She was right; Irrith had no reason to believe her. "You wanted it before."

"That's true." She looked thoughtfully across the riotous square. "But with Lune's crown come Lune's problems, don't they? It was one thing fifty years ago: the Dragon's return just announced, and all that time in which to figure out how to get rid of it. Now we've scarcely a year left. The Queen can say what she likes about that Calendar Room, but I know the truth; she hasn't got a plan. The Onyx Hall will burn, and maybe London, too. Why should I make that my fault, instead of hers?"

Irrith tasted bile. "So you'll wait until afterward. Until it's all been destroyed."

Carline gave her a pitying look. "And how would that profit me? I have no desire to rule over ashes. No, little sprite: my political ambitions are finished. My intention is to spend this last year doing everything I've always wanted to, everything that can only be done in London, and then when that bearded star appears in the sky, I will go someplace where it is not." Now her eyes fixed on a distant point-a point, Irrith suspected, not in this world. "Faerie, I think. I have no desire to exile myself to some rustic hovel like your Vale. But I haven't decided; it may be France instead."

Her words cut close to the bone. Hadn't Irrith thought almost the same thing, when she arrived in the autumn? Enjoy the Onyx Court while it lasted, then abandon it to its doom.

Now the bile in her throat was for herself. She'd never thought to feel kinship with Carline.

As if hearing those thoughts, the elf-lady laughed softly. "I'm not the only one, either. It was different when the Dragon took us by surprise, birthing itself out of the Great Fire; we were trapped, with little choice but to fight. Now we know it's coming. Only the foolhardy wish to stand in its path."

Despite the evidence of the past, Irrith found that she believed Carline. The lady really was done. "So what do the Sanists want?"

She got a shrug in reply. "Precisely what they say they want, I imagine. A new sovereign-presumably one who has both health and a plan for defeating the Dragon. But it won't be me. In truth, I think they'll get only half of what they want, and they know it; they can build whatever court they please after this one is gone."

If that was true, Irrith despised them. Lune was wounded, yes, and that was a problem in need of an answer. Letting the Dragon destroy the court, though, was no answer at all. "What about the mortals?"

"What of them?"

That sounded like honest confusion, not artful innocence. Irrith said, "If the Dragon destroys the Onyx Hall, and the court is broken-what will become of mortal London?"

"It will continue on, as it always has," Carline said dismissively. "Even if their city is destroyed again, they'll simply rebuild; they've done it before. But you don't mean that, do you?" Her eyes regarded Irrith with cool irony. "What you mean is, however will they cope, without faeries beneath their feet?"

They were speaking far too frankly, in far too public of a place; even if n.o.body nearby had reason to understand or care, it still made Irrith twitch. Back in the Vale, fae did not stand in the village square discussing Wayland's affairs. But Carline's sardonic question demanded an answer. "We've done so much for them."

The twist of Carline's lips mocked her a.s.sertion. "Have we?"

"We stopped the Dragon. Without us, it would have burnt down the rest of London."

"And with us, it only burnt down most most of London. Such a gift to the people of this city! It isn't just that we failed to stop it sooner; of London. Such a gift to the people of this city! It isn't just that we failed to stop it sooner; we fed it. we fed it. With our wars and our magics. Without us, would it even have With our wars and our magics. Without us, would it even have become become a Dragon? Or would it have stayed a simple fire, the kind London has seen before? Consider that, Irrith, before you speak so righteously of what we've done: it may be that our very presence in this city, the enchantments that bind the world above to the world below, transform London's troubles into something more than they can handle alone... or create trouble where none was before." Carline's smile was poisonous. "Without us, the comet would be nothing more than a light in the sky." a Dragon? Or would it have stayed a simple fire, the kind London has seen before? Consider that, Irrith, before you speak so righteously of what we've done: it may be that our very presence in this city, the enchantments that bind the world above to the world below, transform London's troubles into something more than they can handle alone... or create trouble where none was before." Carline's smile was poisonous. "Without us, the comet would be nothing more than a light in the sky."

