A Star Shall Fall

Out in the courtyard, she became aware of noises coming from the gatehouse chambers. Muffled cries, like a man having a bad dream, interspersed with Charcoal Eddie’s cawing laughter. “Blood and Bone,” Irrith swore. Greymalkin was grinning. “Go on—get the tripod out of here. I’ll follow in a minute, with Eddie.” She ran for the gate.

Upstairs, the puck was perched at the foot of the porter’s bed, his glamour discarded. The porter and his wife both twitched and moaned, the sheets tangled around their feet. “What are you doing?” Irrith demanded in a strangled whisper.

He sneered at her. “Getting my reward. The Queen said I could play with the porter afterward.”

“Later,” Irrith said, and grabbed his arm. Eddie fell off the bed with a yelp. “After we’re gone with the tripod, and they’ve stopped worrying about the theft. Then you can come play with him all you like.” Ignoring the puck’s protests, she dragged him back down to the courtyard and out onto Great Russell Street.

Angrisla was waiting with the bowl at the far side of Bloomsbury Square. Irrith’s heart missed a beat. “Where’s Dead Rick? And Greymalkin?”

“Gone on ahead.” The mara’s black eyes missed nothing. She said, “He’ll deliver it safely, Irrith—don’t worry. He’s loyal.”

How could Angrisla be sure, if she’d been gone from the Onyx Hall? But it reassured Irrith anyway. “Let’s get home, then, and collect our rewards from the Queen.”

RED LION SQUARE, HOLBORN

23 August 1758

When the maid knocked on the door to Dr. Andrews’s bedchamber, the voice from the other side was reassuringly strong. “Come in.”

She opened it, curtsied, and announced, “Mr. St. Clair to see you, sir,” then stood aside to let Galen pass. Entering, he saw the cause of Dr. Andrews’s vigor: Gertrude Goodemeade, half again as tall as she should be, but still recognizably herself. The empty cup in her hands said she’d already fed the ailing man another dose of her restorative draught, the best medicine the fae could offer. What was in it, Galen had no idea—beyond a base of the Goodemeades’ namesake brew—but Andrews had agreed to drink it. Though the draught was no cure for consumption, it did help him regain his strength, and the doctor’s recent collapse made him desperate enough that he would accept anything that offered him a chance.

The disguised brownie curtsied to Galen, though she refrained from addressing him by title. Andrews said, “Mr. St. Clair. As you can see, I am not yet dead.”

“You’re looking much better,” Galen replied honestly. “Much more improvement, sir, and you’ll be in better health than you were when first I met you.”

That last was an exaggeration, made to bolster the man’s spirits. Andrews still lay propped up against pillows, and his colour was far from good. “As much as I would welcome that,” the doctor said, “I will settle for sufficient strength to rise from this bed. I’m eager to return to work.”

Gertrude clucked her tongue. “Now, Dr. Andrews—I might be no physician, but I think you’ll agree I’ve seen my share of sick men. You know full well that too much eagerness might land you right back where you are right now. And the air in that place is too cool; it wouldn’t be good for your lungs.”

“It’s also dry, though,” Galen said. “Isn’t that supposed to help? We could always bring in something to warm the space. And perhaps some of its… subtler qualities might help.”

His attempt to hint at his sudden inspiration failed; the other two looked baffled. Galen cast a wary eye upon the bedchamber door. Andrews insisted his servants were the model of discretion, and Galen admittedly had seen nothing to disprove it. Still, he lowered his voice before he went on. “The passage of time—or lack thereof. Men grow no older while in that place, do they? Might that not also pause the progress of his disease?”

It had seemed like a brilliant idea; he was therefore crushed when Gertrude shook her head. “Folk have died of disease there, Galen. One of your predecessors used to keep patients in the Billingsgate warren, because the space was clean and quiet. Some got better, it’s true, but not all.”

He should not have said it in front of Dr. Andrews. The man’s expression showed the broken pieces of hope, and the powerful desire to cling to what remained of them. “Still—” He paused as if he was going to cough, but drew a clear breath and forged on. “Part of my difficulty is the encroachment of weakness, and some of that is age. Even if it offered me only small help…”

“It would be better than nothing,” Galen agreed. “Come, Gertrude—is it not worth a try?”

“You know the risks,” Gertrude said in an urgent whisper. “Dr. Andrews, surely they warned you; to stay too long below brings its own kind of weakness.”

If she thought that would dissuade anyone, she was wrong. Andrews merely said, “I would trade that risk for the one I face now.”