It recalled Irrith to her purpose. "I saw an advertis.e.m.e.nt in Cheapside," she said, pulling the torn paper from her pocket. "Do you think this man has a real satyr?"

Segraine took the fragment and studied it. A few of the fae who hadn't yet left came closer, reading over the lady knight's shoulders. "I don't know," she murmured, peering at the small print near the bottom. "Though it's happened before."

Hempry, a short and thick-limbed yarthkin, was reading not so much over Segraine's shoulder as under her elbow. He said in his broad Yorkshire accent, "That centaur fellow, six years ago."

"Ktistes?" Irrith said, alarmed.

"No, a friend of his." That came from a second northerner, a duergar Irrith didn't know. "Some fool come over from the continent. Got himself s.n.a.t.c.hed at the docks, maybe, or off the ship he came on-never did get the story out of him."

"What happened to him?"

"Nothing bad," Segraine said, handing the sheet back to Irrith. "We rescued him before the man who meant to display him was able to make good on his advertis.e.m.e.nts. Adenant, has Il Veloce gone missing? Or any other fauns or satyrs?"

The questions were directed to one of the knights who had gone with Peregrin, now on his way back across the chamber. He paused, eyeing them in puzzlement, and said, "Not so far as I know."

"Could be another visitor," the duergar suggested.

Segraine's chuckle was dry. "Or just a man in goatskin breeches. That's happened before, too."

"Trouble?" Adenant asked.

Irrith shifted her feet when everyone's attention fell on her. "How should I know? I saw this, advertising a satyr like some kind of Bartholomew Fair show, and thought at the very least that you should see it." It seemed like a very small matter, after watching their efforts against the illusion of the Dragon-though the possible satyr, if he existed, might disagree.

Adenant and Segraine exchanged looks, and she said, "We should at least look into it."

"I'll go with you," Irrith said, barely ahead of Hempry and the duergar.

"It doesn't need an entire regiment," Adenant said dryly. "Ask Peregrin, but I expect he'll say two is enough."

Hempry grumbled mutiny, only giving in when Segraine promised to include him in any rescue attempt. Once the others had dispersed, the lady knight said to Irrith, "Arrange a showing. I'll tell the Captain, and the Queen."

"And the Prince?" Irrith asked. "This is a mortal thing, after all."

Segraine's hesitation was barely visible, but not quite absent. "And the Prince," she agreed.

Why the pause? Anything having to do with the mortals of London fell under the Prince's authority; Lune would probably tell Peregrin and Segraine so. That was how it was done with the Princes Irrith had known. But this one was new, she remembered. Perhaps Segraine didn't fully trust him yet.

She didn't really want to ask. That was politics, and something she intended to stay far away from. Instead she flicked the advertis.e.m.e.nt in her hand and offered Segraine her most impudent grin. "Only one question, then."

"And that is?"

Irrith's grin got wider. "Which of us has to be the lady?"

Crane Court, London: November 10, 1757 Letters of introduction, unfortunately, were insufficient to bring a man into the hallowed chambers of the Royal Society. To come among that august body, Galen needed his father to bring him in person.

He had, with extreme reluctance, begun attending what small social events offered themselves in this season, when most people who could afford to-and who, therefore, presented suitable targets-had retired from London. He did not enjoy it, and Charles St. Clair growled at the lack of results; in consequence, neither was pleased.

But it achieved what Galen needed: together, he and his father went to Crane Court, a narrow lane off of Fleet Street, to the home of the Royal Society of London for the Improvement of Natural Knowledge.

Whatever Galen expected of the place, he didn't see it. The facade in front of him might have belonged to any one of a thousand townhouses in London, with a narrow front, three windows across, and a short staircase leading up to the door, all in simple Palladian style. But the fellowship that met within its walls counted among its past number some of the greatest minds in all of Britain: Robert Boyle; Robert Hooke; Sir Christopher Wren, the guiding genius that rebuilt London in the aftermath of the Great Fire. Edmond Halley, whose calculations had called the spirit of that Fire home to roost. Sir Isaac Newton himself.

Charles St. Clair said nothing to his son, either during the journey or once they arrived. He merely went up the stairs and rapped on the door with the head of his walking stick. A footman in livery welcomed them in and directed them up to the piano n.o.bile, piano n.o.bile, where a s.p.a.cious room overlooking the garden would be the stage for tonight's meeting. It held an a.s.sortment of cabriole-legged chairs, an abundance of candles with mirrors to reflect their light, and a small number of gentlemen, all respectably dressed in gray powdered wigs and cravats. where a s.p.a.cious room overlooking the garden would be the stage for tonight's meeting. It held an a.s.sortment of cabriole-legged chairs, an abundance of candles with mirrors to reflect their light, and a small number of gentlemen, all respectably dressed in gray powdered wigs and cravats.

