not begin to guess.

Andrews himself looked like a corpse that had not slept in a week, but febrile vitality shone in his eyes as he came forward to greet them. “You’ve come at a happy time—I have something to show you.”

Heedless of Galen’s half-voiced protest, the doctor hurried over to the table. “I’ve weighted these bobs differently, with different substances,” Andrews said, “and timed them against that clock.” He nodded at a regulator positioned on the wall behind. “It’s a repetition of an experiment Newton performed in the early 1680s, which caused him to discard his notion of aether. Let me show you—”

It was clear he wouldn’t be easily diverted, but he could be sped along. “You needn’t repeat the experiment again,” Galen said. “We trust your work. Just tell us your conclusion.”

“Aether does exist.”

Lune stood a short distance away, hands gently clasped against her skirts. “I fear I haven’t Lord Galen’s education, Dr. Andrews. What does that mean?”

“Aether,” he repeated, pronouncing the word clearly. “Said by Aristotle to be the fifth element, the quintessence. At the time that Newton performed this experiment, the thought was that aether existed everywhere, penetrating all solid things. His pendulums showed that it did not. My pendulums show that it does.”

Galen understood his point—to an extent. “Another facet of reality that’s different in faerie spaces. But what is the significance?”

“Faerie spaces! Exactly, Mr. St. Clair. I propose—though I’ve had little time to think it through; I’ve only just finished the calculations for the pendulums—that it is the presence of aether which defines faerie spaces, and differentiates them from ordinary ones. And furthermore, it may resolve a conundrum I’ve been pondering for some time now.”

His voice, Galen noticed, was lighter than it had been, as if Andrews were speaking using only his throat, not the resonance of his chest. A sign of the man’s agitated excitement? Or a symptom of his worsening illness? I fear we’ll lose him before we’re done. I would fear to lose him at all, but I’m not sure it can be avoided—not by any means short of the philosopher’s stone.

“The Dragon,” Andrews said, recalling Galen to himself, “is a spirit of fire. So people have told me on many occasions. And I’ve heard the tale of its exile, the light of its heart being projected onto the comet. But what of its body? Is it a spirit, or a creature?”

Lune, the only one of them who had seen it with her own eyes, said, “It had a body. What we placed in the prison was its heart.”

“Then what was its body composed of?” Andrews asked. “If the spirit is fire, and if those elements obtain in this world—”

“Aether.” Now Galen saw what he aimed at. “You think faerie bodies are aethereal.”

“They could be. The transmission of your Dragon to the comet could, I think, have given it an airy component, which is why I judge it to be sophic sulphur, which shares the qualities of fire and air. And at present—if I am right—it is fire and air without aether, for it is without a body.” Andrews’s vitality seemed to drain away all at once. His hand groped vaguely in the air; then he turned, searched, and found a chair next to his main working table, into which he sank with a sigh. “But we have only one half of the equation. We still need sophic mercury.”

Galen wished—rather childishly—that Lune would be the one to tell him about their concerns. But no; this was his responsibility, and he knew it. “That is what we came for, Dr. Andrews. There is… a difficulty.”

He paced a few steps, made himself stop, and clasped his hands behind his back. “If what you say is correct, then we must separate the principle from its aethereal component—yes? But the only established method for doing so would kill the source. And that isn’t acceptable.”

“The source…” Andrews’s fingers curled into the stained handkerchief they held. “Mr. St. Clair—have you found one?”

“Abd ar-Rashid believes he has,” Galen answered, each word coming out leaden with reluctance.

“Where?”

He couldn’t say it. Tension rendered him mute. Lune, motionless where she stood, did it for him. “In me.”

Andrews shot to his feet and staggered, off balance, before catching himself against the table. “You— Ah, yes, it would be feminine, I suppose—”

“It is the moon queen,” she said, and her hair seemed to shine brighter with the words, as if to make her point. “Matched with the sun king. I know a little of alchemy, from old experience, and I believe the genie is right.”

“But we can’t do it,” Galen said, finding his tongue once more. “At least, not in the same manner as the Dragon. There are two things you must understand, Dr. Andrews. The first is that no one—no one—can be permitted to hear of this. We three know, and Abd ar-Rashid, but even the rest of the scholars must be kept in the dark. Our problems are not merely intellectual, but also political; the danger of this news is very great.”

The doctor nodded, clearly only half-attending to Galen’s words. “The second,” Galen went on, more forcefully still, “is that we will not proceed with any attempt to create the philosopher’s stone unless we have devised a way to extract this principle without harming her Grace. Or for that matter, any other faerie, should a substitute be found. Do you understand?”

Andrews’s eyes cleared of their fog, and this time his nod was more sincere—but also hesitant. “I do, Mr. St. Clair. Your Majesty. If I may, ah, present a certain argument, though…”

“You may always speak,” Lune assured him. “We brought you here for your thoughts; they are of no use to anyone if not shared.”

