It remembers that. And it remembers something else, too: fuel of a different kind. There was a place, a city, a shadow beneath; there was power there, of a kind like the beast itself. Not kin like the sun, bright fire—this was cool and dark. Born of the sun’s eclipse, but shaped by creatures who, like the beast, were made of something other than matter.
They named it Dragon. They fought it, and trapped it, and bound it to this frozen prison, exiling it to the farthest reaches of the sun’s realm.
The Dragon remembers. And it hungers for vengeance.
Mayfair, Westminster: September 23, 1758
Dear Mr. St. Clair,
I was very sorry to hear of the injury to your shoulder. The daisy chain of gossip from your mother to Mrs. Northwood to Mrs. Montagu to me says you were kicked by a rearing horse in Fleet Street, from which I conclude there is a much more interesting story I have not heard. I implore you to call upon me at your earliest convenience so we can discuss it further over tea. I have something here that I believe you will be interested in, as well.
Your affectionate Sylph,
Elizabeth Vesey
No one would believe the story of the horse; that was why Galen had not tried it. Instead he’d taken advantage of his father’s bad opinion of him. That his only son might be set upon by footpads while heading toward a Covent Garden brothel was easy enough for Charles St. Clair to believe—especially when there was a witness. At Lune’s suggestion, he’d dulled the pain with wine, then dug Laurence Byrd out of his customary midnight carouse. Not ten feet out the door, a pair of disguised goblins had set upon them, one feigning the strike to Galen’s shoulder, before both fled Byrd’s enthusiastic fists. It left Galen’s father in a profoundly foul mood, but not a curious one, which might have led him to inquire where his son had been so late at night.
But his mother, eager to maintain the forms of gentility, had invented the tale of the horse. It served Galen’s purposes; that would make the respectable rounds, lending credibility to the Covent Garden tale. The subterfuge gave him something to think about other than the massive bruise that was painting his shoulder spectacular colors.
He looked a shabby thing indeed as he went to Mrs. Vesey’s house; the tight fit of his own coats was unendurable, and so he was wearing a castoff of his father’s. But to her he could tell the truth, and so he looked forward to the visit.
Until the footman escorted him into the parlor, where Galen almost dropped his hat in surprise.
Delphia Northwood rose from her chair and curtsied. Next to her, an insufferably smug Mrs. Vesey did the same. After a moment, Galen remembered himself and bowed. “Good morning, Mrs. Vesey. Miss Northwood—I thought your family had gone into the country, now that the Season is over.”
“They have, Mr. St. Clair,” she admitted. “But Mrs. Vesey invited me to stay here with her for a time.”
“Her mother was suffering vapors over her upcoming marriage,” Mrs. Vesey confided. “And speaking of which—come, Mr. St. Clair, the two of you are to be married. Surely it isn’t too much for you to address your intended by her Christian name? You wouldn’t mind, would you, my dear?”
Miss Northwood colored and looked as if she wished she hadn’t left her fan on the table by her chair. “Only if he insists on calling me Philadelphia.”
“I have nothing against Greek names,” Galen said, smiling. Jonathan Hurst had teased him upon that point, speculating as to other Greek-named fellows that might make husbands for Galen’s sisters. Which had plunged Mayhew into a melancholy over Daphne, of course. But perhaps, once the Northwood money was securely invested, Galen might persuade his father to let at least one sister follow her heart.
Mrs. Vesey was looking expectantly at him. “Then let it be Delphia,” Galen said, stepping into this brave new territory of intimacy. She shifted slightly, as if she, too, felt the thrill the word brought.
Their hostess beamed in satisfaction and said, “Come, let us have tea. And you, Mr. St. Clair, can tell us of your poor shoulder. Does it hurt you terribly?”
“No, I am quite well,” he said—a polite little lie.
The tea things were already set out on a table, except for the hot water; Mrs. Vesey rang a bell for it as they settled themselves once more. She then bent her attention to unlocking the tea box, but spared enough to go on questioning him. “Now, it is clearly utter nonsense that you were struck by a horse, for I know you would not be on foot in the middle of Fleet Street. I am no gossip, of course, and neither is Miss Northwood; you can trust us with the truth. What really happened?”
