Midnight Never Come

Act One

No footfalls disturb the hush as the man — not nearly so young as he appears — passes down the corridor, floating as if he walks on the shadows that surround him.

His whisper drifts through the air, echoing from the damp stone of the walls.

“She loves me… she loves me not.”

His clothes are rich, thick velvet and shining satin, black and silver against pale skin that has not seen sunlight for decades. His dark hair hangs loose, not disciplined into curls, and his face is smooth. As she prefers it to be.

“She loves me… she loves me not.”

The slender fingers pluck at something invisible in his hands, as if pulling petals from a flower, one by one, and letting them fall, forgotten.

“She loves me… she loves me not.”

He stops abruptly, peering into the shadows, then reaches up with one shaking hand to touch his eyes. “She wants to take them from me, you know,” he confides to whatever he sees—or thinks he sees. Years in this place have made reality a malleable thing to him, a volatile one, shifting without warning. “She spoke of it again today. Taking my eyes… Tiresias was blind. He was also a woman betimes; did you know that? He had a daughter. I have no daughter.” Breath catches in his throat. “I had a family once. Brothers, sisters, a mother and father… I was in love. I might have had a daughter. But they are all gone now. I have only her, in all the world. She has made certain of that.”

He sinks back against the wall, heedless of the grime that mars his fine clothing, and slides down to sit on the floor. This is one of the back tunnels of the Onyx Hall, far from the cold, glittering beauty of the court. She lets him wander, though never far. But whom does she hurt by keeping him close — him, or herself ? He is the only one who remembers what this court was, in its earliest days. Even she has chosen to forget. Why, then, does she keep him?

He knows the answer. It never changes, no matter the question. Power, and occasional amusement. These are the only reasons she needs.

“That which is above is like that which is below,” he whispers to his unseen companion, a product of his fevered mind. “And that which is below is like that which is above.” His sapphire gaze drifts upward, as if to penetrate the stones and wards that keep the Onyx Hall hidden.

Above lies the world he has lost, the world he sometimes thinks no more than a dream. Another symptom of his madness. The crowded, filthy streets of London, seething with merchants and laborers and nobles and thieves, foreigners and country folk, wooden houses and narrow alleys and docks and the great river Thames. Human life, in all its tawdry glory. And the brilliance of the court above, the Tudor magnificence of Elizabetha Regina, Queen of England, France, and Ireland. Gloriana, and her glorious court.

A great light, that casts a great shadow.

Far below, in the darkness, he curls up against the wall. His gaze falls to his hands, and he lifts them once more, as if recalling the flower he held a moment ago.

“She loves me…

“…she loves me not.”

RICHMOND PALACE, RICHMOND: September 17, 1588

“Step forward, boy, and let me see you.”

The wood-paneled chamber was full of people, some hovering nearby, others off to the side, playing cards or engaging in muted conversation. A musician, seated near a window, played a simple melody on his lute. Michael Deven could not shake the feeling they were all looking at him, openly or covertly, and the scrutiny made him unwontedly awkward.

He had prepared for this audience with more than customary care for appearances. The tailor had assured him the popinjay satin of his doublet complemented the blue of his eyes, and the sleeves were slashed with insets of white silk. His dark hair, carefully styled, had not a strand out of place, and he wore every jewel he owned that did not clash with the rest. Yet in this company, his appearance was little more than serviceable, and sidelong glances weighed him down to the last ounce.

But those gazes would hardly matter if he did not impress the woman in front of him.

Deven stepped forward, bold as if there were no one else there, and made his best leg, sweeping aside the edge of his half-cloak for effect. “Your Majesty.”

Standing thus, he could see no higher than the intricately worked hem of her gown, with its motif of ships and winds. A commemoration of the Armada’s recent defeat, and worth more than his entire wardrobe. He kept his eyes on a brave English ship and waited.

“Look at me.”

He straightened and faced the woman sitting beneath the canopy of estate.

He had seen her from afar, of course, at the Accession Day tilts and other grand occasions: a radiant, glittering figure, with beautiful auburn hair and perfect white skin. Up close, the artifice showed. Cosmetics could not entirely cover the smallpox scars, and the fine bones of her face pressed against her aging flesh. But her dark-eyed gaze made up for it; where beauty failed, charisma would more than suffice.

“Hmmm.” Elizabeth studied him frankly, from the polished buckles of his shoes to the dyed feather in his cap, with particular attention to his legs in their hose. He might have been a horse she was contemplating buying. “So you are Michael Deven. Hunsdon has told me something of you — but I would hear it from your own lips. What is it you want?”

The answer was ready on his tongue. “Your Majesty’s most gracious leave to serve in your presence, and safeguard your throne and your person against those impious foes who would threaten it.”

“And if I say no?”

The freshly starched ruff scratched at his chin and throat as he swallowed. Catering to the Queen’s taste in clothes was less than comfortable. “Then I would be the most fortunate and most wretched of men. Fortunate in that I have achieved that which most men hardly dream of — to stand, however briefly, in your Grace’s radiant presence — and wretched in that I must go from it and not return. But I would yet serve from afar, and pray that one day my service to the realm and its glorious sovereign might earn me even one more moment of such blessing.”

He had rehearsed the florid words until he could say them without feeling a fool, and hoped all the while that this was not some trick Hunsdon had played on him, that the courtiers would not burst into laughter at his overblown praise. No one laughed, and the tight spot between his shoulder blades eased.

A faint smile hovered at the edges of the Queen’s lips. Meeting her eyes for the briefest of instants, Deven thought, She knows exactly what our praise is worth. Elizabeth was no longer a young woman, whose head might be turned by pretty words; she recognized the ridiculous heights to which her courtiers’ compliments flew. Her pride enjoyed the flattery, and her political mind exploited it. By our words, we make her larger than life. And that serves her purposes very well.

This understanding did not make her any easier to face. “And family? Your father is a member of the Stationers’ Company, I believe.”

“And a gentleman, madam, with lands in Kent. He is an alderman of Farringdon Ward within, and has been pleased to serve the Crown in printing certain religious texts. For my own part, I do not follow in his trade; I am of Gray’s Inn.”

“Though your studies there are incomplete, as I understand. You went to the Netherlands, did you not?”

“Indeed, madam.” A touchy subject, given the failures there, and the Queen’s reluctance to send soldiers in the first place. Yet his military conduct in the Low Countries was part of what distinguished him enough to be here today. “I served with your gentleman William Russell at Zutphen two years ago.”

The Queen fiddled idly with a silk fan, eyes still fixed on him. “What languages have you?”

“Latin and French, madam.” What Dutch he had learned was not worth claiming.

She immediately switched to French. “Have you traveled to France?”

“I have not, madam.” He prayed his accent was adequate, and thanked God she had not chosen Latin. “My studies kept me occupied, and then the troubles made it quite impossible.”

“Good. Too many of our young men go there and come back Catholic.” This seemed to be a joke, as several of the courtiers chuckled dutifully. “What of poetry? Do you write any?”

At least Hunsdon had warned him of this, that she would ask questions having nothing to do with his ostensible purpose for being there. “She has standards,” the Lord Chamberlain had said, “for anyone she keeps around her. Beauty, and an appreciation for beauty; whatever your duties at court, you must also be an ornament to her glory.”

“I do not write my own, madam, but I have attempted some works of translation.”

Elizabeth nodded, as if it were a given. “Tell me, which poets have you read? Have you translated Virgil?”

Deven parried this and other questions, striving to keep up with the Queen’s agile mind as it leapt from topic to topic, and all in French. She might be old, but her wits showed no sign of slowing, and from time to time she would make a jest to the surrounding courtiers, in English or in Italian. He fancied they laughed louder at the Italian sallies, which he could not understand. Clearly, if he were accepted at court, he would need to learn it. For self-protection.

Elizabeth broke off the interrogation without warning and looked past Deven. “Lord Hunsdon,” she said, and the nobleman stepped forward to bow. “Tell me. Would my life be safe in this gentleman’s hands?”

“As safe as it rests with any of your Grace’s gentlemen,” the gray-haired baron replied.

“Very encouraging,” Elizabeth said dryly, “given that we executed Tylney for conspiracy not long ago.” She turned her forceful attention to Deven once more, who fought the urge to hold his breath and prayed he did not look like a pro-Catholic conspirator.

At last she nodded her head decisively. “He has your recommendation, Hunsdon? Then let it be so. Welcome to my Gentlemen Pensioners, Master Deven. Hunsdon will instruct you in your duties.” She held out one fine, long-fingered hand, the hands featured in many of her portraits, because she was so proud of them. Kissing one felt deeply strange, like kissing a statue, or one of the icons the papists revered. Deven backed away with as much speed as was polite.

“My humblest thanks, your Grace. I pray God my service never disappoint.”

She nodded absently, her attention already on the next courtier, and Deven straightened from his bow with an inward sigh of relief.

Hunsdon beckoned him away. “Well spoken,” the Lord Chamberlain and Captain of the Gentlemen Pensioners said, “though defense will be the least of your duties. Her Majesty never goes to war in person, of course, so you will not find military action unless you seek it out.”

“Or Spain mounts a more successful invasion,” Deven said.

The baron’s face darkened. “Pray God it never come.”

The two of them made their way through the gathered courtiers in the presence chamber and out through magnificently carved doors into the watching chamber beyond. “The new quarter begins at Michaelmas,” Hunsdon said. “We shall swear you in then; that should give you time to set your affairs in order. A duty period lasts for a quarter, and the regulations require you to serve two each year. In practice, of course, many of our band have others stand in for them, so that some are at court near constantly, others hardly at all. But for your first year, I will require you to serve both assigned periods.”

“I understand, my lord.” Deven had every intention of spending the requisite time at court, and more if he could manage it. One did not gain advancement without gaining the favor of those who granted it, and one did not do that from a distance. Not without family connections, at any rate, and with his father so new to the gentry, he was sorely lacking in those.

As for the connections he did have… Deven had kept his eyes open, both in the presence chamber and this outer room, populated by less favored courtiers, but nowhere had he seen the one man he truly hoped to find. The man to whom he owed his good fortune this day. Hunsdon had recommended him to the Queen, as was his privilege as captain, but the notion did not originate with him.

Unaware of Deven’s thoughts, Hunsdon went on talking. “Have better clothes made, before you begin. Borrow money if you must; no one will remark upon it. Hardly a man in this court is not in debt to one person or another. The Queen takes great delight in fashion, both for herself and those around her. She will not be pleased if you look plain.”

One visit to the elite realm of the presence chamber had convinced him of that. Deven was already in debt; preferment did not come cheaply, requiring gifts to smooth his path every step of the way. It seemed he would have to borrow more, though. This, his father had warned him, would be his lot: spending all he had and more in the hopes of having more in the future.

Not everyone won at that game. But Deven’s grandfather had been all but illiterate; his father, working as a printer, had earned enough wealth to join the ranks of the gentry; Deven himself intended to rise yet higher.

He even had a notion for how to do it — if he could only find the man he needed. Descending a staircase two steps behind Hunsdon, Deven said, “My lord, could you advise me on how to find the Principal Secretary?”

“Eh?” The baron shook his head. “Walsingham is not at court today.”

