A Star Shall Fall (44 page)

“You have until perihelion, then,” Galen said. “After that, the comet will draw nearer to the Earth, and our danger will be at its greatest. As soon as you are ready, we will dismiss the clouds, call the Dragon down, and end this.”

Andrews nodded, and wiped sweat from his pale brow.

Lune still stood alone, behind her chair. Galen circled the table and positioned himself at her side. For once—perhaps for the first time—it felt right. Queen and Prince, shoulder to shoulder, against the threats that faced their court.

Their
court. His as well as hers.

“Until March, then,” Lune said. “May Fate and Faerie bless us all.”

The Onyx Hall, London: January 25, 1759

If, upon her arrival in the Onyx Hall, anyone had asked Irrith how she would spend her final weeks before the confrontation with the comet, she would have confidently predicted a wild adventure through the streets of London, visiting taverns and shops and the houses of mortals, enjoying the city as if she might never see it again.

Instead she divided her time between the Temple of Arms and Dr. Andrews’s laboratory, wishing she could be of greater use in either place. But she had done her part; their first defense was holding, and others were far more qualified to contribute to the second and third than she was. Especially on the alchemical side. Galen had abandoned her bed, though, and the laboratory was the surest place to find him.

Him, and half the Onyx Hall. An exaggeration, of course, but right now the room held Galen and Dr. Andrews, Wrain and poor Savennis, Lady Feidelm and Abd ar-Rashid. Even Podder had been pressed into service; when Irrith entered, he sat with a penknife and a pile of quills, carving each to a fresh point.

It wasn’t entirely true Irrith was of no use. “Lune’s had word from the Cour du Lys,” she announced to the various mortals and fae. “Messier thinks he’s spotted the comet from Paris.”

Galen slammed shut the book he’d been consulting. “Damnation. Is it public yet?”

Irrith grinned. “No. The French king—the faerie one—has done Lune a favor. Delisle, the fellow in charge of the observatory at Cluny, has told Messier not to announce anything just yet. Messier’s furious.”

“Good,” Galen said, fingers curling around the book’s edge. “The silence, not the fury. The fewer people who are aware of this, the better.”

She smiled at him, but in his distraction, he didn’t return it. What his scruples over marriage had failed to accomplish, the sighting of the comet had done; Galen had little time for anything but preparation these days.

No one did. Irrith hadn’t realized just how complicated this “alchemical plan” would turn out to be. She wandered toward Abd ar-Rashid and stood frowning over the Arab’s shoulder. He was sketching something with a careful hand, but she could make no sense of it. “What is that?” she asked.

The genie answered without looking up. “We need a vessel, an alembic, in which to effect our work. The intent is to use the Monument to the Great Fire, the chamber in its base.”

That explained the general shape, but—“What about that stuff at the top?”

The pen lifted from its line and paused. “Mirrors,” Abd ar-Rashid said. His accent had improved to the point that she could detect impatience in the answer. “And lenses. I am told that observation from London will bring the Dragon down, but the Monument is a zenith telescope; it cannot be pointed at its target. Since the comet will not pass directly above, we must direct the observer’s gaze.”

She could understand the difficulty easily enough, but not Abd ar-Rashid’s sketch of a possible answer. Much simpler was the question Dr. Andrews asked of the room at large, utterly without warning. “What happens when a faerie dies?”

Podder dropped his penknife. Irrith said, “How do you mean?”

The doctor had been frowning over some notes in his hand. Now he put them down and frowned at the wall across from him instead. “
After
a faerie dies, I should say. Suppose this Dragon is killed, instead of trapped or transformed. Will its body decay, according to the ordinary way of such things?”

That, at least, was a topic Irrith was qualified to speak on. “It won’t rot, no. They just fall to dust over time, bones and all.”

“Not dust,” Wrain corrected her. “Nothingness.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “I meant it poetically.”

“And sometimes it takes no time at all,” Feidelm added. “The body just vanishes.”

“I suppose that explains why no one has ever found a faerie graveyard,” Andrews mused. He tapped his cheek with the ragged end of his quill. “And the spirits?”

“They die, too,” Wrain said.

