If Abd ar-Rashid was telling the truth, the bowl would aid them in their attempts to veil the sky. No one wanted to use it, however, until they had some confirmation of that. Mrs. Carter said, “It might be a ‘magic bowl,’ as some call them; they have been used for centuries in that part of the world, and not just by the Arabs. Though usually they are quite small. I would be delighted to study it for you, Mr. St. Clair.”
Should the bowl prove to be what the genie claimed, it would be a great boon to Irrith’s plan. Galen thanked Mrs. Carter profusely, and made arrangements to have the bowl delivered to her house. These were scarcely completed when Galen felt a delicate hand upon his arm. “Mr. St. Clair, I believe you are acquainted with Miss Delphia Northwood?”
Galen was at the nadir of his bow before he realized he knew that name . . . sort of.
“My lady of the mixed metaphors,” he said, straightening in time to see Miss Northwood stifle a laugh. “Indeed, Mrs. Vesey, we met at Vauxhall, and have had the pleasure of each other’s company several times since then.”
Delphia. Had Cynthia used that nickname? It suited the young woman far better than the ponderous weight of “Philadelphia,” as did her gown tonight. The pale rose gave warmth to her complexion, and while nothing could transform her plainness to beauty, the simplicity of her dress at least suited her scholarly air. Miss Northwood smiled and said, “Indeed we have. Mama has been most . . . eager to see me in the company of new friends.”
“Is she here?” Galen asked, glancing about. A foolish question; his one previous encounter with Mrs. Northwood had established her as a woman not easily overlooked. She lost no opportunities to scrutinize any young man that came near her daughter.
“No, indeed. Our dear Sylph is a good friend of the family, and therefore, in Mama’s opinion, a sufficient chaperone for my good behavior.” Miss Northwood smiled at Mrs. Vesey.
The girl’s mother would probably not think that if she knew their dear Sylph kept company with an actual sylph, Lady Yfaen. Their hostess, smiling as if she had precisely that thought, excused herself to make certain Dr. Andrews had everything he needed. Watching her go, Miss Northwood added, “Of course, Mama thinks tonight is a harmless card party, with no topic more mentally strenuous than, say, the current fashion in hats.”
“You lied to her?”
She smiled at his shocked reply. “And do you tell your family the truth of everything you do, Mr. St. Clair? No, I thought not.”
He wanted to say he kept secrets for greater cause, but that would open him to far too many questions. Making comparisons between his father and her mother struck him as invidious, so instead he asked, “She would not approve of tonight’s presentation?”
“She fears—quite rightly—where it might lead me. As she has reminded me on many occasions, neither grasping for patronage nor battling with publishers is a suitable pastime for a young woman desiring respectability, and if I hope to make a worthwhile match, I should lay aside such dreams—at least until after my marriage, whereupon it will be my husband’s decision as to whether I may write or not.” Miss Northwood shrugged, with no particular rancor. “She is correct, of course. But I still flout her as I can.”
Galen could only gape. “You—you write, Miss Northwood?”
Her rueful smile came with a bit of a blush. “I put pen to paper, Mr. St. Clair. I do not publish. Not yet, at least.”
He could understand her mother’s concern. Learning in a woman was not a shameful thing—at least he did not think so—but the public activity that went with it could be, particularly when it involved wrangling over business like some common Grub Street hack. Elizabeth Carter had done it, but Galen suspected her quiet and retiring life at least partly a stratagem for maintaining her respectability. And was it coincidence that she had never married?
Grasping for some fragment of wit to lift the shadow from Miss Northwood’s face, he said, “If you would like, I can pretend I do not see you here, so as to preserve at least one of your marriage prospects.”
In the pause that followed, he realized what he had just said. It should not have mattered; Miss Northwood knew he was looking for a wife, as he knew she—or at least her mother, on her behalf—was hunting a husband; to say it out loud should change nothing. Yet it did, introducing a sudden and palpable awkwardness broken only by Mrs. Vesey’s voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated; we are ready to begin.”
