Delphia's face showed the marks of sleeplessness and tears, though she was composed now, like a painting of grief. Irrith's countenance was formed of something colder and more brittle: marble, perhaps, veined with flaws, that would shatter under the wrong tap of the hammer.

Lune had offered her formal condolences to Delphia before, in full view of her court; now she offered her informal sympathy. "I lack the words to tell you how grateful I am to Galen. That's little comfort to you, I'm sure; no doubt you wish he were still alive. Or even that he'd never wed you at all, so that you'd be spared this sudden loss, and the knowledge of how it came about."

The young widow shook her head. "The loss, yes. Galen was a good man, and I mourn his pa.s.sing. But had I not wed him, I would have faced something much worse; and more, I would never have known of this world." She hesitated. "I-I know you permitted me among you because of him. If it would be possible, though, I'd like to stay."

It had never occurred to Lune that Delphia might think her place revoked. It occurred to Rosamund and Gertrude, though. It occurred to Rosamund and Gertrude, though. She blessed the absent brownies for their insight. "Galen may have been the means by which you came to our attention, but that does not make you his servant, to be turned out once he is gone. You will always be welcome among us, Lady Delphia." She blessed the absent brownies for their insight. "Galen may have been the means by which you came to our attention, but that does not make you his servant, to be turned out once he is gone. You will always be welcome among us, Lady Delphia."

The woman's plain face flushed a delicate pink. Brushing one hand over the book that lay upon the table, she said, "Indeed, if it isn't too presumptuous... the academy Galen suggested to you, on our wedding day. He and I had spoken of it before. I'd like to see that done."

Faerie and mortal scholars, furthering the work Galen had begun here. Dr. Andrews was dead, and Savennis, but there were others. If Delphia would work with an Arab, Lune suspected Abd ar-Rashid would be happy to lend his aid. "Granted, and with pleasure." It would be a more fitting memorial than a simple flame.

Through this all, Irrith had stood stiffly to one side, with none of the loose grace that characterized her usual posture. Her hands fiddled with a shard of porcelain, collected from the floor. Lune searched for the right words, that wouldn't shatter her composure. "Irrith... I'll understand if you wish to leave. The deed you performed on this court's behalf is not one that people can praise, however necessary it was. But know that you, too, are always welcome here, if you wish to return." There was no question now of punishing her for the Sanist affair, even if Lune had intended to.

The sprite nodded, saying nothing. What haunted her? It wasn't the agony of a heart lost to death; Lune was sure of that much. Yet some shadow hung over Irrith, its claws hooked deep.

Hoping to draw the sprite out, she said gently, "Indeed, I owe you a great debt. Ask anything of me, and it will be yours." Save the abdication of her throne-but after Valentin Aspell, Irrith would never ask it.

Unfortunately, the effect was not what she intended. The green eyes sickened, and Irrith dropped her chin. "You can't give me what I want, your Grace."

"Perhaps another could?" The sprite shook her head, a quick jerk with hunched shoulders. Refusal of more than just that possibility. "We've known each other for a century, Irrith. Whatever it is, you needn't fear saying it in front of me."

"Not you." The wince that followed made it clear that had slipped out against her will.

There were only three of them in the room, and Delphia could count as well as any. With the abruptness of a woman who must force the words out of her mouth, she said, "The ladies of this court gossip, in the manner of ladies everywhere. I know you shared his bed. And I-I won't begrudge you your grief."

The sprite shook her head vehemently, auburn tangles whipping. "No. I didn't love him. Not in the way that we do-not real real love, the sort that hurts forever." love, the sort that hurts forever."

But there was grief in her voice, even if it was of a transient kind. Delphia, folding her hands like one at prayer, offered up a misplaced mortal rea.s.surance. "We may comfort ourselves that he is with-that he is in a better place now."

It was the wrong thing to say. Not just a Christian comfort, and meaningless to fae; no, this was the hammer stroke, shattering Irrith's mask and laying bare the horror beneath it. "No, he isn't! He killed himself, and now he's in h.e.l.l h.e.l.l!"