Damnation. Deven schooled himself to an outward semblance of pleasantry. “I see. In that case, I believe I should—”

His words cut off, for faces he recognized were waiting in the gallery below. William Russell was there, along with Thomas Vavasour and William Knollys, two others he knew from the fighting in the Low Countries. At Hunsdon’s confirming nod, they loosed glad cries and surged forward, clapping him on the back.

The suggestion he had been about to make, that he return to London that afternoon, was trampled before he could even speak it. Deven struggled with his conscience for a minute at most before giving in. He was a courtier now; he should enjoy the pleasures of a courtier’s life.

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: September 17, 1588

The polished stone walls reflected the quiet murmurs, the occasional burst of cold, sharp laughter, echoing up among the sheets of crystal and silver filigree that filled the space between the vaulting arches. Chill lights shone down on a sea of bodies, tall and short, twisted and fair. Court was not often so well attended, but something was expected to happen today. No one knew what — there were rumors; there were always rumors — but no one would be absent who could possibly attend.

And so the fae of London gathered in the Onyx Hall, circulating across the black-and-white pietre dura marble of the great presence chamber. One did not have to be a courtier to gain entry to this room; among the lords and gentlewomen were visitors from outlying areas, most of them dressed in the same ordinary clothing they wore every day. They formed a plain, sturdy backdrop against which the finery of the courtiers shone all the more vividly. Gowns of cobwebs and mist, doublets of rose petals like armor, jewels of moonlight and starlight and other intangible riches: the fae who called the Onyx Hall home had dressed for a grand court occasion.

They had dressed, and they had come; now they waited. The one empty space lay at the far end of the presence chamber, a high dais upon which a throne sat empty. Its intricate network of silver and gems might have been the web of a spider, waiting for its spinner to return. No one looked at it openly, but each fae present glanced at it from time to time out of the corners of their eyes.

Lune looked at it more often than most. The rest of the time she drifted through the hall, silent and alone. Whispers spread fast; even those from outside London seemed to have heard of her fall from favor. Or perhaps not; country fae often kept their distance from courtiers, out of fears ranging from the well-founded to the ludicrous. Whatever the cause, the hems of her sapphire skirts rarely brushed anyone else’s. She moved in an invisible sphere of her own disgrace.

From the far end of the hall, a voice boomed out like the crash of waves on rocky shores. “She comes! From the white cliffs of Dover to the stones of the ancient wall, she rules all the fae of England. Make way for the Queen of the Onyx Court!”

The sea of bodies rippled in a sudden ebb tide, every fae present sinking to the floor. The more modest — the more fearful — prostrated themselves on the black-and-white marble, faces averted, eyes tightly shut. Lune listened as heavy steps thudded past, measured and sure, and then behind them the ghostly whisper of skirts. A chill breeze wafted through the room, more imagined than felt.

A moment later, the doors to the presence chamber boomed shut. “By command of your mistress, rise, and attend to her court,” the voice again thundered, and with a shiver the courtiers returned to their feet and faced the throne.

Invidiana might have been a portrait of herself, so still did she sit. The crystal and jet embroidered onto her gown formed bold shapes that complemented those of the throne, with the canopy of estate providing a counterpoint above. Her high collar, edged with diamonds, framed a flawless face that showed no overt expression — but Lune fancied she could read a hint of secret amusement in the cold black eyes.

She hoped so. When Invidiana was not amused, she was often angry.

Lune avoided meeting the gaze of the creature that waited at Invidiana’s side. Dame Halgresta Nellt stood like a pillar of rock, boots widely planted, hands clasped behind her broad back. The weight of her gaze was palpable. No one knew where Invidiana had found Halgresta and her two brothers — somewhere in the North, though some said they had once been fae of the alfar lands across the sea, before facing exile for unknown crimes — but the three giants had fought a pitched combat before Invidiana’s throne for the right to command her personal guard, and Halgresta had won. Not through size or strength, but through viciousness. Lune knew all too well what the giant would like to do to her.

A sinuous fae clad in an emerald-green doublet that fit like a second skin ascended two steps up the dais and bowed to the Queen, then faced the chamber. “Good people,” Valentin Aspell said, his oily voice pitched to carry, “today, we play host to kinsmen who have suffered a tragic loss.”

At the Lord Herald’s words, the doors to the presence chamber swung open. Laying one hand on the sharp, fluted edge of a column, Lune turned, like everyone else, to look.

The fae who entered were a pathetic sight. Muddy and haggard, their simple clothes hanging in rags, they shuffled in with all the terror and awe of rural folk encountering for the first time the cold splendor of the Onyx Hall. The watching courtiers eddied back to let them pass, but there was none of the respect that had immediately opened a path for Invidiana; Lune saw more than a few looks of malicious pity. Behind the strangers walked Halgresta’s brother Sir Prigurd, who shepherded them along with patient determination, nudging them forward until they came to a halt at the foot of the dais. There was a pause. Then a sound rumbled through the hall: a low growl from Halgresta. The peasants jerked and threw themselves to the floor, trembling.

“You kneel before the Queen of the Onyx Court,” Aspell said, with only moderate inaccuracy; two of the strangers were indeed kneeling, instead of lying on the floor. “Tell her, and the gathered dignitaries of her realm, what has befallen you.”

One of the two kneeling fae, a stout hob who looked in danger of losing his cheerful girth, obeyed the order. He had the good sense not to rise.

“Nobble Queen,” he said, “we hev lost ev’ry thing.”

The account that followed was delivered in nearly impenetrable country dialect. Lune soon gave up on understanding every detail; the tenor was clear enough. The hob had served a certain family since time out of mind, but the mortals were recently thrown off their land, and their house burnt to the ground. Nor was he the only one to suffer such misfortune: a nearby marsh had been drained and the entire area, former house and all, given over to a new kind of farming, while a road being laid in to connect some insignificant town to some slightly less insignificant town had resulted in the death of an oak man and the leveling of a minor faerie mound.

When the last of the tale had spilled out, another pause ensued, and then the hob nudged a battered and sorry-looking puck still trembling on the floor at his side. The puck yelped, a sharp and nervous sound, and produced from somewhere a burlap sack.

“Nobble Queen,” the hob said again, “we hev browt yew sum gifts.”

Aspell stepped forward and accepted the sack. One by one, he lifted its contents free and presented them to Invidiana: a rose with ruby petals, a spindle that spun on its own, a cup carved from a giant acorn. Last of all was a small box, which he opened facing the Queen. A rustle shivered across the hall as half the courtiers craned to see, but the contents were hidden.

Whatever they were, they must have satisfied Invidiana. She waved Aspell off with one white hand and spoke for the first time.

“We have heard your tale of loss, and your gifts are pleasing to our eyes. New homes will be found for you, never fear.”

Her cool, unemotional words set off a flurry of bowing and scraping from the country fae; the hob, still on his knees, pressed his face to the floor again and again. Finally Prigurd got them to their feet, and they skittered out of the chamber, looking relieved at both their good fortune and their departure from the Queen’s presence.

Lune pitied them. The poor fools had no doubt given Invidiana every treasure they possessed, and much good would it do them. She could easily guess the means by which those rural improvements had begun; the only true question was what the fae of that area had done to so anger the Queen, that she retaliated with the destruction of their homes.

Or perhaps they were no more than a means to an end.

Invidiana looked out over her courtiers, and spoke again. The faint hint of kindness an optimistic soul might have read into her tone before was gone. “When word reached us of this destruction, we sent our loyal vassal Ifarren Vidar to investigate.” From a conspicuous spot at the foot of the dais, the skeletally thin Vidar smirked. “He uncovered a shameful tale, one our grieving country cousins dreamed not of.”

The measured courtesy of her words was more chilling than rage would have been. Lune shivered, and pressed her back against the sharp edges of the pillar. Sun and Moon, she thought, let it not touch me. She had played no part in these unknown events, but that meant nothing; Invidiana and Vidar were well practiced in the art of fabricating guilt as needed. Had the Queen preserved her from Halgresta Nellt only to lay this trap for her instead?

If so, it was a deeper trap than Lune could perceive. The tale Invidiana laid out was undoubtedly false — some trumped-up story of one fae seeking revenge against another through the destruction of the other fellow’s homeland — but the person it implicated was no one Lune knew well, a minor knight called Sir Tormi Cadogant.

The accused fae did the only thing anyone could, in the circumstances. Had he not been at court, he might have run; it was treason to seek refuge among the fae of France or Scotland or Ireland, but it might also be safety, if he made it that far. But he was present, and so he shoved his way through the crowd and threw himself prostrate before the throne, hands outstretched in supplication.

“Forgive me, your Majesty,” he begged, his voice trembling with very real fear. “I should not have done so. I have trespassed against your royal rights; I confess it. But I did so only out of—”

“Silence,” Invidiana hissed, and his words cut off.

So perhaps Cadogant was the target of this affair. Or perhaps not. He was certainly not guilty, but that told Lune nothing.

“Come before me, and kneel,” the Queen said, and shaking like an aspen leaf, Cadogant ascended the stairs until he came before the throne.

One long-fingered white hand went to the bodice of Invidiana’s gown. The jewel that lay at the center of her low neckline came away, leaving behind a stark patch of black in the intricate embroidery. Invidiana rose from her throne, and everyone knelt again, but this time they looked up; all of them, from Aspell and Vidar down to the lowliest brainless sprite, knew they were required to witness what came next. Lune watched from her station by the pillar, transfixed with her own fear.

The jewel was a masterwork even among the fae, a perfectly symmetrical tracery of silver drawn down from the moon itself, housing in its center a true black diamond: not the painted gems humans wore, but a stone that held dark fire in its depths. Pearls formed from mermaid’s tears surrounded it, and razor-edged slivers of obsidian ringed the gem’s edges, but the diamond was the focal point, and the source of power.

Looming above the kneeling Cadogant, Invidiana was a pitiless figure. She reached out her hand and laid the jewel against the fae’s brow, between his eyes.

“Please,” Cadogant whispered. The word was audible to the farthest corners of the utterly silent hall. Brave as he was, to face the Queen’s wrath and hope for what passed for mercy in her, he still begged.

A quiet clicking was his answer, as six spidery claws extended from the jewel and laid needle-sharp tips against his skin.

“Tormi Cadogant,” Invidiana said, her voice cold with formality, “this ban I lay upon thee. Nevermore wilt thou bear title or honor within the borders of England. Nor wilt thou flee to foreign lands. Instead, thou wilt wander, never staying more than three nights in one place, neither speaking nor writing any word to another; thou wilt be as one mute, an exile within thine own land.”

Lune closed her eyes as she felt power flare outward from the jewel. She had seen it used before, and knew some of how it worked. There was only one consequence for breaking such a ban.

Death.

Not just an exile, but one forbidden to communicate. Cadogant must have been plotting some treason. And this was a message to his coconspirators, subtle enough to be understood, without telling the ignorant that a conspiracy had ever existed in the first place.

Her skin shuddered all over. Such a fate might have been hers, had Invidiana been any more enraged by her failure.

“Go,” Invidiana snapped. Lune did not open her eyes until the hesitant, stumbling footsteps passed out of hearing.

