A Star Shall Fall (36 page)

Irrith wasn’t sure he’d even listened to her. After a moment, though, Galen spoke. “Do
you
think I’m a good Prince?”

She was as bad a liar as he was. A simple
yes
would be obviously trite; a longer assurance would give away her own doubts. And she’d always preferred honesty, anyway. “I think you’ve been dealt the worst hand of cards of any Prince I’ve ever known. Comet, Sanists, your own family interfering with your life . . . and then there’s Lune. The old Princes all had problems of their own, but you had yours from the start.”

“So you think I’m a failure.”

“No. You didn’t let me finish.” Irrith tucked her feet up, leaning forward to seek out his eyes in the shadows. “The Princes have all been different sorts of men, who bring different kinds of strength to the Onyx Court. They’ve all shared one thing, though: they care too much to give up. Whatever trouble the court faces—and believe me, there’s been a lot—they keep fighting. If the day ever comes that you run away,
then
I’ll call you a failure. But not before.”

His back had stiffened at the thought of running away, proving her very point. Galen seemed to realize it, too. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then sat thinking. One hand scratched absently at his ribs, and Irrith thought she felt something crawling up her own leg. They might be ignoring the bugs, but the bugs weren’t ignoring them.

“If she knows,” he said at last, “then I cannot possibly tell Miss Northwood.”

“About the Onyx Court?”

He nodded. “I had considered it, but—no. Mere foolishness.”

“Why? There’s always the risk that a mortal will attack us, or tell everyone we’re here, but we risk it just the same. What are you afraid will happen—that she’ll cry off once she knows what you do with the other half of your life?”

His drifting hand stilled, then lowered to his thigh. “I had thought—” Galen began, but stopped.

Irrith waited patiently. This time, she was fairly certain that anything she might say would frighten him off.

Galen sighed, with less of a melancholy sound than she expected. “I’d considered the possibility of telling her
after
our marriage. But you are right; if I did it before, she might cry off.”

Which he would consider a good thing. He wasn’t thinking of his family right now, Irrith could tell. Only of Lune, and of the voice in his head that told him it wasn’t right to serve two mistresses at once.

On the other hand, this would give
her
a chance to observe Miss Delphia Northwood for herself. Irrith had of course spied on the young woman a little, because she was curious, but turned up nothing worthy of remark. Seeing her with Galen would be much more interesting.

“I think you should,” Irrith said. “It’s only fair.”

He made a wordless, frustrated noise. “But I’ll have to ask the Queen first. And that will be . . .”

Uncomfortable.
To put it mildly. Oh, how Irrith wished she could be a fly on the wall for that conversation.

Another, heavier sigh. “I’ll consider it,” Galen said.

Irrith crawled over to where he sat and put her hands on his shoulders. “Tomorrow. I think you’ve done enough thinking for tonight.”

The Onyx Hall, London: October 13, 1758

Since establishing his residence in the Onyx Hall, Dr. Andrews had thrown himself into the work the fae set for him. Podder had unearthed notebooks belonging to Jack Ellin, a previous Prince, which indicated that he suspected the refraction of a prism might have an unknown effect upon the Dragon’s spirit; that was why they’d used a modification of Newton’s reflecting telescope for its exile. Andrews, remembering their startling results with the
experimentum crucis
, had decided to conduct further optical experiments with the salamander.

Galen was delayed by Mrs. Vesey’s insistence upon him dining with her and Miss Northwood, but he hurried to Billingsgate as soon as he could and descended into the warren that held Andrews’s chambers. Upon entering the laboratory, he found Andrews pacing in agitation. The man’s face was pale and dewed with sweat, and the rims of his eyes were red. “What result?” Galen asked.

The doctor gestured to the other end of the room. “See for yourself. The light faded too fast for me to try.”

The apparatus stood facing a sheet tacked to the wall, a prism on a stand. The stand’s platform held a blackened pair of tongs and—

Galen poked at the shriveled thing with one fingertip. “What is this? It doesn’t look like a salamander.”

“It’s the heart of one.”

He shot upright. On the table nearby lay an empty cage and an unmoving form: the corpse of the captured salamander. Its belly gaped open, revealing a charred cavity where the heart had been.