Normally their hostess preferred to arrange her guests into scattered groups, the better for them to enjoy conversation with one another, but for Dr. Andrews’s presentation she had set the chairs in rows. Galen, fleeing embarrassment, took a seat next to Mrs. Montagu; Miss Northwood ended up two rows behind them. He tried not to wonder whether she was staring at his back as Dr. Andrews began his lecture.
He began by thanking Mrs. Vesey, but soon embarked upon his topic. “The French philosopher René Descartes,” Dr. Andrews said, “spoke in his writings of the division between Body and Mind. The body operates like a machine, according to the laws that govern physical things, while the the mind is immaterial, insubstantial, and is not constrained by physical laws. But each can influence the other: if I raise my hand, thus, it is because my mind directed my body to do so. The passions of the body can likewise influence the mind, as when anger leads a man to make a rash decision.
“But what is the means by which this interaction occurs?”
Mere abstraction would have been weighty enough for an evening’s lecture, but Dr. Andrews soon proceeded to detail, speaking first of Descartes’s obsolete notion that the pineal gland was the point of connection between Body and Mind. From there it was on to the ventricles of the brain and other matters Mrs. Northwood certainly would not have considered appropriate for ladies of any age.
And indeed, Galen saw some expressions of distaste when Andrews delved too far into anatomy. For others, though, fascination was the much stronger force. These were the same kinds of women for whom Mrs. Carter had translated Sir Isaac Newton’s Philosophy Explain’d for the Use of Ladies, from the Italian. Physics might be a cleaner subject, but their curiosity did not end there.
“There are times,” Andrews said, “when no physician can tell what has brought life to an end. No discernible cause explains it. Or one man suffers a wound that defeats him; another, wounded just the same, lives on. The ultimate cause of mortality, perhaps, lies not in the body, but in the mind: if it can transcend the body’s control, and become the sole master of the self . . .” He broke off with an embarrassed, affected laugh. “Well, short of a reversal of the Fall, that isn’t likely to happen. But we can at least dream of such a day.”
Weaken the mind, Galen thought, not even certain what he meant by that phrase. Perhaps that’s why the Dragon could not be killed. Its mind is more powerful than its body.
The lecture was done. Distracted, he rose from his chair and went to the table at the side of the room, where he poured a cup of punch for himself. Then he stood with it forgotten in his hand, biting one thumbnail, still thinking.
Mrs. Vesey found him there. “Well, Mr. St. Clair, inquiring busybodies wish to know—when do you intend to offer for her?”
Her question was so unexpected, and so little in keeping with his current thoughts, that he almost didn’t understand the words; she could have been speaking Arabic. Once her meaning became clear, he glanced across the room to Miss Northwood, who stood in animated conversation with Mrs. Montagu. “I have until the end of the Season, as you well know.”
“She is free,” Mrs. Vesey said, “but not likely to remain so forever. Not with parents so ambitious to see their daughter matched well.”
Galen liked to believe that Miss Northwood looked kindly upon him. He might not be the only man so favored, though. He sighed. “Free—as I am not. Mrs. Vesey, whatever shall I do? How can I, in good conscience, take a wife? It’s one thing to have interests and business separate from marriage and one’s wife—every man does so—but when they must be kept secret .
. .”
Mrs. Vesey pursed her lips, then said, “You could tell her.”
“About—” Far too loud, especially for the words that had nearly come out of his mouth. Galen waited until he could speak more moderately, then whispered, “You must be mad.”
“Must I?” She seemed unconcerned by the prospect. “I know you aren’t the first man to be in your position. They cannot have all been bachelors, and surely some told their wives.”
Galen had no idea whether they had or not. It was not something he’d ever thought to ask the Queen. On the surface of it, there was no reason Mrs. Vesey should be wrong; after all, as Lune had reminded him, if he wanted to reveal the secret of the Onyx Court to some mortal, he had the authority to do so. Yet in his mind, mortal had always meant man. Even standing here, within whispering distance of a woman who had tea every week with a faerie, he’d never thought to include the gentler sex.
