A Star Shall Fall

The older gentleman’s eyes hardened. “They are entirely loyal to me, Mr. St. Clair, and they know I will not tolerate indiscretion.”

The frostiness, Galen thought, was not directed at him. A household like this, without a wife to manage it, was often an ill-run menagerie; it took a wise choice of housekeeper and a stern disciplinary hand to prevent gossiping, pilfering, and general shabbiness of service. Dr. Andrews, it seemed, had achieved that success.

“What I have to say to you is very private,” Galen said, unnecessarily; he’d already made that much obvious. His nerves would not rest, though. “I don’t mean to impugn your control of your servants, but it would be disastrous for many people if word were to slip out.” No doubt it had happened before, in the centuries of the Onyx Court’s existence, and no doubt the fae had methods of dealing with it; otherwise all London would know of their presence. But they could be ruthless in protecting their secrets, and Galen had no desire to provoke a demonstration.

Andrews gestured toward the door. “If you’re truly worried, Mr. St. Clair, we could walk in the fields around the Foundling Hospital. It’s a pleasant day, and we should have no worries of being overheard.”

Only when relief broke in a cold wave over Galen did he realise how much the servants had been worrying him. “That would be ideal.”

With no further ado, Andrews bowed him through the doorway. Red Lion Street, lined with rows of smaller houses, opened without warning into placid fields, just a few blocks to the north. A broad avenue led to the brick heights of the Foundling Hospital, but Galen and Dr. Andrews went left, along a footpath into the Lamb’s Conduit Fields.

He breathed much more easily out here, and not just because the nearest people were well distant, hard at work in the little market gardens that served London with fresh vegetables and flowers. The sunlight was warm without being oppressively hot, and the buttercups blooming along the sides of the path unknotted his shoulders just by their cheerful color. In such surroundings, the existence of a dark and hidden world beneath London seemed more like a point of curiosity than a threat. That was the greatest risk: that someday the Onyx Court would be exposed to one who saw them as an enemy. Galen was determined to protect himself, and the court, from that error.

Dr. Andrews gave him the time he needed to marshal his thoughts. They ambled along in silence, until Galen took a deep breath and launched into the speech he’d so carefully prepared.

“I must confess, Dr. Andrews, that while I’ve been grateful for your patronage in the Royal Society, from early on, I had an additional motive in cultivating your acquaintance. I hoped you might be able to provide me with a touch of assistance on a rather pressing matter. The questions you pursue—the nature of mortality, and the relationship between mind and body, spirit and matter—those have very direct bearing upon my concerns. I saw in your quest the opportunity not just to solicit assistance, but to offer it to you in return. You see, sir, I have these several years now been closely involved with a number of individuals upon whom mortality has no hold.”

Andrews had been walking this entire time with his hands clasped at the small of his back and his eyes raised to the sky, enjoying the scents of summer. Now he lowered his chin, so that his face fell into shadow, and turned a look of astonishment upon Galen.

He said nothing, though, for which Galen was grateful. If interrupted now, he might lose the thread of his explanation for good. “I’m well aware of the extraordinary nature of that claim. I assure you, Dr. Andrews, that I am entirely serious, though what I’m about to say to you may seem otherwise. These individuals live in London, but in secret; they never go about in public undisguised. Some of them have been here for centuries, and could tell you at first hand what it was like to live under the Tudors. They aren’t perfectly immortal—they can be slain—but in the absence of violence, they live forever.”

Here he paused to swallow, wishing he had some drink to wet his terribly dry mouth, and in that pause Dr. Andrews responded. “And who, may I ask, are these extraordinary immortals of which you speak?”

Dr. Johnson’s scornful face rose, unbidden, in Galen’s memory. He’d avoided the word deliberately, putting the meat of his explanation first, because he recalled the mockery of that great man, and did not wish to invite it a second time. But the word must, inevitably, be said.

“I speak, sir, of faeries.”

Andrews didn’t laugh. He didn’t make any sound at all.

“They aren’t the silly creatures of Shakespeare’s fancy,” Galen said. Well, some of them were—but those didn’t matter. “They exist in many varieties, from regal to foul, and not only might they teach you the very secrets you wish to learn… Dr. Andrews, they need your help.”