“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 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, gratitude 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 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 unbuttoned 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. 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! 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 sturdier pieces. No doubt those were there for the convenience of the Onyx Court’s more massive 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, Irrith thought. Lune wouldn’t let him serve the Prince if she didn’t trust his discretion.
It was hard to attach that title 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 embarrassment. “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 to you. To mortals. Because you give us things, feelings, experiences, that we can’t get otherwise. But what do 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?”
Irrith damned her thoughtless tongue even as the words came out, too late to be stopped. Galen flushed a fascinating, fragile pink. Did he really believe no one in the Onyx Hall knew of his unrequited love, when his every mannerism shouted it to the world?
Out of pity for his discomfort, Irrith said, “I agree with the Queen, as far as it goes. I like the idea of mortals and fae having some kind of harmony…” She sighed. “Even in the Vale, we’re drifting apart. People are more concerned with London newspapers, the latest fashion or gossip about the aristocracy, the next ball or concert or whatever gathering is planned. It doesn’t touch Wayland’s realm, of course; we’re perfectly safe inside. But fae are going out less and less. And if we don’t go out, then what’s the point of being there at all? Why not just go into Faerie?” Or to France. Like Carline.
“Because we need you,” Galen said.
“Do you? Why?”
He sighed and ran his hands over his scalp again. One of his fingernails was bitten down to the quick. “I don’t know if I can explain it.”
If he couldn’t, then who could? “You’re Prince of the Stone,” Irrith reminded him. “The mortal half of the Onyx Court’s rulership. You of all people should have an answer.”
The compression of his mouth, the shift in his eyes, illustrated a welter of emotions. Embarrassment, nervousness, frustration. Irrith had clearly reminded him of something he knew, and tried not to think of. He’s a very odd Prince, she thought; she had seen enough to compare. And it isn’t just him being new, either.
Galen said, seemingly out of nowhere, “There is such beauty here—and such ugliness, too.”
Magrat’s face suggested itself. “And that’s somehow good for mortals?”
“In a way.” He rose from the table, hands half-raised, cradling empty air as if trying to grasp the idea in his mind. “Whatever a faerie is—beautiful or ugly; friendly or cruel; amusing or appallingly rude—you’re pure. They say evil exists in the world because without it, good would have no meaning. I wonder sometimes if that’s what the fae are. Not evil—I don’t mean that—” Galen’s half-distracted words stuttered into apology, before he saw Irrith hadn’t taken offence. “More like the, the pigments a painter works with. The pure colors, before they’re blended. When you hate, you hate. When you love—”