When Hodge said as much, Aspell whispered, “Dead, yes—but not gone. It took me far too long to understand what it was I felt. We are not used to dreaming, we fae; I could not make sense of it, not for many years. But I am certain of it now. The spirits of Suspiria and Francis Merriman dwell within the London Stone.”
The Prince stared. Then reached out, blindly, for a chair; finding one, he lowered himself carefully into it. “I would ’ave felt them there.”
Would he? He hadn’t known about Chrennois in Aldersgate; as Prince, he could send his mind throughout the Onyx Hall, but it hurt so much he almost never did. The London Stone, though… it was the very point of his connection. Surely he would have known if there was another spirit there. Something besides himself and Lune—
And the Onyx Hall itself.
He clamped one hand over his mouth, fingers digging into his cheeks, to keep the words from bursting out. Bloody fucking ’ell. The palace—which answered to the commands of Queen and Prince; sometimes, he’d heard, as if it had a mind of its own. Which protected the bones of the Princes laid to rest within its ground against all attempts to desecrate them. Which acknowledged Lune as Queen, and refused others, when they tried to usurp her crown; that was the foundation of faerie sovereignty, that one ruled by right of that bond, the realm accepting someone as master or mistress over it all.
Suspiria and Francis Merriman stood with their hands upon the London Stone, beneath the eclipsed light of the sun, and dreamed the Hall into being.
Three hundred years and more later, they were still there—because they were the Onyx Hall.
Hodge unclamped his fingers, knuckles aching as he moved them. He licked his lips, swallowed, and said, “You… might be right. And I don’t think Lune knows it, neither. But—what good does that do us?”
Aspell’s eyes glittered through the fringe of his lashes. “It means Lune isn’t the only one holding the palace together. Without her, it would not last long—but it would not collapse instantly, either. She would have a moment’s grace, in which to escape: from the Hall, from London entirely, and into Faerie.”
He’d once tried to murder Lune. But not out of malice, Hodge was forced to admit; like the Fenians with their dynamite, he’d thought it would serve a greater purpose, which was the preservation of the Onyx Hall. With that cause now lost beyond recall, it seemed Aspell was not without a degree of mercy.
The bastard had it backward. He was giving up right when victory for that cause could be within their reach. It all depended on what they found in West Ham.
Smiling ruefully, Hodge said, “You’ve known ’er for ’ow many centuries, and you don’t see the mistake there? Lune will never run.” He stood and grinned down at the pale, exhausted Aspell. “But maybe she don’t ’ave to. Not if we can make ’er a new ’ome.”
Paddington Station, Paddington: August 25, 1884
For once, it was not the abundant menace of iron that made Louisa Kittering’s breath come fast.
She’d flinched when she and Frederic first came beneath the vaulting girders that covered the vast interior of Paddington Station, with its rails and trains and gas lamps, but it was nothing more than instinctive sympathy for those she left behind: the fae of the Onyx Hall, who even now were entering the final days of their home. Then she’d been taken aback by the chaotic activity of the crowds within: men of the suburbs going to or from work, mothers shepherding noisy and disobedient children, porters pushing trolleys full of baggage, voices crying food or newspapers from stalls along the sides. But Frederic had found a porter to take their trunk, and he’d known how to find the right platform, so now all she had to do was wait.
Wait, and think of what she had done.
Leaving the Kitterings hardly mattered. But what would Frederic think, in the days and months and years to come, about leaving his wife? He did love the woman, Louisa knew; and while it was possible to make him forget that love, it wouldn’t be easy. Not when he hadn’t chosen this path freely. She even felt a twinge of guilt, because she actually cared what he thought of her… and in the privacy of her own mind, where she could be honest with herself, Louisa knew he would not approve of what she had done.
But the alternative was to leave him vulnerable to Nadrett. Or to send him away on his own, without her—
She could not do that, either.
No. They would go away together: to Dover, to Calais, and once they had booked passage, to America, where they would make a new life among the emigrants, faerie and mortal alike, and they would have nothing to fear at all.
She should have known better than to believe it.
Trouble came without any warning at alclass="underline" one moment Louisa was awaiting her train, dreaming of the life it would carry her off to, and the next there was a gun barrel pressing intimately against her spine, just above her bustle.
The gun remained there when Nadrett stepped into view, flanked by two of his men. He looked enough like himself to be recognized, though of course it was a human version of himself. But Louisa thought, despairing, that she would have recognized that cruel smile no matter what face shaped it. “There you are, my love,” Nadrett said, with false cheer. “Going somewhere?”
At her side, Frederic was gazing patiently into the distance, taking no notice of the fae a few feet away. The ticket was in his hand; he didn’t even blink as Nadrett twitched it from between his fingers. “Dover, is it? Now, why would you be going to Dover… and ’ello, who’s this? Blimey, if it ain’t Mr. Myers!”
His theatrical surprise might as well have been a knife between her ribs. The words were very nearly the worst thing she could have said, but Louisa could not stop them from bursting out: “Don’t hurt him!”
Nadrett’s sharp eyebrows rose. “Don’t ’urt ’im?” he repeated, mocking her. “Mab’s tits—don’t tell me you’ve bloody fallen in love with ’im.”
She tried to salvage what she could. “Not love, no, of course not—what an idea!” Her laugh sounded brittle and too bright, even to her own ears. “Just a passing entertainment, sir; you know how such things are. I thought you were done with him.”
The Goblin Market boss looked speculatively at Frederic, who sighed and referred to his pocket-watch. “’E were a useful sort, I’ll grant ’im that. Kept ’im around in case I ’ad more questions. But you know, it’s all going splendidly. I think I don’t need ’im anymore.” Nadrett drew his gun.
“No!” Louisa threw herself forward, seizing his arm. There was no risk she would make him fire; she knew Nadrett, knew he wanted her to beg. “Please. I’ll do anything—”
“I knows you will.” Nadrett’s free hand wrapped around her slender throat. Hissing into her face, he said, “You still belong to me, slut. So does ’e. So does everybody I touch.”
The train had pulled up to the platform, in a cloud of coal-scented steam. All around them, the crowds of Paddington Station passed by, oblivious. Had she vanished completely from their eyes? Or did they just see some man disciplining his wayward wife?
“That little shell ain’t enough to protect you,” Nadrett said. “It breaks too easy, you see. All I got to do is make you admit what you are.” His grip tightened. “’Ow ’ard do you think it would be for me to do that?”
She wasn’t sure she could speak, and he probably didn’t want her to. She just shook her head, a tiny, trembling motion.
Nadrett smiled and released her. “Right you are. But I’m not without mercy, am I, boys?” The other fae grinned and made noises of agreement. “I’ll let your cove ’ere live. For a price.”