Those two words formed such an incongruous pair that Irrith stifled her own laugh. She didn’t want to mock the Prince. On the other hand, she knew enough of what he meant by experimentation to doubt whether it would work; surely her world and the people who inhabited were not some kind of clockwork device, predictable once one found the gears. But he seemed to think it worth pursuing, and he knew enough of faerie things that she trusted he would get something of use out of it.
Abd ar-Rashid said, “Speaks alchemy of four elements, and three principles, and such. These ideas from Arabia, and I know something of them; perhaps they are of some use here.”
It brought Andrews upright in his chair, and then onto his feet once more. “Yes. It failed the mortals who tried it, but it should be easy enough to determine whether we find different results in this place.” The hand-rubbing was back, this time with blazing eagerness that made him look almost healthy for a moment. “Come, gentlemen. Mr. St. Clair is right. We haven’t a moment to waste.”
The Onyx Hall, London: September 15, 1758
Lune came to Galen in his own chambers—a startling reversal of their usual habit. Once they were settled in the parlor, she dismissed Edward Thorne and her own attendants, with Sir Peregrin to guard the door and make certain no one listened in.
“The Delphic tripod has been delivered to the Greeks,” she said, without preamble. “We have their agreement, and their aid. In three days’ time, we shall take action to hide this island from the comet. The effect will not be complete until a fortnight has passed; Savennis has advised Irrith that it would be more effective to link it to the waning of the moon, rather than the new moon itself. But when it is done, we should—I hope—have some protection.”
Galen’s muscles kept drawing themselves tight, despite efforts to release them. “For how long?”
The Queen shook her silver head. “No one can say for sure. This has never been done before.”
She didn’t ask what progress he made, with Dr. Andrews and his scholarly coterie. Their reports to her were quite thorough. So far it was more theory than experiment, but they had done enough to confirm the genie’s suggestion, that the old model of matter, discredited for the natural world, was yet applicable to the supernatural. It felt like a step backward: symbolic laws in place of mechanical ones, effects governed more by poetry than physics. The Royal Society would weep if it knew. So long as their circle could manipulate it to their benefit, though, Galen did not care what basis faerie science operated on.
Lune broke his distracted reverie. “There is one other change you should be aware of.”
Something in her tone warned him. Gut tightening again, Galen waited for her to go on.
“I will not be there with you.”
It struck like a blow. “At Greenwich?” She nodded. “But—why?”
By way of answer, she handed him a folded piece of paper, that he soon recognized as one of the Onyx Hall’s news-sheets. The Ash and Thorn, of course, and when he unfolded it he saw immediately what provoked her declaration. The article was unsigned, but it might as well have borne the identification A Sanist.
As all are aware, these past few months have seen the fading of the Square Gallery, which many fae had recently been accustomed to using as a cricket pitch. It can be no coincidence that this fading follows hard upon Midsummer, when her Majesty the Queen was pleased to attend the celebrations in the Moor Fields. A sovereign is her realm, and this sovereign and realm alike are wounded; the departure of one from the other can only further weaken that which is already frayed. The well-being of the Onyx Hall depends on the uninterrupted presence of the Queen, which alone can slow the decay.
Galen’s exclamation was a poor outlet for his fury. “If they paid an ounce of attention, they would know another portion of wall was taken down just after Midsummer! This has nothing to do with a few hours’ absence on your part.”
“I’m sure they know of the destruction,” Lune said, with a sigh of profound weariness. “But to their logic, the two are not separable. Had I stayed below, perhaps the wall would have stayed up, or its loss would have had no effect. And the logic is less important than the theme, which is that I am failing to do my duty by the Onyx Hall. My reckless visit to the Moor Fields is simply the miniature of my insistence upon remaining Queen.”
He handed back the paper before he could fling it into the fire. The Sanists he could not dispose of, however much he wished to; instead he concentrated on the more immediate matter. “So you will not be at Greenwich.”
Lune’s mouth curved into a sly smile. “That isn’t what I said. I will not be with you; as far as anyone other than yourself, Peregrin, and Lady Ailis are concerned, I will be in my chamber, like a good and virtuous Queen. But true virtue—not the sham they demand of me—means I will be at Greenwich, disguised. Thus will both our need and the Sanists’ concerns be addressed.”
This did not seem the wisest of ideas. Fae could detect a glamour, after all, though seeing through it took effort they rarely bothered to expend. Then Galen remembered the dancers: twelve of Lune’s ladies and attendants, robed and masked, who would take part in the ceremony to conceal Britain. Ailis was close enough to Lune in height that no one would notice the difference.
“I will not leave you to do this alone,” Lune said. “Not because I do not trust you, but because I do not wish to discover, too late, that my absence produced a fatal weakness in our concealment. Though I fear you’ll have to bear the final burden alone.”
