A Star Shall Fall

Irrith cut across the open ground, relying as much on the cover of hedges as faerie charms to keep herself concealed. Andrews was almost to the back of those big buildings near the town’s edge. She had only an instant to wonder if this was truly a good idea before she flung a glamour over herself, then flung herself into the path.

The mortal stopped abruptly. He drew a surprised breath, but it set off a fit of coughing; disgruntled, Irrith waited, as he fished out a handkerchief and spat something into it. Once his wind had returned, he looked up, and said with some confusion, “Miss Dinley?”

She’d remembered the look she put on for that visit to the menagerie, but not the name. What a helpful fellow. “Are you all right, Dr. Andrews?”

He waved his free hand at her, tucking the handkerchief away with the other. “You startled me, is all. What—” Now he looked around. “Are you out here alone?”

The temptation to play an elaborate role tugged at her. Under the circumstances, though, it was best to dispose of this quickly. “I saw you walking with Galen St. Clair.” She paused, holding Andrews’s gaze. “I know what he told you.”

The man scowled. “If you are a friend of his, Miss Dinley, then I would ask that you advise him to stop playing games.”

“But I like games,” Irrith said—from behind him.

She almost ruined it all by laughing when he squawked and spun around. It was an easy trick, the sort of thing pucks dismissed as beneath their efforts, but she hadn’t planned for this; she had to work with what she had.

Which was enough to impress Andrews. Or to frighten him, which was just as good. “What—how did you—”

“Get back here?” Irrith gave him a mocking curtsy. “Perhaps I moved faster than your old eyes can see.”

She read his intentions with plenty of time to spare. Andrews didn’t get two steps farther down the path before she moved again, blocking his way. “Of course,” she said, “I’m older than you are. Far older. But you don’t believe in creatures such as me, do you, Dr. Andrews?” She had to pause to concentrate, but that was all right; the man wasn’t going anywhere. His feet seemed rooted to the ground as the glamour masking her rippled, replacing Miss Dinley with a red-haired young gentleman in a foppish coat. “I’m just a mountebank, preying on his admirable heart.”

And then her final move, that went so hard against her instincts she had to grit her teeth to make it happen. Standing in the open, with the townhouses of sprawling London less than a quarter mile behind her, Irrith dropped her glamour entirely, and showed her true face to Dr. Rufus Andrews.

“I assure you,” she said. “Every word Galen St. Clair spoke was the truth.”

* * *

Galen had no thought in his head as he walked away, except to go somewhere Dr. Andrews was not.

The enormity of his failure was like a drowning sea around him, and nothing he could do would lift his head above the waters. It was no consolation at all to think that his caution had served him well; since Galen betrayed nothing of the Onyx Hall’s location, and brought no faerie as proof, Andrews had no way to cause them harm.

But that same caution had made it all too easy to dismiss Galen’s words.

Had I gambled more, would I have won?

Galen lifted his gaze and found he’d wandered across to the New River Head, the reservoir glittering incongruously bright. Beyond it lay a road, one direction leading to London, the other to Islington. He should have solicited the help of the Goodemeades, who would have been only too happy to advise him.

Yet he was the Prince. There had to be a point at which he could handle such matters on his own.

I certainly must do so now. However I mend this—and mend it I must—I don’t dare ask for help.

Pounding footsteps made him whirl. Despairing as he was, Galen’s first, overwrought fear was that some footpad had decided to murder him for the gold he wasn’t carrying.

Instead, he saw Dr. Andrews.

The old man stumbled on a stone and crashed to the ground, wheezing and coughing. His pallor was worse than ever, and his cheeks flushed with hectic spots. Throwing their argument to the wind, Galen rushed to his side. “Dr. Andrews! What has happened? Are you all right?”

Stupid questions. The man couldn’t tell what had happened, because of course he wasn’t all right; he was a consumptive who had just run much too far. Galen shuddered in horror when he saw the bright red spots on Andrews’ handkerchief.

Even before he had regained his breath, though, Andrews began trying to answer him. “F—f—”

Galen’s heart dropped like a stone.

“Faerie,” Andrews said, rasping the word out on an indrawn breath. “Near the—Foundling Hospital. A g—” More coughing. “A girl.”

Lune? Not a chance. Galen could not have been walking for more than a few minutes, though; who could have been so nearby, to cause such an immediate change?