When Cadogant was gone, Invidiana did not seat herself again. “This work is concluded for now,” she said, and her words bore the terrible implication that Cadogant might not be the last victim. But whatever would happen next, it would not happen now. Everyone cast their gaze down again as the Queen swept from the room, and when the doors shut at last behind her, everyone let out a collective breath.

In the wake of her departure, music began to thread a plaintive note through the air. Glancing back toward the dais, Lune saw a fair-haired young man lounging on the steps, a recorder balanced in his nimble fingers. Like all of Invidiana’s mortal pets, his name was taken from the stories of the ancient Greeks, and for good reason; Orpheus’s simple melody did more than simply evoke the loss and sorrow of the peasant fae, and Cadogant’s downfall. Some of those who had shown cruel amusement before now frowned, regret haunting their eyes. One dark-haired fae woman began to dance, her slender body flowing like water, giving form to the sound. Lune pressed her lips together and hurried to the door, before she, too, could be drawn into Orpheus’s snare.

Vidar was lounging against one doorpost, bony silk-clad arms crossed over his chest. “Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, that same smirk hovering again on his lips.

Lune longed for a response to that, some perfect, cutting reply to check his surety that he stood in the Queen’s favor and she did not. After all, fae had been known to suffer apparent disgrace, only for it later to be revealed as part of some scheme. But no such scheme sheltered her, and her wit failed. She felt Vidar’s smirk widen as she shouldered past him and out of the presence chamber.

His words had unsettled her more than she realized. Or perhaps it was Cadogant, or those poor, helpless country pawns. Lune could not bear to stay out in the public eye, where she imagined every whisper spoke of her downfall. Instead she made her way, with as much haste as she could afford, through the tunnels to her own quarters.

The closing of the door gave the illusion of sanctuary. These two rooms were richly decorated, with a softer touch than in the public areas of the Hall; thick mats of woven rushes covered her floor, and tapestries of the great fae myths adorned her walls. The marble fireplace flared into life at her arrival, casting a warmer glow over the interior, throwing long shadows from the chairs that stood before it. Empty chairs; she had not entertained many guests lately. A doorway on the far side led to her bedchamber.

At least she still had this, her sanctum. She had lost the Queen’s favor, but not so terribly that she had been forced from the Onyx Hall, to wander like those poor bastards in search of a new home. Not so terribly as Cadogant had.

The very thought made her shiver. Straightening, Lune crossed the room to a table that stood by her bedchamber door, and the crystalline coffer atop it.

She hesitated before opening it, knowing the dreary sight that would meet her eyes. Three morsels sat inside: three bites of coarse bread, who knew how old, but as fresh now as when some country housewife laid them out on the doorstep as a gift to the fae. Three bites to sustain her, if the worst should happen and she should be sent away from the Onyx Hall — sent out into the mortal world.

They would not protect her for long.

Lune closed the coffer and shut her eyes. It would not happen. She would find a way back into Invidiana’s favor. It might take years, but in the meantime, all she had to do was avoid angering the Queen again.

Or giving Halgresta any excuse to come after her.

Lune’s fingers trembled on the delicate surface of the coffer; whether from fear or fury, she could not have said. No, she could not simply wait for her chance. That was not how one survived the Onyx Court. She would have to seek out an opportunity, or better yet, create one.

But how to do that, with so few resources available to her? Three bites of bread would not help her much. And Invidiana would hardly grant more to someone out of favor.

The Queen was not, however, the only source of mortal food.

Again Lune hesitated. To do this, she would have to go out of the Onyx Hall — which meant using one of her remaining pieces. That, or send a message, which would be even more dangerous. No, she couldn’t risk that; she would have to go in person.

Praying the sisters would be as generous as she hoped, Lune took a piece of bread from the coffer and went out before she could change her mind.

RICHMOND AND LONDON: September 18, 1588

So this, Deven thought blearily as he fumbled the lid back onto the close stool, is the life of a courtier.

His right shoulder was competing with his head for which ached worse. His new brothers in the Gentlemen Pensioners had taught him to play tennis the previous night, in the high-walled chamber built for that purpose out in the gardens. He’d flinched inwardly at having to pay for entry, but once inside, he took to it with perhaps more enthusiasm than was wise. Then there was drinking and card games, late into the night, until Deven had little memory of how he had arrived here, sharing Vavasour’s bed, with their servants stretched out on the floor.

An urgent need to relieve himself had woken him; in the bed, Vavasour slept on. Scrubbing at his eyes, Deven contemplated following his fellow’s example, but told himself with resignation that he might as well put the time to use. Otherwise he would sleep until noon and then get caught up once more in the social dance; then it would be too late to leave, so he would stay another night, and so on and so forth until he found himself crawling away from court one day, bleary-eyed and bankrupt.

Checking his purse, he corrected that last thought. Perhaps not bankrupt, judging by his apparent luck at cards the previous night. But such winnings would not finance this life. Hunsdon was right: he needed to borrow money.

Deven suppressed the desire to groan and shook Peter Colsey awake. His manservant was in little better shape than he, having found other servants with whom to entertain himself, but fortunately he was also taciturn of a morning. He rolled off the mattress and confined himself to dire looks at their boots, his master’s doublet, and anything else that had the effrontery to require work from him at such an early hour.

The palace wore a different face at this time of day. The previous morning, Deven had been too much focused on his own purpose to take note of it, but now he looked around, trying to wake himself up gently. Servants hurried through the corridors, wearing the Queen’s livery or that of various nobles. Outside, Deven heard chickens squawking as two voices argued over who should get how many. Hooves thudded in the courtyard, moving fast and stopping abruptly: a messenger, perhaps. He bet his winnings from the previous night that Hunsdon and the other men who dominated the privy council were up already, hard at work on the business of her Majesty’s government.

Colsey brought him food to break his fast, and departed again to have their horses saddled. Soon they were riding out in morning sunlight far too bright.

They did not talk for the first few miles. Only when they stopped to water their horses at a stream did Deven say, “Well, Colsey, we have until Michaelmas. Then I am due to return to court, and under orders to be better dressed when I do.”

Colsey grunted. “Best I learn how to brush up velvet, then.”

“Best you do.” Deven stroked the neck of his black stallion, calming the animal. It was a stupid beast for casual riding — the horse was trained for war — but a part of the fiction that the Gentlemen Pensioners were still a military force, rather than a force that happened to include some military men. Three horses and two servants; he’d had to acquire another man to assist Colsey. That still earned him more than a few glares.

By afternoon the houses they passed were growing closer together, clustering along the south bank of the Thames and stringing out along the road that led to the bridge. Deven stopped to refresh himself with ale in a Southwark tavern, then cocked his gaze at the sky. “Ludgate first, Colsey. We shall see how quickly I can get out, eh?”

Colsey had the sense not to make any predictions, at least not out loud.

Their pace slowed considerably as they crossed London Bridge, Deven’s stallion having to shoulder his way through the crowds that packed it. He kept a careful hand on the reins. Travelers like him wended their way one step at a time, mingling with those shopping in the establishments built along the bridge’s length; he didn’t put it past the warhorse to bite someone.

Nor did matters improve much on the other side. Resigned by now to the slower pace, his horse drifted westward along Thames Street, taking openings where he found them. Colsey spat less-than-muffled curses as his own cob struggled to keep up, until at last they arrived at their destination in the rebuilt precinct of Blackfriars: John Deven’s shop and house.

Whatever private estimate Colsey had made about the length of their visit, Deven suspected it was not short. His father was delighted to learn of his success, but of course it wasn’t enough simply to hear the result; he wanted to know every detail, from the clothing of the courtiers to the decorations in the presence chamber. He had visited court a few times, but not often, and had never entered such an august realm.

“Perhaps I’ll see it myself someday, eh?” he said, beaming with unsubtle optimism.

And then of course his mother Susanna had to hear, and his cousin Henry, whom Deven’s parents had taken in after the death of John’s younger brother. It worked out well for all involved; Henry had filled the place that might otherwise have been Michael’s, apprenticing to John under the aegis of the Stationers’ and freeing him to pursue more ambitious paths. The conversation went to business news, and then of course it was late enough that he had to stay for supper.

A small voice in the back of Deven’s mind reflected that it was just as well; if he ate here, it was no coin out of his own purse. Why he should dwell on pennies when he was in debt for pounds made no sense, but there it was.

After supper, when Susanna and Henry had been sent off, Deven sat with his father by the fire, a cup of fine malmsey dangling from his fingers. The light flickered beautifully through the Venetian glass and the red wine within, and he watched it, pleasantly relaxed.

“Your place is assured, my son,” John Deven said, stretching his feet toward the fire with a happy sigh.

Elizabeth’s ominous words about Tylney had stayed in Deven’s mind, but his father was right. There were graybeards in the Pensioners, some of them hardly fit for any kind of action. Unless he did something deeply foolish — like conspiring to kill the Queen — he might stay there until he wished to leave.

Some men did leave. Family concerns called them away, or a disenchantment with life at court; some broke their fortunes instead of making them. Seventy marks yearly, a Pensioner’s salary, was not much in that world, and not everyone succeeded at gaining the kinds of preferment that brought more.

But then his father drove all money concerns from his mind, with one simple phrase. “Now,” John Deven said, “to find you a wife.”

It startled a laugh from him. “I have scarcely earned my place, Father. Give me time to get my feet under me, at least.”

“’Tis not me you should be asking for time. You have just secured a favorable position, one close to her Majesty; there will be gentlewomen seeking after you like hawks. Perhaps even ladies.”

There certainly had been women watching the tennis matches the previous day. A twinge in Deven’s shoulder made him wonder how bad a fool he had made of himself. “No doubt. But I know better than to rush into anything, particularly when I am serving the Queen. They say she’s very jealous of those around her, and dislikes scandalous behaviour in her courtiers.” The last thing he needed was to end up in the Tower because he got some maid of honor pregnant.

The best eye to catch, of course, was that of the Queen herself. But though Deven was ambitious, and her affection was a quick path to reward, he was not at all certain he wanted to compete with the likes of the young Earl of Essex. That would rapidly bring him into situations he could not survive.

“Marriage is no scandal,” his father said. “Have a care for how you comport yourself, but do not stand too aloof. A match at court might be very beneficial indeed.”

His father seemed likely to keep pressing the matter. Deven dodged it with a distraction. “If all goes as planned, my time will be very thoroughly employed elsewhere.”

John Deven’s face settled into graver lines. “You have spoken to Walsingham, then?”

“No. He was not at court. But I will do so at the first opportunity.”

“Be wary of rushing into such things,” his father said. Much of the relaxed atmosphere had gone out of the air. “He serves an honorable cause, but not always by honorable means.”

Deven knew this very well; he had done some of that work in the Low Countries. Though not the most sordid parts of it, to be sure. “He is my most likely prospect for preferment, Father. But I’ll keep my wits about me, I promise.”

With that, his father had to be satisfied.

LONDON AND ISLINGTON: September 18, 1588

Leaving the Onyx Hall was not so simple as Lune might have hoped. In the labyrinthine politics of court, someone would find a way to read her departure as suspicious, should she go out too soon after Invidiana’s sentencing of Cadogant. Vidar, if no one else.

