A Star Shall Fall (10 page)

A knock at the door brought Lady Yfaen to her feet. She spoke briefly to someone outside, then turned to curtsey. “Dame Segraine and Dame Irrith, your Majesty, returned from Red Lion Square.”

“Send them in.” Lune set down the fan she had been toying with and straightened in her chair.

The two had dropped their mortal glamours, leaving behind clothes suitable for their visit above. Masculine garb was a common sight on Segraine, though usually not so fine. But the delicate sprite at her side . . .

The muddy, sharp-tongued creature he’d brought in to see Lune last month had vanished. In her place stood a modest young lady in stays and skirts, her auburn hair neatly pinned up beneath a lace-edged cap, with two curls escaping to dance above her shoulders. The gown, Galen thought, belonged to Nemette; he’d seen that pattern of peonies and bees before. Irrith looked startlingly demure.

At least until the Queen said, “Sun and Moon—I almost did not recognize you,” and Irrith snorted in a manner decidedly at odds with her attire.

“Lost my bet with Segraine,” the sprite muttered, and smacked one false hip with her palm, setting the whole structure rocking.

“I am the taller of us two,” the lady knight said tranquilly, though a smile lurked at the edges of her mouth. “It would have looked odd for you to play the part of my brother.”

“Glamours can cover that, as you know very well. Your Majesty,” Irrith went on, as if eager to escape and change her attire, “the Marvelous Menagerie has nothing of faerie in it. Dr. Andrews says someone else wrote that handbill, to bring audiences in.”

Galen straightened. “Did you say Dr. Andrews?”

Lune raised her delicately arched eyebrows. “You know him?”

“An acquaintance of my father’s, who has offered to be my patron in visiting the Royal Society. That menagerie you went to was his?” They hadn’t mentioned the name, only the location.

“There might be two Dr. Andrews in London,” Irrith answered, shrugging. “This one looked like he had one foot in the grave.”

Blunt, but not inaccurate. “Indeed—he’s a consumptive. I fear his health is very poor indeed.”

“Could he be of use?” Lune asked.

The idea had already occurred to him. Galen bit his thumbnail in thought—a habit his mother had tried and failed to break him of. “I confess, when I thought of the Royal Society, I was considering astronomers more than anything. But I’m not certain they can do much for us; it seems unlikely there’s any effective way to trap the Dragon upon its comet. Which means we are looking for some means to defeat it on the ground. Dr. Andrews is a physician, and also perhaps something of a chemist—well, intellectual men learn about all kinds of things, and I imagine he’s no different. His primary learning, however, is in medicine.”

The Queen folded her fan one stick at a time, fingers trailing over the edge. “It would not be the first time a physician’s been of use to us. My preference, I admit, would be to kill the Dragon; at this point it seems the only way to ensure it never troubles us again. And perhaps this Dr. Andrews might know something that could help.”

“He seemed pretty clever, madam,” Irrith said, with a curtsy that proved she did not often wear so elegant a dress. “And he knows about all kinds of strange things.”

“I will try, madam,” Galen promised the Queen. Visions danced before his mind’s eye: a gathering of fae, like a second Royal Society, and himself standing before them, presenting a scientific plan for the slaying of the Dragon. He would never be able to ride at it in armor, lance in hand, like a hero of old—but this, he could do.

And then Lune would look at him, and those silver eyes would warm, and then—

Irrith was watching him. Suddenly afraid that his thoughts were showing on his face, Galen blushed and took his leave. Dreams of heroism did no one any good if he did not put them to action.

PART TWO

Destillatio

Winter 1758

If the Scale of Being rises by such a regular Progress, so high as Man, we may by a parity of Reason suppose that it still proceeds gradually through those Beings which are of a Superior Nature to him; since there is an infinitely greater space and room for different Degrees of Perfection between the Supreme Being and Man, than between Man and the most despicable Insect [ . . . ] In this System of Being, there is no Creature so wonderful in its Nature, and which so much deserves our particular Attention, as Man, who fills up the middle Space between the Animal and Intellectual Nature, the visible and invisible World, and is that Link in the Chain of Beings, which has often been termed the
nexus utriusque Mundi.

—Joseph Addison,
The Spectator
, no. 519

With stately grace, the planets mark the passage of time, scribing out the different arcs of their years. The ellipses contract as the comet moves inward, the years growing ever shorter, as if time itself runs faster. They cluster about the sun, the little planets do: round balls of stone and stranger things, Mercury, Venus, Mars.

And in their midst, Earth.

It is scarcely a speck in the distance. Scarcely even that. The sun is god to the comet, the beacon that calls it home and bids it farewell as it leaves, and the sun is bright in the void. But for the creature that rides the comet, the sun is nothing: only the spark that will set it alight once more.

Earth is everything. For while the beast sleeps, it dreams, and remembers the City where it was born.

Red Lion Square, Holborn: January 13, 1758

A light snow began falling as Galen disembarked from his chair outside Dr. Andrews’s house. He welcomed the sight; it had been a gray, dreary Christmas, and a bit of sugar frosting might make London more attractive—at least until the coal smoke turned it to black crusts.

He paid the chair-men and hurried across to the door, shivering. The footman took a dreadfully long time to answer, and bowed deeply as he let Galen in. “My apologies, Mr. St. Clair. Dr. Andrews is in his laboratory at present. If you would be so kind as to wait in the parlor, he will be with you shortly.”

Galen agreed, and was led upstairs to the back parlor. While he waited, he chafed his cold hands in front of the fire and surveyed the room. It had the kind of vague ordinariness that characterized the homes of many bachelors; Andrews put out sufficient effort to furnish his parlor with chairs, tables, and so on, but with no wife to make it fashionable, the result was utterly forgettable.