But of course Mrs. Vesey’s suggestion only addressed the objection of secrecy. She knew nothing of his love for Lune, that would make him unfaithful to his wife from the moment they were wed.
Galen gritted his teeth. I thought I left that objection behind in my father’s study. Apparently his conscience would not let go so easily.
Mrs. Vesey said, “Well, do consider it. I think Miss Northwood is a proper match for you; she, of all girls, might be able to accept that truth. And if you wait until the end of the Season, Mr. St. Clair, you may well lose her to another gentleman. Think on that, too—and while you do, please take this punch to Dr. Andrews.”
The Onyx Hall, London: May 18, 1758
On her way to the night garden, Irrith passed a surprising number of fae in the corridors of the Onyx Hall. They fell neatly into two groups: the rough-clad, non-elfin ones were going to the arena to watch a mortal boxer stand up against the yarthkin Hempry, and the elfin ones in fanciful dress were on their way to one of the greater halls, for a masquerade ball.
Near the branch that led to the Temple of Arms, she ran into and almost did not recognize Segraine. For once the lady knight looked more lady than knight, in a dress woven of mist that complemented her eyes. “You aren’t going to watch the boxer?” Irrith said in surprise.
Her friend scowled. “A pair of mermen showed up in Queenhithe this morning, come to negotiate with her Majesty about the clouds. She didn’t expect them; this might be the first time they’ve deigned to come so far upriver. The hope is that it’s a good sign. But it means she wants a big retinue at the ball, to impress the sea folk.”
The speculation on Segraine’s face made Irrith say hastily, “I have nothing suitable to wear, and couldn’t possibly find anything in time.”
“And if I go looking out a gown for you, you’ll vanish while my back’s turned.” Segraine made a frustrated noise. “Rumor has it Carline will be showing up in a dress made of flame. I liked her better when she was scheming; then she wanted something, and was willing to display the tiniest bit of tact in order to get it.”
The reasons for Irrith not to attend the ball kept mounting. She said, “I was going to the night garden, to talk to Ktistes. He says his people have ways to talk to the winds, and I think that might help me with the clouds.”
“Better the Greeks than the merfolk. Their desires are far more comprehensible.” Segraine brushed her hands across the false hips of her dress, sending mist eddying outward, and said, “Her Grace is waiting for me. If she asks, I’ll say I didn’t see you.”
Irrith barely waited to express her gratitude before bolting for the night garden.
The place was eerily silent. Normally there were fae scattered around enjoying the fountains or the flowers or conducting an assignation under a bower, but tonight Irrith had it to herself—except for Ktistes, of course, who showed no interest in masquerades, and preferred wrestling to boxing. On her way to his pavilion on the far side, though, Irrith realized there was one other person in the garden.
Galen sat on a low bench next to a slender white obelisk. What he was doing there, Irrith didn’t know; he should have been with Lune, preparing to greet the ambassadors from the sea. Certainly he was dressed for court, in a deep blue coat heavily crusted with silver embroidery and a diamond-buttoned waistcoat. He sat unmoving, though, and his expression was a complex blend of melancholy and speculation, and it drew her like a moth to a flame.
She made enough noise that he heard her coming and rose. “Dame Irrith. Is her Grace calling for me?”
“Probably,” Irrith said. “I came to visit Ktistes. What are you doing?”
The Prince gestured toward the plaque at the base of the obelisk. “Just . . . thinking.”
Irrith drew closer and knelt in the grass, the better to read the inscriptions at the base. They turned out to be a list of names and dates.
Sir Michael Deven
1590–1625
Sir Antony Ware
1625–1665
Dr. John Ellin
1665–1693
Lord Joseph Winslow
1693–1724
Sir Alan Fitzwarren
1724–1750
Dr. Hamilton Birch
1750–1756
And above them, in large letters, PRINCES OF THE STONE.
The numbers made her feel very odd. It was such a human thing—of course, the men commemorated here were human. But to see the years of their reigns laid out in marble like that . . . it was as if she normally flew above the landscape of time, and this forced her briefly down to earth.
From behind her, Galen said, “You knew some of them, didn’t you?”
