“What I have to say to you is very private,” Galen said, unnecessarily; he’d already made that much obvious. His nerves would not rest, though. “I don’t mean to impugn your control of your servants, but it would be disastrous for many people if word were to slip out.” No doubt it had happened before, in the centuries of the Onyx Court’s existence, and no doubt the fae had methods of dealing with it; otherwise all London would know of their presence. But they could be ruthless in protecting their secrets, and Galen had no desire to provoke a demonstration.
Andrews gestured toward the door. “If you’re truly worried, Mr. St. Clair, we could walk in the fields around the Foundling Hospital. It’s a pleasant day, and we should have no worries of being overheard.”
Only when relief broke in a cold wave over Galen did he realize how much the servants had been worrying him. “That would be ideal.”
With no further ado, Andrews bowed him through the doorway. Red Lion Street, lined with rows of smaller houses, opened without warning into placid fields, just a few blocks to the north. A broad avenue led to the brick heights of the Foundling Hospital, but Galen and Dr. Andrews went left, along a footpath into the Lamb’s Conduit Fields.
He breathed much more easily out here, and not just because the nearest people were well distant, hard at work in the little market gardens that served London with fresh vegetables and flowers. The sunlight was warm without being oppressively hot, and the buttercups blooming along the sides of the path unknotted his shoulders just by their cheerful color. In such surroundings, the existence of a dark and hidden world beneath London seemed more like a point of curiosity than a threat. That was the greatest risk: that someday the Onyx Court would be exposed to one who saw them as an enemy. Galen was determined to protect himself, and the court, from that error.
Dr. Andrews gave him the time he needed to marshal his thoughts. They ambled along in silence, until Galen took a deep breath and launched into the speech he’d so carefully prepared.
“I must confess, Dr. Andrews, that while I’ve been grateful for your patronage in the Royal Society, from early on, I had an additional motive in cultivating your acquaintance. I hoped you might be able to provide me with a touch of assistance on a rather pressing matter. The questions you pursue—the nature of mortality, and the relationship between mind and body, spirit and matter—those have very direct bearing upon my concerns. I saw in your quest the opportunity not just to solicit assistance, but to offer it to you in return. You see, sir, I have these several years now been closely involved with a number of individuals upon whom mortality has no hold.”
Andrews had been walking this entire time with his hands clasped at the small of his back and his eyes raised to the sky, enjoying the scents of summer. Now he lowered his chin, so that his face fell into shadow, and turned a look of astonishment upon Galen.
He said nothing, though, for which Galen was grateful. If interrupted now, he might lose the thread of his explanation for good. “I’m well aware of the extraordinary nature of that claim. I assure you, Dr. Andrews, that I am entirely serious, though what I’m about to say to you may seem otherwise. These individuals live in London, but in secret; they never go about in public undisguised. Some of them have been here for centuries, and could tell you at first hand what it was like to live under the Tudors. They aren’t perfectly immortal—they can be slain—but in the absence of violence, they live forever.”
Here he paused to swallow, wishing he had some drink to wet his terribly dry mouth, and in that pause Dr. Andrews responded. “And who, may I ask, are these extraordinary immortals of which you speak?”
Dr. Johnson’s scornful face rose, unbidden, in Galen’s memory. He’d avoided the word deliberately, putting the meat of his explanation first, because he recalled the mockery of that great man, and did not wish to invite it a second time. But the word must, inevitably, be said.
“I speak, sir, of faeries.”
Andrews didn’t laugh. He didn’t make any sound at all.
“They aren’t the silly creatures of Shakespeare’s fancy,” Galen said. Well, some of them were—but those didn’t matter. “They exist in many varieties, from regal to foul, and not only might they teach you the very secrets you wish to learn . . . Dr. Andrews, they need your help.”
They had drifted to a halt in the middle of the path, surrounded by foxgloves and sunshine and the hard-packed dust of the ground. In the near distance, ordinary Londoners went about their work, blissfully free of the screaming apprehension that gripped Galen’s throat again, strangling him more with every moment in which Dr. Andrews did not respond.