So she wandered for a time through the reaches of the Onyx Hall, watching fae shy away from her company. It was an easy way to fill time; though the subterranean faerie palace was not so large as the city above, it was far larger than any surface building, with passages playing the role of streets, and complexes of chambers given over to different purposes.

In one open-columned hall she found Orpheus again, this time playing dance music; fae clapped as one of their number whirled around with a partner in a frenzied display. Lune placed herself along the wall and watched as a grinning lubberkin dragged a poor, stumbling human girl on, faster and faster. The mortal looked healthy enough, though exhausted; she was probably some maidservant lured down into the Onyx Hall for brief entertainment, and would be returned to the surface in the end, disoriented and drained. Those who had been there for a long time, like Orpheus, acquired a fey look this girl did not yet have.

Their attention was on the dance. Unobserved, Lune slipped across to the other side of the hall and out through another door.

She took a circuitous route, misleading to anyone who might see her passing by, but also necessary; one could not simply go straight to one’s destination. The Onyx Hall connected to the world above in a variety of places, but those places did not match up; two entrances might lie half the city apart on the surface, but side-by-side down below. It was one of the reasons visitors feared the place. Once inside, they might never find their way out again.

But Lune knew her path. Soon enough she entered a small, deserted chamber, where the stone walls of the palace gave way to a descending lacework of roots.

Standing beneath their canopy, she took a deep breath and concentrated.

The rippling, night-sky sapphire of her gown steadied and became plainer blue broadcloth. The gems that decorated it vanished, and the neckline closed up, ending in a modest ruff, with a cap to cover her hair. More difficult was Lune’s own body; she had to focus carefully, weathering her skin, turning her hair from silver to a dull blond, and her shining eyes to a cheerful blue. Fae who were good at this knew attention to detail was what mattered. Leave nothing unchanged, and add those few touches — a mole here, smallpox scars there — that would speak convincingly of ordinary humanity.

But building the illusion was not enough, on its own. Lune reached into the purse that hung from her girdle and brought forth the bread from her coffer.

The coarsely ground barley caught in her teeth; she was careful to swallow it all. As food, she disdained it, but it served its own purpose, and for that it was more precious than gold. When the last bit had been consumed, she reached up and stroked the nearest root.

With a quiet rustle, the tendrils closed around and lifted her up.

She emerged from the trunk of an alder tree that stood along St. Martin’s Lane, no more than a stone’s throw from the structures that had grown like burls from the great arch and surrounding walls of Aldersgate. The time, she was surprised to discover, was early morning. The Onyx Hall did not stand outside human time the way more distant realms did — that would make Invidiana’s favorite games too difficult — but it was easy to lose track of the hour.

Straightening her cap, Lune stepped away from the tree. No one had noticed her coming out of the trunk. It was the final boundary of the Onyx Hall, the last edge of the enchantments that protected the subterranean palace lying unseen below mortal feet; just as the place itself remained undiscovered, so would people not be seen coming and going. But once away from its entrances, the protections ended.

As if to hammer the point home, the bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral rang out the hour from within the tightly packed mass of London. Lune could not repress the tiniest flinch, even as she felt the sound wash over her harmlessly. She had done this countless times before, yet the first test of her own protections always made her nervous.

But she was safe. Fortified by mortal food against the power of mortal faith, she could walk among them, and never fear her true face would be revealed.

Settling into her illusion, Lune set out, walking briskly through the gate and out of London.

The morning was bright, with a crisp breeze that kept her cool as she walked. The houses crowding the lane soon spaced themselves more generously, but there was traffic aplenty, an endless flow of food, travelers, and goods into and out of the city. London was a voracious thing, chewing up more than it spat back out, and in recent years it had begun to swallow the countryside. Lune marveled at the thronging masses who flooded the city until it overflowed, spilling out of its ancient walls and taking root in the formerly green fields that lay without. They lived like ants, building up great hills in which they lived by the hundreds and thousands, and then dying in the blink of an eye.

A mile or so farther out, it was a different matter. The clamor of London faded behind her; ahead, beyond the shooting fields, lay the neighboring village of Islington, with its manor houses and ancient, shading trees. And along the Great North Road, the friendly, welcoming structure of the Angel Inn.

The place was moderately busy, with travelers and servants alike crossing the courtyard that lay between the inn and the stables, but that made Lune’s goal easier; with so many people about, no one took particular notice of one more. She passed by the front entrance and went toward the back, where the hillside was dominated by an enormous rosebush, a tangled, brambly mass even the bravest soul would be afraid to trim back.

This, too, had its own protections. No one was there to watch as Lune cupped a late-blooming rose in her hand and spoke her name into the petals.

Like the roots of the alder tree in London, the thorny branches rustled and moved, forming a braided archway starred with yellow blossoms. Inside the archway were steps, leading down through the earth, their wood worn smooth by countless passing feet. Charmed lights cast a warm glow over the interior. Lune began her descent, and the rosebush closed behind her.

The announcement of her name did not open the bush; it only told the inhabitants someone had come. But visitors were rarely kept waiting, outside or in. By the time Lune reached the bottom of the steps, someone was there.

“Welcome to the Angel, my lady,” Gertrude Goodemeade said, a sunny smile on her round-cheeked face as she bobbed a curtsy. “’Tis always a pleasure to see you here. Come in, please, please!”

No doubt the Goodemeade sisters gave the same friendly greeting to anyone who crossed their threshold — just as, no doubt, more courtiers came here than would admit it — and yet Lune did not doubt the words were sincere. It was in the sisters’ nature. They came from the North originally — brownies were Border hobs, and Gertrude’s voice retained traces of the accent — but they had served the Angel Inn since its construction, and supposedly another inn before that, and on back past what anyone could remember. Many hobs were insular folk, attached to a particular mortal family and unconcerned with anyone else, but these two understood giving hospitality to strangers.

The edges of the tension that had frozen Lune’s back for days melted away in the warmth of the brownies’ comfortable home.

Lune suffered Gertrude to lead her into the cozy little chamber and settle her onto a padded bench at one of the small tables. “We haven’t seen you here in some time,” Gertrude said. She was already bustling about, embroidered skirts swishing with her quick movements, fetching Lune a cup of mead without asking. It was, of course, exactly what Lune craved at that moment. The talents of brownies were homely things, but appreciated all the same.

One brownie, at any rate. Lune opened her mouth to ask where Gertrude’s sister was, then paused at sounds on the staircase. A moment later her question was answered, for Rosamund entered, wearing a russet dress that was the twin of Gertrude’s save for the embroidery on its apron — roses instead of daisies — just as her cheerful face mirrored that of her sister.

Behind her came others who were less cheerful. Lune recognized the haggard male hob immediately; the others were less familiar, having mostly pressed their faces into the floor of the Onyx Hall when she last saw them.

Gertrude made a sympathetic sound and hurried forward. For a short time the room seemed overfull, wall-to-wall with hobs and pucks and a slender, mournful-faced river nymph Lune had missed among them the first time. But no brownie would suffer there to be confusion or standing guests for long; soon enough a few of the strangers were ensconced at the tables with bread fresh out of the oven and sharp, crumbly cheese, while the more tired among them were bundled off through another door and put to bed.

Lune wrapped her fingers around her mead and felt uncomfortable. She had dismissed her illusion of mortality — she would have felt odd maintaining it inside, as if she had kept a traveling cloak on — but the bite of human bread she had eaten still made her proof against church bells, iron horseshoes, and other anti-faerie charms. How the refugees had gotten to the Angel from the Onyx Hall, she did not know, but she doubted it had been so easy. Rosamund must have been present at court, though. Lune chided herself for not studying the crowd more closely.

Gertrude had not forgotten her. Moments later, the smell of roasted coney filled the room, and Lune was served along with the others. The food was simple, prosaic, and good; one could easily imagine mortals eating the same thing, and it made the elaborate banquets of the court seem fussy and excessive.

Perhaps, Lune thought, this is why I come here. For perspective.

Would it be so bad, to leave the court? To find a simpler life, somewhere outside of London?

It would be easier, certainly. In the countryside, there was less need to protect oneself against mortal tricks. Peasant folk saw fae from time to time, and told stories of their encounters with black dogs or goblins, but no one made trouble of it. Or rarely, at least. They generally only tried to lay creatures who made too much a nuisance of themselves. And out there, one was well away from the intrigues of the Onyx Court.

Next to Lune on the bench, a tuft-headed sprite began to sniffle into his bread.

Wherever these rural fae had come from, it was not far enough to save them from Invidiana.

No, she could not leave London. To be subject to the tides of the court, but unable to affect them…

There was another choice, of course. Across the boundary of twilight, down the pleasant paths that led neither to Heaven nor Hell, and into the deeper reaches of Faerie, where Invidiana’s authority and influence did not reach. But few mortals ever wandered so far, and for all the dangers they posed to fae, Lune would not leave them behind. Mortals were endlessly fascinating, with their brief, bright lives, and all the passion that fueled them.

Rosamund began to shepherd the others off, murmuring about baths and nice soft beds. Gertrude came by as the sprite vacated Lune’s bench. “Now then, my lady — forgive me for that. Poor things, they were starved to the bone. Was it just a bite to eat you were looking for, and a breath of good country air?”

Her apple-cheeked face radiated such friendly helpfulness that Lune shook her head before she could stop herself. On the instant, Gertrude’s cheerful demeanor transformed to concern. “Oh, dearie. Tell us about it.”

Lune had not meant to share the story, but perhaps it was appropriate; she could hardly ask for aid without explaining at least some of why she needed it, and the Goodemeades were generally ignorant of politics. They might be the nearest fae who had not already heard.

“I am disgraced at court,” she admitted.

She tried to speak as if it were of small moment. Indeed, sometimes it was; if everyone who angered Invidiana suffered Cadogant’s fate, there would soon be no court left. But she stood upon the edge of a knife, and that was never a comfortable place to be.

Gertrude made a sympathetic face. “Queen’s taken a set against you, has she?”

“With cause,” Lune said. “You listen to the talk in the mortal inn, do you not?”

The brownie dimpled innocently. “From time to time.”

“Then you know they fear invasion by Spain, and that a great Armada was only recently defeated.”

“Oh, we heard! Great battles at sea, or some such.”

Lune nodded, looking down at the remnants of her coney. “Great battles. But before them and after, great storms as well. Storms for which we paid too high a price.” She had confessed the details only to Invidiana, and would not repeat them; that would only deepen the Queen’s wrath. But she could tell Gertrude the shape of it. “I was Invidiana’s ambassador to the folk of the sea, and did not bargain well enough. She is displeased with the concession I promised.”

“Oh dear.” Gertrude paused to assimilate this. “What was so dreadful, then? I cannot imagine she wants us to be invaded; surely it was worth the price.”

Lune pushed her trencher away, painting a smile over her ever-present knot of worry. “Come, you do not want to talk of such things. This is a haven away from court and its nets — and long may it remain so.”

“True enough,” the brownie said complacently, patting her apron with plump but work-worn fingers. “Well, all’s well that ends well; we don’t have any nasty Spanish soldiers trampling through the Angel, and I’m sure you’ll find your way back into her Majesty’s good graces soon enough. You have a talent for such things, my lady.”