He sounded grim, as most faeries did when they spoke of their own deaths.
We don’t like thinking of it—that our eternity may see an end.
For some reason it was even more disturbing now, in this well-lit room, than it had been on All Hallows’ Eve. Hugging herself, Irrith said, “Not always, though. Don’t some faeries go on?”

“Where? To Heaven, whose Master does not love us? Or down below, where the devils have their day? Perhaps you think they go into Faerie.” Wrain’s snort showed what he thought of that. “Superstitious nonsense, told by frightened fae who wish to believe they can look forward to something after.”

It stung Irrith, less because she believed it herself than because Lune did. “Her Majesty said she saw a faerie go elsewhere, once.”

“Oh? To where? And how did she know it was so?”

Irrith fiddled with a nearby microscope. “She didn’t say.”

Andrews seemed obscurely pleased. He jotted a series of notes in a nearby book, lips moving in a soundless mutter. Sometimes the man disturbed Irrith, and not just because he was dying; his passion for ideas bordered on the unnatural.

She wished for a different subject, one that would not make her think of Aspell and Lune. A diversion presented itself, in the form of the Prince, who was sitting bolt upright with the book forgotten in his hands. “Galen? What is it?”

He didn’t seem to hear her at first. Then she moved in front of him, and he shifted and came awake. “Have you thought of something?” Irrith asked.

“Vanishing.” He pronounced the word as if it were an epiphany, but she shook her head, not understanding. “Like Lady Feidelm said. Sometimes the body just vanishes. Why?”

“Lune said it happened to the faerie she was talking about,” Irrith said, remembering. “The one she thought went . . . elsewhere.”

“Yes! Precisely! What if that’s it? What if the fae who vanish are the ones who go on instead of ending?”

His excited cry had everyone’s attention now. Dr. Andrews said, “Some property of aether, perhaps—”

Galen’s hands flew through the air, cutting him off. “No, no—well, yes, perhaps, but not the way you’re thinking. You gave a lecture on this yourself, Dr. Andrews; don’t you remember? At Mrs. Vesey’s house. On Cartesian philosophy, the separation of Mind and Body. What if that’s one of the laws that differs here, in faerie spaces—or more to the point, with faerie bodies?”

Irrith struggled to understand him, because this had animated him so greatly. “You mean that minds and bodies aren’t separate?
Our
minds and bodies aren’t?”

“Spirit as matter.” Galen seized her by the arms, the first touch they’d shared since Delphia Northwood came into the Onyx Hall. “This, right here—
this is you,
Irrith. No division. In elemental terms, oh, I don’t know . . . perhaps faerie matter is simply an idea the faerie mind imposes upon the aether. Or something. It might explain what a glamour is, where it comes from. But when a faerie is killed, body and spirit die together, because they’re no different, and what’s left behind soon falls to nothingness. When the spirit goes elsewhere, though . . .”

“The body vanishes,” Irrith whispered.

Feidelm drew near, the tall sidhe towering over Irrith and Galen both. “It would explain why the Dragon survived all attempts to kill it. We’ve said before: its spirit is powerful.
That
is what we must kill.”

Irrith still wasn’t sure whether the idea was too far beyond her to comprehend, or so simple she didn’t understand why Galen hadn’t seen it before. But the part about death . . . that was another matter entirely. Wrain’s doubt had faded into thoughtful consideration. Savennis was staring at his own arm as if he’d never seen it before. Abd ar-Rashid looked worried, and she didn’t know why.

Andrews had gone so pale she thought he might fall over, but his eyes glittered like diamonds. “Perfect,” he breathed.

Galen turned sharply, releasing Irrith’s arms. “What do you mean?”

“Oh—” Andrews blinked, then brought out his handkerchief to dab at his perpetually sweaty face. “If you are right . . . the Dragon has no body at present, as I understand it. Yes? So as long as we keep it away from any source of aether, it will continue to be bodiless.”

“Keep it away from faerie spaces, you mean,” Galen said.

Irrith shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. The Dragon was born above, in the Fire. Remember? So it—”

The words stuck her her throat, choking her. “Oh, Blood and Bone.” Faerie profanity wasn’t enough. “Oh,
Hell
.”

