“And who told you that?” she asked, bewildered.
“Lune trusts me—”
“To do everything yourself?” Irrith snorted. Ash and Thorn, he really is young. “She cares about results, Galen, not methods. So long as you don’t bring half of London down here on a Grand Tour, she doesn’t care how you do it. Or whom you ask for help.”
But he did. That was painfully obvious. The notion that Lune might be more impressed by a few shreds of common sense than some heroic determination to do everything himself was clearly very foreign to him.
Galen asked the floor, “Did she send you to follow me?”
“No,” Irrith said. Now they were both embarrassed. “I, er, was keeping watch over you. For the good of the Onyx Court.” That was close enough to the truth to pass.
He laughed soundlessly. “And so you saved me from my own mistake. I suppose you were worried he would say things he shouldn’t, tell someone about that mad St. Clair boy and the nonsense he spouts. Well, I have his assurance of secrecy now, so you can rest safely.”
“He didn’t believe you,” Irrith said. That still rankled. The need to make Galen understand why drew her closer to him, across the black stone floor. “Men like him don’t, not anymore. As far as they’re concerned, I don’t exist. And someone like you, who does believe . . . if he weren’t so angry, he would have laughed at you. I couldn’t let that stand, for me or you.”
Galen’s head came up, and only then did Irrith realize just how near she’d drawn. They stood bare inches apart, and then his gaze flickered, in a way she’d seen countless times across the countless ages.
But he didn’t move. So she did it for him, closing that last gap and capturing his lips with her own.
He wrenched back an instant later. “Dame Irrith—”
“What?” she asked, confused and a little hurt. “I saw your eyes move. You wanted to kiss me.”
“No! Well, yes, but—” He shook his head, hands up in midair as if warding something off. “It isn’t right.”
“Why not?”
He opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a man with several explanations competing to come out first, none of them entirely satisfactory.
Irrith sighed. “You aren’t married. You aren’t even betrothed. Are you a virgin?”
“What? I—no—it’s none of your business!”
As if he were the first gentleman to make use of a whore’s services. Irrith guessed it was a whore; the sort of young man who seduced servant girls or the neighbor’s daughter usually didn’t blush like that. “So fornication isn’t the problem. Do you think it’s especially sinful, with a faerie woman? But you don’t mind being in love with—”
He didn’t have to stop her; she stopped herself. The answer was so obvious. But Irrith wasn’t used to accounting for such things. “But—she doesn’t even know how you feel.” Or so he liked to think.
Galen said, very stiffly, “That doesn’t matter. I know, and would feel ashamed.”
“But why should you?” Irrith advanced; he retreated. Step by step, they crossed the roundel beneath the entrance; mercifully, no one chose that moment to fall from the City above. “She doesn’t love you back, and you know it. You’ll never be with her, and you know that, too. Why not have what you can?”
Galen halted just before he would have hit the far wall. “Do you love me?”
Of course he would ask that. Irrith couldn’t remember the entirety of her existence, but surely she would remember if she’d ever encountered another man ruled so deeply by his heart. It defined him—and that, of course, was why he fascinated her so much.
“No,” Irrith said. “But I don’t need to.”
This time when she reached for him, he didn’t try to escape.
PART FOUR
Conjunctio
Summer 1758
Mankind have a great aversion to intellectual labor;
but even supposing knowledge to be easily
attainable, more people would be content to be
ignorant than would take even a little trouble to
acquire it.
—Dr. Samuel Johnson,
quoted in The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.
by James Boswell
The first vapors wisp free. Tenuous as ghosts, they soon vanish into the blackness; but they are there.
The comet’s surface is warming.
Inert blackness converts to a radiant glow. Encouraged by the sun, the subtle matter bursts forth, creating something like air around the solid core. For the first time in more than seventy years, the beast begins to breathe.
