A Star Shall Fall (24 page)

Most of them were members of the Royal Society, but this, the similarly named Society of Royal Philosophers, was a much more select group. According to Andrews, their membership was limited to forty, and the dues collected to pay for their weekly dinners would have sent Galen’s father into an apoplexy. Though it was far from the most expensive or exclusive club in London, it was more than enough to intimidate Galen, who once again was attending only as a guest.

Andrews made the rounds of introductions. Encouragingly, a number of the gentlemen remembered Galen; those who didn’t, came rarely or never to the meetings in Crane Court, which took place after this dinner every Thursday. And there was another young man there, perhaps five years older than Galen, who was likewise a newcomer and a guest. “Henry Cavendish,” Dr. Andrews said by way of introduction, when they came face-to-face. “Son of— is your father here, Mr. Cavendish?”

The answer came in the form of a gesture toward a man Galen remembered from his first Royal Society meeting. Once again he stood in conversation with Lord Macclesfield, who was president of both societies. “You are the son of Lord Charles Cavendish?”

A nod. Galen glanced fleetingly at Dr. Andrews, perplexed by the other’s silence. But his companion was distracted. “Ah, Mr. Franklin! Good to see you again. Hadley was telling me your thoughts on evaporation—”

When everyone sat down to dinner, Galen found himself with Andrews on one side and Henry Cavendish on the other, with Franklin—who, it transpired, was a Society Fellow visiting from the colonies—across the table. His conversation with Andrews had moved on to electricity, about which Galen knew very little. While the waiter brought out the first course, Galen addressed himself to the challenge of drawing Cavendish into conversation. “Your father is the Vice President of the Royal Society, I believe. Do you have an interest in natural philosophy as well?”

Another nod, as the fellow piled his plate high with pheasant, cod, and pork. What was it going to take, to make him open his mouth? Perhaps it was simple snobbery; if Galen remembered lineages correctly, Henry Cavendish was the grandson of not one but two dukes. On the other hand, it was hard to ascribe snobbery to a man so shabbily dressed; his coat, to choose but one example, was not only plain but frayed at the cuffs and collar.

Faced with the prospect of eating in silence, or else of ignoring his companion to join in conversation elsewhere, Galen opted for a third course of action: he began to talk about whatever came into his head, with frequent pauses that invited Cavendish to contribute. Taking his cues from those around him, he kept his focus on matters philosophical, but within those constraints he gave his curiosity free rein. From Lord Charles’s work on thermometers he went on to something Franklin had said about electricity, and thence to astronomy, which—as it always did—led his tongue to fire.

“It’s a topic of great interest to me,” Galen admitted. Somehow he’d managed to empty his wineglass, wetting his throat; he would have to be more careful, lest he inadvertently make a drunken fool of himself. “I’m fascinated by an account I just read of the work done by a German, Georg Stahl—do you know of it?” He paused for the now expected nod. “I’d never considered that the calcination of metals and the combustion of wood might be the same thing, the release of phlogiston from the material. And who says it ends there? After all, the transmission of electrical fluid can cause fires, as lightning strikes have shown; perhaps that fluid is phlogiston in pure form, or at least contains it in high proportion.”

With the general chatter filling the room, Galen almost didn’t hear the response. “If it w—if it w—” Cavendish stopped and tried again, with better success. “If it were pure phlogiston, we should expect to see electricity leap into the air as a log burns.”

It was two answers in one: a refutation of his notion, and an explanation for why Henry Cavendish had not opened his mouth before. The gentleman’s high-pitched voice squeaked like a nervous girl’s, and strain showed in his eyes and jaw as he forced himself past the awkward pauses.

Galen felt instant remorse for having thought the man a snob. Nothing could change that unfortunate voice, but surely a gathering of this sort, filled with strangers and free-flowing conversation, made his stammer worse. No wonder Cavendish was quiet.

Having achieved the tiniest bit of success, though, Galen was not about to abandon the effort. “I suppose that’s true. I confess, I’ve only just encountered Stahl’s phlogiston theory; a friend gave me the book last week.” One benefit to Cavendish’s reticence; he wouldn’t ask about the friend, and therefore Galen wouldn’t have to come up with a lie with which to disguise Wilhas von das Ticken. “Have you done any experiments on the matter?”

