The people of London had all but forgotten Halley’s prediction. Their fears of fiery demise had flared too soon, sparked by the false alarm of the comet two years ago; the ongoing inability of their astronomers to sight the returning comet had slain the last of their fears. It was just a star now, trailing its diminished tail, an object of astronomical curiosity and little more.
The message was brought to Lune in her privy chamber, where she sat with only the Goodemeades for company. Most of her court was above, in the Moor Fields, celebrating May Day and their release from fifty years of fear. No Sanist concern kept Lune below, not this time; she simply could not join their revelry. Not while she wore her gown of mourning white.
She thanked the usher who brought the message and dismissed him, then lapsed once more into silence.
The two brownies had kept her company before, permitting her quiet and melancholy when she needed it. If they spoke, it was because they thought it necessary. Still, that didn’t prevent a surge of resentment when Gertrude said, “You should go to them.”
Leaving aside the fact that she didn’t wish to go anywhere at all—“Them?”
“Irrith and Delphia.”
Lune passed one weary hand over her eyes. “Mrs. St. Clair will not wish to see me, I think, nor anyone of this world. Not after what we’ve done to her husband.”
“Then you haven’t come to know her very well,” Rosamund said. “She’s here, in the Onyx Hall. Right now. But if you leave her alone, then pretty soon you’ll lose her. And Irrith’s thinking of leaving for the Vale. So if you want to keep either of them in your court, you should go to them.”
The Goodemeades were the only two who could speak so bluntly to her. The two of them, and the Prince of the Stone. Galen never availed himself of that privilege, too awed by her—too worshipful—to presume such familiarity. She’d hoped that in time his awe would fade to something more comfortable.
But his time was cut too short.
“Find them,” Lune said. “We will meet in private.”
The parlour of Galen’s chambers still lay as it had days before, with chairs turned toward the hearth, a book open facedown on a table, fragments of porcelain strewn across the floor. It was easy to believe the Prince might walk through the door at any moment. Coming here was painful, but Lune thought it the right choice. There was no hiding from his ghost. Better to face it directly.
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 passing. 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. 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 characterised 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 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 reassurance. “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 Hell!”
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 centre of the triangle the three of them created. White mist at first, almost too faint to see; then it thickened, solidified, colour 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.