A Star Shall Fall

“The Sanists, though.” Galen clenched his fists until his knuckles ached. “Bowing to their demands, or even giving the appearance of it—do you not fear the precedent that sets?”

The smile had lost some of its vigour when she spoke of the possibility of weakness; now it faded entirely from view. “I do. But I must choose my battles, mustn’t I? A faerie has the same number of hours in her day as a man does—unless she goes to a place outside of time, and I cannot mend the rift with the Sanists while cloistered away in the Calendar Room, or self-exiled to Faerie. That I must address the problem they pose is beyond question. If I can postpone it until after the Dragon, however, then I will do so.”

Galen couldn’t fault her desire. Nor did he have to remind her of the if in that sentence. “We certainly don’t need the distraction. Very well, madam; I will not see you at Greenwich. And may our efforts prove sufficient for our need.”

ROYAL OBSERVATORY, GREENWICH

18 September 1758

For the second time in a century, the fae of London invaded and occupied the Royal Observatory.

Performing so large an endeavour in so open a space made Irrith deeply nervous. This was not Moor Fields, protected by centuries of tradition, where the only folk awake at late hours had no good purpose anyway; this was a royal establishment, with men who often worked at night, and a hospital full of naval men just beyond the base of the hill. She tried to reassure herself that at least poor sickly Bradley was getting a good night’s sleep for once, but it didn’t go far. The observatory swarmed with faeries, and she couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if someone chanced to wander up the hill with a message for the Astronomer Royal.

To Segraine, who waited at her side, Irrith said, “How exactly did it come to this?”

“To what?” the lady knight asked.

Irrith gestured at the fae busily clearing the courtyard of the observatory. “My plan. It started so simply: hide from the comet. Somehow it’s come to involve two faerie tricks, one mortal proverb, a deal with Greek wind spirits, a magic Arab bowl, and an entire observatory.”

“And a German story,” Wilhas von das Ticken reminded her, from the other side. “Although, in fairness, you had the flute idea before ve told you about the Pied Piper.”

“Together with assorted nymphs, masks, pitchers, and enough will-o’-the-wisps to light up the length of the Thames,” Irrith said, with resigned amusement. “I suppose we’re trying to hide all of Britain, and I should have known that would mean something large, but—Blood and Bone, I didn’t expect something so motley.”

Segraine shrugged. “It’s the Onyx Hall. I doubt you’ll find a more motley faerie court in all of Britain.”

Looking past Wilhas and Niklas to Ktistes and the Irish Lady Feidelm, Irrith had to agree. All that was missing was Abd ar-Rashid. But no one seemed to be certain just how much they were trusting the heathen, and so he had not been invited to this night’s effort—even though he’d provided the mirrored bowl that would be the centrepiece of their ceremony. A bowl that, rumour had it, was crafted on their behalf by a Dutch Jew: another patch in the ragged cloak that would conceal Britain.

No genie—and no Queen. Irrith went to stand by Galen, who kept his hands locked behind his back as if afraid of what they would do. “I’ll go to the Onyx Hall this minute and fetch her, if you like,” Irrith muttered to him. “She should be here.” Whatever the Sanists said. Irrith wasn’t certain whether the loss of more wall, and more Hall with it, had anything to do with Lune’s visit to the Moor Fields, but even if it did, the Queen should still be here. That was the whole idea of the Onyx Court, to have faerie Queen and mortal Prince working together.

Galen’s answering smile showed a strange mixture of serenity and nerves. “No, Irrith—it won’t be necessary. We have everything we need.”

“I hope so,” she murmured, waving everyone into position. The pucks’ hands glowed with will-o’-the-wisps, casting an eerie light over the space. “Because I don’t want to do this a second time.”

Then she hushed the crowd, because the dancers were entering.

They’d climbed up the hill from the bank of the Thames, right past Greenwich Hospital, with their faerie faces in plain sight. Or rather, faces not their own: they wore masks of shimmering water, that covered even their eyes. How they could see to walk, Irrith didn’t know. Their robes were softly shifting fog, and they bore pitchers of river water in their hands, for they were representing the nephelae, the Greek nymphs of clouds and rains.