The word rang through the room like a thunderclap-and then the air changed.

Irrith thought at first that tears were blurring her vision. And so they were; but the shape remained even when she blinked the moisture away.

It formed above the carpet, in the center of the triangle the three of them created. White mist at first, almost too faint to see; then it thickened, solidified, color seeping through it like slow dye, never quite attaining the vibrancy of life.

Delphia sank to the floor in shock, and Irrith almost did the same.

Those bound to the fae sometimes lingered among them after death.

The ghost of Galen St. Clair seemed puzzled at first, unsure of where he was. Then he saw Delphia on the floor; then Irrith and Lune, standing to either side. He turned from one to the other, half-drifting, and Irrith's heart tried to burst from relief when she saw his eyes, clear of any flame.

"The Dragon," he whispered.

She had to try three times before the word came out. "Dead. Do-do you remember?"

The question sent a shudder down his spine. Galen was dressed as he had been in death, free from all the armor of elegance, but his shirt was whole; no mark of the beast's flame showed on him anywhere. "I... I remember pain."

"You were burning," Irrith said, voice wavering so badly it was almost unintelligible. "It would have killed you eventually. And maybe that would have killed the Dragon. But I-"

"Destruction." Galen might not have heard anything she said; he was lost in the fog of his own memories. "For its own sake, at first; that was the fire of the Dragon. Then destruction for the sake of making others suffer. And that was my my fire." fire."

His gaze pinned Irrith, swift as an arrow. "I hurt you."

She shook her head so hard, pain flared in her neck. "No. That wasn't you."

"It was. The me that was the Dragon. The two of us as one..." He trailed one ghostly hand across his chest, where she had stabbed him. "The ice put out the flames. I think some part of it is still in me-I remember the comet, and the vastness of s.p.a.ce. But there is no more fire."

The tears were coming again. She'd done this much for him, then: that beast would not add to his torments. Scant comfort.

The ghostly substance of Galen's body rippled, then firmed once more. Looking around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time, he said, "I thought I would be in h.e.l.l."

Lune smiled. A strange radiance had suffused her: serenity, unshakeable as the foundations of the earth. "No, Galen. Your soul is not bound for h.e.l.l."

"But he killed killed himself," Irrith said. "Even I know where suicides go." himself," Irrith said. "Even I know where suicides go."

Delphia pushed herself to her feet, careful as a cripple walking for the first time. She said, "I won't quote the words of scripture directly, not in this place-but it tells us the greatest love of all is to give up one's life for the sake of others."

"For the sake of faeries." The words tasted bitter in Irrith's mouth, all the more so because she wanted to hope, and didn't dare. "We don't matter, in Heaven's eyes."

"Yes, we do." The joy in Lune's smile was like nothing Irrith had ever seen before. "We are not creatures of Heaven, but when love joins our two worlds, even the angels do not condemn it. I have seen it myself, long ago."

She sounded like a madwoman. The shining certainty in her eyes, though, dissolved the ache that had lodged within Irrith's breast since Galen first offered himself for the sacrifice. He isn't d.a.m.ned. He's given up his life-but not his soul. He isn't d.a.m.ned. He's given up his life-but not his soul.

Through her own dignified tears, Delphia said, "Go on, Galen. Heaven awaits you."

He hesitated. Irrith thought some lingering fear held him back, until he shook his head.

"I don't want to leave you."

To leave Lune-but he said it to all three of them, his wife, his lover, and his Queen. Irrith's throat closed, with sudden hope. "He's a ghost," she said, as if no one had noticed. "Haunting the palace. He doesn't have to go anywhere, does he?"

She looked hopefully to Lune as she said it, but saw the elfin woman's radiance dim. "Have to-no. But Galen... do not trap yourself in that fashion."

"It isn't a trap if I choose it," he said, and all the pa.s.sion of his soul was in those words.

Sorrow touched Lune's lips. The fading that had come upon her, the exhaustion of the Onyx Hall's decline, had only made her beauty more poignant. "But think of what you are choosing. For today, it would be a blessing; you would remain among those you love. What of tomorrow, though, and the next day, and all the days to come? Forever adrift in these halls, as mortals pa.s.s and faerie memory dissolves into forgetfulness, until even your friends scarcely remember who you are and why they once cared for you."

