“How appropriate,” Dr. Andrews said, with an unsteady laugh. “You’re taking me to Bedlam.”
“What? Oh—no, I assure you,” Galen hastened to say, once he’d pieced together Andrews’s meaning. In the darkness beyond Edward’s lantern, the broad expanse of the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem—Bedlam—was nothing more than a shadow against the stars, hulking above the old City wall. “Though some of the lunatics may be, er, joining us.” Londoners liked to go and poke at them with sticks for entertainment; the Onyx Court took it further, and invited them to participate in the fun. Tonight of all nights, the mad had a place among the faeries.
Midsummer Eve was swelteringly warm this year. Galen wished it wouldn’t be against the royal dignity of a Prince to shuck off his coat and wig and dance in his shirt. Andrews would probably look askance at him, though, even if Lune didn’t.
And then there was Irrith to consider.
As if his thoughts had summoned her, the sprite appeared in the gap that had once been Moorgate. Her apparel was an alarming blend of styles, masculine and feminine, mortal and faerie. On top she wore something like a woman’s riding habit, with a short jacket that showed off her tiny waist and sleeves that fell open at the elbows, but beneath it were tight-fitting breeches of doeskin, and on her curls perched a charming little three-cornered hat. And in bright colors, too: for occasions such as this, the Onyx Court laid aside its love of dark colors, and decked itself in all the splendour of summer. Whatever bird had sacrificed its feathers for her jacket, it came from nowhere in this world.
Irrith curtsied as they drew near, an incongruous motion that had the virtue of displaying the glimmering spiderweb lace of her sleeves. “Lord Galen,” she said, “Dr. Andrews. Her Majesty sent me to make sure you don’t get caught by the enchantments.” Her smile twinkled even in the darkness. “She would hate for you to be wandering lost for a year and a day.”
Galen simply nodded; his throat had gone too dry for anything else. The sly glance Irrith delivered to him was more restrained than it might have been, but it still set off half a dozen conflicting reactions within him. One of them made him glad for the length of his waistcoat. Others made him want to run away, fast.
Instead he gestured Dr. Andrews forward, while Edward extinguished the lamp. They all joined hands, Irrith letting out a sigh that indicated just how much she regretted forgoing the opportunity to play with the newcomer, and went forward. Dizzying vertigo gripped Galen for a moment—brief visions of other streets, moonlit forests, a muddy village—and then they were around the corner of Bedlam’s western wing, and standing in the lower Moor Fields.
London had long since burst the confines of its wall to consume the land to the north, but this place remained, defended by tradition less visible but far more enduring than the stones of that wall. By day, Moor Fields was a shabby stretch of much-abused grass, stretching from Bedlam’s entrance up to the artillery ground; nearby laundresses still staked their washing out to dry there. By night, it was a haunt for prostitutes and molly-boys. But on Midsummer Eve, it belonged to the fae, as it had since the founding of the Onyx Hall.
Faerie lights danced through the branches of the trees that marked off the lower field, casting colorful light upon the improbably vibrant grass. A great bonfire burnt where the paths came together, without need of wood to feed it, and all around that beacon danced the revellers, faerie and mortal alike. Some wore outrageous mockeries of the most excessive mortal fashions, rendered in moss and mist and leaves. Others wore nothing at all. Galen blushed away from a lushly rounded apple maiden wearing only a few soft petals from her tree, none of them covering anything significant. Rural fae from miles around flocked to London for Midsummer and May Day, and they brought their rural customs with them.
Lune had offered a splendid escort to bring the Prince and his visitor to the celebration. Ordinarily Galen would have entered with the Queen, accompanied by all the pomp appropriate to their joint stations, and she’d frowned at the notion of him coming virtually alone. But he thought it best for Andrews to have an escort he recognised, and an entrance that would draw less attention. Seeing the doctor’s wide, unblinking eyes, he rather thought he’d made the right choice.
And there would be pomp soon enough. Irrith was leading them north and east, skirting the crowd around the bonfire. A filthy, unshaven man lay on his back in the grass, hips bucking, rutting with nothing while a pair of pucks watched and laughed. At least he’s enjoying himself, Galen thought. The tricks played on this night were usually of a benevolent sort, or at least not permanently harmful. All Hallows’ Eve was a much less pleasant story.
Something more like dignity reigned in the northeast quarter of the field. There, two long tables stood arrayed before the trees, with dozens of mouthwatering dishes laid upon their white silk. “Remember,” Galen whispered to Andrews, “eat nothing whatsoever. There is food here that is safe, but there are also a great many fae who would think it sport to lead you falsely.”
“And they can even disguise themselves to make me think you are vouching for its safety,” Andrews said. He smiled tensely. “I am not likely to forget.”
Then there was no more time for warnings, for Irrith had brought them into the presence of the Queen.
Lune sat in a gap between the two tables, in a chair of estate carved from birch and horn, with a canopy of starlight above her head. Galen’s own chair was at her left hand, awaiting him. A truly tiny hob stood with a crystal platter above his head, piled with strawberries and a bowl of cream for the Queen’s pleasure, but he backed away with careful haste when he saw their approach, leaving Lune alone.
Galen bowed, and nudged the momentarily paralised Andrews into doing the same. “Your Grace, I bring a guest to these revels. Dr. Rufus Andrews.”
Even had he not loved her, Galen would have thought the Queen the most radiant star of this night. What fabric her dress was made of, he could not begin to guess; it floated like the wind itself, weightless and pure, with shades of blue shifting through it like living embroidery. Her stomacher glittered with gems, and someone had threaded brilliant blue flowers into her silver hair, creating a style that was somehow both regal and carefree, as if the coronet grew there by nature.
“You are welcome, Dr. Andrews,” Lune said. Galen shivered at the sound of her voice. It carried distinctly, muting the noise of the dancers into distant murmuring, without her ever having to raise it. “You come to us on a special night. We are not so festive the year round; even faeries—perhaps especially faeries—need variety. But we hope you will not abandon us when we return to our more sober ways.”
Andrews stood open-mouthed for a moment before he realised she was waiting for him to reply. “I—have no fear that I will grow tired of your company, in any form.”
“We are glad to hear it.” Lune gestured with one graceful hand at the revelry all around. “We’ve made it known that you are our especial guest here tonight, and under the patronage of both myself and Lord Galen. No one will visit mischief upon you.” Her smile took on a roguish edge. “Save that which you ask for, of course.”
Clutching his hat in his hands, Andrews bowed his thanks. “If I may, your Grace—curiosity prods me—”
Lune motioned for him to continue.
“How do you prevent interference?” He nodded over his shoulder, at the elegant sweep of Bedlam, belying the squalor within. “Your handmaiden mentioned enchantments, but surely it cannot be easy, keeping such a crowd as this from drawing the attention of the guards there, and the people who live in the houses alongside.”