Irrith felt as if she'd swallowed fire. Carline was wrong; she had to be. The Onyx Court was important- To whom? To fae like Irrith-and yes, like Carline-who wanted to be close to mortals, to observe them and talk to them and bask in the reflected glow of their pa.s.sion. Brief lives, flickering in and out like fireflies, and all the more brilliant because of it. But what benefit did the fireflies gain?

Carline recognized the selfishness of it, as Irrith had not. And far from repenting, she embraced it, reveled in it. But when the music stopped, she would leave the dance.

Would Irrith do the same?

"Think about it, little sprite," Carline said softly, leaning in uncomfortably close. "Decide whether you believe the Queen, that this place, this court, is so grand as to be worth preserving. Or admit the truth of it-use these mortals while you can-and then move on. You have eternity to live; do you want to risk it for those who would be better off without us?"

She didn't wait for an answer. Perhaps she knew Irrith didn't have one to give. Without a backward glance, Carline left Irrith standing in the clamor of Covent Garden Market, surrounded and alone.

New Spring Gardens, Vauxhall: March 11, 1758 Galen paced the deck of the barge with restless strides, staggering occasionally when the river slapped its side and tilted the vessel without warning. It didn't disturb the consort of viols who entertained the barge's pa.s.sengers, seated as they were midway down the deck, but he had taken refuge in the bow, where the small turbulences of the river were felt most strongly.

Better that than to take a carriage. As the barge drew near the western bank and the waiting stair, he could see an unmoving line of conveyances clogging the road to the entrance of the Vauxhall Spring Gardens. Had his family gone that route, he would have spent even more time listening to his parents quarrel about the respectability of the place, with even less opportunity to escape it.

A footstep behind him, coming down unexpectedly hard as the barge juddered in the rough water. It was a windy night, and when Galen turned, he saw Cynthia clapping one hand to her gypsy hat, lest a sudden gust carry it away. He came forward and retied the bow beneath his sister's chin, and she smiled her thanks. "The barge-men hardly need to row," she said, brushing one hand over her sarcenet skirts. "They could just get the ladies on deck, and we'd sail all the way upriver."

Galen offered his arm to steady her. From farther down the boat, he heard his father say to his mother, in a tone that ought to brook no argument, "I don't give a d.a.m.n what goes on in the bushes, so long as the father has money to hush it up."

He winced. Cynthia tightened her hand on his arm, and they stayed where they were as the other pa.s.sengers crowded the rail in antic.i.p.ation of arrival. "That's his his sentiment," she reminded him, rising on her toes to murmur it in his ear. "Not yours." sentiment," she reminded him, rising on her toes to murmur it in his ear. "Not yours."

As if he could so easily disown his relations. "I'm tarred with it regardless," Galen said. He tried to summon some enthusiasm for this night, and failed. "I've come in search of a fortune, and everyone will know it. What young lady wants to wed such a man?"

Another squeeze of Cynthia's hand. "I don't see such a man at all."

"You're my sister, and partisan."

"Yes-but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. I I see a man determined to do what's best for his family, particularly as it concerns the future happiness of his sisters. Young ladies find that sort of thing very touching." see a man determined to do what's best for his family, particularly as it concerns the future happiness of his sisters. Young ladies find that sort of thing very touching."

The barge thudded gently into the lower end of the river stair and was made fast. Pa.s.sengers began to disembark, gentlemen a.s.sisting ladies to solid land once more. "Touching," Galen said, amused despite himself. "So I'm a charity cause, now."

"Everything is a charity cause, to a kind-hearted young lady," Cynthia answered brightly, not so much accompanying as steering him toward the barge's rail. "It's our profession, you know, and being touched in the heart is our foremost skill. I myself got very poor marks in it, burdened as I am with too much sense-but then, you aren't looking to marry is a charity cause, to a kind-hearted young lady," Cynthia answered brightly, not so much accompanying as steering him toward the barge's rail. "It's our profession, you know, and being touched in the heart is our foremost skill. I myself got very poor marks in it, burdened as I am with too much sense-but then, you aren't looking to marry me me."

That last comment got an alarmed and confused look from their mother, who clearly was not certain what they were talking about, but was just as certain it showed too much levity for the occasion. "Cynthia, do not hang upon his arm," she admonished her eldest daughter, making shooing motions with her folded fan. "From a distance it will look as if you two are in company, when people cannot see you are related, and then they will not approach."

