Midnight Never Come (27 page)

Had any of it happened?

Deven rose and dressed, then suffered Colsey to shave him, scraping away the stubble Ranwell had left behind. With his face now peeled — Colsey had attended to his task with perhaps a little too much care, as if to show up his upstart fellow — Deven wondered, blankly, what to do with himself.

Whereupon he saw the letter on the windowsill.

Staring at the folded paper as if it were a viper, he did not approach immediately. But the letter stayed where it was, and moreover stayed a letter; at last he drew near and, extending one cautious hand, picked it up.

The top read “Master Michael Deven” in a round, untutored secretary hand. Pressed into the sealing wax was a fragment of dried rose petal.

Deven held his breath and broke the seal with his thumb.

To Master Michael Deven, Castle Baynard Ward, London, from the sisters Gertrude and Rosamund Goodemeade of the Angel in Islington,
sub rosa
, greetings.

The paper trembled in his hand. Not a dream, then.

We hope this letter finds you well rested and in good health, and we beg your presence at the Angel Inn when occasion shall serve, for there are matters we neglected to discuss with you before, some of them of great importance. Speak your name at the rosebush when you arrive.

Deven exhaled slowly and refolded the paper. Brownies. He was receiving letters from brownies now.

Colsey leapt to his feet when his master came clattering downstairs. “My sword and cloak,” Deven said, and the servant fetched them with alacrity. But when Colsey would have donned his own cloak, Deven stopped him with an outstretched hand. “No. You may have another day of leisure, Colsey. Surely after so many days in the saddle, you could do with some time out of it, eh?”

The servant’s eyes narrowed. “You’re most gracious, master — but no thank you. I’m fit enough to ride some more.”

Deven let out an exasperated breath. “All right — I shall be more blunt. You’re staying here.”

“Why, sir?” Colsey’s jaw was set in a determined line. “You know you can trust my discretion.”

“Always. But ’tis not a matter of discretion. I simply must go alone.”

“You riding to see that necromancer again?”

“There’s no evidence of Dee practicing necromancy, and no, I am not going to Mortlake.” Deven gave his servant a quelling look. “And you are not to follow me, either.”

The disappointed expression on Colsey’s face made him glad he’d issued the warning.

Deven hit upon something that would stop him — he hoped. “I am about Walsingham’s business, Colsey. And though I trust you, there are others who would not. You will stay behind, lest you foul what I am attempting to do here.”

Though Colsey kept the rest of his grumbling objections behind his teeth, Deven imagined he could hear them pursuing him as he rode back out through Aldersgate, retracing the path of black feathers he had followed the night before. Knowing his destination, he rode faster, and came soon to the sturdy structure of the Angel.

He rode past it, tethered his horse, and made his way to the spot behind the inn.

The rosebush was there, looking innocuous in daylight. Feeling an utter fool — but who was there to hear him, if he were wrong? — he approached it, cleared his throat, bent to one of the roses, and muttered, “Michael Deven.”

Nothing happened for a few moments, and his feeling of foolishness deepened. But just when he would have walked away, the rosebush shivered, and then there was an opening, with a familiar figure emerging from it.

Familiar, but far too tall. Gertrude Goodemeade arranged her skirts and smiled up at him from a vantage point much closer to his collarbone than his navel. “I am sorry to keep you waiting, but we did not expect you so soon, and I had to put the glamour together.”

She still looked herself — just larger. Deven supposed a woman less than four feet tall might attract attention in broad daylight. “Aren’t you afraid someone will see us standing here, with the rosebush . . . open?”

Gertrude smiled cheerily. “No. We are not found so easily, Master Deven.” Bold as brass, she reached out and took his arm. “Shall we walk?”

The rosebush closed behind her as she towed him forward. Deven had thought they might go into the woods behind the Angel, but she led him in quite the opposite direction: to the front door.

Deven hung back. “What is in here?”

“Food and drink,” Gertrude said. “Since you do not trust our own.”

He had slept far later than his usual hour; now it was the noontime meal. Gertrude secured them a spot at the end of one of the long tables, and perhaps some faerie charm gave them privacy, for no one sat near them. “You can drink the mead here,” the disguised brownie said. “ ’Tis our mead anyway — the very same I gave you last night — but perhaps you will trust it when you see others drink it.”