He has to believe me. He must.
“Mr. St. Clair,” Andrews said, then stopped.
His chin was down even farther now, the brim of his hat concealing his expression. His hands were still behind his back, and in the set of his shoulders Galen saw rigid tension. It was to be expected; no one could take such a revelation in stride. But once he had a moment to assimilate it—
Andrews raised his head, and met Galen’s eyes with sober concern. “Mr. St. Clair, I’m not certain what possessed you to bring me out here with such a story. My guess is that you have been deceived by a mountebank—perhaps one offering wild promises of restoring your family’s fortune; perhaps one merely preying on your admirable heart, with these tales of faeries in need of a savior. I shudder to think what assistance he has asked of you.”
“There is no mountebank!” Galen exclaimed, horrified. “Dr. Andrews—”
The gentleman’s mouth hardened. “If no one has deceived you, then I must conclude that you are attempting to deceive me. I do not wish to know what your request would have been. Should I learn that, I would be forced to go to your father and share the news of this unfortunate encounter. As it stands, Mr. St. Clair, I offer you this much: I will not tell your father, nor will I bring any trouble upon you for wasting my time and goodwill. But in return, I must insist that you cease to attend the Royal Society. I can no longer in good conscience admit you as my guest, and should you persuade your father to do so again, I will speak against it to Lord Macclesfield. Have I made myself clear?”
He could have torn Galen’s heart from his chest and stomped it into the dust and he would not have been more clear. Galen wished he could sink into that dust, or leap into the sky and flee on the wings of a hawk—anything that would remove him from this sunny lane, and the disgusted gaze of Dr. Andrews.
Like an automaton’s, his mouth opened and formed words, without the instruction of his brain. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Andrews made a curt bow, barely more than a slight twitch forward. “I believe you can find your way home from here. Good day, Mr. St. Clair.”
Around the point when Irrith followed Galen to Red Lion Square, she had to admit she was spying on him.
How else was she to satisfy her curiosity? He was ludicrously easy to follow; a simple glamour, and she could shadow him wherever he went. Not into Royal Society meetings, where she would have to pretend to be one of the members, but other places were open to her. She visited his favorite bookshop, and saw what titles interested him. She loitered in his favorite coffeehouse, drinking the foul, bitter tonic while he played games of chance with his friends. She even investigated his house, with his three sisters and his tyrannical father.
It wasn’t spying. It was . . .
Very well, it’s spying.
And it sounded a bit shameful when she admitted that. Especially since she was neglecting the task Lune had set her, the concealment of England. Well and good to say she was waiting on the Queen’s negotiations with the Greeks and the folk of the sea, but Irrith had better things to do with her time than spying on the Prince.
She’d been considering sneaking into the house of the Marvelous Menagerie, to overhear what Galen might be saying, but now it didn’t seem like such a good idea. She was on the verge of convincing herself to go home when Galen emerged once more, this time in the company of that man. Dr. Andre
ws. The one with the fake satyr.
Following someone through green fields wasn’t shameful; it was one of her favorite pastimes in Berkshire. And she was very, very good at it. Freed from her doubts, Irrith crept close enough to hear Galen’s unbelievable speech, and Andrews’s unbelieving reaction.
She bit down on a curse. While the two men took their leave of each other, going separate ways, she fought the urge to chew on the brambles that concealed her. I should have warned Galen. I knew, when I asked him about satyrs—this isn’t a man who wants to believe in faeries. But she hadn’t realized that was what the Prince had in mind.
If she hurried, she might catch Andrews before he came among the houses once more, and then she could make certain he never reached them. Never had the chance to repeat what Galen had revealed.
But no; the Prince thought Andrews would be useful. She couldn’t simply kill him, even if he’d proved his lack of use.
It gave her another idea, though.