“The Sanists, though.” Galen clenched his fists until his knuckles ached. “Bowing to their demands, or even giving the appearance of it—do you not fear the precedent that sets?”
The smile had lost some of its vigor when she spoke of the possibility of weakness; now it faded entirely from view. “I do. But I must choose my battles, mustn’t I? A faerie has the same number of hours in her day as a man does—unless she goes to a place outside of time, and I cannot mend the rift with the Sanists while cloistered away in the Calendar Room, or self-exiled to Faerie. That I must address the problem they pose is beyond question. If I can postpone it until after the Dragon, however, then I will do so.”
Galen couldn’t fault her desire. Nor did he have to remind her of the if in that sentence. “We certainly don’t need the distraction. Very well, madam; I will not see you at Greenwich. And may our efforts prove sufficient for our need.”
Royal Observatory, Greenwich: September 18, 1758
For the second time in a century, the fae of London invaded and occupied the Royal Observatory.
Performing so large an endeavor in so open a space made Irrith deeply nervous. This was not Moor Fields, protected by centuries of tradition, where the only folk awake at late hours had no good purpose anyway; this was a royal establishment, with men who often worked at night, and a hospital full of naval men just beyond the base of the hill. She tried to reassure herself that at least poor sickly Bradley was getting a good night’s sleep for once, but it didn’t go far. The observatory swarmed with faeries, and she couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if someone chanced to wander up the hill with a message for the Astronomer Royal.
To Segraine, who waited at her side, Irrith said, “How exactly did it come to this?”
“To what?” the lady knight asked.
Irrith gestured at the fae busily clearing the courtyard of the observatory. “My plan. It started so simply: hide from the comet. Somehow it’s come to involve two faerie tricks, one mortal proverb, a deal with Greek wind spirits, a magic Arab bowl, and an entire observatory.”
“And a German story,” Wilhas von das Ticken reminded her, from the other side. “Although, in fairness, you had the flute idea before ve told you about the Pied Piper.”
“Together with assorted nymphs, masks, pitchers, and enough will-o’-the-wisps to light up the length of the Thames,” Irrith said, with resigned amusement. “I suppose we’re trying to hide all of Britain, and I should have known that would mean something
large, but—Blood and Bone, I didn’t expect something so motley.”
Segraine shrugged. “It’s the Onyx Hall. I doubt you’ll find a more motley faerie court in all of Britain.”
Looking past Wilhas and Niklas to Ktistes and the Irish Lady Feidelm, Irrith had to agree. All that was missing was Abd ar-Rashid. But no one seemed to be certain just how much they were trusting the heathen, and so he had not been invited to this night’s effort—even though he’d provided the mirrored bowl that would be the centerpiece of their ceremony. A bowl that, rumor had it, was crafted on their behalf by a Dutch Jew: another patch in the ragged cloak that would conceal Britain.
No genie—and no Queen. Irrith went to stand by Galen, who kept his hands locked behind his back as if afraid of what they would do. “I’ll go to the Onyx Hall this minute and fetch her, if you like,” Irrith muttered to him. “She should be here.” Whatever the Sanists said. Irrith wasn’t certain whether the loss of more wall, and more Hall with it, had anything to do with Lune’s visit to the Moor Fields, but even if it did, the Queen should still be here. That was the whole idea of the Onyx Court, to have faerie Queen and mortal Prince working together.
Galen’s answering smile showed a strange mixture of serenity and nerves. “No, Irrith—it won’t be necessary. We have everything we need.”
“I hope so,” she murmured, waving everyone into position. The pucks’ hands glowed with will-o’-the-wisps, casting an eerie light over the space. “Because I don’t want to do this a second time.”
Then she hushed the crowd, because the dancers were entering.
They’d climbed up the hill from the bank of the Thames, right past Greenwich Hospital, with their faerie faces in plain sight. Or rather, faces not their own: they wore masks of shimmering water, that covered even their eyes. How they could see to walk, Irrith didn’t know. Their robes were softly shifting fog, and they bore pitchers of river water in their hands, for they were representing the nephelae, the Greek nymphs of clouds and rains.
Il Veloce, one of the Onyx Hall’s Italian fauns, began to play a meandering tune on a syrinx, guiding the masked nymphs into a circle around the mirrored bowl that rested in the center of the courtyard. Their dance was a simple thing—they could hardly manage more, burdened as they were—but its movement swirled in gentle, liquid arcs, bringing them gradually inward. One by one, the nephelae poured the contents of their pitchers into the bowl.
It would have been prettier if it were clean, Irrith thought with grumpy distaste. But prettiness wasn’t to the purpose. For the making of clouds, the Thames’s cloudy water was very good indeed.