They were all staring at her, until she had to fight not to squirm. “Isn’t it in those books of yours? All that alchemical gibberish? As above, so below. And the other way around, too. The Onyx Hall echoing into London, with aether or whatever else. I think—I think we
made
the Dragon.” Just as Carline had said.

Andrews spat a curse and flung his handkerchief away. But he seemed curiously abstracted and calm as he said, “Then it will have to be done quickly. If we can get pure mercury into the base of the Monument, then break the clouds and call the sulphur down, so that they join before either has a chance to become contaminated . . . perhaps if we lined the chamber with iron?”

The others began to argue theories, a conversation to which Irrith could add nothing. For once, she was glad of it. A knot of cold had formed in the pit of her stomach. Never mind alchemy; all she could think about was Aspell’s plan.

If Lune is devoured by the Dragon . . .

It meant the same thing it always had, really. When fae died, that was it; if there were exceptions, they were rare, and hadn’t Lune said that sometimes she liked the thought of a true end? But Galen’s notion, putting an explanation to something Irrith usually preferred not to think about at all, somehow made it a dozen times more horrifying. The Dragon wouldn’t just be eating Lune’s body; it would consume her spirit.

Irrith wished, suddenly and fiercely, that the fae had someone to pray to as the mortals prayed to their Heavenly Father. They swore by Mab, one of the ancient powers of Faerie, but that wasn’t the same thing; she didn’t watch over them and help them when they needed it. And that was what Irrith wanted right now, someone to beg for aid, so that Galen and Dr. Andrews and all the rest of these clever minds would find a way to make this work, ensuring it never came to that dreadful pass.

I’d ask Galen to pray, but I doubt the Almighty is much interested in helping fae.

But maybe for the sake of London, He would take an interest. She would ask Galen later. At some point when they were alone together—if they ever were, again.

“I’ll go tell Lune,” she offered, into the chatter of the others. Only Feidelm seemed to hear her, nodding before answering some point Andrews had made. Forlorn in the face of their excitement, Irrith sighed and went back to the Queen.

St. James’ Park, Westminster: February 12, 1759

“If chill fogs prevented Britons from walking in the park,” Delphia had said to her mother that noon, “we should never make use of them at all.”

She was not the only one to hold that view, it seemed, for she and Galen were far from alone in St. James’ Park. They had even seen the Duchess of Portland walking with a friend, despite the dreary weather. The months of gray had worn on everyone’s mind, until everyone was desperate for light, however weak. And truth be told, he was something grateful for the fog; it meant Mrs. Northwood fell back and wrapped herself in her cloak, muttering peevishly to herself, leaving the two of them with freedom to speak more frankly—so long as they were careful.

Such freedom was hard to come by these days. With Delphia about to leave her natal household, her liberty to spend time at Mrs. Vesey’s was much curtailed; and now there lay the great weight of a secret between them, a joy to share, but not one they could often indulge. Delphia had tithed some bread to the Onyx Hall, and in exchange Lady Yfaen came calling upon her when possible. It was her primary source of contact with the fae.

Delphia said, “I hear you’ve made some great philosophical discovery.”

He blushed and looked down—never a wise idea, in St. James’ Park, where it was easier to ignore the things one might step in than to try and avoid them all. Cows and deer roamed the park freely, with inevitable consequences. “Not so great; there are still a number of things we’re uncertain of. Though we needn’t try to answer them all in the next month, thank Mab.”

A smile darted across her features at the name. “They have you well trained, don’t they? I have an advantage in that respect, I suppose; gently reared maidens are not supposed to take the Lord’s name in vain, and my mother reared me as gently as she could.” They walked in silence for a while, nodding to those they passed, and when they were once more safe from being overheard she asked, “How long have you been among them?”

Irrith had asked him the same question, nearly a year ago. Galen could not help but feel a pang at the thought of the sprite. He’d hurt her when he drew back, much to his surprise; he’d thought himself nothing but a toy for her, that she would tire of soon enough. But with Delphia brought into the world of the fae, he could not in good conscience go on sharing Irrith’s bed.

“Four years or so,” he said, straightening his gloves to hide the discomfort of his thoughts. “Though I had my first sight of them some months before that.”

“And how long have you been struggling with the problem of this comet?”