His father introduced him around with a brusqueness bordering on rudeness. Galen bowed, made pleasantries, and was somewhat relieved to be rescued by the beginning of the meeting. Perhaps after it was done, and he had more to converse upon, this would become less awkward.

The meeting, alas, no more displayed the marks of intellectual brilliance than the building did. Galen could forgive it the routine business with which it began: every society that wished to survive for more than a brief time must conduct itself in an orderly fashion. He soon found himself struggling, however, against the urge to yawn, as someone read an interminable extract from what was presumably even more interminable of a lecture on the lymphatic vessels of animals. Galen lost the thread of it a few minutes in, and returned to alertness only when he realized the group was ordering thanks to the doctor who had delivered the lecture.

He made a better effort to stay alert for the letter that followed, and was rewarded with a name he recognized: Dr. Halley. For a moment, he thought someone might mention the comet. But no; the topic was magnetism, and Halley's work on charts of the same. Which might be of great use to navigators at sea, certainly-just not of use to Galen.

Be patient, he told himself, and put down the hand that wanted to fidget with the cuff of the opposite sleeve. he told himself, and put down the hand that wanted to fidget with the cuff of the opposite sleeve. This is only one meeting. This is only one meeting. The impatience that plagued him at Mrs. Vesey's had returned; his heart kept beating faster, his breath shallowing, as he thought of his purpose. What did he care, if some laborer had grown extraordinary tumors on his head? No doubt it was a great inconvenience to the laborer himself, and Galen mustered what sympathy he could, but that sentiment was in short supply. The impatience that plagued him at Mrs. Vesey's had returned; his heart kept beating faster, his breath shallowing, as he thought of his purpose. What did he care, if some laborer had grown extraordinary tumors on his head? No doubt it was a great inconvenience to the laborer himself, and Galen mustered what sympathy he could, but that sentiment was in short supply.

By the time one of the Fellows produced a stone dug up by the New River Company, in which Galen could see no interest or value at all, he was nearly beside himself with impatience. Fortunately-but also frustratingly-that seemed to be the end of the evening's business. After ordering thanks to the man who presented the rock, the Society broke up, leaving Galen afraid that his inspired suggestion was, in fact, a waste of time.

But there was more to the Society than merely its lectures. The real wealth was the members, whose interests ranged across every field of philosophical inquiry. If there was help to be found, it would be among them-and that meant Galen must not leave yet. Bowing to his father, he said, "I thank you, sir, for bringing me here tonight. I should like to stay a while longer; there are gentlemen I would like to speak with."

St. Clair grunted. "Hire a chair, not a carriage." And with that miserly advice, he took his leave.

Drawing in a deep breath, Galen squared his shoulders and surveyed the room. His best prospect was a man he had greeted before the meeting, the closest of his father's acquaintances here. Galen approached before he could grow too nervous. "Dr. Andrews, if I might trouble you for a moment?"

The doctor was an older gentleman, almost the inverse of Galen's father: pale instead of ruddy, thin instead of stout, thanks to long illness. "Yes, Mr. St. Clair?"

"That reference to Dr. Halley's work made me think-did I not read something in the Gentleman's Magazine Gentleman's Magazine a while ago, regarding some predicted return of a comet?" a while ago, regarding some predicted return of a comet?"

Andrews gestured to the front of the room. "There, Mr. St. Clair, is the man to ask: Lord Macclesfield is twenty times the astronomer that I am."

Galen felt like he'd swallowed that supposedly interesting rock. Though the St. Clairs might be a good family, they were nowhere near the rank of the Society's President, the Earl of Macclesfield. When he formed his intention to speak with men here, he hadn't aimed that that high. high.

"Come," Andrews said. "I will introduce you." When he moved, Galen had no choice but to follow.

The earl was in conversation with another man, but turned as Andrews approached. "My lord, may I introduce to you Mr. Galen St. Clair?"

Galen bowed deeply as Andrews presented him to the earl and to Lord Charles Cavendish, the Vice-President of the Society. Then the doctor said, "Mr. St. Clair was inquiring about this comet business."