Cold. Still too cold. Its awareness is sluggish, stupid, like a lizard left too long in shadow. Once it was mighty, a beast of flame and char, consuming all within its path. The efforts of humans were nothing, a mockery, a mere game for the creature they fought. To be reduced to this, drinking in the sun’s nourishment like a babe at the teat, is a terrible fall indeed.
But with every passing moment, its strength returns, and its mind. Dreams resolve into thoughts. Memories of the past, and plans for the future.
Wisps, as yet. But growing stronger, as the sun draws near.
Moor Fields, London: June 23, 1758
“How appropriate,” Dr. Andrews said, with an unsteady laugh. “You’re taking me to Bedlam.”
“What? Oh—no, I assure you,” Galen hastened to say, once he’d pieced together Andrews’s meaning. In the darkness beyond Edward’s lantern, the broad expanse of the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem—Bedlam—was nothing more than a shadow against the stars, hulking above the old City wall. “Though some of the lunatics may be, er, joining us.” Londoners liked to go and poke at them with sticks for entertainment; the Onyx Court took it further, and invited them to participate in the fun. Tonight of all nights, the mad had a place among the faeries.
Midsummer Eve was swelteringly warm this year. Galen wished it wouldn’t be against the royal dignity of a Prince to shuck off his coat and wig and dance in his shirt. Andrews would probably look askance at him, though, even if Lune didn’t.
And then there was Irrith to consider.
As if his thoughts had summoned her, the sprite appeared in the gap that had once been Moorgate. Her apparel was an alarming blend of styles, masculine and feminine, mortal and faerie. On top she wore something like a woman’s riding habit, with a short jacket that showed off her tiny waist and sleeves that fell open at the elbows, but beneath it were tight-fitting breeches of doeskin, and on her curls perched a charming little three-cornered hat. And in bright colors, too: for occasions such as this, the Onyx Court laid aside its love of dark colors, and decked itself in all the splendor of summer. Whatever bird had sacrificed its feathers for her jacket, it came from nowhere in this world.
Irrith curtsied as they drew near, an incongruous motion that had the virtue of displaying the glimmering spiderweb lace of her sleeves. “Lord Galen,” she said, “Dr. Andrews. Her Majesty sent me to make sure you don’t get caught by the enchantments.” Her smile twinkled even in the darkness. “She would hate for you to be wandering lost for a year and a day.”
Galen simply nodded; his throat had gone too dry for anything else. The sly glance Irrith delivered to him was more restrained than it might have been, but it still set off half a dozen conflicting reactions within him. One of them made him glad for the length of his waistcoat. Others made him want to run away, fast.
Instead he gestured Dr. Andrews forward, while Edward extinguished the lamp. They all joined hands, Irrith letting out a sigh that indicated just how much she regretted forgoing the opportunity to play with the newcomer, and went forward. Dizzying vertigo gripped Galen for a moment—brief visions of other streets, moonlit forests, a muddy village—and then they were around the corner of Bedlam’s western wing, and standing in the lower Moor Fields.
London had long since burst the confines of its wall to consume the land to the north, but this place remained, defended by tradition less visible but
far more enduring than the stones of that wall. By day, Moor Fields was a shabby stretch of much-abused grass, stretching from Bedlam’s entrance up to the artillery ground; nearby laundresses still staked their washing out to dry there. By night, it was a haunt for prostitutes and molly-boys. But on Midsummer Eve, it belonged to the fae, as it had since the founding of the Onyx Hall.
Faerie lights danced through the branches of the trees that marked off the lower field, casting colorful light upon the improbably vibrant grass. A great bonfire burnt where the paths came together, without need of wood to feed it, and all around that beacon danced the revelers, faerie and mortal alike. Some wore outrageous mockeries of the most excessive mortal fashions, rendered in moss and mist and leaves. Others wore nothing at all. Galen blushed away from a lushly rounded apple maiden wearing only a few soft petals from her tree, none of them covering anything significant. Rural fae from miles around flocked to London for Midsummer and May Day, and they brought their rural customs with them.