He twisted his bony hands around one another and began to wander, stepping on his fallen handkerchief as he went. “The philosopher’s stone is more than a means of creating gold. It is perfection, and it creates perfection. It has the potential to heal every gouty gentleman in Westminster, every fever-stricken child in Seven Dials—to transform our society into a veritable paradise on earth.

“At the present moment, we have, or believe we have, one half of what is needed, which—if true—is further than any alchemist has likely got since the world began. Nor is it some tiny spark of a salamander’s heart, either: it is a Dragon. One stripped of its body, which has voyaged through space itself. A purity and power unmatched by any other.”

He paused for breath, and Galen spoke into the gap. “You believe this to be, not just a chance to make the philosopher’s stone, but our only chance.”

Andrews managed a faint laugh. “As much as I can be sure of anything, which is not much. But yes—if it can be done at all, I think it can be done now. And perhaps not ever again. And madam…” The beseeching in his face was painful to see. “Is that not an achievement worthy of sacrifice?”

For the briefest instant, Galen though he saw a glitter in Andrews’s eyes. A strange light, that saw beyond reality—even the reality of a faerie palace—into visions of that which was not. Only a touch, the merest whisper of madness… but it was there.

Or perhaps Galen imagined it, because the alternative was too dreadful to contemplate. That a man, in full possession of his sanity, might suggest that Lune sacrifice her life.

He could not bear to look at Lune, and therefore heard only her voice, as cool and unruffled as ever. “Dr. Andrews—this is still no more than speculation. You can craft a pretty argument that alchemy works in this realm, and that the Dragon is your sulphur; but we have no certainty that it’s true.”

To Galen’s relief, Andrews nodded, with no sign of mad delusion. “This was the flaw of Aristotle; he and his brethren thought the world could be understood by reasoning alone, without need of experimental testing. Our situation is unfortunately complicated by the impossibility of proper tests; when the Dragon comes, we will have only a single chance to transform it. I’m aware of the uncertainty, madam, and will do everything I can do reduce it. But I beg you—as abominable as it is of me to say this—please consider what we stand to gain.”

Galen’s mouth had gone dry. It wasn’t madness, as much as he wished it were. If their reasoning proved correct, then the benefit would be incalculable.

But so would the cost.

Hating himself for that thought, Galen finally turned to Lune. Speaking as much to her as to the doctor, he said, “But we will find another way. That, Dr. Andrews, is what the experimentation is for. Like miners, we will draw the metal from the ore.” He cursed his choice of metaphor the instant it left his mouth, as his imagination supplied him with reminders of smelting. The ore did not survive the process unharmed.

Still, Andrews nodded. His expression had gone thoughtful again. “It will be difficult, Mr. St. Clair, to work on that matter without the assistance of your scholars. Two mortal men and one heathen faerie—we aren’t likely to get far on our own.”

Lady Feidelm, Wrain, Savennis. More distantly, the von das Tickens and Ktistes. Lune moved for the first time since she had entered, studying the room; not the furnishings, but the walls and fittings. “We can ensure that nothing said in here will be overheard. I would keep the number to a minimum—only those that work with you here. That, I think, will be safe enough.”

So not the dwarves or the centaur. Galen wondered it if was mere accident that excluded the foreigners. Well, Lady Feidelm is Irish. She has been here longer, though, and proved her loyalty to this court. And Abd ar-Rashid—but they could hardly leave him out, when he was the one who pointed to the moon queen in the first place.

“Be careful,” Galen said, bowing to necessity. “And work fast. The sooner we have an alternative, the safer we will all be.”

And not only against the Dragon.

Irrith only rarely attended court. The pageantry could be amusing at times, but the business Lune conducted during that time interested her very little. It was, however, the one place she could be sure of finding Valentin Aspell—aside from his chambers, and visiting him there would draw far too much attention.

The greater presence chamber, when she arrived, seemed much emptier than she recalled. Even a full court, summoning everyone in the Onyx Hall, didn’t really fill the enormous space, but the assembled lords and ladies seemed like a handful of dice rattling around in an oversized box. Leaning over to Segraine, who was not on duty today, Irrith whispered, “Where is everyone?”

The lady knight shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Fewer every time. Some are still in the city, but drawing back; others have gone entirely.”

As Carline had predicted they would. And the comet hadn’t even been sighted yet.

Lune called forward Sir Peregrin, the Captain of the Onyx Guard. Four knights followed him, carrying a long, narrow box, which they placed on the floor when they knelt. The captain said, “Your Majesty, the yarthkin Hempry has hafted a piece of the jotun ice to length of ash.” He gestured, and the knights uncovered the box, revealing an enormously long pike, its end glinting with the same near-invisible material Irrith had seen them wrestling with a year ago. “I have selected these four to be your spear-knights: Sir Adenant, Sir Thrandin, Sir Emaus, and my lieutenant Sir Cerenel. They will stand ready to do battle with the Dragon, and to stab it through its fiery heart, for the defence of the Onyx Hall.”

