A Star Shall Fall

“The Delphic tripod has been delivered to the Greeks,” she said, without preamble. “We have their agreement, and their aid. In three days’ time, we shall take action to hide this island from the comet. The effect will not be complete until a fortnight has passed; Savennis has advised Irrith that it would be more effective to link it to the waning of the moon, rather than the new moon itself. But when it is done, we should—I hope—have some protection.”

Galen’s muscles kept drawing themselves tight, despite efforts to release them. “For how long?”

The Queen shook her silver head. “No one can say for sure. This has never been done before.”

She didn’t ask what progress he made, with Dr. Andrews and his scholarly coterie. Their reports to her were quite thorough. So far it was more theory than experiment, but they had done enough to confirm the genie’s suggestion, that the old model of matter, discredited for the natural world, was yet applicable to the supernatural. It felt like a step backward: symbolic laws in place of mechanical ones, effects governed more by poetry than physics. The Royal Society would weep if it knew. So long as their circle could manipulate it to their benefit, though, Galen did not care what basis faerie science operated on.

Lune broke his distracted reverie. “There is one other change you should be aware of.”

Something in her tone warned him. Gut tightening again, Galen waited for her to go on.

“I will not be there with you.”

It struck like a blow. “At Greenwich?” She nodded. “But—why?”

By way of answer, she handed him a folded piece of paper, that he soon recognised as one of the Onyx Hall’s news-sheets. The Ash and Thorn, of course, and when he unfolded it he saw immediately what provoked her declaration. The article was unsigned, but it might as well have borne the identification A Sanist.

As all are aware, these past few months have seen the fading of the Square Gallery, which many fae had recently been accustomed to using as a cricket pitch. It can be no coincidence that this fading follows hard upon Midsummer, when her Majesty the Queen was pleased to attend the celebrations in the Moor Fields. A sovereign is her realm, and this sovereign and realm alike are wounded; the departure of one from the other can only further weaken that which is already frayed. The well-being of the Onyx Hall depends on the uninterrupted presence of the Queen, which alone can slow the decay.

Galen’s exclamation was a poor outlet for his fury. “If they paid an ounce of attention, they would know another portion of wall was taken down just after Midsummer! This has nothing to do with a few hours’ absence on your part.”

“I’m sure they know of the destruction,” Lune said, with a sigh of profound weariness. “But to their logic, the two are not separable. Had I stayed below, perhaps the wall would have stayed up, or its loss would have had no effect. And the logic is less important than the theme, which is that I am failing to do my duty by the Onyx Hall. My reckless visit to the Moor Fields is simply the miniature of my insistence upon remaining Queen.”

He handed back the paper before he could fling it into the fire. The Sanists he could not dispose of, however much he wished to; instead he concentrated on the more immediate matter. “So you will not be at Greenwich.”

Lune’s mouth curved into a sly smile. “That isn’t what I said. I will not be with you; as far as anyone other than yourself, Peregrin, and Lady Ailis are concerned, I will be in my chamber, like a good and virtuous Queen. But true virtue—not the sham they demand of me—means I will be at Greenwich, disguised. Thus will both our need and the Sanists’ concerns be addressed.”

This did not seem the wisest of ideas. Fae could detect a glamour, after all, though seeing through it took effort they rarely bothered to expend. Then Galen remembered the dancers: twelve of Lune’s ladies and attendants, robed and masked, who would take part in the ceremony to conceal Britain. Ailis was close enough to Lune in height that no one would notice the difference.

“I will not leave you to do this alone,” Lune said. “Not because I do not trust you, but because I do not wish to discover, too late, that my absence produced a fatal weakness in our concealment. Though I fear you’ll have to bear the final burden alone.”