A look of mingled pity and annoyance crossed the earl's face. "I could d.a.m.n that Benjamin Martin to the depths of h.e.l.l-yes, and John Wesley, too-for filling people's heads with such fears. No, my boy, the Earth will not not pa.s.s through the cometary tail on the twelfth of May. And even if it did, there is no reason to suppose it would result in the end of the world. While Halley may have suggested that a comet was the cause of the Deluge, it does not necessarily follow that pa.s.s through the cometary tail on the twelfth of May. And even if it did, there is no reason to suppose it would result in the end of the world. While Halley may have suggested that a comet was the cause of the Deluge, it does not necessarily follow that his his comet will be of equal consequence." comet will be of equal consequence."

Galen cursed his fair skin, which advertised his slightest embarra.s.sment to all the world. "My lord... that was not the intent of my query."

"Oh." Macclesfield's expression was the stuff of comedy. "My apologies, Mr. St. Clair. What did you wish to know?"

Whereupon Galen realized he'd failed to prepare anything like a coherent question. "I-that is-the state of affairs regarding the comet, my lord; the expectation of its return, the preparation for sighting it, anything about the nature of cometary bodies that was not known in Halley's time..." Anything we might use to keep the Dragon upon its chariot, such that it cannot come down to plague us once more. Anything we might use to keep the Dragon upon its chariot, such that it cannot come down to plague us once more. Segraine had tried this, but fifty years ago. Surely astronomers had learned new things since then. Segraine had tried this, but fifty years ago. Surely astronomers had learned new things since then.

The earl sighed. "Truth be told, Mr. St. Clair, I fear the French will steal a march on us where the comet is concerned. I've spoken to Bradley at the Royal Observatory, but at the moment his attention is much occupied with other matters. The most crucial issue, of course, is the timing of the comet's perihelion-"

"Its closest approach to the sun," Cavendish supplied.

Galen covered his irritation with a smile. "I am familiar with the term."

"Good!" Macclesfield said. "And also with Newton's Principia Principia?"

"In principle, my lord," Galen said, drawing scattered laughter at his pun, "but not in application. I am no great mathematician."

"But you know the ideas. The problem is one of gravitation: the comet's progress will be r.e.t.a.r.ded by its approach near Jupiter and Saturn. And the equations to calculate that, sir, are devilishly hard."

Hard, but not impossible. The fae had undertaken it already, out of necessity; in fact, that had been the major work of Galen's predecessor. Perihelion would occur in March of 1759. Their danger, however, might arrive sooner.

"Is Mr. Bradley likely to search for the comet when it comes?" Galen asked. In the best opinion of Wrain, one of the Onyx Hall's faerie scholars, observation would be their doom: just as the beast had been exiled via telescope, so would it return. It had taken special equipment to banish the creature against its will, but ordinary lenses and mirrors might suffice to draw it back down. And the Astronomer Royal, with his superior instruments, stood the greatest chance of sighting the comet early, at least in England.

"No doubt he will," Macclesfield said carelessly, "but as I said, he has other things on his mind."

Cavendish asked then after Bradley's health, which was not good, and the conversation moved on from there. Disappointed, but mindful of his duty, Galen took a moment to draw Dr. Andrews aside. "Thank you, sir, for that introduction."

"Not at all," Andrews said. "It pleases me to see you take an interest in such matters, Mr. St. Clair. Do you intend to go on attending our meetings?"

Galen couldn't hide his wince. "As much as I may, Dr. Andrews. Dependent upon the goodwill of my father."

He didn't have to say any more. Andrews and his father were acquaintances, not close friends; the man had treated Charles St. Clair for gout, before his own illness forced him to retire from active practice. Their degree of familiarity was enough for Andrews to understand, and not enough for him to take offense. "I see. If you would like, Mr. St. Clair, I could serve as your patron in his stead; I attend every week, and would be more than happy to aid you in the same."

Grat.i.tude warmed Galen to the soles of his feet. "I would be much obliged to you, sir."

"Then it is easily done," Andrews said. "I will write to him tomorrow."

Red Lion Square, Holborn: November 11, 1757 The hackney carriage circled the green lawn in the center of Red Lion Square and rattled to a halt in front of No. 17. The coachman leapt down to open the door, and a tall gentleman in a sober red coat stepped out with a graceful motion, then turned back, one hand extended to help his lady companion maneuver her skirts out the narrow portal.

She needed the help. The false hips that bulked out her dress to either side had been folded up like wings to fit her into the carriage, and now impeded her ability to reach the gentleman's hand. When she twitched her cloak out of the way to ensure a secure footing on the step, the quilted dimity of her gown caught against the frame of the door. The coachman saved it before it could tear, and with a stumble and an unladylike curse, she was free.

