A Star Shall Fall

“Of course not. You’re a polite young man. No, I go to Crane Court because I must leave my house occasionally or go mad, and it seems as good a destination as any. But I have a very convenient arrangement here, and no desire to disrupt it by going elsewhere. Besides,” the doctor added with blunt honesty, “I had rather die in England, not in some foreign city.”

Shame left a sour taste in Galen’s mouth. He was cultivating this friendship in the hope of some benefit for the Onyx Court; he’d never thought to consider Andrews’s own problems. The fae could not, so far as he knew, cure diseases. Still, there might be some chance that they could aid the man. “I’m no physician myself, Dr. Andrews, but I’ll gladly lend you any assistance I may. It would be a grand thing indeed, if we learned more about consumption, that would allow us to save others from it.”

The red tinge that rimmed all late consumptives’ eyes lent a strange cast to Andrews’s expression. “Not just that disease, Mr. St. Clair. England has already produced Sir Isaac Newton, who unlocked the mysteries of the mechanical universe. He touched but little, though, on the mysteries of living bodies. We need a second genius.”

“And you intend to be that man?” Galen asked, before he could consider how rude the question was.

Andrews’s mocking smile seemed to be directed at himself. “I’m unlikely to succeed. Newton was younger than I am now when he turned the world on its head with his Principia Mathematica. But I can think of no higher purpose than to dedicate what remains of my life to pursuing that star.”

Indeed, the fire of that purpose burnt in his eyes. It sparked an idea within Galen—one far enough beyond the scope of his original plan that he hesitated to even consider it.

If Andrews worked with the fae—directly, with full knowledge of what they were…

That would be quite a risk. Galen would have to make very certain the man was trustworthy. It could be worth the gamble, though. Otherwise Galen himself would have to translate what he learned from Dr. Andrews to a faerie context, with much danger of error. He’d been doing that for two months now, with little result. Wouldn’t it be far more productive to bring the two together?

Not today, of course. Still, that inspiration put Galen on his feet, hand over his heart. “Dr. Andrews, I owe you a debt for your patronage at the Royal Society. I repeat my offer of a moment before, foolish though it may be. The work you undertake, sir, could be the salvation of more people than you know. I will do everything in my power to aid you.”

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON

17 January 1758

Ktistes, as royal surveyor and architect, had taken great care to explain to Irrith which parts of the Onyx Hall were fraying due to the piecemeal destruction of the wall, so that she might avoid them.

She figured out for herself that one of the places on that list was nowhere near the wall.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed. The Onyx Hall was a rabbit warren, tangled threads with even less rhyme or reason than the streets above; moreover, the warped reflection from above to below meant the bad patches weren’t at the edges of the palace, but rather snaked tortuously through its middle. But there was an inconsistency in the centaur’s list, and it wedged itself into a corner of Irrith’s mind like a bit of grit in her shoe, chafing her. And when she realised what was bothering her—why, then there was nothing to do but seek out the cause.

Not Ktistes. He would only lie again. Irrith went to the source.

The passage toward the supposed bad patch ran behind the bathing chambers, where salamanders curled beneath great copper boilers of water that could be tipped into the pools. The entrance to the passage was barred by two waist-height bronze pillars supporting a rowan-wood beam. It was no real barrier; rowan might not like the fae, but a simple branch could hardly stop anyone continuing on. The point was to warn the idle traveller that she should go no farther.

Irrith was not an idle traveller. She was bored beyond the telling of it: the bribe Tom Toggin had given her to bring the delivery to London was all but spent, leaving her with no bread to go safely above, and little to amuse her down here. Investigation at least promised a bit of entertainment. She ducked under the beam, and continued down the passage.

The blackness closed in around her, broken only by the faerie light she’d brought along, and carried doubt with it. Maybe this was a bad patch. Maybe she was about to find that out the hard way.

Upon that thought, disorientation struck her, and Irrith staggered. When she straightened, she found herself staring at the rowan-wood barrier, and the ordinary corridor beyond.

Ktistes had warned her of this. One of the first effects of the fraying was that fae might enter one part of the Onyx Hall and end up in another one entirely, though the centaur feared worse might happen in time. This, clearly, was what he meant.