The Dragon might or might not have a body when it returned, but it would have a heart; that much, they were certain of. Lune thanked the spear-knights and made a speech Irrith didn’t bother listening to. She waited impatiently until court was adjourned, then drifted in Aspell’s direction, knowing better than to run straight for him. Still, the Lord Keeper glared when she drew near. “I am quite busy, Dame Irrith.”

“I have something to tell you,” she whispered. He was the one who brought her into this; if her inability to skulk well bothered him, it was his own damned fault.

His thin-lipped mouth barely moved in response. “Crow’s Head. Two hours.”

For a meeting like this, it was probably the safest place in the Onyx Hall, given the copies of The Ash and Thorn scattered around. And it wouldn’t be easy to slip spies past Hafdean, the surly hob who kept the place. Irrith, lacking a pocket-watch, went early, and sat beneath the preserved human head mounted prominently on the wall. Magrat wasn’t in her usual place. Perhaps the church grim was off haunting some religious folk.

Eventually Hafdean nudged her in passing. Irrith hadn’t seen Aspell come in, nor anyone under a glamour, but she wasn’t surprised; she went through a door at the back of the main room and found herself in a small chamber that undoubtedly had another, hidden exit. Aspell was there, pacing. “You had best not make a habit of this, Dame Irrith. What do you want?”

“To tell you something Lune isn’t making public,” Irrith said, ignoring the insult in his tone. “I think only she and the Prince know about this.” Galen had brought it up while they lay in bed together, not so much conversing with Irrith as talking at her, voicing his fears like that would exorcise them. “Do you know what Dr. Andrews has been up to?”

The Lord Keeper waved dismissively. “Some mortal thing, involving experiments and calculations. Savennis and those other bookish sorts are helping him.”

As she’d suspected. The Queen was keeping this very quiet indeed. But Aspell needed to know, so he wouldn’t do anything rash.

Irrith explained to him about the philosopher’s stone, as well as she understood it. “It isn’t ready yet; they need the other half, this mercury, and apparently that will be difficult to create. Still, it’s different from anything anybody’s thought of in the last fifty years, and I think it’s more likely to work than those bloody spear-knights.”

Aspell’s pacing had halted while she spoke; now he leaned against the dirty wall and crossed his arms. “And you are telling me this because…”

“Because you need to know they do have a plan. Not to trap or kill the Dragon, but to change it. That’s better than—than what you were talking about. Before.” Even in the Crow’s Head—perhaps especially in the Crow’s Head—she didn’t feel comfortable naming it directly.

He seemed amused. “So you’ve brought me this confidence in order that I might know we have other hopes. And therefore not pursue this one too far?”

“Yes!” she said angrily, hands tightening into fists. “You said it was a last resort; I’m telling you we have others that can come before it.”

His thin mouth hardened into a stone line. “Dame Irrith, I think you fail to understand something very important: if it does come to that extremity, we shall have little or no time in which to act. A last resort is, by its nature, the thing one does when the alternative is immediate disaster. We cannot abandon our preparations unless there is a surety of success with some other plan—and in truth, not even then, for this is too great a threat to admit of complacency.”

For all the soundness of his argument, it still produced a queasy feeling in Irrith’s stomach. “What preparations, though? You said you would do nothing against the Queen’s will.”

“Indeed.” He drew close, much closer than she liked, and dropped his voice so not even the sharpest-eared goblin at the keyhole could have overheard what he said next. “You already know what I mean, Dame Irrith. The Queen must agree to sacrifice herself. And if she is to do that in time to save London, then it must not come as a surprise; her mind must be prepared for the idea. When the choice comes, there will be no time for explanations or arguments.”

Cold ran down Irrith’s back as if someone had poured the deepest, blackest waters of the Thames over her head. He was right—and right that she already knew. After all, what had that conversation with Lune on All Hallows’ Eve been, if not an attempt to raise the specter of death in Lune’s mind?

She whispered, “Galen would never let her. He loves Lune too much. He’d die before he let harm come to her.”

“Can he be prepared?”

To give up Lune? Not a chance. So she might lose them both: Lune, in trying to save the city, and Galen, in trying to save her.

It felt like someone had placed iron bands around her heart. She didn’t want to lose either one. Even wounded, Lune still commanded Irrith’s respect and admiration; were it not for those two physical flaws, Irrith would have no desire to see her replaced. Who else could balance out this lunatic court, faeries and mortals and ambassadors from distant lands?