“Ah, Mr. St. Clair.” Dr. Andrews entered behind him, still buttoning his waistcoat. “I was unaware of the hour, or I would have been more ready to receive you.”

“Quite all right. Your footman said you were in your laboratory . . .” Galen’s voice trailed off as he noticed a smear on the back of Andrews’s hand.

The doctor saw it and hastily fetched out a handkerchief with which to scrub it away. “Yes, in my basement. I have a room down there where I conduct dissections. My apologies; I don’t usually come upstairs with blood on my hands. Shall I have the maid brew coffee for us?”

He rang a bell, and gestured Galen to a chair. “I never touch spirits myself, and only occasionally take wine,” the older gentleman confided, “but coffee has become my great vice.”

Faced with that admission, Galen didn’t try to hide his own guilty smile. “Mine as well. Its effects are most wonderful: it clears the mind, steadies the hand, aids digestion—”

“It’s fortified my own health wondrously,” Andrews said. “Indeed, just last week I advised a certain lady to adminster regular doses to her sickly child, to fend off infections.”

“Very wise,” Galen said. “But I was under the impression you don’t practice medicine any longer?”

Andrews made an indeterminate gesture that could have been meant to convey anything at all. “By and large, no. But I make exceptions for a few trusted families.”

No doubt the most influential and respectable ones. Galen quite understood. “Your time is mostly taken up with your studies?”

“And illness,” Andrews said bluntly, as the maid entered with the coffee tray. Judging by the speed of her return, the doctor had not been lying about his fondness for the drink; it must have been nearly prepared already when Galen arrived. She laid the tray on a pillar-and-claw table to one side, then curtsied out of the room again when Andrews waved her off. He poured the coffee himself. “You will have guessed, I am sure, that I suffer from consumption.”

“My heartfelt sympathies,” Galen said. “I had an aunt taken by the same disease, and two of her children.”

Andrews passed him a coffee bowl. “With so many diseases in the world, I sometimes wonder that any of us reach maturity. But it produces this happy coincidence in my life, that my time is occupied by two facets of the same issue.”

“You study your own illness?”

“What else should I do, with the time I have left? Particularly if I wish to increase the amount of that time.”

“Then that is why you remain in London,” Galen said, understanding. Most consumptives who could afford it went to more healthful climates, where the air was warmer and drier, and might prolong their lives. The damp, chilly rains of London were not good for such men.

But Andrews looked puzzled. “What has London to do with it?”

Now uncertain, Galen said, “The Royal Society. I presumed there were men among its number who shared your interest, and that you wished to remain here to work more closely with them, without the delay of letters.”

The doctor was drinking coffee as he responded; Galen could not tell whether a routine coughing fit struck him just then, or whether the answer caused Andrews to choke on some of his drink. Galen hovered at the edge of his chair, not certain what he should do, as the gentleman hastily put down his bowl and snatched out a handkerchief.

“I would to God that were true,” Andrews said. “Come, Mr. St. Clair, you’ve seen what our meetings are like. Nice, orderly business, suitable for gentlemen, and occasionally someone from the Continent, or elsewhere in Britain, performs a bit of experimentation that actually
does
‘improve our natural knowledge,’ as the name would have it. But the weekly activity is often tedious and trivial in the extreme.”

Galen took refuge in the contemplation of his coffee. “I would not say so, Dr. Andrews.”

“Of course not. You’re a polite young man. No, I go to Crane Court because I must leave my house occasionally or go mad, and it seems as good a destination as any. But I have a very convenient arrangement here, and no desire to disrupt it by going elsewhere. Besides,” the doctor added with blunt honesty, “I had rather die in England, not in some foreign city.”

Shame left a sour taste in Galen’s mouth. He was cultivating this friendship in the hope of some benefit for the Onyx Court; he’d never thought to consider Andrews’s own problems. The fae could not, so far as he knew, cure diseases. Still, there might be some chance that they could aid the man. “I’m no physician myself, Dr. Andrews, but I’ll gladly lend you any assistance I may. It would be a grand thing indeed, if we learned more about consumption, that would allow us to save others from it.”

The red tinge that rimmed all late consumptives’ eyes lent a strange cast to Andrews’s expression. “Not just that disease, Mr. St. Clair. England has already produced Sir Isaac Newton, who unlocked the mysteries of the mechanical universe. He touched but little, though, on the mysteries of living bodies. We need a second genius.”

“And you intend to be that man?” Galen asked, before he could consider how rude the question was.

Andrews’s mocking smile seemed to be directed at himself. “I’m unlikely to succeed. Newton was younger than I am now when he turned the world on its head with his
Principia Mathematica
. But I can think of no higher purpose than to dedicate what remains of my life to pursuing that star.”

Indeed, the fire of that purpose burnt in his eyes. It sparked an idea within Galen—one far enough beyond the scope of his original plan that he hesitated to even consider it.

If Andrews worked
with
the fae—directly, with full knowledge of what they were . . .

That would be quite a risk. Galen would have to make very certain the man was trustworthy. It could be worth the gamble, though. Otherwise Galen himself would have to translate what he learned from Dr. Andrews to a faerie context, with much danger of error. He’d been doing that for two months now, with little result. Wouldn’t it be far more productive to bring the two together?

Not today, of course. Still, that inspiration put Galen on his feet, hand over his heart. “Dr. Andrews, I owe you a debt for your patronage at the Royal Society. I repeat my offer of a moment before, foolish though it may be. The work you undertake, sir, could be the salvation of more people than you know. I will do
everything
in my power to aid you.”

The Onyx Hall, London: January 17, 1758

Ktistes, as royal surveyor and architect, had taken great care to explain to Irrith which parts of the Onyx Hall were fraying due to the piecemeal destruction of the wall, so that she might avoid them.