The words returned Lune to her original purpose. “I hesitate to ask you this,” she admitted, looking at the doorway through which the last of the refugees had vanished. “You have so many to take care of now — at least until they can be settled elsewhere. And I wonder Rosamund could even bring them here safely.”

Her reluctance had exactly the desired effect. “Oh, is that all?” Gertrude exclaimed dismissively, springing to her feet. The next Lune knew, the brownie was pressing an entire heel of bread into her hands. It was not much different from what the Goodemeades had served, but any fae could tell one from the other at a touch. Mortality had a distinctive weight.

Looking down at the bread, Lune felt obscurely guilty. The maidservants of the Angel put out bread and milk faithfully; everyone knew that. And Invidiana taxed the Goodemeades accordingly, just as she taxed many country fae. Many more rural humans than city folk put out food for the fae, yet it was in the city that they needed it most. The Onyx Hall shut out the sounds of the bells and other such threats, but to venture into the streets unfed was an assurance of trouble.

She needed this. But so did the Goodemeades, with their guests to take care of.

“Go on, take it,” Gertrude said in a soft voice, folding her hands around the bread. “I’m sure you’ll find a good use for it.”

Lune put her guilt aside. “Thank you. I will not forget your generosity.”

Memory: May–August 1588

In villages and towns all along the coast of England, piles of wood awaited the torch, and men awaited the first sight of the doom that was coming to devour them.

In the crowded harbor of Lisbon, the ships of the Grande y Felicícisma Armada awaited the order that would send them forth, for God and King Philip, to bring down the heretic queen.

In the waters that separated them, storms brewed, sending rain and heavy winds to lash the lands on both sides of the English Channel.

The Armada was a greater thing in story than it was in reality. The five hundred mighty ships that would bear an unstoppable army to England’s shores, their holds crammed with implements of torture and thousands of Catholic wet nurses for the English babies who would be orphaned by the wholesale slaughter of their parents, were in truth a hundred and thirty ships of varying degrees of seaworthiness, crewed by the dregs of Lisbon, some of whom had never been to sea before, and commanded by a landsman given his posting only a few months gone. Disease and the depredations of the English scourge Sir Francis Drake had taken their toll on God’s weapon against the heretics.

But the worst was yet to come.

In this, the quietest month of the year, when all the experienced seamen had assured the Duke of Medina-Sidonia that the waters would be calm and the winds fair for England, the storms did not subside; instead, they grew in strength. Gales drove the ships back when they tried to progress, and scattered the weaker, less seaworthy vessels. Fat-bottomed merchantmen, Mediterranean galleys unsuited to the blasts of the open sea, lumbering supply ships that slowed the pace of the entire fleet: the Great and Most Fortunate Armada was a sorry sight indeed.

Delays had slain what remained of May; June rotted away in the harbor of La Coruña, while sailors sickened and starved, their victuals fouled by the green wood of the barrels they were kept in. The commanders of the fleet found new terms by which to damn Drake, who had burned the seasoned barrel-staves the previous year.

In July they sailed again, obedient to God’s mission.

Red crosses waved on white flags. The banner of Medina-Sidonia’s ship carried the Virgin and a crucified Christ, and the motto Exsurge, Domine, et judica causam tuam! Monks prayed daily, and even sailors were forbidden to take the Lord’s name in vain.

Yet none of it availed.

Beacon fires flared along the coast of England: the Spanish had been sighted. The wind favored the English, and so did the guns; the trim English ships refused boarding engagements, dancing around their ungainly enemy, battering away with their longer guns while staying out of Spanish range. Like dogs tearing at a chained bear, they harried the Spanish up the coast to Scotland, while the storms kept up their merciless assault.

Storms, always storms, every step of the way.

Storms struck them in the Orkneys, and again off the Irish coast, as the Armada fought to crawl home. From Lisbon into the Channel, around all the islands of England, Scotland, and Ireland — everywhere the fleet went, the wrath of sky and sea pursued.

Sick unto death with scurvy and typhus, maddened by starvation and thirst, the sailors screamed of faces in the water, voices in the sky. God was on their side, but the sea was not. Ever fickle, she had turned an implacable face to them, and all the prayers of the monks could not win her goodwill.

For a deal had been struck, in underwater palaces spoken of only in sailors’ drunken tales. The sea answered to powers other than man’s, and those powers — ever callous to human suffering — had been persuaded to act in favor of the English cause, against their usual disinterested neutrality.

So it was that the skies raged on command and alien figures slipped through the water, dancing effortlessly around the foundering vessels, luring men overboard and dragging them under, discarding many to wash up, bloated and rotting, on the Irish shore, but keeping a few for future amusement. It was difficult to say who had the more unfortunate fate: those who died, or those who lived.

In Spain, bells rang out in premature celebration, while his most Catholic Majesty awaited news of his most holy mission.

In England, the heretic queen rallied her people, while reports trickled in from Drake and the Lord Admiral, speaking of English heroism.

In the turbulent waters of the Atlantic, the remnants of the Armada, half their number lost, captured, or sunk, limped homeward, and took with them the hopes of a Spanish conquest of England.

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: September 18, 1588

The mortal guise fell away from Lune like a discarded cloak the moment the alder tree grew shut around her, and she concealed the bread within the deep folds of her skirts. Those who wished to, would find out soon enough that she had it, and where she had obtained it, but she would hide it as best she could. Plenty of lesser courtiers would come begging for a crumb if they knew.

Some of them might smell it on her; certain fae had a nose for mortality. Lune hurried through the Onyx Hall to her chambers, and tucked the heel of bread into her coffer as the door closed behind her.

With it safely stowed, she rested her hands upon the inlaid surface of the table, tracing with one fingertip the outline of its design. A mortal man knelt at the foot of a tower; the artisan had chosen to show only the base of the structure, leaving to the imagination which faerie lady had caught his heart, and whether she returned his love.

It happened, sometimes. Not everyone played with mortals as toys. Some, like hobs, served them faithfully. Others gave inspiration to poets and musicians. A few loved them, with the deathless passion of a faerie heart, all the stronger for being given so rarely.

But mortals were not Lune’s concern, except insofar as they might provide her with a route to Invidiana’s favor.

She lowered herself onto the embroidered cushion of a stool. With deliberate, thoughtful motions, Lune began to remove the jeweled pins from her hair, and laid each one on the table to represent her thoughts.

The first she laid down glimmered with fragments of starlight, pushing the boundaries of what she, as a courtier in disgrace, might be permitted to adorn herself with. A gift, Lune thought. A rare faerie treasure, or a mortal pet, or information. Something Invidiana would value. It was the commonest path to favor, not just for fae but for humans as well. The difficulty was, with so many gifts being showered at the Queen’s feet, few stood out enough to attract her attention.

A second pin. The knob at the end of this one held the indigo gems known as the sea’s heart. Lune’s fingers clenched around it; she had dressed for court in a rush, and had not attended to which pins she chose. Had Vidar seen it? She prayed not. Bad enough to have lost the Queen’s goodwill by that disastrous bargain with the folk of the sea; worse yet to wear in her hair their gift to the ambassador of the Onyx Court.

Dame Halgresta certainly had not seen it; of that, Lune could be sure, because she was not bleeding, or dead.

She set it down on the table, forcing her thoughts back to their task. If not a gift, then what? A removal of an obstacle, perhaps. The downfall of an enemy. But who? The ambassador from the Courts of the North had quit the Onyx Hall in rage after the execution of the mortal Queen of Scots, accusing Invidiana of having engineered her death. There were enemies aplenty in that coalition of Seely and Unseely monarchs, the courts of Thistle and Heather and Gorse. To move against them, however, Lune would have to go there herself: a tedious journey, with no assets or allies waiting for her at the end.

As for other enemies, she was not fool enough to think she could take action against the Wild Hunt and live.

Lune sighed and pulled a third pin from her hair.

Silver locks spilled free as she did so, sending the remaining pins to the floor. Lune left them where they fell, fingering the snowflake finial of the one in her hand. Give the Queen something she wanted, or remove something that stood between her and what she wanted. What else was there?

Amusement. The Queen was a cold woman, heartless and cruel, but she could be entertained. Her favorite jests were those that accomplished some other goal at the same time. Even without that, though, to amuse the Queen…

It was a slim enough thread, but the last thing she could grasp for.

Lune held the snowflake pin, pressing her lips together in frustration. The outlines of her options were simple enough; the difficulty lay in moving from concept to action. Everything she thought of was weak, too weak to do her much good, and she was not positioned to do more. The trap of courtly life: those in favor were the best positioned to gain favor, while those who fell out of it were often caught in a spiral of worsening luck.

She would not accept it. Running her thumb over the sharp, polished points of the snowflake, Lune disciplined her mind. How could she better her position in the Onyx Court?

“Find Francis Merriman.”

Lune was on her feet in an instant, the snowflake pin reversed and formed into a slender dagger in her hand. Her private chambers were charmed against intruders, a basic precaution in the Onyx Hall, and no one would break those protections unless they had come to do her harm.

No one, save the slender figure in the shadows.

Lune let out her breath slowly and relaxed her grip on the dagger, though she did not put it aside. “Tiresias.”

He was often where he should not be, even where he could not be. Now he crouched in the corner, his slender arms wrapped around his knees, his pale, ethereal face floating in the darkness.

Lune avoided Invidiana’s mortal pets for a varied host of reasons: Orpheus for fear of the effect his music might have on her; Eurydice for her ghost-haunted eyes; Achilles for the barely contained violence that only the Queen’s will held in check. Tiresias was different. She did not fear the gift for which he was named. Sometimes Lune doubted even Invidiana could tell which visions were true, which mere constructs of his maddened brain.

No, it was the madness itself that gave her pause.

He was older than the other pets, they said, and had survived longer than any. Achilles died so often that one of the quickest routes to Invidiana’s favor, if only briefly, was to find another mortal with a gift for battle fury and bring him to court; she was forever pitting the current bearer of that name against some foe or another, just for an evening’s entertainment. They fought well, all of them, and sooner or later died bloodily.

They rarely survived long enough to suffer the effects of the Onyx Hall.

Tiresias survived, and paid the price.

He had flinched at her sudden movement, fear twisting his face. Now he looked up at her, searchingly. “Are you real?” he whispered.

He asked the question incessantly, no longer able to distinguish reality from his own delusions. It made for great sport among the crueler fae. Lune sighed and let the dagger revert to a pin, then laid it on the table. “Yes. Tiresias, you should not be here.”

He shrank farther back into the shadows, as if he would meld into and through the wall. Perhaps he could, and that was how he arrived in such unexpected places. “Here? ’Tis nothing more than a shadow. We are not here. We are in Hell.”

Lune moved away from the table, and saw his eyes linger on the coffer behind her. A few bites of mortal bread could not lift the faerie stain from his soul; after untold years in the Onyx Hall, she doubted anything could. If he set foot outside, would he crumble to dust? But he hungered for mortality, sometimes, and she did not want him thinking of the bread she had. “Go back to your mistress. I have no patience for your fancies.”

Tiresias rose, and for a moment Lune thought he might obey. He wandered in the wrong direction, though — neither toward the door, nor the coffer. The back of his sable doublet was torn, a thin banner of fabric fluttering behind him like a tiny ghost of a wing. Lune opened her mouth to order him away again, but stopped. He had said something, which she had overlooked in her fright.