But it did little good to save the Queen and lose her court. “So you want me to make certain she’s thought about this. Before the Dragon comes.”

“You are close to her,” Aspell said, still in that all-but-silent murmur. “And she respects your honesty. If you say it to her, she will listen. She may not agree—not immediately—but the idea will stay in her mind.”

Irrith thought he held her influence in much too high esteem; she wouldn’t call herself “close” to Lune. But it couldn’t hurt to try. If they found some better way, then Lune would never have to face that choice at all.

“Very well,” she muttered, staring blindly at her toes. “I’ll do what I can.” Let him think I mean only what he asked for.

She would speak to Lune, yes. The rest of her time, she would spend in the Temple of Arms, training to battle the Dragon. If it came to Lune sacrificing herself, it would only be after Irrith had done everything possible to prevent it.

I don’t know that I’m willing to die to protect her. But by Ash and Thorn, I’m willing to fight.

Abd ar-Rashid had gone into the Calendar Room again, to contemplate ways of obtaining sophic mercury without danger to Lune; he would not emerge for eleven days. Lune herself spent half her waking hours with the Goodemeades, using their countless connections of friendship to persuade undecided faeries to stay. Neither of these were matters Galen could help with, and Dr. Andrews had gone back to Red Lion Square for a much needed respite.

In that brief lull, Galen decided that he had put a certain matter off for much too long, and went in search of Irrith.

He found her at last in the Temple of Arms, where he was not looking for her; the sprite was friends with Dame Segraine, and he thought the lady knight might know where to find her. He was startled instead to discover Irrith practicing against the musket targets, with her mouth set in a fierce grimace.

The masters of the Temple had long since taken the stance that the clever folk of the court could prepare all the tricks and traps they liked; they would stand ready for battle, and would train anyone else who wished to do the same. If all else failed, the Onyx Court would have this last line of defence, the bodies and sword arms of its bravest subjects.

Or musket hands, as the case might be. Elfshot, their usual ammunition, would do no good against the Dragon; they used it for practice, but when the time came it would be iron balls they sent into their enemy’s flesh. No one held out much hope that it would do more than annoy the creature that had once destroyed its iron prison. Still, that annoyance might be used to create openings for the spear-knights and their icy blade.

The black powder reek clogged his throat, but he waited until Irrith had finished her current shot. The sprite bit the end off a cartridge, poured some powder into the pan of her musket, dropped the rest of the cartridge down the barrel, rammed it home, then cocked and lifted her weapon. Galen timed her surreptitiously through this operation: nearly thirty seconds. Not nearly up to the standards of a soldier. And, judging by her deepening scowl as she lowered the gun, she knew it.

He laid one hand on her shoulder; with all the musket fire from herself and those around her, she would be half-deaf. Irrith jumped far enough to make him glad he’d waited until her gun was empty, then saw him and followed his beckoning hand, out of the practice ground.

“Didn’t you once say to me that you had no intention of fighting?” he asked, once they were in the quieter space of the armory.

A curious mixture of determination and guilt answered him. “I’m no good with your alchemy,” Irrith said, and laid aside her musket for cleaning. “This at least gives me something to do.”

Galen smiled. “In that case, I have something that might be more suited to your talents.”

The hope that blazed up in her eyes dimmed when he continued, “It has nothing to do with the comet. But if I don’t follow through on this now, I fear I’ll lose my courage; and I will need help to do it the way I would like to.”

Irrith eyed him suspiciously. “To do what?”

“To tell Miss Philadelphia Northwood,” Galen said, “about the Onyx Court.”

Not even the first nibblings of winter’s wind could keep the fashionable away from Hyde Park, one of their preferred stages for displaying themselves to the admiration of their rivals and lessers. From her perch in a tree, Irrith could hear the distant clatter of carriages, most of them circling the Ring in the centre of the park. Try though she might, she could not see the appeal of that pastime; they went ’round and ’round like spinning tops, for no other purpose than to show off their conveyances and horses and footmen. In weather such as this, there would be no fashion of dress to see, and little conversation. Why waste the time?

I suppose that is the point—to waste time, because one has it to spare. Irrith sneered at that extravagance even as she envied it. The creeping tension of the Onyx Hall had infected her so thoroughly she chafed at anything that seemed a diversion from their task. Like playing games with the Prince’s future wife.

Which was the thought that made her agree to help. If playing games with a mortal seemed like a waste of time, then Irrith had fallen far indeed.

So she sat in a tree just north of the Serpentine’s cold waters on this bleak December day, waiting for the approach of a particular carriage.

Blast Galen anyway. The plan he’d described to her was a farce, one she was embarrased to take part in. Irrith dangled her legs off the branch, careless of the icy air, and decided she would do this her own way. And if that frightened off Delphia Northwood… well, then the woman wouldn’t last long in the Onyx Hall anyway.

