It’s a strange day, when faerie politics seem the safer topic, he thought ruefully. “Lune’s enemies, then, were using that, and the return of the comet, as an argument to… remove her?” That sounded unpleasantly familiar.
Gertrude had recovered her temper enough to speak. “Yes. Ungrateful bast—”
“Gertrude!” Rosamund exclaimed, going scarlet.
“Well, they are!”
“That doesn’t mean you call them such—”
“Ladies!” Galen was off his chair, whisking Gertrude’s tea bowl out of the way before she could hurl it to the floor for emphasis. They were Rosamund’s favourite pattern—with roses around the rim, naturally—and he did not want to discover whether that would tip the sisters over into a real fight. “I’m sorry I asked. I thank you very much for the explanation, but had I known—”
Rosamund’s ire vanished as if it had never been, and she began assuring him that it wasn’t his fault, he was welcome to ask as many questions as he liked, whenever he liked. Gertrude, apparently still smarting from his comments about the Act of Union, retrieved her bowl and drained its contents, slops and all. By the time she was done, she’d calmed down enough that Galen ventured one last query. “Did the Queen banish her?”
“Irrith?” Gertrude shook her head and began gathering up the tea things. “No, Lune knew she meant no harm. As Rose said, she was tricked. But Irrith left because it was too much of everything she hates about this place: politics, and deceit, and folk stabbing each other in the back.”
Galen sympathised. Were it not for Lune, he would gladly spend all his time among the common fae, and avoid the intrigue of the courtiers.
Were it not for Lune.
“Thank you,” he said. “It makes more sense now. Cuddy thought Irrith was a Sanist, and I believe her Grace suspected it, too, at least briefly.”
“Irrith?” Rosamund shook her head emphatically. “She’s loyal to Lune. Has been for a hundred years. She would never do anything to hurt her.”
He was glad to hear it. Then Gertrude said, “We’d love to have you stay longer, but I think you should be going, my dear; it’s started to sleet.”
How she could tell, with her home buried underground, Galen didn’t know, but he emerged into the bitter air to discover she was right. He rode back to Westminster with fresh coals in the foot-warmer fighting back the chill, and brooded upon Irrith all the way.
Raucous laughter advertised Irrith’s destination before she could see it. This was the underbelly of the Onyx Hall, far from the elegant diversions of the courtiers; here, the dank chill of the river pervaded the stones, and the comforts of upper society were rarely seen. The furnishings of the room Irrith sought were nothing like the delicate mortal fashions that surrounded the Queen and the Prince. Spindle-legged chairs that had been stylish at the restoration of the monarchy clustered around heavy tables that had seen old Elizabeth Tudor’s day, and all of them blackened with ages of use.
But a few novelties reached this place. The fae gathered in the Crow’s Head—common folk, all—drank coffee and tea and gin, alongside the familiar beer and ale. It was a fashion in its own right, though one few courtiers would gamble with; those were mortal drinks, and not given in tithe. Consuming them could change a faerie. Irrith, catching a human serving-boy by the shoulder, chose the safety of faerie ale.
Magrat, she saw, was not so cautious. The church grim sat hunched in a corner, watching the world through the gap between her bony knees, a gin cup clutched in her skeletal hand. It was her usual posture, and Irrith could understand why; the church Magrat had haunted was destroyed back when fat Henry chose a new wife over loyalty to the Catholic Church. She was hardly the only grim dispossessed of her home during those times, either. Some, Irrith heard, had taken to haunting Quaker meetings and the like. It rarely turned out well, though; the white-hot faith of the Methodists and Baptists and other dissenters was too uncomfortable, even for a church grim’s tolerance. Many abandoned the mortal world entirely, fleeing into Faerie itself.
And a few, like Magrat, made new homes elsewhere. The goblin, who had once known whether the dead were destined for Heaven or Hell, now traded in different sorts of information. It wasn’t political; Magrat didn’t give a priest’s damn what use those secrets were put to. She only cared if she got paid.
Irrith slid onto the bench across from her and got a nod. “You cost me a child’s first nightmare,” the goblin said, without much rancor. “I bet Dead Rick you wouldn’t return, after that business over the Stone.”
The sprite’s stomach turned over. Blood and Bone—how had that become public knowledge? It had been a state secret when she left.
“Don’t worry,” Magrat told her, after a swig of gin. “No one’ll be after you for that anymore. Your knowledge turned to worthless dust when the mortals moved the thing to the north side of Cannon Street. Mab only knows where it is down here, now.”
Moved the Stone? Irrith did her best to keep the shock from her face. The London Stone was the heart of the Onyx Hall. If the mortals had moved it… she was surprised any of the palace was holding together anymore.
Secrecy now was rather like closing the stable door after the horse had bolted, but she owed it to Lune anyway. “I came to buy, not sell,” Irrith said. “Tell me about the Sanists.”
Magrat had no eyebrows, but the gray-tinged skin above her black eyes rose into furrows. “Sanists, is it? That’ll cost you.”
It always cost her. But Irrith knew it didn’t have to cost as much as Magrat made out. “What do you want?”
“Bread. Three pieces.”
Irrith laughed in the goblin’s face. “For that, I could buy the name of the next Prince. This isn’t worth bread, Magrat, and I don’t have any to give anyway. It’s more valuable than oaths, these days.” An exaggeration, but not by much. “How about the memory of a kiss?”
Magrat rolled her eyes in exaggerated disgust. Irrith added, “Not just any kiss. The last one given by a young man to his lady love, before he went off and got killed by the Jacobites.” It was all that remained of Tom Toggin’s bribe, and Irrith had been saving it for special use. The lady had feared, when her lover went off, that he was going to die, tinging the memory with a presentiment of grief.
“Done,” the grim said without hesitation, and spat in her hand. Irrith did the same, and they shook. She hadn’t brought the captured memory with her, of course; too many fae here had wandering fingers. The handshake was enough to secure the deal. “It’s cheap information,” Magrat admitted. “Lots of people know about the Sanists. But I can tell you more than most. It’s funny you should ask me, really, when you’ve dealt with them yourself.”
“I have?” It gave Irrith an unpleasant start. She’d wondered at the lubberkin’s whisper—had he somehow hit the mark?
Magrat waggled her over-long fingers in the air. “Not under that name. They didn’t start calling themselves Sanists until after you’d left. And Carline doesn’t let herself be seen anywhere near those folk—not publicly.”
A second start, more unpleasant than the first. Carline. Formerly one of the Queen’s ladies of the bedchamber, and the reason Irrith had left the Onyx Hall, intending never to return. “You’re talking about people who want to replace the Queen.”
The church grim unbent one spindly leg to shove something across the floor toward Irrith. “See for yourself.”
The thing turned out to be a torn, filthy sheet of paper. Irrith picked it up and found a title printed across the top in large block letters. The Ash and Thorn. Dated 10 February 1758.