A Star Shall Fall

And there would be pomp soon enough. Irrith was leading them north and east, skirting the crowd around the bonfire. A filthy, unshaven man lay on his back in the grass, hips bucking, rutting with nothing while a pair of pucks watched and laughed. At least he’s enjoying himself, Galen thought. The tricks played on this night were usually of a benevolent sort, or at least not permanently harmful. All Hallows’ Eve was a much less pleasant story.

Something more like dignity reigned in the northeast quarter of the field. There, two long tables stood arrayed before the trees, with dozens of mouthwatering dishes laid upon their white silk. “Remember,” Galen whispered to Andrews, “eat nothing whatsoever. There is food here that is safe, but there are also a great many fae who would think it sport to lead you falsely.”

“And they can even disguise themselves to make me think you are vouching for its safety,” Andrews said. He smiled tensely. “I am not likely to forget.”

Then there was no more time for warnings, for Irrith had brought them into the presence of the Queen.

Lune sat in a gap between the two tables, in a chair of estate carved from birch and horn, with a canopy of starlight above her head. Galen’s own chair was at her left hand, awaiting him. A truly tiny hob stood with a crystal platter above his head, piled with strawberries and a bowl of cream for the Queen’s pleasure, but he backed away with careful haste when he saw their approach, leaving Lune alone.

Galen bowed, and nudged the momentarily paralised Andrews into doing the same. “Your Grace, I bring a guest to these revels. Dr. Rufus Andrews.”

Even had he not loved her, Galen would have thought the Queen the most radiant star of this night. What fabric her dress was made of, he could not begin to guess; it floated like the wind itself, weightless and pure, with shades of blue shifting through it like living embroidery. Her stomacher glittered with gems, and someone had threaded brilliant blue flowers into her silver hair, creating a style that was somehow both regal and carefree, as if the coronet grew there by nature.

“You are welcome, Dr. Andrews,” Lune said. Galen shivered at the sound of her voice. It carried distinctly, muting the noise of the dancers into distant murmuring, without her ever having to raise it. “You come to us on a special night. We are not so festive the year round; even faeries—perhaps especially faeries—need variety. But we hope you will not abandon us when we return to our more sober ways.”

Andrews stood open-mouthed for a moment before he realised she was waiting for him to reply. “I—have no fear that I will grow tired of your company, in any form.”

“We are glad to hear it.” Lune gestured with one graceful hand at the revelry all around. “We’ve made it known that you are our especial guest here tonight, and under the patronage of both myself and Lord Galen. No one will visit mischief upon you.” Her smile took on a roguish edge. “Save that which you ask for, of course.”

Clutching his hat in his hands, Andrews bowed his thanks. “If I may, your Grace—curiosity prods me—”

Lune motioned for him to continue.

“How do you prevent interference?” He nodded over his shoulder, at the elegant sweep of Bedlam, belying the squalor within. “Your handmaiden mentioned enchantments, but surely it cannot be easy, keeping such a crowd as this from drawing the attention of the guards there, and the people who live in the houses alongside.”

Galen said, “The simplest part of it is an illusion, deceiving all those who look this way. Moor Fields appears to be deserted for the night. More difficult is persuading those who sometimes haunt this space to take themselves elsewhere until tomorrow.”

“And then there are the ones who blunder forward anyway,” Irrith added. “But those are mostly the mad, who can see through our illusions, and are welcome here regardless.”

Andrews shook his head, then froze, apparently fearing he’d offended the Queen. “Those illusions alone—the implications for optics are astounding.”

Irrith muttered to Galen, in an exaggerated whisper, “Don’t let him anywhere near the dwarves. They’ll be talking until half-past the end of the world.”

Galen hazarded a glance at the Queen. She was, as usual, neutrally pleasant, but he thought he discerned in the set of her eyes, the line of her swanlike throat, that she understood and shared his sudden thought. That is exactly who we must put him with. The dwarves, and more. There were scholars in the Onyx Hall, faeries who turned their thoughts to their own world. Not many, but Wrain would be ideal for this—or perhaps Lady Feidelm, the Irish faerie who warned them of the comet’s return. She’d been exiled from Connacht for being too loyal to London interests, and stripped of her prophetic gifts in the process, but she still had a remarkable mind. Bringing them all together with Dr. Andrews might be very useful indeed.