The Hyde Park setting gave her a good idea, too.

The rattle of wheels stopped the swing of her legs. Peeking through the leaves, Irrith saw a carriage approaching along the rough path that followed the north bank of the Serpentine. Already it was quite close; she had to hurry, throwing on a suitable glamour before dropping light as a leaf onto the ground below. Then she ran out in front of the carriage and flung one hand up in imperious command.

The horses shied very satisfyingly. The man holding their reins swore, then flinched at his own ill manners, which would not be appreciated by the ladies inside. Irrith grinned at him. By all appearances the driver was a servant of Mrs. Vesey’s, but that was as much a lie as her own seeming; beneath the illusion, it was Edward Thorne. Galen thought it better to keep this entire affair in the hands of those who knew what it was about. The only one here today who did not know was Miss Northwood.

Who might or might not be the future Mrs. St. Clair. Right now, that was in Irrith’s hands.

“You, out of the road,” Edward called in a loud voice, and shook the reins. He did a remarkably good job of making it sound like he was trying to goad the horses onward, but it was a great deal of noise for very little effect, and the animals weren’t going anywhere until Irrith told them to. He gave her an uncertain frown, though. Galen had given very specific instructions, and one of those had been that the stranger who stopped them in Hyde Park would be a woman.

Irrith flicked her long coat as she dropped into a grand bow, hat over her heart. Then she stuck her tongue out at Edward, in case he hadn’t yet guessed that she hid under the masculine glamour. But she had to straighten her expression hastily when Miss Northwood’s wide-hooded head poked out one carriage window, looking to see what the problem was.

Her eyes went very wide when she saw Irrith.

The sprite paced with deliberate strides past Edward, who by then had assumed a posture of blank, unseeing trance, as per the Prince’s instructions. Miss Northwood drew back in fear, and murmured something half-audible to her companion in the carriage. A moment later Irrith drew level, and opened the door to find Mrs. Vesey prepared to play her part.

“Ladies,” Irrith said, with a courteous bow, “I apologise for troubling you. But at noon today I am bound to appear in a meadow of this park and face my mortal enemy in a duel, and if I am to have any hope of defeating him, I must bear the good luck of a maiden’s kiss.”

She wished she had a mirror in which to see her own glamour. For this, she had added every detail she could think of: a man’s suit all of green; hair as silver as Lune’s; a fresh hawthorn blossom growing out of her buttonhole, ignoring the December chill.

And a face that, while not her own, was as faerie a face as any in the Onyx Hall.

Miss Northwood appeared to be staring at the exaggerated point of her ear. Mrs. Vesey said, in a tone of artful regret, “Oh, good sir, I would—but I was wed many years ago. Delphia, my dear—”

The young woman startled like a cat, and stared wildly at Mrs. Vesey. “What?”

“A kiss for the gentleman,” her friend reminded her. “So he may win his duel.”

She was supposed to be a woman, begging a pin to keep her tiny faerie cows from straying. This was Hyde Park, though, where men held their illegal duels, and that was far more interesting of a story. Fortunately, Mrs. Vesey adapted quickly. Miss Northwood, on the other hand…

The brief flash of her tongue over her lips betrayed the young woman’s uncertainty. Still, Irrith had to grant the strength of her nerves when she said, “Sir, I fear you are not human.”

“No, I’m not,” Irrith agreed cheerfully.

Even though it was obvious to see, the admission made Miss Northwood’s eyes widen. “How—how am I to know that you deserve to win your duel?”

Delight began to tickle Irrith’s heart. Let Carline collect the beautiful people; Irrith preferred the ones with spirit. “Does it matter?” she asked. “I’ll grant you good luck in return for your kiss, and the outcome of the duel is hardly any concern of yours.”

“It does matter,” Miss Northwood insisted, eyes darting to Mrs. Vesey in a desperate plea for either confirmation or assistance, possibly both. “I should not want to help you win if you don’t deserve to. And to ask a kiss,” she added, warming to her topic. “It’s very inappropriate, sir; I do not know you.”

Perhaps the pin would have been the better course after all. Irrith floundered for a reply. She’d done all she needed to, really; the notion was to have Miss Northwood encounter faeries, and then for Mrs. Vesey to admit calmly to their existence, whereupon the young woman would be advised to speak with Galen, as if he hadn’t arranged it all himself. Far too complicated, in Irrith’s opinion, but he’d learned his lesson too firmly after Dr. Andrews: faeries first, explanations later.

But she refused to give up so easily. She’d asked for a kiss, and she would get one. “It need only be on the cheek,” Irrith said. “I am a gentleman, I assure you. As for your doubts about my honor…”

Well, she’d eaten bread. That wouldn’t make this enjoyable, but at least it wouldn’t hurt her. “If either of you ladies has a cross about you?”

