She went from buttress to buttress until she reached the end of the gallery. Then, unfortunately, she had to drop to the floor, which meant following at a greater distance, with a charm to silence her feet. Aspell had cast no such thing, which made her frown. If he wasn’t bothering to be secret, then maybe this was nothing to do with the Sanists, thrumpin or no thrumpin.
Her mind was so on that question, and on the challenge of neither losing her quarry nor betraying herself to him, that she paid little attention to their path. With a start, she realised they had passed the only remaining branch in the corridors, and that only one thing lay ahead.
The Newgate entrance.
Blood and Bone! Aspell was going above. No need to hide that—it was ordinary enough—and once up there, easy enough to give the slip to any pursuers. And Irrith, searching desperately through her pockets, realised what bread she had was in Ktistes’s pavilion.
Aspell went into the chamber. She drew close, into the shadow of one of the pillars supporting the arch, and saw him don a glamour. Then the air whispered, ghost-quiet, as he stepped onto the roundel and floated upward.
Irrith gritted her teeth. I should let him go. Too hard to follow him, too dangerous, and what proof have I it’s even worth the risk?
Proof didn’t matter. Only the possibility. In her heart, Irrith had sworn she’d find a reason to take Aspell down. It was the only way to purge her own guilt.
Cursing softly, Irrith began to build her own glamour.
Luck seemed to be smiling and spitting upon her by turns. First it sent the thrumpin to Aspell; then it put no bread in her pocket. Now it gave her the gift of a city in the dark of night, when almost no one would be on the streets to wave iron or invoke the Almighty, and by doing so shatter Irrith’s unprotected glamour. Still, she wondered what ill luck would follow in turn.
She got her answer when, out of habit, she glanced up to judge the time.
A waning moon shone in the sky, its light breaking through wisps of cloud.
Irrith’s heart tried to burst right through her ribs. She actually pressed her hands to her breast, as if that would help her slow its sudden pounding. Hemmed in by walls, she could see only a little of the heavens; the rest looked to still be shrouded in clouds. Hadn’t Galen said the comet was near the sun right now? The sun was hours from rising. The comet couldn’t possibly be visible. They were still safe.
But the clouds had begun to fail.
Irrith forced herself to concentrate. She could do nothing about that right now, and if she didn’t move, she was going to lose the one thing she could do. Where had Aspell gone?
Fortunately, the likely guess turned out to be the right one. The Newgate entrance, like the Fish Street arch, saw a great deal of use these days, thanks to the growth of Westminster and the areas between, and there was a gleam of flame headed down Snow Hill. Aspell, and someone else—a human, it looked like, carrying a link to light his way. A real human, not a faerie under a glamour. He must have been waiting for the Lord Keeper, and that was the content of the thrumpin’s note.
Grinning, Irrith followed. Soon they were on the much wider street of Holborn, and still going west. If they were going to some secret meeting, it could be anywhere in Holborn or the north of Westminster, but it certainly wasn’t in the coffeehouse Aspell had taken her to before. Too easy to guess, probably. He thinks like a spy, well enough not to repeat himself.
Suddenly fearful, she cast a glance behind her, but saw no one. Of course not: he was still Lune’s Lord Keeper, with no reason to think the Queen suspected him of anything. And the link-bearer glanced back occasionally, but with that light in his eyes, he hadn’t a chance of spotting her. Irrith had spent long enough in the city to be almost as good at hiding as she was in the Vale—except when the occasional bit of passing iron made her queasy.
When they turned right at last, her heart began pounding almost as hard as it had upon seeing the moon. She’d been down this road, twice before. Once with Segraine, and once following Galen.
They were going to Red Lion Square.
In the dark of night, when no one was around to see. Irrith quickened her step, risking them seeing her. Aspell had spoken so much of last resorts—but they had another, didn’t they? The alchemical plan. She’d told him about it herself. Only she hadn’t told him everything: the role Lune might play, and the possible danger they’d uncovered. Whether the scholars had settled the question of the philosopher’s stone, Irrith didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. So far as Aspell knew, alchemy held a way to save the Onyx Hall, without harm to Lune.
Unless he and the brawny man with him did something to prevent it.
In her haste, Irrith almost fell prey to an easy threat. A constable coming down a crossing street made her pull back into the shadows, crouching and holding her breath. Fortunately he was a lazy fellow, whistling as his own yawning link-boy trotted on ahead, making no real effort to see beyond its smoky light. By the time he passed, though, Aspell and his man were already in Red Lion Square.
She peered carefully around the corner of a building and saw nothing but an empty square. Coming farther out, she studied the front of Andrews’s house. The blue door was black and silent, and the shutters were closed against the night.
The lock on the front door was beyond her abilities, and the shutters of the ground floor windows out of reach thanks to the open space of the area. How was she to get in?
Against her will, Irrith’s gaze went downward, and she cringed in dread.
The area. It lay at the bottom of a set of steps giving access to the cellar, where the kitchens would be located. Those shutters, she might be able to open.
But first she would have to get past the iron railings that helpfully prevented passersby from falling down the steps.
She’d come this far. Even now, Aspell and that man might be creeping into Dr. Andrews’s bedchamber, putting an end to the old man before consumption could. And then what he knew would die with him.
Thinking about it wouldn’t make the task any easier. Biting down on her own hand, Irrith forced herself down the steps, feeling her glamour crumble around her. Don’t think about the iron fencing you in. Don’t think about how one careless brush of your elbow could— oh, Mab—don’t think about it, just keep moving…
She had to remove her hand from her mouth when she reached the bottom, so she could deal with the window. The slender knife she kept inside her coat was perfect for sliding in between the shutters, fumbling around until she felt the latch lift. When she drew it back, though, the faerie silver of its blade had dulled and blackened, from the iron of the shutter nails. Gagging, Irrith took hold of the wood with her fingertips and pulled it back, until the panels swung clear. Then she was shoving at the window’s lower sash, sliding it upward, hardly caring how much noise she made, until she could squirm through the gap and into the cellar beyond.
It wasn’t much better here. Iron screamed at her from all over the kitchen: pots, hooks, more things than she wanted to think about. Irrith stumbled forward blindly, and gagged when her hand touched a hinge. Stifling her cries, she dragged the door open and fell out into the blessed darkness of the passage. She fled to the base of the stairs and stood there gasping, cradling her stinging hand. I’m a fool. A reckless fool.
Carline’s mocking voice sounded in her head. And what will you do when you go upstairs, little sprite? Attack those two, all on your own?