“A curious thing,” Andrews said, still pacing. “I would swear the creature had nothing
but
a heart. No lungs, no intestines. I can’t be sure; even making the incision without being burnt was difficult. And everything seemed to alter subtly when it died.”

Horrified, Galen spun to face him. “You cut this creature open while it lived?”

That finally halted the doctor. Andrews, much taken aback, said, “How else am I to understand how it functions?”

“But—you—” Galen flung one hand toward the prism. “I thought this was an experiment with
light
!”

“It was.” Andrews came forward and collected the leather gloves he’d evidently dropped on the floor. “And how was I to get that light? Oh, certainly the creature spat fire while it lived—but it was only fire. I could detect nothing strange about it at all. It is the
essence
of the creature we wished to pass through the prism, and I’m told it was the Dragon’s heart they used before. Unfortunately, this one burnt out too quickly.” He paused, gloves in hand. “Animal vivisection is a common practice in medicine, Mr. St. Clair. We must know how the body works before we can heal it.”

Galen could not stop looking at the salamander’s corpse. He knew well enough that their research sometimes involved uncomfortable things; he had, with reluctance, authorized Andrews’s work with Savennis, observing the effects of prayers and church bells both with and without the protection of bread, and the faerie’s sensitivity to the proximity of iron. This went further, though—and Galen had not thought to include the salamander under his authority. It wasn’t an intelligent creature, of course, not like Savennis. Still. He, as Prince, had brought into the Onyx Hall a mortal who killed a faerie.

“You should have consulted me before you did this,” he said quietly.

Andrews, tidying up his equipment, paused again. “Ah. I didn’t realize. Will this anger the Queen?”

“I don’t know. And that is why you must consult me.” Galen yanked his hat off, then made himself stop before he could fling it across the room.
Is this not what you brought him here for? To apply mortal methods of learning to your faerie problem?

The doctor nodded with good grace. “I see. My apologies, Mr. St. Clair. I did not mean to cause trouble.” Then his expression brightened. “Oh—but my experience with the salamander gave me an interesting thought. Come, let’s sit down, and I will tell you about it.”

Sitting down meant going to the other end of the room from the corpse and its shriveled coal of a heart. Galen doubted that was coincidence. He went willingly, but waved away Andrews’s offer of coffee.

“It had to do with what that Arab fellow said,” Andrews began, “concerning alchemy. Now, most alchemists were mountebanks or poor deluded fools, and I very much doubt if any of them ever made an ounce of gold out of anything else, unless it was the hopes of their credulous clients. But what if it works here? Among the faeries?”

Galen frowned. “Dr. Andrews—I love a good conjecture as much as the next man, but how does this help us against the Dragon?”

“It doesn’t,” the doctor said, with far more excitement than those words merited. “But it may provide a way to make the Dragon help
us.
”

Which explained the excitement, but not its cause. “I don’t follow you.”

“Do you know anything of alchemy?” Galen shook his head. “It wasn’t just about turning dross into gold. That transformation, as they conceived it, consisted of purging a metal of its flaws and impurities, bringing it into a more perfected state. And the same thing, Mr. St. Clair, could be done to the human body.”

Galen shook his head a second time, still not following.

“I am talking,” Dr. Andrews said, “of the philosopher’s stone.”

He’d heard the phrase, in much the same way he’d heard of faeries before he saw Lune in the night sky. A foolish fable, indicating something dreamt of but unreal. In this case, the means of achieving mankind’s dearest dream.

Immortality.

But what could the Dragon have to do with that? Dr. Andrews said, “The details are complicated—indeed, over the centuries men devised a hundred variants upon the theme, and as I said, I doubt very much if any of them worked. Much of it, however, comes down to two substances: philosophic sulphur, and philosophic mercury.

“These are not to be confused with the substances we know, brimstone and quicksilver. They represent principles, an opposing pair. Sulphur is hot, dry, and active; it is fire and air, the red or sun king, brightly burning.”

“In other words,” Galen said, his mouth drying out, “the Dragon.”

