A Star Shall Fall

“Not her,” Irrith said, and pointed at Carline. “That’s the one I seek. My master sent me with a gift for her.”

Carline still had not looked up from her giggling play with the broad-shouldered man. “Tom,” the ugly George called, and Kitty Fisher jabbed the fellow with her toe. “Competition for your Caroline’s charms.”

The two broke apart, and Carline, pouting, finally turned to face Irrith. The sprite watched as understanding came to her, stage by stage: she saw first a gentleman, then someone under a glamour, and then apprehension settled in. Not knowing who lay beneath the disguise, she would be fearing the worst—as if Lune had the attention to spare for one turncoat faerie lady on her way out of London.

But Irrith could use that fear. Her hand brushed her pocket, and a dreadful notion came to her. Bowing to the broad-shouldered Tom, she said, “May I present the gift to her?”

He scowled, but Kitty jabbed him again. “Go on, Tom. Or are you afraid your, ah, purse isn’t deep enough to keep her?”

His scowl shifted targets, but George lifted a quelling hand, and Tom slid backward with ill grace, leaving Carline alone on her couch.

Irrith knelt before the faerie lady and pulled the box from her pocket. Then cupping it in her hands so no one but Carline could see, she cracked the lid upward.

All the blood drained from Carline’s face. While Kitty and the others hooted and began speculating about the gift, Irrith murmured, “Five minutes of your time—and a bit of information. Then you can go wherever you please.”

For a moment it seemed Carline would be unable to move. Then she shoved herself off the couch so fast Irrith almost fell onto her rump. “Five minutes,” she said in a strangled voice. “No more.” And she stalked into the far corner of the bagnio, bare feet thudding hard against the floor.

The laughter faded, and Tom regarded Irrith with undisguised suspicion. “Pardon me,” she said, and went hastily after Carline before anyone could decide to interfere.

Carline waited with her arms crossed tight beneath her breasts, straining the damp fabric of her shift. Had Irrith been interested in such things, it might have been an effective distraction, but Carline hardly seemed to be trying. “Who sent you?” she demanded, before Irrith had even come to a halt.

“That doesn’t matter. So long as you tell me what I want to know, there won’t be any need for what’s in that box.” If Carline were thinking at all clearly, she would know that iron shot in a box was little threat; and loading the pistol in Irrith’s other pocket would give her time to get away. But she had been drinking a great deal—for days now, if her servant was to be believed—and fear was louder than common sense.

Carline swallowed hard. “If you shoot me… these are important men, you know.”

“I’m not going to shoot you,” Irrith said impatiently. “All you have to do is tell me: who are the Sanists? Not the folk who read The Ash and Thorn and get into fights in the Crow’s Head; I mean the leaders, the ones who are plotting. They wear glamours when they meet, but I’d wager my entire cabinet that at least a few of them were your supporters when you wanted to be Queen. Who are they?”

The tension faded minutely from her hunched shoulders at the reference to a cabinet. “Irrith?”

Blood and Bone. She gritted her teeth. “Names, Carline. You’re leaving anyway; it doesn’t matter what you say now. I need to know who they are.”

Carline cast a swift glance over her shoulder at the others, who weren’t pretending not to watch. Kitty was whispering into George’s ear. “Nianna Chrysanthe supported me. Hafdean, who keeps the Crow’s Head. The fetch Nithen. Valentin Aspell.”

She tried to imagine any of those under the glamours at the Grecian. “Wait—Aspell? He was working with you, that long ago?”

The lady’s entire body stiffened. All artifice and pleasantry vanished.

“What do you mean, he supported you? What was he doing? Tell me!”

Muscles stood out in Carline’s lovely face, her jaw clenching tight. Her eyes blazed out of that rigid mask, as if trying to communicate by passion alone.

Irrith had to fight to draw breath. “You—you’re under an oath, aren’t you.” No response, but of course there wouldn’t be. Fae could not break their sworn words, and Carline had given hers to Aspell. Some loophole allowed her to let slip that he’d supported her—Irrith was sure that had been deliberate—but nothing more.

The sprite’s mind felt like it was moving three times faster than normal. “He did more than just encourage you. He helped you. In ways he didn’t dare let Lune find out about, so he made you swear.” The answer was obvious, now that she looked for it. “He told you about the London Stone.”