A Star Shall Fall

Her shifting green eyes went wide. Irrith stood, gaping, and then a grin split her face. “You’re a genius,” she announced. “What’s your name, anyway? Geniuses should have names.”

The servant gave her a shallow bow. “Edward Thorne, ma’am.”

“Edward Th—” Curiosity flared to life. “Are you Peregrin’s son?”

A second, deeper bow. “I have that honor, yes.”

“Hah! You’re cleverer than your father, Mr. Thorne. Ask me sometime about when he first came to Berkshire, the adventure he had with a milkmaid. Just don’t ask when he’s around.” Irrith bounced on the balls of her feet. “Inside-out clothes! I should have thought of that.” Her face fell as she turned to Galen. “But London isn’t wearing any clothes.”

He didn’t have an answer to that, but Edward had at least given him a notion of what advice to offer. “Her Majesty may have instructed you to make this happen, Dame Irrith, but I doubt she meant you must do it on your own. May I suggest recruiting help? Others may have useful suggestions, which you can coordinate into a proper plan.”

Irrith wrinkled her nose at him. “Do I look coordinated to you?”

“You are a model of grace.”

“That isn’t what I meant, as you well know,” Irrith said, but she colored a little. Galen had spoken the words in jest, but they were also true; she moved like a young fox, with natural rather than studied elegance.

Edward had picked up the shoes and hat again. Galen sighed and beckoned him forward. “I have every confidence you can make this happen, Dame Irrith, and it may do us crucial good. If time in the Calendar Room would aid your thoughts, I’m sure her Grace will approve it. In the meantime, I must beg your forgiveness, but—”

She was nodding before he finished. “Right. Sorry I kept you. But this helped a lot.”

“I’m glad,” he said, settling the hat upon his head. “Let me know if I can be of further use.”

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON

6 April 1758

Ktistes might have been a statue of a centaur, his hooves planted foursquare on the grass, looking off into the distance where several courtiers were chasing each other around a fountain. Their giggles and false shrieks of surprise made Irrith want to bellow at them to be quiet, but she had no illusions as to the weight her knighthood carried. Even if she told them she was trying to save their frivolous little lives.

“Difficult enough,” the centaur finally said, “to hide London. The City itself, within the walls, that could be done; it is only a square mile or so. Since that is the part reflected in the Onyx Hall, and the power of this palace is what the Dragon craves, it might be enough.”

Irrith shook her head. “Do you really want to wager that it will be? It’s already burnt enough, Ktistes. I’m not going to let it do the same thing again.”

He sighed, hooves shifting restlessly, breaking the illusion of the statue. “Then will you hide the entire world? There are cities elsewhere, and faerie realms, too. You cannot be certain it will not strike the Cour du Lys, or my brethren in Greece, or folk in lands you’ve never heard of. Folk who are not prepared.”

“It might,” she admitted. That was the worry that, as the mortals said, kept her awake at night—or would, if she slept. The nervous intensity of Galen and all the rest had infected her, making sleep a luxury for later. “I don’t think it will, though.”

The centaur rarely wasted words; he merely studied her patiently, awaiting an explanation.

Biting her lip, Irrith said, “You never saw it, Ktistes. I did. I was there when it tried to eat the Onyx Hall. After it’s eaten London, it will turn somewhere else—all those other places you named. Because it can never eat enough. But it won’t move on until it has this place.” It had the scent—or rather the taste—like a bloodhound. And it needed no huntsman to chivvy it on.

“Then as I said before: you need not cover the entire island.”

She grinned. It was better than showing her uncertainty. “Well, I don’t want to bet it wouldn’t gobble up Oxford on its way to London. Better not to let it get a foothold, right?” The grin faded, though she tried to hold on to it. “Never mind the scale. Help me figure out how to do this, and then we can argue over whether it can be done so widely. What counts as clothes?”

Ktistes lifted one hand, letting the quaking leaves of an aspen trail over his fingers. “What clothes the land,” he murmured to himself.

Then his horse part swung around sharply, so that he faced his pavilion. A dazzling smile split his face. “There is your answer, Dame Irrith.”

She stared. “Your… pavilion?”

“Buildings! Towns. Houses, and churches, and all the things mortal kind has built upon the face of the land. Do they not clothe its nakedness?”

Irrith blinked once, then a second time. Her voice seemed to have gone missing. When she found it again, it came bearing words. “You want… to turn London… inside out.”