The hairs on her arms and neck were rising, in response to the presence gathering above. The night was clear—for the moment—but something waited in the sky, a power both foreign and familiar. Lune’s negotiations through Ktistes had spoken of the winds by their Greek names, because the Greeks knew how to form deals with them, but surely these were the same winds that had blown across England since the beginning of time. Call them Boreas, Euros, Notos, and Zephyros, or simply North, East, South, and West; it makes no difference. Some fragment of their power had agreed to serve as temporary shepherds for what the earth-dwelling fae would create tonight.
The time for that creation had come. Galen walked alone across the courtyard to the mirrored bowl. He turned a little as he searched for a good grip on the Arabic-inscribed rim, and so she saw the strain on his face as he heaved the thing upward; it had not been light when empty, and now it contained twelve pitchers’ worth of water. Lune should have been there to help him, Irrith fumed. Instead the Prince had to set his feet and force it above his head without aid. Hurry, Irrith whispered silently. Before he drops it.
As if they heard her, the nephelae drew close, lifting their fog-robed arms toward the bowl’s rim.
The water within began to stir.
At first it was just a wisp, too faint to be certain it had been there at all. Then a mist arose, clearly visible above the rim, glowing faintly in the night. The mist thickened, and grew, and billowed slowly upward, into the empty and waiting sky.
Mortals said that clouds, however dark, contained silver linings. If clouds were the clothes of Britain, then to turn those linings outward required something of silver: a bowl, whose mirrored interior showed the world upside down, reflecting skyward the clouds that were born in its heart. Up they floated, to be met by their guides; will-o’-the-wisps leapt free of their holders’ hands and, to the tune of Il Veloce’s continued piping, danced away from the hilltop, toward the island’s far-distant edges. Errant breezes stirred Irrith’s hair against her cheeks, little brushes this way and that, as the winds above coaxed the nebulous masses of the clouds toward their new homes.
Still the clouds issued from the bowl. One of the dancers was the sylph Yfaen, and another was a river nymph, both with some touch on the weather; Irrith had never seen such a large effort from either. How much water could be left inside, with so much fog already streaming outward from Greenwich? It wasn’t nearly enough to cover the entire island, but that was the purpose of the next two weeks: to grow from this seed, until all of Britain was protected.
Surely they had enough for that now. Yet Galen still stood, arms trembling, head thrown back, teeth clenched with the effort of keeping the bowl aloft. His body arched like a bow beneath the weight. Irrith almost ran to support him, but her hands would not reach so high, and she couldn’t disrupt the ceremony. Lune should have been here. He can’t do this alone.
At least one nephele seemed to think the same. Her hand twitched foward, as if to take some of the burden. But whether that broke the ceremony, or she was simply too late, it did no good; with a cry, Galen dropped the bowl. It clanged off his left shoulder as he tried to wrench clear, its remaining water leaping outward, and then the metal rim struck the ground, denting and sending the whole thing rolling away.
Irrith hurried forward, cursing under her breath. The nephele was supporting Galen on his good side, while he let out a flood of his own foul language. Even in pain, though, he remained aware of those around him; not a single word belonging to Heaven slipped out.
“You did well,” Irrith said, knowing he wouldn’t believe her. “We have enough to protect us.”
“Yes,” the nephele murmured, too quietly for anyone beyond Irrith and Galen to hear. “You did very well indeed.” And then her eyes flicked upward, toward Irrith, and even through the shimmering uncertainty of her mask, they gleamed silver.
The sprite had enough sense not to blurt out the realization that came into her head. She waited until she could say something safe, then offered, “He should sit down. Once he’s feeling better, I’ll take him back to the Onyx Hall. I’m sure the Queen will want his report.”
“I’m sure she will.” The nephele rose with fluid grace and backed away. “Thank you, Dame Irrith.”
You’re welcome, madam. Irrith glanced around at the hovering fae, then at Galen. He was standing on his own now, with his right hand clasped to his injured shoulder, and his face beaded with sweat. Even with his brow knitted in pain, though, he watched the disguised Queen go, and joy brightened his eyes.
Sighing, Irrith tugged him away from the fallen bowl. “Come on, Lord Galen. You’ve taken care of Britain; now let others take care of you.”
PART FIVE
Separatio
Autumn 1758
Trust not yourself; but your defects to know, Make use of ev’ry friend—and ev’ry foe.
—Alexander Pope,
“An Essay on Criticism,” II.213–4
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.
Mayfair, Westminster: September 23, 1758
Dear Mr. St. Clair,
I was very sorry to hear of the injury to your shoulder. The daisy chain of gossip from your mother to Mrs. Northwood to Mrs. Montagu to me says you were kicked by a rearing horse in Fleet Street, from which I conclude there is a much more interesting story I have not heard. I implore you to call upon me at your earliest convenience so we can discuss it further over tea. I have something here that I believe you will be interested in, as well.
Your affectionate Sylph,
Elizabeth Vesey
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.