Weaken the mind, Galen thought, not even certain what he meant by that phrase. Perhaps that’s why the Dragon could not be killed. Its mind is more powerful than its body.
The lecture was done. Distracted, he rose from his chair and went to the table at the side of the room, where he poured a cup of punch for himself. Then he stood with it forgotten in his hand, biting one thumbnail, still thinking.
Mrs. Vesey found him there. “Well, Mr. St. Clair, inquiring busybodies wish to know—when do you intend to offer for her?”
Her question was so unexpected, and so little in keeping with his current thoughts, that he almost didn’t understand the words; she could have been speaking Arabic. Once her meaning became clear, he glanced across the room to Miss Northwood, who stood in animated conversation with Mrs. Montagu. “I have until the end of the Season, as you well know.”
“She is free,” Mrs. Vesey said, “but not likely to remain so forever. Not with parents so ambitious to see their daughter matched well.”
Galen liked to believe that Miss Northwood looked kindly upon him. He might not be the only man so favoured, though. He sighed. “Free—as I am not. Mrs. Vesey, whatever shall I do? How can I, in good conscience, take a wife? It’s one thing to have interests and business separate from marriage and one’s wife—every man does so—but when they must be kept secret…”
Mrs. Vesey pursed her lips, then said, “You could tell her.”
“About—” Far too loud, especially for the words that had nearly come out of his mouth. Galen waited until he could speak more moderately, then whispered, “You must be mad.”
“Must I?” She seemed unconcerned by the prospect. “I know you aren’t the first man to be in your position. They cannot have all been bachelors, and surely some told their wives.”
Galen had no idea whether they had or not. It was not something he’d ever thought to ask the Queen. On the surface of it, there was no reason Mrs. Vesey should be wrong; after all, as Lune had reminded him, if he wanted to reveal the secret of the Onyx Court to some mortal, he had the authority to do so. Yet in his mind, mortal had always meant man. Even standing here, within whispering distance of a woman who had tea every week with a faerie, he’d never thought to include the gentler sex.
But of course Mrs. Vesey’s suggestion only addressed the objection of secrecy. She knew nothing of his love for Lune, that would make him unfaithful to his wife from the moment they were wed.
Galen gritted his teeth. I thought I left that objection behind in my father’s study. Apparently his conscience would not let go so easily.
Mrs. Vesey said, “Well, do consider it. I think Miss Northwood is a proper match for you; she, of all girls, might be able to accept that truth. And if you wait until the end of the Season, Mr. St. Clair, you may well lose her to another gentleman. Think on that, too—and while you do, please take this punch to Dr. Andrews.”
On her way to the night garden, Irrith passed a surprising number of fae in the corridors of the Onyx Hall. They fell neatly into two groups: the rough-clad, non-elfin ones were going to the arena to watch a mortal boxer stand up against the yarthkin Hempry, and the elfin ones in fanciful dress were on their way to one of the greater halls, for a masquerade ball.
Near the branch that led to the Temple of Arms, she ran into and almost did not recognise Segraine. For once the lady knight looked more lady than knight, in a dress woven of mist that complemented her eyes. “You aren’t going to watch the boxer?” Irrith said in surprise.
Her friend scowled. “A pair of mermen showed up in Queenhithe this morning, come to negotiate with her Majesty about the clouds. She didn’t expect them; this might be the first time they’ve deigned to come so far upriver. The hope is that it’s a good sign. But it means she wants a big retinue at the ball, to impress the sea folk.”
The speculation on Segraine’s face made Irrith say hastily, “I have nothing suitable to wear, and couldn’t possibly find anything in time.”
“And if I go looking out a gown for you, you’ll vanish while my back’s turned.” Segraine made a frustrated noise. “Rumour has it Carline will be showing up in a dress made of flame. I liked her better when she was scheming; then she wanted something, and was willing to display the tiniest bit of tact in order to get it.”
The reasons for Irrith not to attend the ball kept mounting. She said, “I was going to the night garden, to talk to Ktistes. He says his people have ways to talk to the winds, and I think that might help me with the clouds.”
“Better the Greeks than the merfolk. Their desires are far more comprehensible.” Segraine brushed her hands across the false hips of her dress, sending mist eddying outward, and said, “Her Grace is waiting for me. If she asks, I’ll say I didn’t see you.”
Irrith barely waited to express her gratitude before bolting for the night garden.
The place was eerily silent. Normally there were fae scattered around enjoying the fountains or the flowers or conducting an assignation under a bower, but tonight Irrith had it to herself—except for Ktistes, of course, who showed no interest in masquerades, and preferred wrestling to boxing. On her way to his pavilion on the far side, though, Irrith realised there was one other person in the garden.
Galen sat on a low bench next to a slender white obelisk. What he was doing there, Irrith didn’t know; he should have been with Lune, preparing to greet the ambassadors from the sea. Certainly he was dressed for court, in a deep blue coat heavily crusted with silver embroidery and a diamond-buttoned waistcoat. He sat unmoving, though, and his expression was a complex blend of melancholy and speculation, and it drew her like a moth to a flame.
She made enough noise that he heard her coming and rose. “Dame Irrith. Is her Grace calling for me?”
“Probably,” Irrith said. “I came to visit Ktistes. What are you doing?”
The Prince gestured toward the plaque at the base of the obelisk. “Just… thinking.”
Irrith drew closer and knelt in the grass, the better to read the inscriptions at the base. They turned out to be a list of names and dates.
Sir Michael Deven 1590–1625
Sir Antony Ware 1625–1665
Dr. John Ellin 1665–1693
Lord Joseph Winslow 1693–1724
Sir Alan Fitzwarren 1724–1750
Dr. Hamilton Birch 1750–1756
And above them, in large letters, PRINCES OF THE STONE.
The numbers made her feel very odd. It was such a human thing—of course, the men commemorated here were human. But to see the years of their reigns laid out in marble like that… it was as if she normally flew above the landscape of time, and this forced her briefly down to earth.
From behind her, Galen said, “You knew some of them, didn’t you?”
“Three.” Irrith reached out with an uncertain hand, brushing her fingertip along the names. “Lord Antony. Jack—he rarely used his title. And Lord Joseph.” After that, she’d been in Berkshire.
“How many were married?”
Irrith twisted around to stare at him. Galen still had that look on his face, the melancholy and the speculation. And a bit of apprehension, too. “Of the ones I knew? Lord Antony and Lord Joseph.”
Now melancholy was winning out. “And the first one, too, I think. Even if they were never wed in a church, I know he loved the Queen. And she loved him back.”