Riding with the Queen was the sacred part of the tradition, if that word could be used for a faerie activity. Others in the Onyx Court would find their own, coarser amusements. This was the dark mirror to Midsummer’s gentle diversion. Black things would happen tonight, frights and horrors and hauntings, with the court’s goblins leading the way. But while they entertained themselves in the streets, Lune and her companions would ride above, collecting the ghosts of the dead.
Hairy How, the Lord Treasurer, distributed bread to them all. Irrith ate hers slowly, feeling the mortal weight upon her tongue. Such labour went into it: the farmer in his field, planting and reaping the grain; the miller grinding it to flour; the country housewife mixing and kneading and baking it into bread. Or perhaps this was one of Dr. Andrews’s tithed loaves, bought in a London marketplace, or carried from house to house by a street-seller. So many humans, doing so much work—and how many of them knew of the fae who ate the result?
A few more, if they looked up at the right moment tonight. But grand faerie spectacle had gone out of fashion with the Puritans; even now, when folk went rambling in the countryside on Sundays instead of attending church, it wasn’t wise to draw too much attention. They would ride because the fae owed a duty to the dead, not because they wished to announce their presence to London.
“You’ll have new chance to mock my riding skills tonight.”
Irrith jumped. When the Queen rarely went anywhere without a host of attendants, it was easy to forget that she could move very quietly indeed. Lune stood behind Irrith, wearing a riding habit of black. She only wore the colour on All Hallows’ Eve. It cast a grim pall over her usual serenity.
A pall that was somewhat countered by the dog frolicking at her side. Teyrngar, a cream-coated faerie hound, knew full well what night it was, but the solemnity mattered less to him than the chance to run free. Smiling, Lune scratched behind his red ears.
With her good hand, of course. The left, as always, hung in a stiffened claw. Irrith wondered if it hurt her, as the iron wound surely did.
Belatedly she remembered her manners and dropped into a curtsy. “I would never mock you, your Majesty.”
Lune’s smile turned wistful. “You used to. I confess a part of me misses it.”
It was true that the Queen was a terrible rider. Living in the Onyx Hall, she rarely had cause to sit a horse. But the terrible weight of knowledge and doubt inside Irrith’s head made her reluctant to open her mouth, for fear something might slip out that shouldn’t.
“Ride alongside me,” Lune said, taking Irrith’s arm with her good hand. “Then you can catch me if I fall.”
If she fell, it would be the fault of her mount. The tatterfoals and brags changed before they passed through the Old Fish Street arch into London, dropping to all fours and growing into horse shape. But the arch was too low to admit a rider, and so they went in pairs into the small courtyard outside, where the riders climbed astride and rode out onto the larger street. When their company had formed up, all thirteen riders and the hound, well masked by charms, Lune gave the command—and they leapt into the sky.
The surge took Irrith’s breath away with delight. It’s been too long since I rode beneath the moon. Not that there was any moon now; it was in its dark phase, and the ever-present clouds veiled the stars. The only real light came from London below, lanterns marking the better streets, candles burning late into the night. Still. Free air—above the coal smoke for once—and a horse beneath me, and no politics to concern us.
Old Fish Street was the easiest passage for horse-shaped beings, but they had to ride east to begin the night’s work. Irrith marvelled as she saw how far the city stretched: past the Tower, past the docks, houses stringing out along the river, the water clogged with ships at anchor. “Wapping,” Lune said at one point, nodding downward; that was where Abd ar-Rashid lived. Though he was more in the Onyx Hall than not, lately—him and the mortal doctor both.
When they’d reached Lune’s chosen point, she gave the command, and they turned westward once more. Irrith’s gaze swept the ground below, seeking the telltale flickers that would indicate a ghost. A goblin in the Vale had said once this ritual was like a housewife sweeping her floor: it didn’t get all the dirt, but without the effort, filth—or ghosts—would pile up until there was no living among them. With the number of people London held, she imagined they had more shades than most.
Cries rose from three throats at once, but Irrith was the first to move. Her horse swooped downward, carrying her with terrifying speed toward a dingy house. Irrith leaned sideways in her saddle, hand out, and concentrated as she skimmed over the battered roof tiles. Goblins were better at this than sprites, but she was here first, and she was determined not to miss.
A feeling snagged her fingers, like fog. She seized hold and wrenched upright, and when her mount leapt upward once more, a tattered wisp of white trailed from her fist. It moaned as she rejoined the company above, bearing their first catch of the night. “My child,” the dead woman sobbed, face rippling in the wind. “Oh, my poor child, lost, lost…”
“What happened to your child?” Irrith asked, but the ghost showed no sign of hearing her.
“Few of them will converse,” Lune said. The Queen made a regal figure on her white tatterfoal—so long as you ignored her good hand’s desperate clutch on the reins. “The ones with that awareness often resist joining us, because they know they must go on at the end of the night.”
Teyrngar dove to retrieve a second ghost. “What makes them stay?” Irrith asked, studying the ground once more. “Any of them—the ones we clear away each year, or the ones that go on haunting. These aren’t all the dead mortals; we’d have to sweep the city every week for that.” The children alone would form a train to the far horizon.
Lune shook her head, gazing out over the city with a melancholy air. “Any number of things. Love for kin who still remain—that seems the most common. Sometimes it’s hatred instead, especially among those who were murdered. Or attachment to material things, their wealth or their home… anything a human cares passionately about can tie them to this world.”
Riders flew up and down, harvesting the night’s crop. Already they’d gathered enough ghosts that Irrith couldn’t get an accurate count, and they were only now passing the Tower again, heading west. The eastern end of London had contained a great many specters. “Or interaction with faeries,” Irrith said.
“Yes,” Lune said softly. “Sometimes.”
Thinking of her dead lover, no doubt. Irrith wished he’d had the consideration to die in the spring, further from All Hallows’ Eve. Or to leave a ghost, so Lune would have him in some form.
She went down several times more, but the goblins, annoyed by her early victory, outraced her to most of the ghosts. Irrith ended up mostly riding by the Queen, sighting the shades for others to catch. After calling out three in quick succession, she said, “I’ve often wondered what it must be like, knowing there’s something after death. Hell wouldn’t be so pleasant, of course, but there’s always the chance of Heaven—and maybe something, however bad, is better than nothing at all.”
A howl snapped her attention downward. The fetch Nithen rode toward them, cackling, one hand dragging a struggling ghost by the scruff of his neck. That one, it seemed, was not happy to leave. Perhaps he knew he was destined for Hell.