Galen could hardly blame his mother for her concern. She had a nervous disposition to begin with, and his agreement with his father had put her into a pother. Nothing would do but that both Galen and Cynthia were promised to be married by the end of the Season; only then would she rest easy. She might not like the pleasure gardens as a hunting ground for spouses-there were far too many opportunities for illicit liaisons, in the dark byways of the walks-but the charity event tonight was respectable enough, and likely to draw the sort of man and woman both he and Cynthia needed.

Bracing himself, he helped his sister to the stair, then his mother. The elder St. Clair glared away any prospect of aid, so he waited until the old man had pa.s.sed, before following like a docile sheep.

On the roadway above, Cynthia contrived to fall back so they could walk together, following the line of people to the waiting carriages, and the building that marked the entrance to the Spring Gardens. "All will be well," she a.s.sured him, letting their parents draw a bit ahead. "If it helps, think on this: you may believe you're the hunter, but in truth you're hunted. All those mothers with unwed daughters, looking to trap you in their snares. You hardly stand a chance, poor boy."

A hint of pain hid behind those light words. No such happy snares awaited Cynthia; she had no profit to offer a prospective husband, beyond her good nature. "Then I shall hunt on your behalf," Galen promised.

She hadn't Daphne's beauty, but Cynthia was the only one of the St. Clair children to inherit their mother's dimples. They flickered briefly in the lantern light as the garden entrance drew near. "We can work together, like a pair of hounds. I'll bring suitable young ladies to you, and you shall find gentlemen for me. With such an alliance, success cannot be far away."

Galen smiled down at his sister, feeling his spirit lighten. "If there are any young men here worthy of your good heart, my dear, I shall not fail to lay them at your feet." And with those words, they pa.s.sed through the building into the Spring Gardens beyond.

Despite the windy night, the Grand Walk was well lit by globes hung from the trees. Beneath those lights circulated the cream of London's society, from wealthy merchants to the aristocracy itself, to the accompaniment of music from the orchestra in the grove.

And half of them at least were hunting spouses, for themselves or for their offspring.

At least he needn't winnow the grain from the chaff. Tonight's ridotto al fresco was a charity event, to benefit some worthy cause or another-the Foundling Hospital, perhaps, or soldiers wounded in the Jacobite Rebellion. On an ordinary night, anyone who could afford the shilling entrance fee could come inside. Poorer folks saved their pennies, then dressed in their shabby best to gawk at the music and the paintings and the splendor of their betters.

His mother had a point, Galen was forced to admit; the place wasn't wasn't entirely reputable. Hopefully Cynthia knew to keep far away from the Druid Walk and other such dark corners, where young bloods laid snares for unchaperoned young ladies. It should be safer tonight, with the prost.i.tutes chased out, but not every peer's son respected a woman's dignity as he should. entirely reputable. Hopefully Cynthia knew to keep far away from the Druid Walk and other such dark corners, where young bloods laid snares for unchaperoned young ladies. It should be safer tonight, with the prost.i.tutes chased out, but not every peer's son respected a woman's dignity as he should.

Food was laid out in the Rotunda to their left, slightly better than the usual overpriced fare of the gardens. Peter Mayhew lurked there, and his face fell when he saw that Daphne hadn't accompanied them. "Hurst is about somewhere," he told Galen, gesturing vaguely at the expanse of the gardens. "If I see him, I'll tell him you're here; I believe he intends to spend the night hunting on your behalf."

It seemed Galen would have all the a.s.sistance he could stomach, and more. He was grateful to spot Dr. Andrews near the orchestra, the one man in London with whom he could talk something other than marriage prospects.

The stick-thin man turned when Galen called his name. "Ah, Mr. St. Clair. Here to support the good efforts of the Marine Society?"

So it was the Navy they were benefitting. "Yes, of course," Galen said, as if he'd known. Andrews's mouth compressed, not quite concealing amus.e.m.e.nt. To prove he wasn't entirely entirely ignorant of the evening's design, Galen added, "Mr. Lowe will be singing later, I believe. Have you had the pleasure of hearing him? A fine tenor indeed." ignorant of the evening's design, Galen added, "Mr. Lowe will be singing later, I believe. Have you had the pleasure of hearing him? A fine tenor indeed."