A rumbling in Deven’s stomach notified him that he was hungry. He ordered sausage, fresh bread, and a mug of ale. Gertrude looked a trifle hurt.

“We have your best interests at heart, Master Deven,” she said quietly.

He met her gaze with moderate cynicism formed during his ride up to Islington. “Within reason. You also wish to make use of me.”

“To the betterment of her you serve. But we also wish you to be safe, my sister and I; else we should not have brought you in last night, but left you out where Dame Halgresta could find you.” Gertrude lowered her voice and leaned in closer. “That is one thing I wished to warn you of. They know Lady Lune had close dealings with you, and that you served Walsingham; they may yet come after you. Be careful.”

“How?” The word came out sharp with resentment. “It seems you can make yourselves look however you wish. Some faerie spy could replace Colsey, and how would I ever know?” The thought gave him a jolt.

Gertrude shook her head, curls bouncing free of the cap on her head. “ ’Tis very hard to feign being a familiar person; you would know. But ’tis also true that we can disguise ourselves. You have a defense, though.” She took a deep breath, then whispered, “The name of your God.”

She did not shrink upon uttering the word. Deven took a bite of his sausage, and thought of the bread he had given Lune last night.

“They’ll be protected against it, of course,” Gertrude said in normal tones. “Most of them, anyhow. But most will still flinch if you say that name, or call on your religion in any fashion. ’Tis the flinch that will warn you.”

“And then what?”

The brownie shrugged, a little sheepishly. “Whatever seems best. I would rather you run than fight — many of those she might send against you do not deserve to die — but only you can judge how best to keep yourself safe. And we
do
want you safe.”

“Who are ‘we,’ in this matter?”

“My sister and I, certainly. I have no right to speak for Lady Lune. But I believe in my heart that she, too, wishes you safe.”

Deven stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth, so he would not have to reply.

Glancing around the inn, Gertrude seemed willing to change the subject. “Tell me, Master Deven: what do you think of this place?”

He chewed and swallowed while he considered the room. The day was sunny and warm; open shutters allowed a fresh breeze into the room, while tallow dips augmented the natural light. Dried lavender and other strewing herbs sweetened the rushes on the floor, and the benches and tables were well scrubbed. The ale in his leather jack was good — surprisingly tart — the bread fresh, the sausage free of unpleasant lumps. What reason had she for asking? “ ’Tis agreeable enough.”

“Have you spent any nights here?”

“Once or twice. The beds were refreshingly clear of unwanted company.”

“They should be,” Gertrude said with a sniff. “We beat them out any night they are not in use.”

“You beat . . .” Deven’s voice trailed off, and he set his bread down.

Her smile had a kind of pleased mischief in it. “Rosamund and I
are
brownies, Master Deven. Or had you forgot?”

He had not forgotten, but he had not yet connected their underground home to the inn — and he should have. As he looked around the room with new eyes, Gertrude went on. “We do a spot of cleaning every night — scrubbing, dusting, mending such as needs it — that has been our task since before there was an Angel, since a different inn stood on this site. Even last night, though I don’t mind saying we were a bit rushed to get our work done, after you left.”

Deven could not resist asking; he had always wondered. “Is it true you leave a house if the owner offers you clothes?” Gertrude nodded. “Why?”

“Mortal clothes are like mortal food,” the brownie said. “Or fae clothes and fae food, for that matter. They bring a touch of the other side with them. Wear them, eat them, and they start to change you. Your average brownie, he’ll be offended if you try that with him; we’re homebodies, and not often keen to change. But some fae crave that which is mortal. It draws them, like a moth to a candle flame.”

The solemnity in her voice was not lost on Deven. “Why did you summon me here, Mistress Goodemeade?”

“To eat and drink in the Angel.” She held up one hand when he would have said something in retort. “I am quite serious. I wished you to see this place, to see what Rosamund and I make of it.”

“Why?”

