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 passion. Brief lives, flickering in and out like fireflies, and all the more brilliant because of it. But what benefit did the fireflies gain?
Carline recognised the selfishness of it, as Irrith had not. And far from repenting, she embraced it, revelled 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 clamour of Covent Garden Market, surrounded and alone.
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 passengers, 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 damn 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 passengers crowded the rail in anticipation of arrival. “That’s his 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 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. Passengers began to disembark, gentlemen assisting 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 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 passed, 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 assured 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 passed 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 splendour of their betters.
His mother had a point, Galen was forced to admit; the place 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 prostitutes chased out, but not every peer’s son respected a woman’s dignity as he should.