Irrith cut across the open ground, relying as much on the cover of hedges as faerie charms to keep herself concealed. Andrews was almost to the back of those big buildings near the town’s edge. She had only an instant to wonder if this was truly a good idea before she flung a glamour over herself, then flung herself into the path.
The mortal stopped abruptly. He drew a surprised breath, but it set off a fit of coughing; disgruntled, Irrith waited, as he fished out a handkerchief and spat something into it. Once his wind had returned, he looked up, and said with some confusion, “Miss Dinley?”
She’d remembered the look she put on for that visit to the menagerie, but not the name. What a helpful fellow. “Are you all right, Dr. Andrews?”
He waved his free hand at her, tucking the handkerchief away with the other. “You startled me, is all. What—” Now he looked around. “Are you out here alone?”
The temptation to play an elaborate role tugged at her. Under the circumstances, though, it was best to dispose of this quickly. “I saw you walking with Galen St. Clair.” She paused, holding Andrews’s gaze. “I know what he told you.”
The man scowled. “If you are a friend of his, Miss Dinley, then I would ask that you advise him to stop playing games.”
“But I like games,” Irrith said—from behind him.
She almost ruined it all by laughing when he squawked and spun around. It was an easy trick, the sort of thing pucks dismissed as beneath their efforts, but she hadn’t planned for this; she had to work with what she had.
Which was enough to impress Andrews. Or to frighten him, which was just as good. “What—how did you—”
“Get back here?” Irrith gave him a mocking curtsy. “Perhaps I moved faster than your old eyes can see.”
She read his intentions with plenty of time to spare. Andrews didn’t get two steps farther down the path before she moved again, blocking his way. “Of course,” she said, “I’m older than you are. Far older. But you don’t believe in creatures such as me, do you, Dr. Andrews?” She had to pause to concentrate, but that was all right; the man wasn’t going anywhere. His feet seemed rooted to the ground as the glamour masking her rippled, replacing Miss Dinley with a red-haired young gentleman in a foppish coat. “I’m just a mountebank, preying on his admirable heart.”
And then her final move, that went so hard against her instincts she had to grit her teeth to make it happen. Standing in the open, with the townhouses of sprawling London less than a quarter mile behind her, Irrith dropped her glamour entirely, and showed her true face to Dr. Rufus Andrews.
“I assure you,” she said. “Every word Galen St. Clair spoke was the truth.”
Galen had no thought in his head as he walked away, except to go somewhere Dr. Andrews was not.
The enormity of his failure was like a drowning sea around him, and nothing he could do would lift his head above the waters. It was no consolation at all to think that his caution had served him well; since Galen betrayed nothing of the Onyx Hall’s location, and brought no faerie as proof, Andrews had no way to cause them harm.
But that same caution had made it all too easy to dismiss Galen’s words.
Had I gambled more, would I have won?
Galen lifted his gaze and found he’d wandered across to the New River Head, the reservoir glittering incongruously bright. Beyond it lay a road, one direction leading to London, the other to Islington. He should have solicited the help of the Goodemeades, who would have been only too happy to advise him.
Yet he was the Prince. There had to be a point at which he could handle such matters on his own.
I certainly must do so now. However I mend this—and mend it I must—I don’t dare ask for help.
Pounding footsteps made him whirl. Despairing as he was, Galen’s first, overwrought fear was that some footpad had decided to murder him for the gold he wasn’t carrying.
Instead, he saw Dr. Andrews.
The old man stumbled on a stone and crashed to the ground, wheezing and coughing. His pallor was worse than ever, and his cheeks flushed with hectic spots. Throwing their argument to the wind, Galen rushed to his side. “Dr. Andrews! What has happened? Are you all right?”
Stupid questions. The man couldn’t tell what had happened, because of course he wasn’t all right; he was a consumptive who had just run much too far. Galen shuddered in horror when he saw the bright red spots on Andrews’ handkerchief.
Even before he had regained his breath, though, Andrews began trying to answer him. “F—f—”
Galen’s heart dropped like a stone.