Too late, he saw the trap she’d so neatly laid. He’d come here anticipating the opportunity to speak freely; she, perhaps guessing that his injury had something to do with the fae, had deliberately surprised him with Miss Northwood. She could just as easily have asked Yfaen, but it seemed Mrs. Vesey had not given up on her mad notion that Galen should reveal the Onyx Court to his intended bride.
As if Mrs. Vesey did not know exactly what she was doing, Galen said repressively, “The tale is not fit for this company.”
It did precisely as little good as he expected. Delphia came unwittingly to his rescue, though, once the maid had brought in the hot water. “I believe it’s customary for young men approaching their weddings to enjoy one last bout of foolishness. I promise you, Mr. St. Clair, I will not hold it against you.”
Which gave him license to recount an expurgated version of the Covent Garden story. Galen kept it to the footpads’ attack, declining to go into detail about what either he or Byrd had been doing there. Mrs. Vesey did not bother to hide her disbelief, and so once Miss Northwood had made appropriate noises of sympathy for his pain and approval for his valor, he fled to a safer topic. “Will you be in London long, Miss—ah, Delphia?”
She glanced sidelong at their hostess, who smiled into her tea. “Yes—ostensibly to ready myself for the wedding,” his bride-to-be said. “But Mrs. Vesey, as she hinted before, was rescuing me from my mother.”
“And there is a great deal of London Miss Northwood has not experienced,” Mrs. Vesey added serenely. “For one who has grown up here, she has seen shockingly little of the city. Perhaps we could arrange some excursions, Mr. St. Clair—what do you think?”
I think you are a meddling old woman.
But he couldn’t put any real venom behind it. His proposal to Miss Northwood had been shaped by the desire for honesty; Mrs. Vesey’s suggestion offered him a way to remove yet more barriers of deception. For that, he could not fault her.
Still, it was out of the question. Telling the truth would mean telling Miss Northwood about Lune, and he feared the consequences if the mask that covered his adoration slipped in his future wife’s presence. Besides, Galen had enough to concern him already. “Well, if the purpose of your visit is to escape your mother’s watchful eye, M— Delphia, then perhaps I can arrange an evening at the theater. Or have you ever been to the opera?”
By means of such diversions did he shift them to safer topics. Mrs. Vesey, however, let pass no opportunity to refer in cryptic fashion to the fae, until surely a girl as intelligent as Delphia had to wonder what second conversation was being conducted under her nose. Galen could do nothing about that, short of contriving to chide Mrs. Vesey in private, so he endured the awkwardness as best he could, and escaped as soon as it would not be abominably rude.
But as the sedan chair carried him home from Clarges Street, his mind kept drifting away from Dragons and faerie science in favor of imaginary conversations with Miss Delphia Northwood. His experience with Dr. Andrews had taught him valuable lessons, ones he could make use of . . .
Ridiculous,
he told himself firmly. Dr. Andrews was making valuable contributions to their planned defense. This was a matter of sentimentality, nothing more, and not justifiable in its risk.
Still, he could not stop thinking of it.
You are a fool, Galen St. Clair
. And that was one statement even his divided and disputatious mind could not argue with.
Covent Garden, Westminster: October 3, 1758
Three hundred sixty-four nights out of the year, Edward Thorne was a loyal protector of his master’s secrets.
On the three hundred sixty-fifth, he told Irrith, without prompting, where Galen could be found.
Or at least his general location. She unearthed the Prince in the third tavern she tried, spotting him with ease, even though he’d obviously made some effort to dress as less than a gentleman. After all, not every footpad here was a disguised faerie playing a trick. Galen wore a baggy, shabby coat over equally shabby clothes, but his wig was too neatly groomed. Irrith spotted it from clear across the tavern. Someone would steal it if he wasn’t careful.
He was staring moodily into a cup she hoped didn’t hold gin. Magrat had warned her that the poor of nearby Seven Dials still adulterated their spirits with turpentine or acid, and Irrith feared Galen was too sheltered a soul to know that.
When she dragged a stool closer, Galen glanced up only long enough to see her. “I’m too tired for guessing games,” he said, slurring the words.
“Irrith,” she said. “I thought you might like company.”