Mrs. Vesey’s eyes widened. She looked to Miss Northwood, and Miss Northwood looked to her; both of them shook their heads. This modern age, Irrith thought, caught between annoyance and amusement. Time was, you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting someone with a cross. Resigned, she said, “I was going to swear on a cross that I intend no harm this day to anyone who doesn’t deserve it. But you’ve spoiled my plan—and, I might add, quite spoiled this meeting, which was supposed to be a brief and mysterious encounter. Look, a magical stranger in Hyde Park! But no, you had to argue.”

She glanced up to find the most extraordinary expression on Miss Northwood’s face. It turned out to be laughter, bubbling up out of the young woman’s throat and lighting her eyes. Even Mrs. Vesey began to chuckle. Edward Thorne sat very still, but Irrith could tell he was dying to turn and say something.

“Here.” Miss Northwood leaned forward and planted a brief kiss on Irrith’s cheek. “For your luck, and I am sorry that I don’t know how to behave properly when accosted by a faerie.”

Irrith mock-frowned at her. “Serve you right if I gave you no reward. But you’ve amused me, and for that I’ll give you two things. One, when you return home, you’ll find your favourite rosebush in bloom. Second, I will bless your dreams, miss, that you may find happiness in them.” And she swept Miss Northwood a grand bow.

“Thank you,” the young woman said gravely.

Not anything like Lune. Nor, for that matter, like me. But Irrith could see why Galen had chosen her—and, though it made her teeth hurt to admit it, she couldn’t fault the choice.

In which case, this encounter deserved to end properly, even if the middle had gone awry. Irrith vanished herself before their eyes, then patted Edward Thorne’s leg in passing as she stole away, behind the tree in which she’d hidden before. She listened as he came out of his “trance” and called out to the ladies; Mrs. Vesey reassured him, and then they drove onward, leaving Irrith to guess at the conversation that ensued.

Not at all what Galen had intended. But it would do the work.

And I have to get to Rose House, or that bush will be a sore disappointment when Miss Northwood goes looking.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re home this morning.” Cynthia hurried across Galen’s bedroom, with free disregard for her brother’s half-dressed state and Edward’s meaningful cough. “You’re needed downstairs. Delphia has called upon me, but you’re the one she wants to speak to, only she can’t call upon you and have it be proper. Mama, thank Heaven, is out with Daphne, and I can make Irene be silent; so long as you are quick, Papa will never know. But you must come downstairs now.” Edward coughed again. “After you’ve put some clothes on, of course.”

Galen sat blear-eyed and staring at the carpet through her entire speech. Damnation. Too soon! The plan was for Mrs. Vesey to arrange a visit at her house, where they could speak in greater safety—and even that had worried him enough that he’d scarcely slept last night. But Miss Northwood, it seemed, was too impatient to wait.

Unless she didn’t intend conversation. Perhaps she’d come to Leicester Fields to cry off their betrothal.

That thought jolted him to unpleasant wakefulness. Edward was already there, with a shirt and breeches and everything else he needed; Galen was at present wearing only a set of drawers. Cynthia, blushing a little, retired to let him dress. Galen hurried everything on, with such speed that he almost went out without his wig; fortunately, his valet was more alert than he.

At the door to the parlor, he stopped and tried to slow his heartbeat. But the pounding refused to answer to the commands of his will, and so it still shook his ribs when he walked in and found Delphia Northwood waiting on the settee with his sister.

“I’ll see to Irene,” Cynthia said with a mischievous giggle, and slipped past Galen. What she thought they intended, he could only imagine; surely it fell far short of the truth. Whichever truth that might be.

What did a woman look like when she had made up her mind to cry off? He had no idea. Miss Northwood was letting nothing slip; the firm clasp of her gloved hands upon each other could have indicated anything at all. He stood in awkward silence, not knowing what he could possibly say.

Seen any faeries lately?

Are we still betrothed?

Chilly morning, isn’t it?

Miss Northwood said, “Did you arrange that incident now so I would have time to find a way out of this marriage?”

Galen’s heart attempted to leap straight out of his mouth. It took him three tries to swallow it back down. Then he said, unsteadily, “I suppose it would be foolish of me to pretend I did not arrange it.”

“Yes. It would.” She rose, hands still clasped tight, and then stopped as if she did not know where to go. “Why did you do it?”

He looked down. There was a small muddy scuff in the carpet just ahead of his left foot, not fresh; the maid should have cleaned that away. “I wanted you to know because it seemed unfair to leave you in ignorance of the greater part of my life. It happened now because yes, I thought you should have the opportunity to escape if you wished to. And I arranged it in such roundabout fashion because…” The words clogged in his throat. “Because I could not imagine sitting in Mrs. Vesey’s parlour and explaining it all to you, as if I were lecturing on some foreign land. I wanted you to see. And I thought that would be a safe way to do it, for if you were terrified by the experience, then Mrs. Vesey would tell you nothing, and I would know this is not something I could ever share with you.”

