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.
The Onyx Hall, London: October 15, 1758
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.”
Leicester Fields, Westminster: October 24, 1758
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 scandalized 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 apologize! 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 t
he 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 favorite 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 favor 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.
Memory: November 9, 1756
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 recognized 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 color in this dark realm for it to carry the significance mortals gave it. Court rumor 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; rumor 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 center 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 favor—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 favor 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 Onyx Hall, London: October 30, 1758
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.”