The conflicted expression in Cavendish’s eyes was familiar to Galen: a profound desire to indulge in his passion, warring against an equally profound reluctance to speak of it. Their respective situations might be very different, but the result looked remarkably similar.

“Hard to do,” Cavendish finally mumbled, after another excruciating set of attempts to get the words out. “Need to isolate phlogiston. Might be able to do it with iron filings and acid—Boyle’s experiment. Drive the phlogiston out of the metal and ca—and ca—”

Galen stopped himself just short of saying “capture it.” Interrupting someone of Cavendish’s stature would be rude in the extreme. Besides, even as the words formed in his mind, the association they called up startled him so badly he dropped his fork.
Perhaps it’s already been captured.

Captured—and exiled to a comet.

Salamanders, according to the fae, were the embodiment of fire, and the Dragon was that same concept writ large. And what was phlogiston—the substance that escaped wood when it burnt, and metals when they calcined—but the fundamental stuff of fire?

“Dangerous,” Henry Cavendish said, in an overenunciated squeak, apparently responding to some speculation he’d made while Galen wasn’t listening.

He was far more correct than he knew. “I think,” Galen said, his thoughts racing ahead almost too quickly for his own mind to catch, “that I might have a notion of another way to do it. To obtain a pure sample of phlogiston—or close to pure, at any rate. If I brought such a thing to you, would you—”

He didn’t even have to finish the sentence. Henry Cavendish’s eyes blazed from the phrase
pure sample
onward. Behind the awkwardness was revealed the sort of mind Galen had hoped to find when he first came to the Royal Society. This grandson of dukes might not be another Sir Isaac Newton, bringing fundamental revelation to the world, but neither would he be a mere dilettante scholar, writing rambling letters to the Society about the curious rock he found on his estate. The passion for knowledge was there, and the intelligence necessary to seize it.

From the other side of Galen, Andrews said, “Pure phlogiston? If you obtain that, Mr. St. Clair, you must share it with the Royal Society at once! Not merely the substance, but the means by which you isolated it. This could be a tremendous advancement.”

Far too much attention was falling on Galen now. Bring a salamander to Crane Court? It was unthinkable. Using his dropped fork as an excuse to hide his face, Galen mumbled, “Well, I—I am not confident it will work. And I would have to, ah, repeat my results, to be certain they’re reliable. You understand.”

The waiter saved him. He entered the room just then, followed by two of his fellows bearing a large silver platter. With a flourish, they lifted the cover to reveal the promised turtle, and Galen’s reckless declaration was forgotten in the ensuing approval.

By most. Andrews, however, did not forget. While the dish was being served, he leaned closer to Galen and said, “If you need any assistance, Mr. St. Clair, do not hesitate to ask. I know this is quite aside from my usual studies, but I would be extremely interested to see that result.”

“You shall,” Galen said, arriving at a decision without warning.
I’ve dithered long enough. There are minds here who can help the Onyx Court—but only if they have information to work with.
Cavendish was too new; Galen had known him for less than an hour. Andrews, on the other hand, he’d been studying for six months. The time had come to make a decision.

Andrews saw the change in him. Softer yet, he asked, “What is it, Mr. St. Clair?”

Galen shook his head. Not here, and not until he had a chance to notify the Queen. But once that was done . . .

“Might I call on you tomorrow, Dr. Andrews?” The older man nodded. “Excellent. I have a few things to share with you, that I think you will find very interesting indeed.”

Holborn and Bloomsbury: June 16, 1758

Galen half-wondered why no one commented on the strange drumbeat coming from within the sedan chair. Surely his heartbeat was audible all the way to the river. Lune’s encouraging words last night had fortified him enough to propel him out the door, but now that he was here, the magnitude of what he was about to do threatened to overwhelm him.

Momentum alone carried him out of the chair, up to the suddenly menacing door, into the cool entrance hall of Dr. Andrews’s townhouse. The words he’d carefully rehearsed all through the Royal Society meeting last night, through the hours when he lay unable to sleep, through the breakfast he didn’t eat and the journey to Red Lion Square, now ran about like frightened mice in his head, scattered and incoherent. Telling himself that others had done this before him didn’t help; he hadn’t taken the time to study preferred methods of revealing the Onyx Court, and now it was too late.