But Mrs. Vesey had told her, clearly. That gave him a tiny bit of hope.

Her sudden exhalation made him realise she had been holding her breath. “How very characteristic,” Miss Northwood said, and sat down hard precisely where she had been before.

“Characteristic?” Galen said, daring to lift his gaze.

She met it with a rueful smile. “Of you. At Sothings Park you said you were a romantic, and I see that it’s true. A gentleman all in green, a duel in Hyde Park… much more interesting, I suppose, than a lecture in Mrs. Vesey’s parlor. Though that came later, once we had driven back.”

Gentleman? Duel? What in Mab’s name did Irrith do? Galen hadn’t gone to the Onyx Hall last night, too nervous to hear the tale. Well, whatever the disobedient sprite had done, it achieved this much; it showed Delphia what she must see, and Mrs. Vesey had told her what she must know.

Now the decision was hers.

He came forward to kneel at her feet, but not too close. “This is the business that occupies me, Delphia. It will occupy me until the day I die. There is a great deal that even Mrs. Vesey doesn’t know, which I’ll tell you about, if you want to hear; some of it is not so pleasant. But all the secrets in my life arise from this one. If you want no part of it—if you prefer a husband whose secrets are of a more ordinary kind—then say so now, and we will end our betrothal. I will help you find a way to avoid Mr. Beckford’s son.”

Miss Northwood’s fingers curled in at the name. Then they relaxed, one slow degree at a time.

“No, Mr. St Clair. I will marry you still—on one condition.”

“Name it,” Galen breathed.

She caught and held his gaze, and in her eyes he saw both steely determination and a hint of joyous curiosity. “That the secret belong to me as well as you. Take me to the Onyx Hall.”

Ever since ascending to the rank of Prince, Galen had rarely spared the time to really look at the faerie palace that consumed so much of his life. Though he spent long hours there, he almost never took notice of the place itself; he was too busy debating theories with the scholars, reporting to Lune, occasionally dallying with Irrith. His surroundings were of little import, compared with his concerns.

Delphia made him see it through new eyes.

Everything was a wonder to her, from the swift but gentle drop of the Newgate entrance to the grandeur of the greater presence chamber. She marvelled at the sleek elegance of the black stone, that never seemed to show any wear; she delighted in the faerie lights that followed in her wake. Even the most grotesque of the court’s goblins failed to discompose her. Of course, those she encountered were on their best behavior; Lune had seen to that. But their faces alone would have been enough to frighten any young woman with less steel at her core.

He presented her to the Queen, in the more intimate environment of Lune’s privy chamber. Lune received her kindly, showing no hint of impatience at her Prince’s decision to spend time on this matter. Galen himself said little. Some cruel bit of wit on Fate’s part—or perhaps Irrith’s—had put the sprite in attendance upon the royal person that day. The woman I love, the woman I am promised to, and the woman I am bedding, all in one chamber. I suppose I have no one to blame but myself.

He declined Irrith’s offer to accompany them on their tour of the Hall. What mischief she had in mind, he didn’t know, and didn’t want to discover. Instead he and Delphia walked alone—truly alone, without even Edward to attend them. “Your valet comes here with you?” she asked, surprised, and he explained about the man’s faerie father.

“It makes matters easier,” he said, as they approached the Hall of Figures, where the gems of the Onyx Hall’s statuary were kept. “I have chambers here in the palace, and often stay in them; if you’ve heard Cynthia complain of my absences, that is why. Having one valet who can attend me in both worlds is simpler than managing two. The servants who maintain my quarters are faeries, though.”

“Perhaps I—” Delphia began, then lost the rest of it in a gasp. They stood at the top of a half flight of stairs, which gave a splendid view of the long gallery, lined on both sides with statues. Some, in imitation of mortal habit, had been pillaged from Italy and Greece. Others were older and cruder, or simply stranger, taken from no land or time Galen knew of. He’d never liked this place; the frozen ranks of figures unnerved him too much. But Delphia, seeing them for the first time, was entranced.

Then he realised her eyes were fixed on the far end of the gallery, where stairs led up again to a dais and the far doors, and a single statue stood in glory.

They made their way toward it slowly, for there were other things in the chamber worth seeing. On this side, an enormous head, so lifelike it might have been taken from a noble-faced giant; across the way, a strange tangle of honey-veined marble, a figure half-emerging from the trunk of a tree. But mere stone was by comparison a weak thing, so before long they climbed the stairs and stood before the sculpture Galen liked least in all the Onyx Hall.