Lune had offered a splendid escort to bring the Prince and his visitor to the celebration. Ordinarily Galen would have entered with the Queen, accompanied by all the pomp appropriate to their joint stations, and she’d frowned at the notion of him coming virtually alone. But he thought it best for Andrews to have an escort he recognized, and an entrance that would draw less attention. Seeing the doctor’s wide, unblinking eyes, he rather thought he’d made the right choice.
And there would be pomp soon enough. Irrith was leading them north and east, skirting the crowd around the bonfire. A filthy, unshaven man lay on his back in the grass, hips bucking, rutting with nothing while a pair of pucks watched and laughed. At least he’s enjoying himself, Galen thought. The tricks played on this night were usually of a benevolent sort, or at least not permanently harmful. All Hallows’ Eve was a much less pleasant story.
Something more like dignity reigned in the northeast quarter of the field. There, two long tables stood arrayed before the trees, with dozens of mouthwatering dishes laid upon their white silk. “Remember,” Galen whispered to Andrews, “eat nothing whatsoever. There is food here that is safe, but there are also a great many fae who would think it sport to lead you falsely.”
“And they can even disguise themselves to make me think you are vouching for its safety,” Andrews said. He smiled tensely. “I am not likely to forget.”
Then there was no more time for warnings, for Irrith had brought them into the presence of the Queen.
Lune sat in a gap between the two tables, in a chair of estate carved from birch and horn, with a canopy of starlight above her head. Galen’s own chair was at her left hand, awaiting him. A truly tiny hob stood with a crystal platter above his head, piled with strawberries and a bowl of cream for the Queen’s pleasure, but he backed away with careful haste when he saw their approach, leaving Lune alone.
Galen bowed, and nudged the momentarily paralyzed Andrews into doing the same. “Your Grace, I bring a guest to these revels. Dr. Rufus Andrews.”
Even had he not loved her, Galen would have thought the Queen the most radiant star of this night. What fabric her dress was made of, he could not begin to guess; it floated like the wind itself, weightless and pure, with shades of blue shifting through it like living embroidery. Her stomacher glittered with gems, and someone had threaded brilliant blue flowers into her silver hair, creating a style that was somehow both regal and carefree, as if the coronet grew there by nature.
“You are welcome, Dr. Andrews,” Lune said. Galen shivered at the sound of her voice. It carried distinctly, muting the noise of the dancers into distant murmuring, without her ever having to raise it. “You come to us on a special night. We are not so festive the year round; even faeries—perhaps especially faeries—need variety. But we hope you will not abandon us when we return to our more sober ways.”
Andrews stood open-mouthed for a moment before he realized she was waiting for him to reply. “I—have no fear that I will grow tired of your company, in any form.”
“We are glad to hear it.” Lune gestured with one graceful hand at the revelry all around. “We’ve made it known that you are our especial guest here tonight, and under the patronage of both myself and Lord Galen. No one will visit mischief upon you.” Her smile took on a roguish edge. “Save that which you ask for, of course.”
Clutching his hat in his hands, Andrews bowed his thanks. “If I may, your Grace—curiosity prods me—”
Lune motioned for him to continue.
“How do you prevent interference?” He nodded over his shoulder, at the elegant sweep of Bedlam, belying the squalor within. “Your handmaiden mentioned enchantments, but surely it cannot be easy, keeping such a crowd as this from drawing the attention of the guards there, and the people who live in the houses alongside.”
Galen said, “The simplest part of it is an illusion, deceiving all those who look this way. Moor Fields appears to be deserted for the night. More difficult is persuading those who sometimes haunt this space to take themselves elsewhere until tomorrow.”
“And then there are the ones who blunder forward anyway,” Irrith added. “But those are mostly the mad, who can see through our illusions, and are welcome here regardless.”
Andrews shook his head, then froze, apparently fearing he’d offended the Queen. “Those illusions alone—the implications for optics are astounding.”
Irrith muttered to Galen, in an exaggerated whisper, “Don’t let him anywhere near the dwarves. They’ll be talking until half-past the end of the world.”
