A Star Shall Fall

“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

12 February 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.”