A Star Shall Fall

Still, it was out of the question. Telling the truth would mean telling Miss Northwood about Lune, and he feared the consequences if the mask that covered his adoration slipped in his future wife’s presence. Besides, Galen had enough to concern him already. “Well, if the purpose of your visit is to escape your mother’s watchful eye, M—Delphia, then perhaps I can arrange an evening at the theatre. Or have you ever been to the opera?”

By means of such diversions did he shift them to safer topics. Mrs. Vesey, however, let pass no opportunity to refer in cryptic fashion to the fae, until surely a girl as intelligent as Delphia had to wonder what second conversation was being conducted under her nose. Galen could do nothing about that, short of contriving to chide Mrs. Vesey in private, so he endured the awkwardness as best he could, and escaped as soon as it would not be abominably rude.

But as the sedan chair carried him home from Clarges Street, his mind kept drifting away from Dragons and faerie science in favour of imaginary conversations with Miss Delphia Northwood. His experience with Dr. Andrews had taught him valuable lessons, ones he could make use of…

Ridiculous, he told himself firmly. Dr. Andrews was making valuable contributions to their planned defence. This was a matter of sentimentality, nothing more, and not justifiable in its risk.

Still, he could not stop thinking of it.

You are a fool, Galen St. Clair. And that was one statement even his divided and disputatious mind could not argue with.

COVENT GARDEN, WESTMINSTER

3 October 1758

Three hundred sixty-four nights out of the year, Edward Thorne was a loyal protector of his master’s secrets.

On the three hundred sixty-fifth, he told Irrith, without prompting, where Galen could be found.

Or at least his general location. She unearthed the Prince in the third tavern she tried, spotting him with ease, even though he’d obviously made some effort to dress as less than a gentleman. After all, not every footpad here was a disguised faerie playing a trick. Galen wore a baggy, shabby coat over equally shabby clothes, but his wig was too neatly groomed. Irrith spotted it from clear across the tavern. Someone would steal it if he wasn’t careful.

He was staring moodily into a cup she hoped didn’t hold gin. Magrat had warned her that the poor of nearby Seven Dials still adulterated their spirits with turpentine or acid, and Irrith feared Galen was too sheltered a soul to know that.

When she dragged a stool closer, Galen glanced up only long enough to see her. “I’m too tired for guessing games,” he said, slurring the words.

“Irrith,” she said. “I thought you might like company.”

He went back to his contemplation of the cup. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“Never said you did.” Irrith leaned forward and sniffed. The familiar burn of gin reached her nostrils, but she didn’t smell anything wrong in it. Good; he bought the legal kind. “One question, though, and then I’ll hush up and help you drink yourself under the table. Edward says you go drinking every year on this night, but usually someplace nicer than Covent Garden. Why so grim this time?”

She had observed of him before that he often tried to discipline his expression, and also that he was very bad at it. On this occasion, he didn’t even try. Irrith saw the full play of his shame, despair, and hopeless love. Galen choked down a sip of the bitter gin, then said, “Because this year, I am betrothed.”

Since it was Galen, Irrith tried hard to understand why that should matter. True, it was the Queen’s mourning night. Until dawn, Lune would keep solitary vigil in the night garden, grieving for her first Prince, who lay buried in the Onyx Hall. She did so every year on the anniversary of his death. It was a painful reminder to Galen that her love was not for him—but why should his own step toward marriage drive him to cheap gin in a filthy tavern? It didn’t put Lune’s heart any further out of his reach than it already was.

She tried to understand, and failed. Instead she said, “I think you need distraction. But finish your drink first.”

He lifted the cup, paused, and said, “Please, for the love of all that’s unholy—change your glamour before I go anywhere with you.”

Irrith grinned. She’d forgotten she was disguised as a rough young man. While Galen downed the remainder of his gin, she went outside and found an unoccupied shadowed corner; by the time she came back, this time as a woman, he’d given the tavern’s owner a shilling for the best room in the house. It wasn’t a good room, especially for that price, but it was preferable to the Onyx Hall on this night—or Leicester Fields on any night—and if the mattress was home to a troop of bugs, neither of them was in a mood to care.