Irrith wanted to insist it would not be so. But then she thought of past Princes-or tried to. Lord Antony, Jack Ellin, Lord Joseph. The names were there when she reached for them, and even the faces; that was not how fae forgot. When she tried to recall Jack's sense of humour, though, or the respect she felt for Lord Joseph when he heard the news of the comet's return... nothing. They might have been people from a history book, not men she'd known.

That would happen to Galen, too. The only way to hold on to such memories was to love. And then his lingering would be an endless source of pain to them both.

"This place would become a prison to you," Lune said, softly, regretfully. "Do not condemn yourself to that h.e.l.l."

His face was taut as if he would weep, but death had robbed him of all tears. "I cannot abandon this place, though. If I knew all danger had pa.s.sed-the Dragon is gone, but the enchantments are still fraying. How can I leave you to face that alone?"

He couldn't go, and he couldn't stay. Irrith remembered the moans of the ghosts on All Hallows' Eve-then thought of other ghosts. The ones they didn't sweep away each year.

"Then come back," she said.

No one understood her. Irrith fumbled for an explanation. "There's a manor house in Berkshire that's haunted by the ghost of some lady. Not all the time; just on the night of her wedding. I have no idea where she goes the rest of the time, but couldn't Galen do that? Come back once a year-at least until this place is safe?" Until the desire binding him to this world faded enough for him to let go.

Lune didn't answer immediately. She turned instead to Delphia. Any normal woman might have argued, out of confusion or piety or simple instinct, but Galen had married one who understood; she nodded. Then Lune said, "I cannot promise it will be so; that, I fear, lies beyond me. But I can leave the door open. If you wish to return, nothing here will prevent you."

It wasn't certainty. It was enough for Galen, though. A smile broke across his face, like dawn breaking clear after the endless months of clouds. The image spread across Irrith's memory like a balm, blotting out the horror of Cannon Street and the black holes of his eyes, and the relief brought her almost to tears. "Good-bye-for now," she whispered, and heard Delphia and Lune echo her with their own farewells.

And the light grew. It came from everywhere and nowhere, shining through the fading substance of Galen's ghostly body. It should have burnt, like church bells and prayers; Irrith felt in it that same holy force, the touch of the divine. It could could have burnt, if it chose. But the light pa.s.sed through her without harm, shining in the depths of London's faerie realm, and then it was gone, as if it had never been. have burnt, if it chose. But the light pa.s.sed through her without harm, shining in the depths of London's faerie realm, and then it was gone, as if it had never been.

Irrith drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said to the Queen, "Yes. I'll stay."

EPILOGUE.

Royal Observatory, Greenwich: October 6, 1835 Frederick Parsons stepped away from the eyepiece and grinned. "And there it is. Just like it was seventy-six years ago."

His companion raised both eyebrows dryly. "Not just just like, I should think. May I see?" like, I should think. May I see?"

Frederick waved him forward. His companion had to bend farther to reach the eyepiece, but despite the discomfort, stayed in that position for a long time, studying the heavens above.

Far in the distance-unimaginably far, though not incalculably so-a "star" blazed across the sky. They weren't the only curiosity-seekers at Greenwich, come to observe the return of Halley's famed comet, but they were the only ones to bring their own telescope. The Royal Observatory yet remained far enough outside of London's gaslights and filthy smoke to be a good point from which to see such wonders.

Other comets came and went, of course, but they didn't interest Frederick as this one did. He'd been born only twenty-four years before: far too recently to have seen its last apparition, and far too long ago to have any hope of seeing the next one. This was his only chance to observe the comet that had nearly destroyed London.

His companion had watched it from France, though. Yvoir had spied on the great Charles Messier himself, and sneaked an opportunity to use the astronomer's own equipment one night when Messier lay coughing in bed. He claimed to have sensed the malevolent presence of the Dragon, but Frederick thought the faerie was making it up.