“Faerie,” Andrews said, rasping the word out on an indrawn breath. “Near the—Foundling Hospital. A g—” More coughing. “A girl.”
Lune? Not a chance. Galen could not have been walking for more than a few minutes, though; who could have been so nearby, to cause such an immediate change?
Andrews was whispering something else. Galen bent close to hear.
“I’m sorry,” the older man said, addressing the dust between his hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t believe you. But she—her eyes—” He spat bloody saliva into the dirt, and spoke more clearly. “Not human. No one’s eyes are so green . . .”
Irrith.
Galen straightened with a jerk, staring wildly about as if the sprite would come sauntering up behind Andrews. Irrith, of course, was nowhere in sight. “What did she do to you?”
“Showed me.” Andrews was trying to get to his feet; against his better judgment, Galen helped him. “What she was. Is. I—” His spectacles had been knocked askew; he took them off, then stopped just before he could rub his soiled handkerchief over the lenses. Galen offered him a clean one, which he took with gratitude. “I’m ashamed to say I ran like a child.”
Galen didn’t want to ask further, but he had to know. “What did she do?”
A breath huffed out of Andrews, not quite a laugh, not quite a cough. “Nothing to warrant me running. Oh, a bit of trickery, to make her point. You—you did not send her?”
“Certainly not!” Galen exclaimed. “I would never do anything to frighten you like this.” I’m going to kill her.
Or possibly kiss her.
Because the look Andrews turned upon him held no more doubt. It was eradicated utterly, replaced by hope as fragile as a butterfly’s wing. “She said you spoke the truth. Can they truly help me?”
With the bloody handkerchief in his hand, the possibility took on a sharper edge. Galen didn’t want to foster it falsely. “They may. I cannot be sure. Lest you think them altruists, however—I can promise you they’ll want your aid in return, with a problem they face.” He took in Andrews’s disheveled appearance, and realized he was being an ass. “Let me fetch you a chair, for returning to your house.” He hated to leave the man here on his own, even for a few short minutes; but conveyances did not make a habit of idling around the New River reservoir, waiting to rescue consumptive gentlemen frightened by faeries. Unless Andrews were to ride a cow home, Galen would have to go in search.
But the doctor stopped him with one hand on his arm. “I am well enough to walk,” Andrews said, “if we go slowly. And you were right; this is something my servants should not hear. Come, Mr. St. Clair, and tell me more.”
The Onyx Hall, London: June 16, 1758
Irrith sat with her back to the wall, eyes trained on the opening that led to Newgate above, waiting for Galen to fall through.
She couldn’t be certain he would come this way—at least not any time soon—but she preferred waiting to facing the Queen with news of the Andrews incident. Galen could do that part. It was his duty anyway.
So why am I waiting for him? He can thank me later. But she wanted a chance to explain herself, before he questioned too much why she’d been following him. Assuming she could think of a believable explanation that wasn’t the truth.
She’d been waiting only a short while when Galen came floating down into the chamber, confirming her guess. Before Irrith could say any of the things she’d thought of, though, the Prince saw her—and flared into sudden fury.
“What were you thinking?” he demanded, with no prelude. “The man could have died, Irrith; he’s a consumptive! And what were you doing out there in the first place?”
Anger made sense, on the face of it—but she’d never seen Galen angry. His mild blue eyes took on a fire she wouldn’t have believed possible; Irrith had to stop herself before she could retreat. Summoning up what she could of her usual confidence, Irrith said, “You needed an example. Something he couldn’t ignore. If you’d told me you were planning such a thing—”
“I didn’t tell you,” Galen said through his teeth, “because I didn’t need your help.”
She confined her doubt to her eyebrows, and tried to make her spoken answer more conciliatory. “It was helpful, though, wasn’t it?”
Galen bit down so hard she swore she could hear his jaw creak. It wasn’t anger, though—or if it was, his eyes were lying. As was his reply. “I’m the Prince of the Stone, damn it. I should be able to do these things without help.”
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