A Star Shall Fall

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 favour 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

30 October 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.”

His English had improved. Had the Arab really spared the time and attention within that room to better his command of the language? It made no difference for those waiting on the outside, and certainly there were days enough to spare, but it spoke volumes about the genie’s dedication to his purpose. “And that perfection is the philosopher’s stone,” Galen said.

“Yes. Ordinarily the alchemist begins with some base substance, the prima materia, and this he subjects to many processes in his laboratory—from calcination to congelation.” The genie pointed to a list on the second page. “He does this in order to obtain sophic sulphur and sophic mercury in their pure forms. Purity is necessary: without it, you have the same corrupt matter that all metals are made of, instead of the philospher’s stone.”

“But we aren’t working with metals.”

“No. And that is why I wished to speak with you privately.” Abd ar-Rashid settled back in his chair, folding his hands together like one at prayer. Like a Christian, at least; the genie regularly went above to carry out his scheduled prayers, five times a day, but Galen had never watched him at it. He had a difficult enough time understanding that this creature could be both a faerie and a worshipper of God—even the Mohammedan God.

Despite the detailed notes in front of him, Abd ar-Rashid seemed to have difficulty articulating his concern. “The notion of Dr. Andrews is that the Dragon is sophic sulphur. I think he may be correct. This allows you to escape the labour of purification—for one substance, at least. But you also need sophic mercury.”

His reluctance was clear; the cause of it was not. “That is a challenge,” Galen conceded, “but with the Calendar Room at our disposal, I’m sure we have the time to think of a suitable source—”

The Arab frowned more deeply. “I have already done so, Lord Galen. But I fear the answer is not one you wish to hear.”

Galen stilled. After a moment, he said, “You needn’t fear any retribution from me, Lord Abd ar-Rashid, for anything you say. Tell me what you know, and we will continue from there.”