While her companion paid their fare, the young woman sorted her skirts and cloak back into something resembling order. And then they were alone, and Irrith had the freedom to be herself for a moment, rather than the meek mortal girl she was impersonating-and badly at that. "How in the name of Ash and Thorn does anyone manage these things?"

Segraine shrugged, looking every inch the gentleman. "Practice, I presume."

"Right. Just as you winning our bet was 'luck.' There's magic in both, I'm sure of it."

The lady knight's grin was fleeting. Irrith was convinced her friend had cheated at dice, but her best efforts had failed to catch it happening. As a result, she was the one wrestling with yards of fabric and undergarment architecture that would do a cathedral proud, while Segraine got to play the role of her indulgent elder brother, bringing her to see the Marvelous Menagerie.

Which apparently dwelt behind the innocent facade of No. 17 Red Lion Square. The house was like any other in the row: three stories of red brick, with a servant's attic above and cellars below, and to Irrith's eye indistinguishable from a thousand others they'd rattled past on their way out of the City. Hors.e.m.e.n rode through the square, on their way to important business no doubt, dodging past a handful of carriages and sedan chairs, scattering folk on foot as they went.

Arranging this visit had taken far longer than it should. The proprietor of the Marvelous Menagerie had been ill this last month-or so his butler claimed-and only now recovered enough to do business. Lune had forbidden them to break in without evidence of a real satyr, and so they'd been forced to wait. But now that the time had come, Irrith was reluctant. She eyed the blue-painted door as if it were the maw of a beast, waiting to swallow her. "Shall we go in?" Segraine asked.

Irrith took a deep breath. "Whatever we find in there-it isn't as if he'll know what we we are. So we're quite safe." are. So we're quite safe."

"Quite," her friend agreed.

They stood a moment longer on the hard-packed dirt of the street. Then Segraine said in a breezy voice, "Come along then, Pru; you were the one who wanted to see the Oronuto savage," and strode across to the house.

Irrith followed with as much grace as she could manage. Segraine rapped smartly on the door, then waited with her hands folded behind her back. When a footman opened the door, she announced, "Mr. Theodore Dinley and Miss Prudence Dinley. We have an appointment with Dr. Andrews."

"Yes, sir, you are expected." The footman bowed them in, took their cloaks, and led them upstairs to the drawing room. Irrith had little to compare it to, but it seemed an odd place; the furnishings were spa.r.s.e, leaving one half of the room entirely empty except for the carpet upon the floor. This, she supposed, was where Dr. Andrews conducted his exhibition.

Andrews himself came in a moment later. Seeing him, Irrith had to believe the reports of his illness; he was pale, with a hectic flush about his eyes. Old enough to look right in his gray wig, and thin as a birch tree, he could have dropped dead on the spot and she wouldn't have been surprised. But he greeted them with pleasant composure, shaking Segraine's hand and bowing over Irrith's. "I am delighted to welcome you to my exhibition. You understand, of course-this is no simple spectacle for the common people. I am a scholar, and I aim to share with those of discerning minds the many wondrous permutations the world holds. Please, be seated. The display will begin momentarily. Would you like some coffee?"

One servant poured for them while another drew the drapes, leaving them in semidarkness. Candelabras illuminated the bare s.p.a.ce where the specimens were to stand. Irrith accepted her bowl of coffee with a grimace. In her opinion, the stuff was only slightly better than gin.

The first marvel to come out, disappointingly, was not even alive. "A mummified pygmy of the African continent," Dr. Andrews said, and began to drone on about its conformation. Irrith peered at it, wondering if it might have once been a faerie, but no; it seemed that humans really did grow that small.

The Oronuto savage came in next. The dramatic candlelight of the shadowed drawing room seemed designed to give his pitch-black skin and foreign features a sinister air, but the man himself seemed bored, and went out quickly when dismissed. He was followed by more preserved specimens, these not even of entire bodies but only pieces, and Dr. Andrews forever looking to Miss Prudence Dinley to see if she was about to faint. Irrith peered with gruesome curiosity at a skull with a hole cut into it-according to Dr. Andrews, while the owner was still alive.

Large sketches accompanied the young Red Indian sisters, who like the Oronuto were clothed according to their native practices, with some allowances for English sensibilities. The sketches depicted other pairs of twins born with body parts stuck together, and Dr. Andrews lifted the drape that covered the sisters' hips to show his audience that their strange, awkward manner of walking, with their arms about each others' waists, was no mountebank's trick; their flesh truly did meld together. Segraine poked it with one finger just to be sure.