Moving slowly, so as not to startle him, Lune approached Tiresias’s back. He would always have been a slender man, even had he lived as a normal human, but life among the fae had made him insubstantial, wraithlike. She wondered how much longer he would last. Mortals could survive a hundred years and more among the fae — but not in the Onyx Hall. Not under Invidiana.

He was fingering the edge of a tapestry, peering at it as if he saw something other than the flooded shores of lost Lyonesse. Lune said, “You spoke a name, bade me find someone.”

One pale finger traced a line of stitchery, moonlight shining down upon a submerged tower. “Someone erred, and thus it sank. Is that not what you believe? But no — the errors came after. Because they misunderstood.”

“Lyonesse is ages gone,” Lune replied, with tired patience. She might not have even been there, for all the attention he paid to her. “The name, Tiresias. Who was it you bade me find? Francis Merriman?”

He turned and fixed his sapphire gaze on her. The pupils of his eyes were tiny, as if he stared into a bright light; then they expanded, until the blue all but vanished. “Who is he?”

The innocence of the question infuriated her, and in her distraction, she let him slip past. But he did not go far, halting in the center of the room, reaching for some imagined shape in the air before him. Lune let her breath out slowly. Francis Merriman: a mortal name. A courtier? A likely chance, given the political games Invidiana played. No one Lune knew of, but they came and went so quickly.

“Where can I find him?” she asked, trying to keep her voice gentle. “Where did you see him? In a dream?”

Tiresias shook his head violently, hands scrabbling through his black hair, disarranging it. “I do not dream. I do not dream. Please, do not ask me to dream.”

Lune could imagine the nightmares Invidiana sent him for her own entertainment. “I will do nothing to you. But why should I seek him?”

“He knows.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper. “What she did.”

Her heart picked up its pace. Secrets — they were worth more than gold. Lune tried to think who Tiresias might mean. “She. One of the ladies? Or—” Her breath caught. “Invidiana?”

Bitter, mocking laughter greeted the suggestion. “No. Not Invidiana; that is not the point. Have you not been listening?”

Lune swallowed the desire to tell him she would start listening when he said something of comprehensible substance. Staring at the seer’s tense face, she tried a different tack. “I will search for this Francis Merriman. But if I should find him, what then?”

Slowly, one muscle at a time, his body eased, until his hands hung limp at his sides. When he spoke at last, his voice was so clear she thought for a heartbeat that he was in one of his rare lucid periods — before she listened to his words. “Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of Heaven….” A painful smile curved his lips. “Time has stopped. Frozen, cold, no heart’s blood to quicken it to life once more. I told you, we are all in Hell.”

Perhaps there had never been any substance in it to begin with. Lune might be chasing an illusion, pinning too much hope on the ramblings of a madman. Not everything he said came from a vision.

But it was the one possibility anyone had offered her, and the only one she was likely to receive. Her best hope otherwise was to bargain her bread for information that might be of aid. There were plenty of courtiers who would have use for it, playing their games in the world above.

When she made her bargains, she would ask after this Francis Merriman. But secretly, so she did not betray her hand to the Queen. Surprise might count for a great deal.

“You should go,” she murmured, and the seer nodded absently, as if he had forgotten where he was, and why. He turned away, and when the door closed behind him, Lune returned to her table and collected the scattered pins that had fallen from her hair.

There were possibilities. She simply had to bring one to fruition.

And quickly, before the whirlpools of the court dragged her down.

RICHMOND PALACE, RICHMOND: September 29, 1588

“…You shall be retained to no person nor persons of what degree or condition, by oath, livery, badge, promise, or otherwise, but only to her Grace, without her special license…”

Deven suppressed a grimace at those words. How strictly were they enforced? It might hamstring his plans for advancement at court, if the Queen were jealous with that license; he would be bound to her service only, without any other patron. Certainly some men served other masters, but how long had they petitioned to be allowed to do so?

Hunsdon was still talking. The oath for joining the Gentlemen Pensioners was abominably long, but at least he did not have to repeat every word of it after the band’s captain; Deven only affirmed the different points that Hunsdon outlined. He recognized Elizabeth as the supreme head of the Church; he would not conceal matters prejudicial to her person; he would keep his required quota of three horses and two manservants, all equipped as necessary for war; he would report any fellow remiss in such matters to the captain; he would keep the articles of the band, obey its officers, keep secrets secret, muster with his servants when required, and not depart from court without leave. All enumerated in elaborately legalistic language, of course, so that it took twice as long to say as the content warranted.

Deven confirmed his dedication to each point, kneeling on the rush matting before Hunsdon. As ordered, he had dressed himself more finely, driving his Mincing Lane tailor to distraction with his insistence that the clothing be finished in time for today’s Michaelmas ceremony. The doublet was taffeta of a changeable deep green, slashed with cloth-of-silver that blithely violated the sumptuary laws, but one visit to court had been enough to show Deven how few people attended to those restrictions. The aglets on his points were enameled, as was the belt that clasped his waist, and he was now a further fifty pounds in debt to a goldsmith on Cheapside. Listening to Hunsdon recite the last words, he prayed the expense would prove worthwhile.

“Rise, Master Deven,” the baron said at last, “and be welcome to her Majesty’s Gentleman Pensioners.”

The Lord Chamberlain settled a gold chain about his shoulders when he stood, the ceremonial adornment for members of the band. Edward Fitzgerald, lieutenant of the Gentlemen Pensioners, handed him the gilded poleax he would bear while on duty, guarding the door from the presence chamber to the privy chamber, or escorting her Majesty to and from chapel in the morning. Deven was surprised by the heft of the thing. Ceremonial it might be, and elaborately decorated, but not decorative. The Gentlemen Pensioners were the elite bodyguard of the monarch, since Elizabeth’s father Henry, eighth of that name, decided his dignity deserved better escort than it had previously possessed.

Of course, before Deven found himself using the gilded polearm, any attacker would have to win through the Yeomen of the Guard in the watching chamber, not to mention the rest of the soldiers and guardsmen stationed at any palace where the sovereign was in residence. Still, it was reassuring to know that he would have the means to defend the Queen’s person, should it become necessary.

It meant that he was not purely decorative, either.

His companions toasted their newest member with wine, and a feast was set to follow. In theory, the entire band assembled at court for Michaelmas and three other holidays; in practice, somewhat less than the full fifty were present. Some were assigned to duties elsewhere, in more distant corners of England or even overseas; others, Deven suspected, were at liberty for the time being, and simply had not bothered to come. A man might be docked pay for failure to attend as ordered — that was in the articles he had sworn to obey — but a rich enough man hardly need worry being fined a few days’ wages.

Despite the revelry, Deven’s mind kept returning to the question of patronage. His eyes sought out Hunsdon, across the laughing, boisterous mass of men that filled the chamber where they dined. The officers of the band sat at a higher table — Hunsdon and Fitzgerald, plus three others who were the company’s standard bearer, clerk of the check, and harbinger.

He could ask Hunsdon. But that would be tantamount to telling the baron that he intended to seek another master.

Surely, though, that would come as no surprise. Hunsdon knew who had secured Deven’s position in the Gentlemen Pensioners.

Deven reached reflexively for his wine, grimaced, then grinned at himself. He did not know how he was going to handle his patronage, but one thing he did know: making any plans about such things while this drunk was not wise. Attempting to ask delicate questions of his captain would be even less wise. Therefore, the only course for a wise man to follow was to go on drinking, enjoy the night, and worry about such matters on the morrow.

RICHMOND PALACE, RICHMOND: September 30, 1588

Deven had been among military men; he should have expected what the morrow would bring. William Russell, who either possessed the constitution of an ox or had not drunk nearly as much as he appeared to the previous night, arrived in his chamber at an hour that would have been reasonable had Deven gone to bed before dawn, and rolled him forcibly out of bed. “On your feet, man; we can’t keep the Queen waiting!”

“Nnnnnngh,” Deven said, and tried to remember if there was anything in the articles that forbade him to punch one of his fellows.

Between the two of them, Colsey and Ranwell, his new manservant, got him on his feet and stuffed him into his clothes. Deven thought muzzily that someone had arranged for a Michaelmas miracle; he didn’t have a hangover. Round about the time he formed up with the others for the Queen’s morning procession to chapel, he realized it was because he was still drunk. And, of course, Fitzgerald had assigned him to duty that day, so he was on display in the presence chamber when the inevitable hangover came calling. He clung grimly to his poleax, tried to keep it steady, and prayed he would not vomit in front of his fellow courtiers.

He survived, though not happily, and passed the test to which he had been put. Moreover, he had his reward; the Queen emerged from her privy chamber just as he was handing off his position to Edward Greville, and she gifted him with a nod. “God give you good day, Master Deven.”

“And to you, your Majesty,” he answered, bowing reflexively; the world lurched a little when he did, but he kept his feet, and then she was gone.

The Queen remembered his name. It shouldn’t have pleased him so much, but of course it did, and that was why she did it; Elizabeth had a way of greeting a man that made him feel special for that instant in which her attention lighted upon him. Even his headache did not seem so bad in the aftermath.

It came back full force as he left, though. Handing off his poleax to Colsey, he suffered Ranwell to feed him some concoction the man swore would cure even the worst hangover; less than a minute later his stomach rebelled and he vomited it all back up. “Feed me that again,” Deven told his new servant, “and you’ll find yourself sent to fight in Ireland.”

Colsey, who still did not appreciate having to share his master with an interloper, smirked.

Deven cleaned his mouth out and took a deep breath to fortify himself. He wanted little more than to collapse back into bed, but that would never do, so instead he addressed himself to the business at hand.

It made no sense to ask Hunsdon about the permissibility of acquiring another patron, if he did not have such a man already friendly to him. Deven hoped he did, but until that was confirmed, best not to broach the subject with Hunsdon at all.

Squaring his shoulders, Deven gritted his teeth and went in search, hangover and all.

But luck, which had preserved him through the morning’s ordeal, was not on his side in this matter. The Principal Secretary, he learned, was ill and thus absent from court. His inquiries led him to another man, ink-stained and bearing a thick sheaf of papers, who was attending the meetings of the privy council in Walsingham’s absence.

Deven made bold enough to snatch a moment of Robert Beale’s time. After introducing himself and explaining his business, at least in broad outline, he asked, “When might the Principal Secretary return to court?”

Beale’s lips pressed together, but not, Deven thought, in irritation or offense. “I could not say,” the Secretary said. “He requires rest, of course, and her Majesty is most solicitous of his health. I would not expect him back soon — for some days at least, and possibly longer.”

Damnation, again. Deven forced a smile onto his face. “I thank you for your time,” he said, and got out of Beale’s way.

He could hardly go asking favors of a man on his sickbed. He could send a letter — but no. Better not to press the matter. As much as it galled him, he would have to wait, and hope the Principal Secretary recovered soon.

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: October 20, 1588

Tens of thousands of mortals lived in London, and more in the towns and villages that surrounded it. In the entirety of England, Lune could not begin to guess how many there were.

Except to say there were too many, when she was trying to find a particular one.

She had to be discreet with her inquiries. If Tiresias was to be trusted — if he truly had a vision, or overheard something while lurking about — then this Francis Merriman knew something of use. It followed, then, that she did not want to share him with others. But so far discretion had availed her nothing; the mortal was not easily found.