"A fine voice, but an inferior grasp of musical art," Andrews said. "One would think the latter could be taught, and the former could not, but it seems beyond Mr. Lowe's capacity. Nevertheless, a splendid singer-I do not mean to belittle him. Hanway would not engage him for this event, otherwise."

"How go your studies?" Galen asked, and they spent an enjoyable if gruesome few minutes discussing the medical arts. This entirely inappropriate conversation, however, was interrupted by the arrival of Cynthia, with another young lady in tow. "Oh, I do apologize-Galen, I wanted to introduce you to my friend Miss Northwood."

He bowed, sighing inwardly. From one duty to another, this one less pleasant. From one duty to another, this one less pleasant. Northwood; that was one of the names Hurst had suggested. The one whose given name Byrd had derided. Northwood; that was one of the names Hurst had suggested. The one whose given name Byrd had derided.

Philadelphia certainly was a grand name for its bearer. She was excessively thin, and had the kind of plainness that showed its worst in fine dress; elegance merely heightened the lack of it in her face. Not ugly, just very unexceptional-the sort who attracted compliments for her fine straight teeth. And even those only appeared briefly, in an awkward smile. certainly was a grand name for its bearer. She was excessively thin, and had the kind of plainness that showed its worst in fine dress; elegance merely heightened the lack of it in her face. Not ugly, just very unexceptional-the sort who attracted compliments for her fine straight teeth. And even those only appeared briefly, in an awkward smile.

"We'd be poor gentlemen indeed if we objected to the company of two pretty girls," Galen said, subst.i.tuting courtesy for truth. "And if you overheard our topic-I promise you, we can can be more civilized. Just a few minutes ago Dr. Andrews and I were discussing the singer, Mr. Lowe. Have you heard him, Miss Northwood?" be more civilized. Just a few minutes ago Dr. Andrews and I were discussing the singer, Mr. Lowe. Have you heard him, Miss Northwood?"

"Once," she said, in a soft contralto. "Not the most subtle in his interpretation of the melody-but you hardly notice that fault, past the glory of his voice."

Which earned her Dr. Andrews's instant approval. The two of them immediately commenced a debate over whose musical interpretation was superior to Lowe's, while Cynthia cast Galen a look he could interpret all too easily. So this was her a.s.sistance to him: Miss Northwood as a prospective target. He had not known they were friends.

She seemed pleasant enough. And Galen had had said that beauty was not his chiefest requirement. In fact-noting the colorful chine silk of her gown, the intricate cording around its neckline-he recalled now why Hurst would have suggested her. Philadelphia Northwood's father was one of the Directors of the Bank of England. Wealthy, and eager for his daughter to marry into a better family. In short, exactly what Galen was looking for. said that beauty was not his chiefest requirement. In fact-noting the colorful chine silk of her gown, the intricate cording around its neckline-he recalled now why Hurst would have suggested her. Philadelphia Northwood's father was one of the Directors of the Bank of England. Wealthy, and eager for his daughter to marry into a better family. In short, exactly what Galen was looking for.

He marshaled his courage and waited for an opportune moment. When it came, he said, "Miss Northwood-do you dance?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. Galen had the distinct impression this was not a question she was often asked; young men, seeing her, no doubt a.s.sumed that plainness on her part meant bruised toes on theirs, and inquired elsewhere. But the musicians were striking up a contredanse, and a platform had been built in the Grove for the purpose. She said, "I do, Mr. St. Clair-when invited."

"Then please allow me to extend my invitation," he said, proffering his arm to accompany the words.

Cynthia's encouraging smile pursued them as they went to join the other dancers. This was easy enough, easier than conversation; he'd been through many hours of dancing lessons, and no doubt she had, too. He settled his hat more firmly upon his head, so the trickster wind could not s.n.a.t.c.h it away, and gave his hand to Miss Northwood, who accepted it with a curtsy.

She danced like an instruction book, every movement precisely as her own dancing master must have dictated it to her, without any particular flair or grace. But neither did she step upon his toes, and once he was certain of that safety, Galen realized he must make conversation after all. "I was not aware you were friends with my sister," he began, seizing upon the first safe topic that came to mind.

