A Star Shall Fall

Irrith hung her head. “Yes, madam.”

“As for your punishment,” Lune said, and paused.

Even though the sprite knew she should keep silent, she said it anyway. “I don’t have any right to ask for this, but—if you’re going to exile me, then please, let me stay long enough to face the Dragon.”

Sir Peregrin made a disbelieving sound. Lune said, “My subjects slip away in the night, and you ask to stay.” Despite everything, a bright edge lightened her voice. “Very well, Dame Irrith. For now, your punishment is that you are forbidden to depart until we have disposed of the Dragon. After that, we shall decide further.”

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON

16 March 1759

The Queen forbade her to kill Aspell, but not to plot other things.

Irrith perched atop a flying buttress, watching the door to Valentin Aspell’s chambers. She’d been up there for a while, considering her options. Part of her was tempted to stab him anyway; it might be worth guaranteeing her exile, just to get rid of him.

That shouldn’t be her first move, though. At present she was contemplating breaking in and seeing what she could find, but she suspected someone had already done that on Lune’s behalf. Besides, Irrith wouldn’t know what to look for. The Lord Keeper would hardly leave a notebook lying around with PLANS FOR TREASON written in large letters across the top.

Sitting here made her feel better, though. More fixed upon her purpose, which was to find proof that could be used to put an end to Valentin Aspell.

Could she lie to him? Make some pretence of— no, she dismissed the thought before she even completed it. Irrith was no good at masquerade, and she knew it.

They said Lune was very good at it indeed before she became Queen, disguising herself as a human woman for months on end. Some said that was why she had such strange mortal notions—that even the “safe” bread of the tithe left a taint of mortality, if eaten for long enough. Irrith thought it had more to do with loving a human man, but perhaps the two went hand in hand.

Distraction, all of that, from the fact that she didn’t know what to do. Irrith was jarred out of it by movement below.

She had spied on people from the concealment of trees, and this was not so different. Her blood quickened as she recognised the thrumpin from the Crow’s Head, the Sanist who helped start that brawl. He knocked on Aspell’s door, and handed a folded slip of paper to the hob who answered.

Irrith leaned forward, hoping for something of interest, but the hob merely bowed and closed the door, and the thrumpin went away. Frustrated, she smacked one hand against the stone. Seeing Aspell receive a message from a known Sanist was no use at—

The door opened again, and Aspell emerged.

Despite herself, Irrith grinned. She might not be much of a liar, nor a thief, nor a knight—but trailing someone in secret? That, I can do.

She went from buttress to buttress until she reached the end of the gallery. Then, unfortunately, she had to drop to the floor, which meant following at a greater distance, with a charm to silence her feet. Aspell had cast no such thing, which made her frown. If he wasn’t bothering to be secret, then maybe this was nothing to do with the Sanists, thrumpin or no thrumpin.

Her mind was so on that question, and on the challenge of neither losing her quarry nor betraying herself to him, that she paid little attention to their path. With a start, she realised they had passed the only remaining branch in the corridors, and that only one thing lay ahead.

The Newgate entrance.

Blood and Bone! Aspell was going above. No need to hide that—it was ordinary enough—and once up there, easy enough to give the slip to any pursuers. And Irrith, searching desperately through her pockets, realised what bread she had was in Ktistes’s pavilion.

Aspell went into the chamber. She drew close, into the shadow of one of the pillars supporting the arch, and saw him don a glamour. Then the air whispered, ghost-quiet, as he stepped onto the roundel and floated upward.

Irrith gritted her teeth. I should let him go. Too hard to follow him, too dangerous, and what proof have I it’s even worth the risk?

Proof didn’t matter. Only the possibility. In her heart, Irrith had sworn she’d find a reason to take Aspell down. It was the only way to purge her own guilt.

Cursing softly, Irrith began to build her own glamour.

NEWGATE AND HOLBORN

16 March 1759

Luck seemed to be smiling and spitting upon her by turns. First it sent the thrumpin to Aspell; then it put no bread in her pocket. Now it gave her the gift of a city in the dark of night, when almost no one would be on the streets to wave iron or invoke the Almighty, and by doing so shatter Irrith’s unprotected glamour. Still, she wondered what ill luck would follow in turn.

She got her answer when, out of habit, she glanced up to judge the time.