Galen hazarded a glance at the Queen. She was, as usual, neutrally pleasant, but he thought he discerned in the set of her eyes, the line of her swanlike throat, that she understood and shared his sudden thought. That is exactly who we must put him with. The dwarves, and more. There were scholars in the Onyx Hall, faeries who turned their thoughts to their own world. Not many, but Wrain would be ideal for this—or perhaps Lady Feidelm, the Irish faerie who warned them of the comet’s return. She’d been exiled from Connacht for being too loyal to London interests, and stripped of her prophetic gifts in the process, but she still had a remarkable mind. Bringing them all together with Dr. Andrews might be very useful indeed.
“You have the freedom of this field,” Lune said, in a clear tone of friendly dismissal. “Lord Galen will see to your needs.”
Andrews bowed, backed away, and then walked apart with the stiff and rapid strides of a man who wants to reach safety before his knees give out.
Galen followed, and so did Irrith. It was disconcerting to have the sprite there, so close. They hadn’t touched since that first night, had scarcely seen one another for ten minutes altogether. He wasn’t at all sure how to behave. Whores were a different matter; one didn’t encounter them at social events. At least not the class of prostitute Galen could afford, on his allowance from his father.
Someone had set out a cluster of India-back chairs, a bizarre note of middling domesticity amidst faerie extravagance. Andrews sank into one, then looked up wryly at the still-standing Galen. “If I don’t miss my guess, then among these folk, I ought not to sit without your leave; I should be deferring to you as I would to the Prince of Wales.”
“More like the King,” Irrith said. “If the King were the Queen—that is, if he had his throne because he married her. And if he weren’t some stupid German.”
“Dunce the Second,” Andrews said. He seemed bemused enough to take Irrith’s rambling and impolitic answer in stride. “Son of Dunce the First. Given the elegance of your Queen, I’m not surprised at your low opinion of him. I don’t suppose I might be tucked away into a safe corner where I could enjoy a good conversation with, say, one or two faeries of less intimidating mien? I confess that, in coming here, I expected more creatures the size of my thumb, and fewer who might credibly pass as some of the Greeks’ ancient goddesses.”
Galen had already anticipated that desire. “Since you mention the Greeks—there is one here, a fellow by the name of Ktistes
, who has already expressed an interest in making your acquaintance. Though his own interests lie more in architecture and astronomy, he is quite a scholar in his own right.”
“Because of his grandsire, Kheiron,” Irrith added.
Andrews blinked once, very deliberately. Then again. Then he said, “Was not Chiron a centaur?”
“And still is,” the sprite answered him, with blithe innocence. “I think Ktistes said he’s still alive. But he retreated from this world after the Romans’ little empire fell apart.”
The older man buried his head in his hands, knocking his hat to the ground. “Good God.”
Galen yelped, but too late. The word rolled outward from where Andrews sat, dimming the faerie lights and withering the grass to its usual dusty brown. The music faltered, and from all around the fields, fae stopped what they were doing and turned to stare in their direction.
Andrews felt it. He sat up, and a moment later the understanding of what he’d done dawned upon him. “I—I’m sorry—”
I have to do something. Galen held up his hands and called out as loudly as he could, “Carry on. It was an error, and it will not happen again. Please, continue dancing.”
The music picked up again, sounding thin at first in the suddenly quiet air, but slowly the noise grew as the fae returned to their diversions. Galen let out the breath he’d been holding, and turned back to see Irrith sitting on the grass, pale and wide-eyed. “I hope,” Galen said, trying to make the best of it, “that this demonstration will help you remember in the future why such words are not appreciated here.”
Chastened, Andrews nodded. Galen picked up his hat for him and knocked bits of grass off it before handing it back. “Come. I think it might be best if I brought you to Ktistes.” The centaur would be somewhere on the edge of the festivities, away from the venomous looks of the nearby fae, who had taken the brunt of that careless word.
A Star Shall Fall Page 20