“Three.” Irrith reached out with an uncertain hand, brushing her fingertip along the names. “Lord Antony. Jack—he rarely used his title. And Lord Joseph.” After that, she’d been in Berkshire.
“How many were married?”
Irrith twisted around to stare at him. Galen still had that look on his face, the melancholy and the speculation. And a bit of apprehension, too. “Of the ones I knew? Lord Antony and Lord Joseph.”
Now melancholy was winning out. “And the first one, too, I think. Even if they were never wed in a church, I know he loved the Queen. And she loved him back.”
Irrith glanced past him, to the canopy of ever-blooming apple trees on the other side of the path. The greenery in between hid the second obelisk—the one that marked Sir Michael Deven’s grave. “Yes.”
Galen let out his breath as if trying, and failing, to banish his gloom with it, and sank back down upon the bench. There being nowhere else to sit but next to him or on the grass, Irrith stayed where she was. She could almost taste the sentiment churning in his heart, and perhaps it was that which led her to speak recklessly. “She won’t stop you from marrying, you know. Even if you are in love with her.”
The transformation to shock, horror, and embarrasment was instantaneous. Galen sputtered out several half-finished words before he managed a coherent sentence: “I’m not in love with her!”
“Ah.” Irrith nodded wisely. “Then I misunderstood. I thought the fact that you watch every move she makes, light up when she smiles, grovel like a kicked dog when she’s disappointed, and would do absolutely anything she asks in a heartbeat meant you were in love with her. But I’m a faerie; I know little about such things.”
She managed not to laugh at Galen, even though he was staring at her like the very spirit of the word aghast. It was funny, but she also felt a pang of sympathy for him. It could not possibly be pleasant, tying your heart to someone else’s heels like that.
Sunset still flamed in his cheeks when the strangled whisper emerged from his frozen mouth. “Please tell me she doesn’t know.”
“She doesn’t,” Irrith agreed. After all, he was the Prince; she had to do what he told her. Also, he wouldn’t be able to help Lune with the mermen if he went and buried himself under a rock to die of shame.
“You cannot tell her,” Galen said. For the first time since she met him, he sounded authoritative—if a little desperate. “My . . . sentim
ent is my own concern. Her Majesty will not be burdened with the knowledge of it.”
Irrith hardly listened to the last of that; she was distracted by something else. “No wonder you almost never use her name. Other Princes have, you know. She doesn’t require formality of them. Are you afraid she’ll guess, if she hears you say it?” It would be hard, she supposed, to sound like an ardent lover while wrestling with cumbersome forms of address.
Galen said stiffly, “Until such time as I can show her the proper respect in my heart, I must rely on the respect of speech.”
Good luck, Irrith thought. “How did it happen, anyway?” She wrapped her arms around her knees, like a child awaiting a story. She’d once spent a few years spying on such children, trying to understand the nature of family. It still escaped her, but she’d learned some entertaining tales.
His teeth caught his lower lip, a charming bit of off-center uncertainty. “I caught a glimpse of her one night, returning from a journey outside of London. She shone like the moon . . .”
Irrith shivered. That was it, right there: the sound of adoration. It thrummed in his voice like a low string, plucked once.
Galen took sudden and intense interest in his fingernails. Seated below him, Irrith could still see a little of his face: the wings of his brows, the clean slope of his jaw. Not his eyes. “I knew nothing of the Onyx Court, and scarcely more of faeries; our nursemaid told other kinds of stories. But I searched London high and low, seeking hints of my vision, and ended up following Dame Segraine to an entrance.” He laughed quietly. “Which wasn’t my cleverest decision ever. But it worked out in the end.”
“You must have been terribly young.”
“Nineteen,” Galen said defensively.
Irrith blinked. “And you’re how old now?”
“Twenty-two.”
There was a profoundly tactless response to that, and Irrith might have made it had a puck not come running down the path just then. He ran past the two of them, slid to a halt, and came leaping back almost before he’d gotten his body turned around. “Lord Galen. The Queen needs your presence urgently—the masquerade—”