The disguised brownie curtsied to Galen, though she refrained from addressing him by title. Andrews said, “Mr. St. Clair. As you can see, I am not yet dead.”
“You’re looking much better,” Galen replied honestly. “Much more improvement, sir, and you’ll be in better health than you were when first I met you.”
That last was an exaggeration, made to bolster the man’s spirits. Andrews still lay propped up against pillows, and his colour was far from good. “As much as I would welcome that,” the doctor said, “I will settle for sufficient strength to rise from this bed. I’m eager to return to work.”
Gertrude clucked her tongue. “Now, Dr. Andrews—I might be no physician, but I think you’ll agree I’ve seen my share of sick men. You know full well that too much eagerness might land you right back where you are right now. And the air in that place is too cool; it wouldn’t be good for your lungs.”
“It’s also dry, though,” Galen said. “Isn’t that supposed to help? We could always bring in something to warm the space. And perhaps some of its… subtler qualities might help.”
His attempt to hint at his sudden inspiration failed; the other two looked baffled. Galen cast a wary eye upon the bedchamber door. Andrews insisted his servants were the model of discretion, and Galen admittedly had seen nothing to disprove it. Still, he lowered his voice before he went on. “The passage of time—or lack thereof. Men grow no older while in that place, do they? Might that not also pause the progress of his disease?”
It had seemed like a brilliant idea; he was therefore crushed when Gertrude shook her head. “Folk have died of disease there, Galen. One of your predecessors used to keep patients in the Billingsgate warren, because the space was clean and quiet. Some got better, it’s true, but not all.”
He should not have said it in front of Dr. Andrews. The man’s expression showed the broken pieces of hope, and the powerful desire to cling to what remained of them. “Still—” He paused as if he was going to cough, but drew a clear breath and forged on. “Part of my difficulty is the encroachment of weakness, and some of that is age. Even if it offered me only small help…”
“It would be better than nothing,” Galen agreed. “Come, Gertrude—is it not worth a try?”
“You know the risks,” Gertrude said in an urgent whisper. “Dr. Andrews, surely they warned you; to stay too long below brings its own kind of weakness.”
If she thought that would dissuade anyone, she was wrong. Andrews merely said, “I would trade that risk for the one I face now.”
The brownie bit her lip uncertainly, turning the empty cup around in her hands. Galen willed her to see the man lying in his nightshirt, pale and burnt thin by disease, the man in whom he had placed his hopes of a solution against the Dragon. The fae were Andrews’s one hope of survival, and at the moment, he was theirs. If this had the smallest chance of extending his life, and therefore the time in which they might find solutions to their problems…
“Isn’t for me to decide,” she said at last, taking refuge in lack of authority. “It’s yours, Lord Galen, and the Queen’s. If you think it worth trying, and she agrees, then so be it.”
“I will consult with her immediately,” Galen said, before Andrews could even ask. The pieces of hope were beginning to knit themselves back together. Fear of them breaking again, however, made him add, “The Queen has more experience of this than I. If she says it would do more harm than good, I’ll have to heed her.”
Andrews sagged back against his pillows. “I understand.”
They left him then, for whatever good the draught had done him, he still needed rest. No servants scurried guiltily away when Galen opened the door, so it seemed their imprudently direct words had not been overheard. Gertrude waited until they reached the square, though, before she took him by the sleeve.
“I have experience of this, too, Lord Galen,” she said. Her face was suited for merriment, not somberness, but her eyes made up all the difference. “If you do bring him below—not just for an afternoon here, a day there, but for days on end—you must watch him carefully. Mortal minds don’t fare well among us, and it is his mind, as much as his body, that you need.”
Once it had felt peculiar, addressing a woman who scarcely came up past his waist; now it felt even more peculiar, seeing Gertrude under a glamour of height. Though it should not have, the difference lent weight to her warning. “I won’t forget it, Gertrude. I’ll watch him myself; he’s my responsibility, after all, and my friend beyond that.”
It didn’t erase her worry, but she nodded. “That’s the best anyone can ask for, then.”
With the theft of the tripod from the British Museum’s collections, few barriers remained between the fae and the creation of a veil to conceal England from the comet. Galen, considering that business all but done, had almost forgotten the debt he owed—until Edward brought him a letter written in a flowing, foreign hand.
The genie.
Galen cursed. Mrs. Carter had confirmed the inscription on the bowl; it was an adaptation of some Arabic invocation, summoning clouds and rain. Lune had given Irrith permission to use it, which meant Abd ar-Rashid had done them a genuine service. Now Galen must do him one in turn.
At least he had an easy means of discharging his duty. Galen wrote to Dr. Andrews, whose health had improved distinctly since his removal to the Onyx Hall. The man was sleeping below more nights than not, with Podder to see to his needs; it was simple enough to arrange a meeting between him and Abd ar-Rashid.
The genie was too polite to complain of the delay, beyond the gentle nudge of that one letter. Galen was rather more worried about Dr. Andrews. Given the man’s new familiarity with the fae, it seemed silly to disguise Abd ar-Rashid as anything other than what he was; but how would the doctor respond to an Arab? Would that strangeness be just one more drop in the sea that was the Onyx Hall, or would it be one too many?
Andrews seemed composed enough, and even friendly, when Podder showed them in. He was sitting up in a chair, dressed properly once more, and if he didn’t rise to greet them, that was easily explained by his health. “You will forgive me, I hope, Mr. Abd ar-Rashid,” the doctor said, indicating his seated position, and the genie hastened to assure him of it. “Mr. St. Clair tells me you come here for learning.”
“It is so,” the genie said, settling into his own chair. “Heard I of your Royal Society, and wish to converse with its Fellows upon many topics. A physician, you are?”
Andrews smiled ruefully. “I was, until my illness forced me to retire from such work. But I daresay I could spare the effort for a bit of tutoring; indeed, with instruction, I expect you could assist me in basic tasks, which would be a great boon to the work Mr. St. Clair has asked me to do.”
All Galen’s happy satisfaction drained down to his stomach and congealed into something more like embarrassed horror. Oh, God. He misunderstood me completely.
Abd ar-Rashid’s excellent manners kept him from saying anything immediately offensive, but his back stiffened. Choosing his words with care Galen suspected had nothing to do with his imperfect English, the genie said, “I fear there is a… confusion? A physician I am already, studying the medical arts since the days of Ibn Sina.”