Andrews nodded. “It seems very likely that this beast is the embodiment of the sulphuric principle. Mr. St. Clair, if the alchemist can conjoin and reconcile those two opposing principles . . . he creates the philosopher’s stone.”

Had they been sitting in Andrews’s house on Red Lion Square, it would have seemed absurd. The philosopher’s stone? Immortality? But they were in the Onyx Hall, where even the mundane trappings of chairs and carpets and tables could not disguise the fey quality of the place, the hushed mystery of London’s shadow.

Here, perhaps, it might be possible.

Andrews might as well have reached inside Galen’s head and turned his brain upside down. Not to fight or imprison or banish the Dragon, but to
use
it. Transform a threat into a tool, and once they had done so . . .

Galen’s fancy immediately slipped its leash, imagining not just the defeat of the Dragon, but the consequences of that success. Fame, fortune—the King was almost seventy-five. What might he give to the men who could restore his youth?

A dose of common sense helped. “As I understand it, alchemists worked with laboratory equipment, boiling and distilling things. How in Heaven’s name are we to wrestle your philosophic sulphur into any kind of conjunction, when it will be trying to burn us all alive?”

“I haven’t the first notion,” Andrews said. The gleam in his eyes chilled Galen, even as the possibility that sparked it quickened his breath. “That, Mr. St. Clair, is what we must devise.”

The Grecian, London: October 14, 1758

Under most circumstances, Irrith would have enjoyed the chance to go into the city on someone else’s bread. After all, every bite she got from another was a bite that didn’t come out of her own meager store, and then she had a whole day of safety in the world above.

Most circumstances did not involve Valentin Aspell, and a meeting she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to attend.

They shared a hackney, which put her much closer to him than she wanted to be. The uncomfortable silence lasted for a few minutes before Irrith said, “Aren’t you going to make me swear an oath?”

His whisper-thin eyebrows rose. “An oath?”

“Not to tell anyone about this.”

Aspell glanced out the window of the carriage, at the crowded streets creeping by. “Dame Irrith, do not insult my intelligence. At the first hint of such a demand, you would run as far from me as you could—and with good cause. Oaths are for conspirators with something to hide. The people you will see today practice a degree of secrecy, yes, because it would be easy for someone to use our words against us. But I assure you: those you will meet are no different than you.”

She squirmed uncomfortably on the stained bench.
If they’re no different from me . . . then I’m no different from them.

But Aspell had assured her the purpose of this meeting was to discuss a means of preserving the Onyx Hall, against both its fraying and the Dragon. True, clouds blanketed the sky above them; the ritual had done its work. That didn’t get rid of the beast, though. And it did nothing to reverse the Hall’s decay.

Hence today’s meeting. Irrith wasn’t surprised to find it taking place above. Lune kept a good eye on both worlds, but there was no way she could watch London as closely as the Onyx Hall. If fae wanted to do something secret, their chances were better among the humans, whose teeming masses would take little notice of anything they did. Still, the choice made Irrith frown. Aspell had handed her a piece of bread without so much as a blink—not that he blinked often anyway. That kind of generosity wasn’t normal, especially nowadays.

She thought again about the black dog that ambushed her on her way into the city. Had there been other such attacks? If so, Lune had kept them quiet.
But she would, wouldn’t she? Doesn’t want anyone to know if she can’t keep the tithe safe.

Her stomach was doing a queasy dance even before they arrived at their destination and she discovered it to be another damnable coffeehouse, under the sign of the Grecian. Foul drink; just what her nerves needed. If Aspell insisted she have some, she
would
run away.

They didn’t sit at the tables, though. Aspell spoke briefly to the owner, then led Irrith into an upstairs room, where a coal fire tried to warm the air and mostly just stained it with smoke. Several people already waited there. Fae, obviously, concealed under glamours, just as she and the Lord Keeper were. It had the feel of conspiracy, however much Aspell insisted on their good intentions.

He counted them swiftly and nodded. “We are all here. Let us begin.”

This was all? Irrith made it only eight in the room, not counting the two of them. Then again, it would be too suspicious if a lot of fae all vanished at once. No doubt some of these would report back to friends of theirs. And Aspell must have some means of identifying those who came, or a spy could join them without anyone knowing. He was too clever for that.