The flames spiraling around the central form gave off enough heat to prove their reality, not enough to drive the viewer back. They moved, though, writhing and twisting, and created the illusion that the figure trapped within them was moving, too. He towered above Galen’s and Delphia’s heads, hands clenched around semisolid flames, massive shoulders hunched as if to tear his enemy apart, and such was the skill of the artisan that it was impossible to tell which was winning, giant or flames.

Delphia held one hand up, fingers glowing against the ruddy light, and breathed, “What is this one?”

“A memorial.” Galen wrapped his arms around his body, though it was impossible to be cold while standing upon the dais. “This realm’s answer to the Monument to the Great Fire. Have you ever been there?”

She nodded. “The view from its gallery is splendid.”

“There are folk here who remember that fire—who saw it with their own eyes. Who fought it.” The curling flames, twining serpentlike around the statue, trapped his gaze and would not let him go. “I told you there were less pleasant things, ones Mrs. Vesey does not know about. This is one of them.”

Delphia turned away from her contemplation, hand dropping to her side. “What do you mean?”

He gestured at the statue. “That’s meant to represent a giant in battle with the Dragon. The Fire was more than flames, Delphia; it was a great beast, that tried to devour all of London—and succeeded in devouring a great deal of it. While the mortals fought the blaze, the fae battled its spirit. And in the end they imprisoned it.”

With the light behind her, Delphia’s expression was hard to read, but he thought he saw her brow furrow. “A grand and terrible bit of history… but you look as if it troubles you even now.”

“It troubles us all,” he whispered. “Because it’s coming back, Delphia. The comet everyone is waiting for—that is the Dragon’s prison. If I have been tired and distracted and absent these past months, it’s because the day is not far off when we will be back to this.” And he gestured at the statue, the faerie locked in combat with the beast.

She cast a glance over her shoulder, then back at him. “You mean—some kind of battle?”

“We hope not. But I fear—” He shivered, and pressed his elbows into his ribs, as if that would stop it. “I fear that all our clever plans will come to nothing, and it will be this. Battle against an immortal beast, in order to save London. And people will die. Fae, and perhaps mortals, too.”

Perhaps myself. The thought terrified him, and yet he clung to it, as if familiarity could wear down the sharp edges, rendering the fear incapable of wounding him. Galen did not want to die, but he wanted even less to live a coward. If it came to battle…

Here in the Onyx Hall, he could not speak God’s name, but he could cry out in his thoughts. Please, O Lord, give me the courage to face that prospect like a man.

Delphia came forward, hands rising and then hesitating. But there was no one in the Hall of Figures save they two, and so she went on as she had begun, wrapping her arms around his stiff body and laying her cheek along his. After a moment Galen uncrossed his own arms and laid his hands on her waist, feeling the rigid armour of her stays. Irrith rarely wore any—a comparison he should not be making, not when Delphia would be his wife.

“I don’t understand everything you’ve said,” she murmured. “Comets and Dragons and all of that. But I’m sure it will be all right.”

Meaningless words. As she admitted, she had no understanding of the circumstances—the Dragon’s power, the details of their plan, any of it. Still, he needed to hear that assurance, empty though it was.

I’m sure it will be all right.

Galen disengaged from her embrace, forcing himself to concentrate upon her face, and not the fiery memorial behind. “Thank you. Now come; there are more—and more pleasant—parts of the Onyx Hall to see.”

On certain days—May Day, Midsummer, All Hallows’ Eve—the fae went out into the mortal world to uphold their ancient traditions.

During the Christmas season, they stayed below.

Deprived of Galen’s company, and bored as a result, Irrith went to the night garden. There she passed the day playing increasingly absurd dice games with Ktistes, sprite and centaur taking turns to add a new rule with every new round. They threw the dice upon the polished boards of his pavilion, chatting upon inconsequential subjects with determined carelessness, until Irrith, rising to stretch, caught sight of something outside.

A holly nymph, spirit of one of the garden’s trees, stood on the dewed grass with her head tilted back, staring upward.

“What is it?” Ktistes asked. Irrith didn’t answer; by then, her feet were already carrying her down the ramp and onto the grass, into open space where she could see the ceiling above.

A comet blazed across the night garden.

The faerie lights that formed its sky had drawn inward, leaving most of the ceiling black and empty. The tail of the comet pierced that blackness like a sword, trailing back from a core of brightness too painful to look at directly. It stretched nearly from one side of the garden to the other, a radiant omen of doom.

The knocking of Ktistes’s hooves against the wood sounded hollow as death behind Irrith. Then the centaur was there, and she put one hand against his flank, needing the support.

“Someone has seen it,” he whispered—a tiny sound, coming from so great a body. “We must find out who.”

Does it matter? Irrith wondered. Her muscles were wound so tight she thought her bones might snap. We are out of time.

The comet—and the Dragon it carried—had returned.