"Cynthia and I share certain charity interests," Miss Northwood replied, as they circled each other in an allemande. "The Society for the Improvement of Education Among the Indigent Poor."

A perfectly respectable thing for polite young ladies to do. "And do you fill all your days with the improvement of one thing or another?" he asked, with a smile to show he meant no disdain. "Or do you spare an hour here and there for more frivolous pursuits?"

Her careful mask of pleasantry briefly deepened to something more genuine as they joined hands for a promenade. "I am no Methodist, Mr. St. Clair. If I filled every day with nothing but good works, I would soon burn my candle to a stub. The occasional frivolous diversion, I find, restores some of its lost wax-if I may be forgiven my execrable choice of metaphor, which I fear has taken a wrong turn somewhere. I should have gone with lamp oil."

It startled a laugh out of him-a real one, not the polite chuckle every gentleman cultivated for genteel conversation. "Forgiven, Miss Northwood. What manner of diversion do you prefer?"

She hesitated for only the most fleeting of instants; had the dance oriented him away from her at that moment, he would have missed it. "I enjoy reading."

As many plain young ladies did, their time unoccupied by the demands of flirtation and social intrigue. "Novels?"

Her answering look was sharp, before she moved to change places with the lady of the neighboring couple. By the time they were rejoined, the careful mask was back. "Sometimes. Also history, philosophy, translations of cla.s.sical works-"

Galen realized his mistake. He should have detected it sooner; Cynthia knew him, and knew where his priorities would be in courting. "I apologize, Miss Northwood. Were it not at our estate in Ess.e.x, I would show you my own library, and you would see I'm of your mind. These days, I must make do with a circulating library." It was the only way he could get new books; his father firmly condemned the expense of purchasing them.

"Make do?" She laughed. "They are a wonderful inst.i.tution, for if I purchased every book I wished to read, my father would put me on bread and water to make up the expense."

Not just the refuge of a plain girl who could get nothing better; she had actual pa.s.sion for learning. Vauxhall is a terrible place for her, Vauxhall is a terrible place for her, Galen thought. It advertised every good quality she did not possess, while hiding those she did. Galen thought. It advertised every good quality she did not possess, while hiding those she did. She would do much better in another context. She would do much better in another context.

The dance was ending, which was a good thing for them both. Their inattention had caused their steps to degenerate, his as well as hers. "Miss Northwood," he said as he made his final bow, "have you been to see the curiosities of the British Museum?"

"I thought it wasn't open to the public yet."

He smiled. "It isn't, but they can be persuaded to admit the occasional select visitor. I would be delighted to arrange a small party." Cynthia would help, he was sure. And for the chance of snaring such wealth, his father would not begrudge the expense.

Having uttered those words, he saw that the smile Miss Northwood had offered upon meeting him was a false thing, her attempt at the coquetry expected of a marriageable young woman. This This was the real Miss Northwood, and the frank honesty of this smile was much more charming. "Mr. St. Clair, I would walk barefoot to Bloomsbury for the chance." was the real Miss Northwood, and the frank honesty of this smile was much more charming. "Mr. St. Clair, I would walk barefoot to Bloomsbury for the chance."

As they approached the edge of the crowd, Galen saw Cynthia raise an inquisitive eyebrow. He nodded at her, grat.i.tude warming his heart. There may be other prospects. Nothing is certain yet. But thank you, beloved sister-this is a very good place to start. There may be other prospects. Nothing is certain yet. But thank you, beloved sister-this is a very good place to start.

The Onyx Hall, London: March 11, 1758 There were two elf-knights at the chamber door, members of the Onyx Guard, but it was the valet Irrith couldn't get past. "Lord Galen is occupied," he said.

Irrith scowled ferociously. The servant didn't so much as blink. He was faerie-blooded, that was obvious; it showed in the set of his eyes. Clearly he'd seen enough of fae to be less than impressed with the scowl of one slender sprite.

She had nothing to bribe him with, either. Flirtation was out of the question; Irrith was not Carline, in inclination or skill. She had to resort to something like the honest truth. "It has to do with the Dragon."