When a spindly little spriteling came to summon her before Vidar, her first thought was that it had to do with her search. There was no reason to think that, but the alternatives were not much more appealing. Concealing these thoughts, Lune acknowledged the messenger with a nod. “Tell the Lord Keeper I will come when I may.”

The messenger smiled, revealing sharp, goblinish teeth. “He demanded your immediate attendance.”

Of course he did. “Then I will be pleased to come,” Lune said, rising as she mouthed the politic lie.

In better times, she might have made him wait. Vidar’s exalted status was a new thing, and Lune had until recently been a lady of Invidiana’s privy chamber, one of the Queen’s intimates — inasmuch as she was intimate with anyone. That freedom was gone now; if Vidar said to leap, then leap she must.

And of course he kept her dangling. Vidar’s rise to Lord Keeper had made him a most desirable patron, rich in both wealth and enchantment, and now his outer chamber thronged with hopeful courtiers and rural fae begging some favor or another. He might have demanded her immediate attendance, but he granted audience to a twisted bogle, two Devonshire pisgies, and a travel-stained faun in Italian dress before summoning Lune into the inner chamber.

He lounged in a chair at the far end of the room, and did not rise when she came in. Some fae held to older fashions of clothing, but he closely followed current styles; the crystals and jet embroidered onto his doublet winked in the light, an obvious mimicry of Invidiana’s clothing. Rumor had it the black leather of his tall, close-fitting boots was the skin of some unfortunate fae he had captured, tortured, and executed on the Queen’s behalf, but Lune knew the rumors came from Vidar himself. It was ordinary doeskin, nothing more. But the desire for that belief was telling enough.

She gave him the curtsy rank demanded, and not a hair more. “Lord Ifarren.”

“Lady Lune.” Vidar twiddled a crystal goblet in his bony fingers. “How good of you to come.”

She waited, but he did not offer her a seat.

After a leisurely study of her, Vidar set aside the goblet and rose. “We have known one another for a long time, have we not, my lady? And we have worked together in days past — to mutual benefit, as I weigh it. It pains me to see you thus fallen.”

As a stag in season was pained to see a rival fall to a hunter’s arrow. Lune cast her gaze modestly downward and said, “’Tis kind of you to say it, my lord.”

“Oh, I have a mind to offer you more kindness than just a sympathetic word.”

She instantly went on guard. Lune could think of nothing Vidar might gain by offering her true help, but that did not mean he would not. As cut off as she had been from the inner circles of court gossip, he might have some gambit in play she did not see. But what would she have to offer him?

No way to find out, save to walk farther into his trap. “I would be most glad to hear anything your lordship might extend to me.”

Vidar snapped his fingers, and a pair of minor goblins hurried to his side. At his gesture, they began unlacing the points of his sleeves, drawing them off to reveal the black silk of his shirt underneath. Ignoring them, Vidar asked, “You once lived for an extended period of time among mortals, yes?”

“Indeed, my lord.” He raised one needle-thin eyebrow, and she elaborated. “I was a waiting-gentlewoman to Lady Hereford — as Lettice Knollys was known, then. Her Majesty bid me thence to keep a daily eye upon the mortal court, and report to her its doings.”

The skeletal fae shuddered, a twitchy, insectlike motion. “Quite a sacrifice to make on the Queen’s behalf. To live, day and night, under a mask of mortality, cut off from all the glory of our own court… Ash and Thorn. I would not do it again.”

It might be the first sincere statement he had made since Lune entered. Vidar’s own mortal masquerade, the one that had earned him his new position, had been more sporadic than sustained, and he had not enjoyed it. She said temperately, “I was pleased to serve her Majesty in such a capacity.”

“Of course you were.” He let the cynical note hang in the air, then offered, “Wine?”

Lune nodded, and took the cup a goblin brought to her. The wine was a fine red, tasting of the smoky, fading light of autumn, the flamboyant splendor of the leaves and their dry rustle underfoot, the growing bite of winter’s chill. She recognized it from the first sip: surely one of the last remaining bottles brought as a gift to Invidiana when Madame Malline le Sainfoin de Veilée replaced the old ambassador from France. Some years hence, that had been. Madame Malline had remained at the Onyx Court when the ambassador from the Courts of the North departed, but relations were strained. There would be no more such gifts, not for a long time.

“You might,” Vidar said, breaking her reverie, “have a chance to serve her Majesty again.”

She failed to hide entirely the sharp edge that put on her interest. “Say on.”

“Return to the mortal court.”

The blunt suggestion made her breath catch. To live among mortals again… it was exhausting, dangerous, and exhilarating. Few fae had the knack for it, or even a liking. No wonder Vidar had sent for her.

But what purpose did he have in mind? Surely not her former assignment, Lettice Knollys. If the fragments of gossip Lune had heard were correct, she was no longer at court; she was in mourning for the death of her second husband, the Earl of Leicester.

She took another sip of wine. This one burned more than the first. “Return, my lord? To what end?”

“Why, to gather information, as you did before.” Vidar paused. “And, perhaps, to gain access to — even leverage over — a certain individual.”

She had concerned herself too much of late with fae politics: the bargain with the folk of the sea, the raids of alfar ships, the never-ending tensions with the Courts of the North. Lune cursed herself for not keeping a closer eye on the doings of mortals: she did not know who was prominent now, whom she might be dispatched to trouble. She might not even recognize the name Vidar gave. “And who might that be, my lord?”

“Sir Francis Walsingham.”

Cut crystal dug into her fingers.

Lune said carefully, “I believe I recognize that name.”

“You should. He has lasted quite a long time, for a mortal, and risen high. Principal Secretary to Queen Elizabeth, he is now.” Vidar gestured, and a goblin brought him his wine cup again. “Have you ever met him?”

“He did not come to court until after I had ceased my masquerade.” Though she knew who he was, enough to be afraid.

“You will find him easily enough. The mortal court is at Richmond now, but they will shift to Hampton Court before long. You can join them there.”

Lune handed off her goblet to a servant. The wine tasted too much of regret, and impending loss. “My lord, I have not yet said I would undertake this task.”

A thin, predatory smile spread across Vidar’s face. In a purring voice, he said, “I do not think you have a choice, Lady Lune.”

As she had feared. But which was the greater risk: refusal or acceptance? Whatever honey Vidar used to coat it, she was not being offered this assignment out of a desire to see her redeem her past mistakes. Walsingham was not merely Principal Secretary; he was one of the foremost spymasters of Elizabeth’s court. And his Protestantism was of a puritan sort, that assumed all fae to be devils in disguise. Any attempt to approach him, much less keep watch over him, might result in him catching her out, and if he caught her out…

Only mortal food given in tithe to the fae protected glamours and other magics. A short period of imprisonment could have disastrous results.

Food. Lune said, “Such masquerades are costly, Lord Ifarren. To maintain a plausible presence at court, one must be there every day. Mortal bread—”

“You will have it,” Vidar said dismissively. “A spriteling will bring it to you each morning — or evening, if you prefer.”

He had capitulated far too easily. “No. Such a plan leaves no margin of safety. Were I to be bidden to some duty elsewhere and missed the messenger, we would risk exposure. A whole loaf at a time, or more than one.” A whole loaf, eaten only when needed, could cover quite a long journey in mortal disguise. Long enough, perhaps, to reach safety in another land.

If worse should truly come to worst.

Vidar’s cynical eye seemed to see her thoughts. “You overestimate her Majesty’s trust in you. But a week could be arranged. On Fridays, perhaps. Mortals assume we favor that day; we might as well oblige their fancies. And then you need not fear their holy day. I take it by this hard bargaining that you have agreed?”

Had she? Lune met Vidar’s gaze, searching the flat blackness of his eyes for some hint of — something. Anything. Any crumb of information that might guide her.

She could not even be certain these orders came from Invidiana. Vidar might have concocted them, as a means of removing her permanently.

No. Even he would not endanger the Onyx Court in such fashion, to risk her true nature being revealed.

…Or would he? His desires were no secret in the higher circles of court. Even Invidiana knew her councillor coveted her throne. Where the Wild Hunt would destroy the Queen and tear the Onyx Hall down stone by stone, scattering her court to the four winds, Ifarren Vidar was more subtle; he would leave all as it was, but claim the Crown for himself. If he could but find a way.

Was this it? Was Lune to become a pawn in some hidden scheme of his?

If so — if she could discover the pattern of it, and inform Invidiana—

There was more than one route to favor.

Lune spread her skirts, and gave him no more humble a curtsy than she had before. Humility would be more suspicious to him than pride. “I am most grateful for the chance to be of service to her Majesty.”

“Of course.” Vidar eyed her with satisfaction. “Would it please you to be seated, Lady Lune? I have prepared a description of the role you are to take—”

“Lord Ifarren.” She took pleasure in interrupting him. “My task is to be as you said? To gather information, and gain access to Sir Francis Walsingham?”

“And leverage, of whatever sort may offer itself.”

Nothing would offer itself, but she might create something. But that was neither here nor there. “Then I will create my own role, as her Majesty trusted me to do in the past.”

Displeasure marred the line of his mouth. “Her Majesty likewise trusted you to bargain sharply against the sea people.”

Lune damned the day she had ever been sent beneath the waves. Vidar had not been there, with the task of convincing the inhabitants of an alien land that the doings of mortal nations were their concern. Fae they might be, but unlike their landbound brethren, the mermaids and roanes and other denizens of the sea had not adopted current customs of courtly rule. And their idea of interaction with humans involved shipwrecks and the occasional lover, not politics. She had been lucky to find anything they wanted.

But to say so would sound peevish and weak. Instead she said, “You disdain mortal life, Lord Ifarren. Would you ride a horse raised by one who detested animals?”

“I know Walsingham,” Vidar said.

“And I will most humbly hear your advice where he is concerned. But you asked for me because there is none in the Onyx Court more talented at this art than I. When I approach the mortal court, I will do so on my own terms.”

The challenge hung in the air between them. Then Vidar waved one hand, as if it did not matter. “So be it. I will inform you of the court’s movements. And you will inform me of your chosen role, before you go to join them.”

“I will need some bread before then.”

“Why?”

Now he was the one sounding peevish. Lune said calmly, “To familiarize myself with the situation, my lord. I have not been among that court in many years.”

“Oh, very well. Now get out of my sight; I have other things to attend to.”

Lune made her curtsy and withdrew. If Vidar had meant to position her where she would fail, she had at least escaped one trap. And with the allotment she would be given, she could afford to trade her own bread to other fae for information.

Once upon a time, she had clawed her way up from insignificance to favored status, by shrewd trading and well-timed service. If she had done it once, she could — and would — do so again.

HAMPTON COURT PALACE, RICHMOND: October 14, 1588

Deven rode into the spacious Base Court of the palace and dismounted almost before his bay gelding came to a halt. The October air had picked up a distinct chill since sunset, nipping at his cheeks, and his fingers were cold inside his gloves. There was a storm building, following in the aftermath of the day’s gentle autumn warmth. He tossed his reins to a servant and, chafing his hands together, headed for the archway that led deeper into the palace.

