A Star Shall Fall

Galen glared at Irrith. Andrews might not hear the threat shading that question, but he did. Fortunately, Andrews hastened to reassure her. “Oh, yes, my dear. I’ve been given a miraculous opportunity here; I would not squander it so easily.”

She bristled at the condescending address. Andrews had lost his fear of Irrith on Midsummer’s Eve, but it seemed Galen had not made it sufficiently clear that for all her youthful appearance, Irrith was both a lady knight of the court, and a hundred times older than Andrews could ever hope to be. An old man’s tendency to call every young woman “my dear” would not please her.

Hurrying to smooth over that ripple, Galen said, “I imagine you have a great many questions—indeed, I know you have them, as you’ve already shared several with me.”

Andrews began to count them off on his fingers. “Why are certain aspects of religion disquieting to the fae? Why can I say ‘Heaven’ without troubling anyone, but not other words? Why is iron anathema? How are glamours created? What are they composed of? Why can the mad see through them? Why does tithed food protect, and what would happen if someone were to tithe stuffs other than bread or milk—ale, perhaps, or meat? How was this palace created, and how is it both here and not here in the space below London?” Having run out of fingers somewhere in his count, he stopped and, with a shrug both sheepish and helpless, he said, “What is a faerie in the first place?”

Irrith gaped at him. “I thought you were a doctor, not some windy old philosopher.”

“Philosophy is the root of knowledge,” Wrain told her, having listened quietly to Andrews’s litany. “And the mortal belief is that one cannot truly answer final questions without first understanding the foundational ones.”

“Mortal belief?” Andrews repeated.

Lady Feidelm smiled at him. She was an imposing creature, as tall as Andrews himself, but friendly in her way. “We do not work by reason, as you do, Dr. Andrews. Though from time to time we craft some new design, as Dame Irrith is doing to conceal our land from the comet, we do not experiment for the improvement of our charms. What you see as a craft is not so to us; it is instinct, and our very being.”

He had a notebook out, and was bracing it against the arm of his chair as he scribbled notes with a small pencil. “Yes—but so, too, is gravity a kind of instinct; objects do not reason how they fall to earth. Yet it can be investigated by determined minds. Mr. St. Clair, I believe I will need to work both here and at my house; though you have been very generous in providing this chamber, there are some experiments I will have to conduct elsewhere, lest I make myself very unwelcome here.”

The astonishment was near universal. Galen said, “Surely you don’t mean to experiment with iron, or the divine name.”

Andrews looked up from his notes. He took in the various reactions, ranging from Irrith’s appalled gape to the wary consideration of the scholars. “Mr. St. Clair,” the doctor said, laying his pencil down, “you’ve asked my assistance in defeating a faerie creature. To do so, I will need to understand the weaknesses of the fae—what their effect is, and on what basis they operate. I will be glad to hear the opinions of these gentlemen, and this lady, but without judicious experimentation, I fear I will not be able to add much to what they already know.” He paused, then added, “I assure you, I mean no harm.”

“I will work with the doctor.” That was Savennis, who had said nothing since his introduction to Dr. Andrews. The quiet courtier grimaced. “It may not be pleasant, but I believe he’s right: it is necessary.”

Galen had seen what happened when unprepared fae were struck with holy force. And even now, the wound in Lune’s shoulder pained her, legacy of an iron knife a century before. Savennis’s courage in even facing that bane awed him. “Her Grace and I will reward you for your service,” he promised the pale, bookish faerie. “And Dr. Andrews, you will inform me of everything you intend to do with Savennis, before you attempt it. If I say something goes too far, you will heed me.”

“Of course,” Andrews murmured, and relief shone in Savennis’s eyes.

The exchange cast a nervous pall over the room, which Galen did his best to lighten. “I’ve arranged for a servant, a hob named Podder, to see to your needs here, and to bring your reports to me and the Queen. Beyond that, I think I’ve done what I can for now; I will leave the rest of you to your philosophizing. Dame Irrith, do you wish to stay?”

The sprite was perched on the edge of her chair, toes turned inward like a young girl’s, but a pensive look on her face that no young girl had ever worn. She shook her head slowly, then brightened as a thought came to her. “You, Lord Galen, have business elsewhere, I think—telling the Queen your happy news.”

He cursed her even as Andrews said, “Happy news? Are you perhaps betrothed, Mr. St. Clair?”