The obvious solution—fobbing Andrews off with some other topic, and trying again later—was out of the question. Galen knew himself an occasional coward, but that was a retreat he could not accept.

“Coffee?” Dr. Andrews offered, once he’d emerged from his laboratory and washed his hands clean in a basin the maid brought. “Or brandy, perhaps?”

That his host should offer spirits told Galen just how visible his nervousness was. Licking his lips, he thought,
Delaying will only make it worse. I must do this now, or not at all.

“No, thank you,” he said, and somehow those commonplace words of courtesy steadied him. “Dr. Andrews, I do not wish to give offense, but—are your servants the sort to listen at keyholes?”

The older gentleman’s eyes hardened. “They are entirely loyal to me, Mr. St. Clair, and they know I will not tolerate indiscretion.”

The frostiness, Galen thought, was not directed at him. A household like this, without a wife to manage it, was often an ill-run menagerie; it took a wise choice of housekeeper and a stern disciplinary hand to prevent gossiping, pilfering, and general shabbiness of service. Dr. Andrews, it seemed, had achieved that success.

“What I have to say to you is very private,” Galen said, unnecessarily; he’d already made that much obvious. His nerves would not rest, though. “I don’t mean to impugn your control of your servants, but it would be disastrous for many people if word were to slip out.” No doubt it had happened before, in the centuries of the Onyx Court’s existence, and no doubt the fae had methods of dealing with it; otherwise all London would know of their presence. But they could be ruthless in protecting their secrets, and Galen had no desire to provoke a demonstration.

Andrews gestured toward the door. “If you’re truly worried, Mr. St. Clair, we could walk in the fields around the Foundling Hospital. It’s a pleasant day, and we should have no worries of being overheard.”

Only when relief broke in a cold wave over Galen did he realize how much the servants had been worrying him. “That would be ideal.”

With no further ado, Andrews bowed him through the doorway. Red Lion Street, lined with rows of smaller houses, opened without warning into placid fields, just a few blocks to the north. A broad avenue led to the brick heights of the Foundling Hospital, but Galen and Dr. Andrews went left, along a footpath into the Lamb’s Conduit Fields.

He breathed much more easily out here, and not just because the nearest people were well distant, hard at work in the little market gardens that served London with fresh vegetables and flowers. The sunlight was warm without being oppressively hot, and the buttercups blooming along the sides of the path unknotted his shoulders just by their cheerful color. In such surroundings, the existence of a dark and hidden world beneath London seemed more like a point of curiosity than a threat. That was the greatest risk: that someday the Onyx Court would be exposed to one who saw them as an enemy. Galen was determined to protect himself, and the court, from that error.

Dr. Andrews gave him the time he needed to marshal his thoughts. They ambled along in silence, until Galen took a deep breath and launched into the speech he’d so carefully prepared.

“I must confess, Dr. Andrews, that while I’ve been grateful for your patronage in the Royal Society, from early on, I had an additional motive in cultivating your acquaintance. I hoped you might be able to provide me with a touch of assistance on a rather pressing matter. The questions you pursue—the nature of mortality, and the relationship between mind and body, spirit and matter—those have very direct bearing upon my concerns. I saw in your quest the opportunity not just to solicit assistance, but to offer it to you in return. You see, sir, I have these several years now been closely involved with a number of individuals upon whom mortality has no hold.”

Andrews had been walking this entire time with his hands clasped at the small of his back and his eyes raised to the sky, enjoying the scents of summer. Now he lowered his chin, so that his face fell into shadow, and turned a look of astonishment upon Galen.

He said nothing, though, for which Galen was grateful. If interrupted now, he might lose the thread of his explanation for good. “I’m well aware of the extraordinary nature of that claim. I assure you, Dr. Andrews, that I am entirely serious, though what I’m about to say to you may seem otherwise. These individuals live in London, but in secret; they never go about in public undisguised. Some of them have been here for centuries, and could tell you at first hand what it was like to live under the Tudors. They aren’t perfectly immortal—they can be slain—but in the absence of violence, they live forever.”