He went back to his contemplation of the cup. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”
“Never said you did.” Irrith leaned forward and sniffed. The familiar burn of gin reached her nostrils, but she didn’t smell anything wrong in it.
Good; he bought the legal kind.
“One question, though, and then I’ll hush up and help you drink yourself under the table. Edward says you go drinking every year on this night, but usually someplace nicer than Covent Garden. Why so grim this time?”
She had observed of him before that he often tried to discipline his expression, and also that he was very bad at it. On this occasion, he didn’t even try. Irrith saw the full play of his shame, despair, and hopeless love. Galen choked down a sip of the bitter gin, then said, “Because this year, I am betrothed.”
Since it was Galen, Irrith tried hard to understand why that should matter. True, it was the Queen’s mourning night. Until dawn, Lune would keep solitary vigil in the night garden, grieving for her first Prince, who lay buried in the Onyx Hall. She did so every year on the anniversary of his death. It was a painful reminder to Galen that her love was not for him—but why should his own step toward marriage drive him to cheap gin in a filthy tavern? It didn’t put Lune’s heart any further out of his reach than it already was.
She tried to understand, and failed. Instead she said, “I think you need distraction. But finish your drink first.”
He lifted the cup, paused, and said, “Please, for the love of all that’s unholy—change your glamour before I go anywhere with you.”
Irrith grinned. She’d forgotten she was disguised as a rough young man. While Galen downed the remainder of his gin, she went outside and found an unoccupied shadowed corner; by the time she came back, this time as a woman, he’d given the tavern’s owner a shilling for the best room in the house. It wasn’t a
good
room, especially for that price, but it was preferable to the Onyx Hall on this night—or Leicester Fields on any night—and if the mattress was home to a troop of bugs, neither of them was in a mood to care.
Afterward, they lay curled together against the chill of the October night. Irrith ran one hand over Galen’s short hair, soft against her fingers. Without his wig and coat and walking stick, she reflected, he was not Lord Galen, Prince of the Stone, nor the gentleman Mr. St. Clair. Only Galen, a tumultuous human heart wrapped up in a body that seemed scarcely able to contain it.
Those absences made him vulnerable; the darkness made him brave. “I sometimes think,” Galen whispered, “that it would be better if she knew.”
“Which one?”
An injudicious question. He curled tighter, like a snail pulling into its shell. But his shell was draped over the rail at the foot of the bed, or dropped carelessly on the floor. After a moment, he said, “Both, I suppose.”
Irrith didn’t know Delphia Northwood. She did know Lune. Before she could doubt her own impulse, Irrith said, “The Queen does know.”
That sent him flying away from her as if propelled by a bow, almost falling off the narrow bed before fetching up against the rail. He said, helplessly, “Oh God, no.”
The word glanced off the protection of the tithe, but Irrith flinched nonetheless. Then she pushed herself upright, studying him. The light coming through the room’s one narrow window was scant indeed, only what filtered in from the inadequate lanterns on Covent Garden square; it was just enough to trace the wing of his collarbone, the line of his uninjured arm clutching the rail, the right-hand side of his face. Not enough to see his eyes.
No way out but through the truth. Some of it, anyway. Galen didn’t need to hear that the rest of the Onyx Court knew it, too. “She’s known for a while.”
He stayed motionless for three heartbeats, then buried his face in his hands.
“You said it might be better,” Irrith reminded him. “Think about it, Galen—if it bothered her, you would know.”
His reply was muffled by his palms. “Except now I must face her. Knowing that she knows. Damn it all, Irrith—why did you have to tell me?”
Because I thought it would help. Because I still can’t tell how your heart works, what will make you happy, what will send you off in despair.
This time, she’d clearly done the latter. Galen dropped his hands and said, “She never should have chosen me.”
The dark hid her second flinch. Irrith hadn’t forgotten what the Goodemeades told her.
Would this man have been Prince, if Lune had another choice?
It didn’t matter. He
was
Prince, and was striving with everything he had to be a good one. This doubt was his greatest enemy. “Lune isn’t stupid,” Irrith said forcefully. “You love her; don’t you trust her? She wouldn’t have chosen you if she thought you weren’t suitable.” No matter what her courtiers said. Lune had ignored them before, when she had to; she would have done the same here.