"We should figure out some way to drag Master Ktistes up here," Frederick said, bored with watching Yvoir watch the sky. "You could put a glamour on him, to hide the horse body."

"Hiding it doesn't make it go away," Yvoir said, still hunched over. "I don't fancy putting him on a steamboat for a jaunt down the river. Besides, it hardly matters now. This is a historical curiosity, nothing more. The academy has other concerns."

Frederick sniffed, doing his best impression of a stuffy old man. "There's no respect for history nowadays-not even for our poor martyred founder." He dug a stone out of the dirt with the toe of his shoe. "They say he haunts the Hall, you know. But I don't believe it."

"Lady Delphia believed," the French faerie told him. "And since she was the patroness of the Galenic Academy, I would say you're the one with no respect for history, my friend." He straightened at last, with faerie suppleness that even Frederick's young joints could envy.

At least until impatience banished it. Frederick said, "Very well; we've seen the comet. Now can we go back? Wrain claims he finally has a working model of his aetheric engine, and I don't want to miss the chance to laugh at him when it fails again."

Together the faerie and the mortal packed up their telescope and then raced down the steep slope of the observatory's hill, running by the light of the full moon and the stars, and the wandering star of the comet, trailing its bright banner across the sky.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Like the other Onyx Court books, A Star Shall Fall A Star Shall Fall owes a great deal to the people who a.s.sisted me in my research. In London, that included Mick Pedroli of Dennis Severs House, for advice on living in an eighteenth-century style; Eleanor John of the Geffrye Museum, for answers about house furnishings; Rupert Baker and Felicity Henderson of the Royal Society Library, for fetching out comet books and many dusty volumes of Royal Society minutes; Dr. Rebekah Higgitt and Dr. Jonathan Betts of the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, for a.s.sistance with the history of the observatory and horology respectively; Susan Kirby, Alan Lilly, and Mimi Kalema of Tower Bridge Authority, for letting me into the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Monument very early on a Sat.u.r.day morning; and Dr. Kari Sperring and her husband, Phil Nanson, for touring me around Cambridge and even taking me punting. owes a great deal to the people who a.s.sisted me in my research. In London, that included Mick Pedroli of Dennis Severs House, for advice on living in an eighteenth-century style; Eleanor John of the Geffrye Museum, for answers about house furnishings; Rupert Baker and Felicity Henderson of the Royal Society Library, for fetching out comet books and many dusty volumes of Royal Society minutes; Dr. Rebekah Higgitt and Dr. Jonathan Betts of the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, for a.s.sistance with the history of the observatory and horology respectively; Susan Kirby, Alan Lilly, and Mimi Kalema of Tower Bridge Authority, for letting me into the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Monument very early on a Sat.u.r.day morning; and Dr. Kari Sperring and her husband, Phil Nanson, for touring me around Cambridge and even taking me punting.

I also needed a great deal of help via e-mail, on a variety of arcane topics. John Pritchard sent me a fabulous diagram of the Monument; Ian Walden advised me about local flora; Farah Mendlesohn was my go-to woman for Jewish history; Ricardo Barros of the Mercurius Company helped me figure out eighteenth-century dancing; Rev. Devin McLachlan did the same for eighteenth-century Anglican theology; and Dr. Erin Smith made the astronomy go. For information on Ottoman Arabic society, the Arabic language, and the nature of genies, I owe thanks to Yonatan Zunger, Saladin Ahmed, and Rabeya Merenkov. Sherwood Smith did the German translations for me, and Aliette de Bodard not only knew what iatrochemistry was, but could tell me how to say it in French.

The late-night conversations this time were with Adrienne Lipoma and my husband, Kyle Niedzwiecki, with an a.s.sist from Jennie Kaye. They very kindly let me talk at them endlessly about the book, and provided more than one useful suggestion.

And then there are all the authors who wrote books I made use of. They are too many to list here, but as always, the bibliography is available on my Web site, www.swantower.com.

BY MARIE BRENNAN.

Midnight Never Come

In Ashes Lie

A Star Shall Fall

Warrior

Witch