Andrews began to count them off on his fingers. “Why are certain aspects of religion disquieting to the fae? Why can I say ‘Heaven’ without troubling anyone, but not other words? Why is iron anathema? How are glamours created? What are they composed of? Why can the mad see through them? Why does tithed food protect, and what would happen if someone were to tithe stuffs other than bread or milk—ale, perhaps, or meat? How was this palace created, and how is it both here and not here in the space below London?” Having run out of fingers somewhere in his count, he stopped and, with a shrug both sheepish and helpless, he said, “What is a faerie in the first place?”
Irrith gaped at him. “I thought you were a doctor, not some windy old philosopher.”
“Philosophy is the root of knowledge,” Wrain told her, having listened quietly to Andrews’s litany. “And the mortal belief is that one cannot truly answer final questions without first understanding the foundational ones.”
“Mortal belief?” Andrews repeated.
Lady Feidelm smiled at him. She was an imposing creature, as tall as Andrews himself, but friendly in her way. “We do not work by reason, as you do, Dr. Andrews. Though from time to time we craft some new design, as Dame Irrith is doing to conceal our land from the comet, we do not experiment for the improvement of our charms. What you see as a craft is not so to us; it is instinct, and our very being.”
He had a notebook out, and was bracing it against the arm of his chair as he scribbled notes with a small pencil. “Yes—but so, too, is gravity a kind of instinct; objects do not reason how they fall to earth. Yet it can be investigated by determined minds. Mr. St. Clair, I believe I will need to work both here and at my house; though you have been very generous in providing this chamber, there are some experiments I will have to conduct elsewhere, lest I make myself very unwelcome here.”
The astonishment was near universal. Galen said, “Surely you don’t mean to experiment with iron, or the divine name.”
Andrews looked up from his notes. He took in the various reactions, ranging from Irrith’s appalled gape to the wary consideration of the scholars. “Mr. St. Clair,” the doctor said, laying his pencil down, “you’ve asked my assistance in defeating a faerie creature. To do so, I will need to understand the weaknesses of the fae—what their effect is, and on what basis they operate. I will be glad to hear the opinions of these gentlemen, and this lady, but without judicious experimentation, I fear I will not be able to add much to what they already know.” He paused, then added, “I assure you, I mean no harm.”
“I will work with the doctor.” That was Savennis, who had said nothing since his introduction to Dr. Andrews. The quiet courtier grimaced. “It may not be pleasant, but I believe he’s right: it is necessary.”
Galen had seen what happened when unprepared fae were struck with holy force. And even now, the wound in Lune’s shoulder pained her, legacy of an iron knife a century before. Savennis’s courage in even facing that bane awed him. “Her Grace and I will reward you for your service,” he promised the pale, bookish faerie. “And Dr. Andrews, you will inform me of everything you intend to do with Savennis, before you attempt it. If I say something goes too far, you will heed me.”
“Of course,” Andrews murmured, and relief shone in Savennis’s eyes.
The exchange cast a nervous pall over the room, which Galen did his best to lighten. “I’ve arranged for a servant, a hob named Podder, to see to your needs here, and to bring your reports to me and the Queen. Beyond that, I think I’ve done what I can for now; I will leave the rest of you to your philosophizing. Dame Irrith, do you wish to stay?”
The sprite was perched on the edge of her chair, toes turned inward like a young girl’s, but a pensive look on her face that no young girl had ever worn. She shook her head slowly, then brightened as a thought came to her. “You, Lord Galen, have business elsewhere, I think—telling the Queen your happy news.”
He cursed her even as Andrews said, “Happy news? Are you perhaps betrothed, Mr. St. Clair?”
“I am,” he said, masking his dread with a smile. She’s right, and you know it. You must tell Lune. “To Miss Northwood, whom I have told you of. We’re to be married in the spring.”
Andrews shook his hand vigorously, pouring out good wishes for them both, which the fae echoed as if speaking phrases in a foreign language. Irrith watched all of this with good-natured malice. “I will return when I can,” Galen said, retrieving his hand from the doctor. “In the meantime, may all the powers of Heaven and Faerie both speed you in your work.”
Galen sank to his knee on the carpet before Lune and said, “Your Grace, I have come to inform you that I am betrothed.”
Silence answered him. She couldn’t have been taken entirely by surprise; she knew he was seeking a wife, and the formality of his posture made this more than an ordinary visit. But Lune said nothing.
At first. Just as Galen bit his lip, though, Lune spoke. “My congratulations, Lord Galen. Is your future bride the Miss Northwood I’ve been hearing of?”
“Yes, madam.” She’d probably sent her spies to examine the lady more directly; Lune liked to be well informed.
He hesitated, then lifted his head, away from contemplation of the carpet’s plush surface. Lune’s thoughts were impossible to read. “Madam,” he said, distress roughening it, “please, believe me when I say this will change nothing. The Onyx Court is and shall remain the priority of my life.” You will remain the priority of my life.
Every movement she made was flawlessly graceful. Lune extended one hand, drew him to his feet. Even through the layers of his coat and shirt, the touch made him shiver. Her shoes brought him to very near his height; Lune was a tall woman, and he was not a tall man. It seemed fitting. He would not have felt right, looking down upon her.
I love you.
Words he could never say.
Lune smiled, her hand rising to his shoulder. “You needn’t worry, Galen. No one doubts your dedication to this court, least of all myself. Nor should you doubt your contributions; you have brought us Dr. Andrews, who I’m very sure will be a great help to us in our struggle. I do not thank you often enough, except as rote courtesy, so let me say it now: you have my gratitude, for all you have done, and all you will do. And that will not change when you wed.”
Nobility came so easily to her. He fancied it a relic of the past, preserved in this world out of time; in this fallen age, when even the highest descended to the riots of the theatre and tavern, debauching themselves with drinking and smoking, whoring and fisticuffs, Lune seemed the living memory of true noble grace. Or perhaps only fae ever attained that ideal, and mortals merely aspired to it, falling short of the true glory.
“So thoughtful.” Lune put one finger under his chin and tilted it up. His breath stopped. “There is always so much behind your eyes, Galen. Most of it melancholy, I think. I’m sorry you came to this court in such a troubled time. I fear you’ve seen little of its gaiety, and much of its tragedy.”
He wanted so badly to catch her hand in his. “Your tragedy,” he managed to say, “is more precious to me than the best the mortal world has to offer.”
Lune stilled. More soberly, she said, “Be cautious of that feeling, Galen. You’ve drunk a cup of faerie wine; your body and soul will always crave more. But if you discard your world to live wholly in mine, it will break you. You’ll become a shadow of yourself, desperate and mad, destroyed by the very thing you desire, and what’s more—cruel as it is—you will no longer serve this court. I need you mortal, Galen. Even though I know the price it bears.”