The word was practically a magic key, opening doors throughout the Onyx Hall. But not this door, it seemed. "Very good, ma'am," the servant said with a bow. "If you would care to leave your message with me-"

"I would not. Listen, nocky boy; I have a question for the Prince, and until I get an answer-"

The door suddenly swung farther open, revealing Lord Galen, in a state of half-dress. His shirtsleeves billowed silk-white out of his unb.u.t.toned waistcoat, and his wig was missing. Irrith fought not to goggle. He looked very different without its carefully styled curls-somehow both older and younger, and definitely less foppish.

Galen ran one self-conscious hand over his cropped scalp, as if only just now realizing that perhaps it did not do to meet a lady at his door with his head so very bare. His hair was chestnut brown, darker than her own. "Dame Irrith. Come in."

He did not say, So I don't have to listen to you and my man argue forever. So I don't have to listen to you and my man argue forever. Irrith didn't much care why he let her in; she obeyed with speed, slipping past the servant, and even restraining herself from smirking at him. Irrith didn't much care why he let her in; she obeyed with speed, slipping past the servant, and even restraining herself from smirking at him.

The Prince's chambers were much changed from the last time she saw them-which was, after all, more than fifty years and several Princes ago. They were light light! Someone, perhaps at Galen's instigation, had covered the black walls with some kind of paint or paper in an agreeable shade of pale blue. Carpets softened the stone floors, and elegant chairs stood about, as well as a few st.u.r.dier pieces. No doubt those were there for the convenience of the Onyx Court's more ma.s.sive fae.

Irrith bowed, but Galen dismissed it with a wave of his hand, gesturing her to sit at a small table. "Would you like anything to drink? No? Thank you, Edward; that will be all."

The man bowed and retired to an inner room. If he was a proper Onyx Court servant, he'd be eavesdropping at the keyhole. Well, let him, Well, let him, Irrith thought. Lune wouldn't let him serve the Prince if she didn't trust his discretion. Irrith thought. Lune wouldn't let him serve the Prince if she didn't trust his discretion.

It was hard to attach that t.i.tle to Galen, young as he was, and so uncertain. He seemed to breathe easier, though, away from Lune. He hesitated for a moment, before apparently deciding not to retire and dress properly; instead he seated himself across from Irrith. "So. You have something to say about the Dragon."

"I," Irrith said, and stopped. "Um. That is-"

A grin lurked at the corner of his mouth. "It was something you said to get past Edward." Irrith looked down in embarra.s.sment. "It's all right; my time isn't so precious as he thinks. What did you want?"

She felt very odd, sitting in this light and delicate room. It didn't feel like the Onyx Hall at all-more like some fashionable gentleman's parlor, that happened to have no windows. A little piece of the mortal world, brought down here intact. "You're mortal," Irrith said.

The grin came back, lurking more obviously. "I am," Galen agreed.

"And you're a part of the Onyx Court. The Prince, even. So you must believe this place is worthwhile. Right?"

It didn't quite kill the grin, but Galen's eyebrows rose. "Of course I do."

"Why?"

He stared at her, lips slightly parted. Watching the play of emotions across his face was entrancing. Galen had a very expressive face, wide-eyed, with a sensitive mouth and skin that easily betrayed a blush. And his mood changed so quickly, so easily! She could observe him for a week without pause and never grow bored.

That sensitive mouth opened and closed a couple of times, as Galen searched for words. At last he said, "Her Grace told me you fought for the Onyx Hall during the Great Fire. Did you not think it worth preserving then?"

"I did."

"Have you changed your mind?"

Irrith squirmed on the padded seat. "I... don't know. It just seems to me-like we, the fae, cling cling to you. To mortals. Because you give us things, feelings, experiences, that we can't get otherwise. But what do to you. To mortals. Because you give us things, feelings, experiences, that we can't get otherwise. But what do you you get in return? Oh, sometimes we inspire the occasional artist-but is a painting or a piece of music that important? And sometimes a mortal falls in love with a faerie, but how often does that turn out well for them?" get in return? Oh, sometimes we inspire the occasional artist-but is a painting or a piece of music that important? And sometimes a mortal falls in love with a faerie, but how often does that turn out well for them?"