And finally, just when Irrith had almost forgotten their purpose there, a servant ushered in the Olympian satyr.

Her bones melted in relief. The sickly creature who limped to the center of the floor was no satyr, and had probably never been closer to Greece than the south bank of the Thames. His ginger hair made him look more like an Irishman. But there was something odd about his gait, and when Irrith looked more closely, she saw there was a strange deformity in his stocking-less lower legs, clearly visible below the b.u.t.ton of his breeches.

Deformity, but no goat fur; they were done. Segraine, however, had more concern than Irrith for their Dinley personas, and showed no sign of leaving. Dr. Andrews steadied the ginger man in front of them and began to explain about the warped bones of his legs.

"Pardon me, Dr. Andrews," Irrith said, interrupting him. If they weren't leaving yet, she might as well have some fun. "Is this what you advertise as an Olympian satyr? I was expecting goat hooves, panpipes-that sort of thing." Fauns were the ones with goat hooves; according to Ktistes, satyrs had human feet. But it sounded better this way.

Dr. Andrews looked disgruntled. "My apologies, Miss Dinley. I'm afraid the advertis.e.m.e.nt you saw is the work of a man I hired, who persuaded me that such language is necessary to attract attention. Were it not for him, I a.s.sure you I would have described this fellow in more scholarly terms."

"So he isn't isn't a satyr." a satyr."

Evidently the good doctor saw the specter of disappearing profits looming near. He hastened to say, "As it happens, Miss Dinley, I think he may be-in a manner of speaking. The orgiastic behaviors attributed to the satyr in the art of the Greeks and Romans may well be an echo of the practices of those two societies, but why the description of goatish features? I theorize that it owes something to deformities such as those seen here: just as the myth of centaurs may have arisen from a race of horse-mounted men, so may instances of this deformity have become the basis for an entire race of goatish creatures, upon whom men laid the burden of their own licentious behavior."

"So you don't think there's any such thing as a real satyr." She tried very hard to keep the laugh out of her voice.

"Miss Dinley," Andrews said in a condescending voice, "I traveled Italy and Greece as a young man, and saw no such creatures. This is the closest I have come." He gestured at the poor, forgotten man beside him.

Irrith blinked innocently. "But just because you never saw them doesn't mean they don't exist."

Segraine intervened before Irrith got a chance to find out what kind of annoyance she could provoke. "Come, Pru; we've taken up enough of the good doctor's time."

Sighing, Irrith gave in. "Very well, Teddy. I'm famished anyway. We've seen the satyr; now I want my dinner."

Segraine gave Dr. Andrews their polite thanks, and accepted his offer to send a man for a carriage. Once Irrith was safely inside, skirts and all, she said, "Wouldn't it be something if we sent Ktistes in to prance all over his fancy carpets?"

"It would be something," her friend agreed, "but nothing good. Let's go back; the Queen is waiting for our report."

The Onyx Hall, London: November 11, 1757 "Weekly meetings," Galen said, "and I shall attend as many as I can. I fear the time itself will be less than fruitful, unless the quality of presentations improves greatly-"

"But it is worth it, for gaining the acquaintance of the men there." Lune nodded. "I would be very much surprised if anyone were to stand up and deliver a lecture that contains the solution to our problem, tied up with a bow."

Harpsichord music formed a pleasant background to their conversation, Lune's attendant Nemette playing for her mistress's relaxation. Various other ladies sat at their leisure, playing backgammon or embroidering; one fed bits of candied fruit to a human child. With some of them, he knew, the distraction was a mask. The Queen's ladies of the bedchamber were not merely for decoration; she made excellent use of them in her political negotiations with other courts. But some of them, he suspected, paid little attention to anything that went on around them.

A knock at the door brought Lady Yfaen to her feet. She spoke briefly to someone outside, then turned to curtsey. "Dame Segraine and Dame Irrith, your Majesty, returned from Red Lion Square."

"Send them in." Lune set down the fan she had been toying with and straightened in her chair.

The two had dropped their mortal glamours, leaving behind clothes suitable for their visit above. Masculine garb was a common sight on Segraine, though usually not so fine. But the delicate sprite at her side...

The muddy, sharp-tongued creature he'd brought in to see Lune last month had vanished. In her place stood a modest young lady in stays and skirts, her auburn hair neatly pinned up beneath a lace-edged cap, with two curls escaping to dance above her shoulders. The gown, Galen thought, belonged to Nemette; he'd seen that pattern of peonies and bees before. Irrith looked startlingly demure.