A Star Shall Fall

She had to remove her hand from her mouth when she reached the bottom, so she could deal with the window. The slender knife she kept inside her coat was perfect for sliding in between the shutters, fumbling around until she felt the latch lift. When she drew it back, though, the faerie silver of its blade had dulled and blackened, from the iron of the shutter nails. Gagging, Irrith took hold of the wood with her fingertips and pulled it back, until the panels swung clear. Then she was shoving at the window’s lower sash, sliding it upward, hardly caring how much noise she made, until she could squirm through the gap and into the cellar beyond.

It wasn’t much better here. Iron screamed at her from all over the kitchen: pots, hooks, more things than she wanted to think about. Irrith stumbled forward blindly, and gagged when her hand touched a hinge. Stifling her cries, she dragged the door open and fell out into the blessed darkness of the passage. She fled to the base of the stairs and stood there gasping, cradling her stinging hand. I’m a fool. A reckless fool.

Carline’s mocking voice sounded in her head. And what will you do when you go upstairs, little sprite? Attack those two, all on your own?

Yes, if I must. She had her pistol. But only iron shot. Could she even bear to load the gun?

It was that or the knife, and that would mean going within reach of the link-bearer’s brawny arms. But even as Irrith marshaled the will to go upstairs, she heard something that stopped her where she stood.

Voices. Valentin Aspell’s, sibilant and oily, recognizable anywhere. And a hoarse, whispery reply, coming from a chest that could no longer manage anything more.

Dr. Andrews.

“Will you live until the morning?” the Lord Keeper asked cynically.

“I will. I must.” A pause for coughing. “I have not endured this long only to die now.”

“We’ll need bread.”

Irrith tensed. Bread would be in the kitchen. But it seemed Andrews was prepared, for she heard a soft clink, as of a bowl placed on the floor. “Or should it be the doorstep?” Aspell must have shaken his head, for Andrews recited the rote phrases, tithing bread to the fae. When it was done, Andrews said, “Send your people in pairs. I don’t want suspicion.”

“Dr. Andrews,” Valentin Aspell said, with an edge sharp enough to draw blood, “do not presume to tell me my business.”

Footsteps, and the front door opening and closing. He was gone.

Irrith sank onto the bottom step, mouth open. What was that?

She didn’t have long to wonder. More footsteps, these light and uncertain, but headed toward the head of the stairs. Blood and Bone! She couldn’t go back into the kitchen—not with all that iron—

Her eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness that she saw a second door, close by her hand. Irrith pushed this one open and slipped through, praying there would not be another world of iron behind it.

The chamber smelled of alcohol and less pleasant things, but no iron scraped across her nerves. Unfortunately, luck was spitting upon her again; light came through the gap of the door, heralding an approaching candle. Irrith’s hand bumped a table, and she dove underneath it just before the candle entered the room.

Andrews was dressed, despite the black hour. She watched his feet shuffle unsteadily around the room, light blooming in his wake, as he lit a set of lamps. It revealed two more tables apart from the one she hid under, all three of them large, heavy things, and shelves along the walls. Then the rustle of paper, as he turned the pages of a book.

Pressed into the corner of the walls, concealed by the table, Irrith wondered what to do. Stand up and announce herself? But then she would have to explain what she was doing in Andrews’s cellar, and whether she’d heard that strange and worrisome conversation. Any kind of cooperation between him and the Sanists troubled her. How could Aspell—

Her entire face creased into a silent wail. My fault. Again. I told him about the alchemical plan; he must have gone to Dr. Andrews. But what are they planning?

Gentle tinkling: the doctor was ringing a bell. A moment later, he repeated it, more insistently. She heard him cough, then mutter something too faint to be made out. His feet shuffled from the room, and back up the stairs. Blessing whatever servant was failing to respond, Irrith slipped from under the table, intending to escape while she could.

Horror turned her to stone.

One of the other tables held a crumbled, indistinct shape, so far gone all that could be told was that it had once been very small. The other was much newer: a river nymph, pale and cold and unmoving.

And the third…