“To stop you, before you could grow to hate us.” Gertrude reached out hesitantly, and took his hands in her own. Her fingers were warm, and somehow both calloused and soft, as if the gentleness of her touch made up for the marks left by lifetimes of sweeping and scrubbing. “Last night you heard of politics and murder, saw Lady Lune as a fugitive, hiding from a heartless Queen and her minions. The Onyx Court hides a great deal of ugliness behind its beautiful face — but that is not all we are.

“Some of us find purpose and life in helping make human homes warm and welcoming. Others show themselves to poets and musicians, giving them a glimpse of something more, adding fire to their art.” She met his gaze earnestly, her dark honey eyes beseeching him to listen. “We are not all to be feared and fought.”

“Some fae,” Deven said in a low voice, so that others would not hear, “play tricks on mortals — even unto their deaths. And others, it seems, play at politics.”

“ ’Tis true. We have pucks aplenty — bogy beasts, portunes, will-o’-the-wisps. And our nobles have their games, as yours do. But the wickedness of some humans does not turn you against them all, does it?”

“You are not human.” Yet it was so easy to forget, with her hands gripping his across the table. “Should I judge you by the same standards?”

Somberness did not sit well on Gertrude; her face was meant for merriment. “We follow your lead,” she said. “There is a realm of Faerie, that lies farther out — over the horizon, through twilight’s edge. Some travel to it, mortal and fae alike, and some fae dwell there always. That realm rarely concerns itself with mortal doings. But here, in the shadows and cracks of your world . . . when your leaders took chariots into battle, ours soon went on wheels as well. When they abandoned chariots for horses, our elf knights took up the lance. We have no guns among us, but no doubt that will change someday. Even those who do not crave contact with mortals still mimic your ways, one way or another.”

“Even love?” He had not meant to say it.

A heartbreaking smile touched Gertrude’s face. “Especially love. Not often, but it does happen.”

Deven pulled his hands free, nearly upsetting his ale jack. “So you wish me to remember that ’tis your Queen I work against, and not the fae people as a whole.” Not Lune. “Is that it?”

“Aye.” Gertrude folded her hands, as if she had not noticed the vehemence with which he moved.

“As you wish, then. I will remember it.” Deven threw a few coins onto the table and stood.

Gertrude caught up with him at the door. “You should come below for a moment before you leave; I have something for you. Will you do that for me?”

He needed time away from fae things, but he couldn’t begrudge the request. “Very well.”

“Good.” She passed by him, out into the bright sunlight, and called back over her shoulder, “By the by? We also brew their ale.”

T
HE
A
NGEL
I
NN
, I
SLINGTON
:
April 26, 1590

“Mistress Goodemeade.” Lune nodded her head formally to Rosamund. “At her Majesty’s command, I seek healing for these wounds I have suffered. Few if any in the Onyx Court hold any love for me, given my Queen’s recent displeasure; therefore I come here, to ask for aid.”

“Of course, my lady.” Rosamund offered an equally formal curtsy in response. “Please, come with me, and I will tend to you.”

They descended the staircase, and then descended again, and the rose-marked floorboards closed behind them.

“My lady!” Formality gave way to distress. “Cheepkin told us some of what passed, but not all. Sit, sit, and let me see to you.”

Lune had no energy to disobey, and no desire to. She let Rosamund press her onto the stool Deven had occupied the previous night — it seemed like ages ago. “I am so very sorry. Corr had not left —”

The brownie clicked her tongue unhappily. “We know. Oh, if he had only listened. . . .”

Deft fingers untied those sleeve- and waist-points that had not already broken, then unlaced her bodice at the back. Lune winced as the material of her undergown pulled free where dried blood had glued it to her skin. She would need to obtain new clothing somehow, or else resort to glamours to cover up her tattered state. People would know she wore an illusion, but at least in the Onyx Hall she need not fear it being broken.

Naked to the waist, she closed her eyes while Rosamund dabbed at her cuts with a soft, wet cloth. “I fear I have put you in danger. With Corr there, I had to cast suspicion on him somehow, and I said he had received a message the previous night. If they trace it back to you —”

“Never you mind,” Rosamund said. “We would not be here, Gertrude and I, if we could not deal with little problems like that.”

“He also seems to have sent a message out, to the Hunt. At least, he panicked when I accused him of it. But I do not know what it said.”