Stairs on his left inside the arch led upward to the old-style Great Hall. No longer the central gathering place of the monarch and nobles, at Hampton Court the archaic space was more given over to servants of the household, except on occasions that called for great pageantry. Deven passed through without pausing and headed for the chambers beyond, where he could find someone that might know the answer to his question.

The Queen was not using that set of rooms as her personal quarters, having removed to a different part of the sprawling palace, but despite the late hour, a number of minor courtiers were still congregated in what was sometimes used as the Queen’s watching chamber. From them, he learned that Elizabeth was having a wakeful night, as she often did since the recent death of her favorite, the Earl of Leicester. To distract herself, she had gone to a set of rooms on the southern side of the Fountain Court to listen to one of her ladies play the virginals.

The door was guarded, of course, and Deven was not in that elite rank of courtiers who could intrude on the Queen uninvited. He bowed to his two fellows from the Gentlemen Pensioners, then turned to the weary-eyed usher who was trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

“My most sincere apologies for disturbing her Majesty, but I have been sent hither to bring her a message of some importance.” Deven brought the sealed parchment out and passed it over with another bow. “It was Sir James Croft’s most express wish that it be given to her Grace as soon as may be.”

The usher took it with a sigh. “What does the message concern?”

Deven bit back the acid response that was his first reflex, and said with ill-concealed irritation, “I do not know. ’Tis sealed, and I did not inquire.”

“Very well. Did Sir James wish a reply?”

“He did not say.”

“Wait here, then.” The usher opened the door and slipped inside. A desultory phrase from the virginals floated out, and a feminine laugh. Not the Queen’s.

When the usher reemerged, he had something in his hand. “No response to Sir James,” he said, “but her Majesty bids you carry these back to the Paradise Chamber.” He held out a pair of ivory flutes.

Deven took them hesitantly, trying to think of a way around embarrassing himself. He failed; the usher gave him a pitying smile and asked, “Do you know the way?”

“I do not,” he was forced to confess. Hampton Court had grown by stages; now it was a sprawling accretion of courtyards and galleries, surpassed in England only by Whitehall itself, which his fellows reassured him was even more confusing to explore.

“The quickest path would be through these chambers to the Long Gallery,” the usher said. “But as they are in use, go back to the Great Hall…”

It wasn’t as bad as he feared. A pair of galleries ran north to south through the back part of the palace, connecting to the Long Gallery of the south side, with the chambers where Elizabeth had chosen to reside for this visit. At the most southeasterly corner of the palace, and the far end of the Long Gallery, lay the Paradise Chamber.

Deven unlocked the door and nearly dropped the flutes. The candle he bore threw back a thousand glittering points of light; raising it, he saw that the dark chamber beyond was crammed to the walls with riches beyond words. Countless gems and trifles of gold or silver; tapestries sumptuously embroidered in colored silks; pearl-studded cushions; and, dominating one wall, an unused throne beneath a canopy of estate. The royal arms of England decorated the canopy, encircled by the Garter, and the diamond that hung from the end of the Garter could have set Deven up in style for the rest of his life.

He realized he had stopped breathing, and made himself start again. No, not the rest of his life. Ten years, maybe. And ten years’ fortune would not do him much good if he were executed for stealing it.

The entire contents of the room, though…

No wonder they called it Paradise.

He set the flutes on a table inlaid with mother-of-pearl and backed out again, locking the door on the blinding wealth within, before it could tempt him more. They would hardly miss one small piece, in all that clutter….

Perhaps it was his own guilty thoughts that made him so edgy. When Deven heard a sound, he whirled like an animal brought to bay, and saw someone standing not far from him.

After a moment, he relaxed a trifle. Rain had begun to deluge the world outside, obscuring the moon, and so the Long Gallery was lit only by his one candle, not enough to show him the figure clearly, but the silhouette lacked the robe or puffed clothing that would mark an old courtier or a young one. Nor, he reminded himself, did he have anything to feel guilty about; he had done nothing more than what he was ordered to, and no one, servant or otherwise, could hear the covetous thoughts in Deven’s mind.

But that recalled him to his duty. Though the Queen was not present, surely he also had a duty to defend that which was hers. “Stand fast,” he said, raising the candle, “and identify yourself.”

The stranger bolted.

Deven gave chase without thinking. The candle snuffed out before he had gone two strides; he abandoned it, letting taper and holder fall so he could lunge for the door through which the stranger had vanished. It stood just a short distance from the Paradise Chamber, and when he flung himself through it, he found himself on a staircase, with footsteps echoing above him.

The stranger was gone by the time he reached the third floor, but the steps continued upward in a secondary staircase, cramped and ending in a half-height door that was obviously used for maintenance. Deven yanked the door open and wedged himself through, into the cold, drenching rain.

He was on the roof. To his right, low crenellations guarded the drop-off to the lower Paradise Chamber. He looked left, across the pitched sheets of lead, and just made out the figure of the stranger, running along the roof.

Madness, to give chase on a rooftop, with his footing made uncertain by rain-slicked lead. But Deven had only an instant to decide his course of action, and his blood was up.

He pursued.

The rooftop was an alien land, all steep angles and crenellated edges, with turrets rising here and there like masts without sails. The path the stranger took was straight and level, though, unbroken by chambers, and that was what oriented Deven in his fragmentary map of Hampton Court: they were running along the roof of the Long Gallery, back the direction he had come.

In his head, he heard the usher say, The quickest path would be through these chambers…

The gallery led straight toward the room where Elizabeth sat with her ladies, whiling away her sleeplessness with music.

Deven redoubled his efforts, flinging caution to the wind, keeping to his feet mostly because his momentum carried him forward before he could fall. He was gaining on the stranger, not yet close enough to grab him, but nearly—

Lightning split the sky, half-blinding him, and as thunder followed hard on its heels Deven tried too late to stop.

Brick cracked him across the knees, halting his stride instantaneously. But his weight carried him forward, and he pitched over the top of the crenellations, hands flying out in desperation, until his left fingers seized on something and brought him around in a shoulder-wrenching arc. His right hand found brick just in time to keep him from losing his grip and falling a full story to the lower rooftop below.

He hung from the crenellations, gasping for air, with the rain sending rivers of water through his hair and clothes to puddle in his boots.

His left shoulder and hand ached from the force of stopping his fall, but Deven dragged himself upward, grunting with effort, until at last he could hook one foot over the bricks and get his body past the edge. Then he collapsed in the narrow wedge where the pitch of the roof met the low wall of the crenellations and let himself realize he wasn’t about to fall to his death.

The stranger.

Deven twisted to look over the wall, onto the roof of the chambers where Elizabeth listened to the virginals. He saw no sign of the intruder anywhere on the rain-streaked lead, and no hatches hung open in the turrets that studded the corners of the extension; through the grumble of the storm, he heard a faint strain of music. But that meant nothing save that no one had been hurt yet.

Even if Deven could have made the jump down, he could not burst in on the Queen, soaked to the bone and with his doublet torn, its stuffing leaking out like white cotton entrails. He hauled himself to his feet, wincing as his bruised knees flared, and began his limping progress back along the Long Gallery, to the door that had led him up there to begin with.

His news, predictably, caused a terrible uproar, and soon a great many people were roused out of bed, but the intruder had vanished without a trace. Some time later, no longer dripping but still considerably damp, Deven found himself having to relate the story to Lord Hunsdon, from his arrival at Hampton Court that night up to the present moment.

“You saw nothing of his face?” Hunsdon asked, fingers tapping a worried beat on the desk before him.

Deven was forced to shake his head. “He wore a cap low on his head, and we stood some ways apart, with only one candle for light. He seemed a smallish fellow, and dressed more like a laborer than a gentleman, but beyond that I cannot say.”

“Where do you think he went, after you lost him?”

The chambers there connected at their corner to the courtiers’ lodgings that ringed the Base Court; from there, the man might have run nearly anywhere, though the soaring height of the Great Hall would have forced him to circumnavigate the courtyard if he wished to go somewhere else. There was no good access to the ground; everything was at least two stories. With rope, he might have gone through a second-floor window, but they found no such rope, nor sign of a very wet man coming in anywhere.

The last Deven had seen of the man was when they reached the end of the gallery, and the stranger… leapt over the edge.

No, not quite. The man had leapt, yes, but upward, into the air — not as a man would jump if he intended a landing on a pitched roof below.

After that, his memory only offered him the flapping of wings.

He shook his head again, shivering in his damp, uncomfortable clothes. “I do not know, my lord. Out into the gardens, perhaps, and from thence into the Thames. Or perhaps there was a boat waiting for him.” How he would have gotten from a second- or third-floor roof to the gardens, Deven could not say, but he had no better explanation to offer.

Nor, it seemed, did Hunsdon. The baron’s mouth was set in a grim line. “It seems the Queen is safe for now. But we shall stay alert for future trouble. If you see the fellow again…”

Deven nodded. “I understand, my lord.” He might walk past the man in the street and not know him. But Deven believed now, as he had not truly before, that the Queen’s enemies might stage threats against her life. His duty was more than simply to stand at her door with a gold-covered ax.

He prayed such a threat would not come again. But if it did, then next time, he would be more effective in stopping it.

MEMORY: July 12, 1574

The sleeping man lay in an untidy sprawl on his bed. The covers, kicked aside some time earlier, disclosed an aging body, a sagging belly usually hidden by the peasecod front of his doublets, and his dark hair was thinning. He was still fit enough — not half so far gone as some other courtiers — but the years were beginning to tell on him.

In his mind, though, in his dreams, he was still the young man he had been a decade or two before.

Which suited very well the purposes of the being that came to visit him that night.

How it slipped in, no observer could have said. Under the edge of the door, perhaps, or out of the very stuff of shadows. It showed first as a stirring in the air, that coalesced into an indistinct shape, which drifted gently through the chamber until it reached the bed.

Hovering over the sleeping man, the figure took more distinct shape and color. A fluttering linen chemise, freed from the constraints of bodice and kirtle and the usual court finery. Auburn hair, flowing loose, its tips not quite brushing the man below. A high forehead, and carmined lips that parted in an inviting smile.

The man sighed and relaxed deeper into his dream.

Robert Dudley was hunting, riding at a swift canter through open fields, pursuing hounds that gave the belling cry of prey sighted. At his side rode a woman, a red-haired woman. He thought, faintly, that she had been someone else a moment ago — surely it was so — but now she was younger, her hair a darker shade of red.

And they were not riding, they were walking, and the hounds had vanished. A pleasant stream laughed to itself, hidden somewhere in the reeds to one side. The sunlight was warm, casting green-gold light down through the trees; up ahead the landscape opened into a grassy meadow, with something in it. A structure. A bower.

Curtains fluttered invitingly around the bed that stood within.

Clothing vanished at a thought, leaving skin upon skin, and together they tumbled into bed. Auburn hair cascaded around him, a second curtain, and Robert Dudley gazed adoringly into the face of Lettice Knollys, all logic and reason crumbling before the onslaught of passion that overwhelmed him.

Easy enough, to fan the flames of an early flirtation into a conflagration. He would not remember this upon waking, not as anything more than an indistinct dream, but it would serve its purpose nonetheless. And if Lettice Knollys were in truth Lettice Devereux, Lady Hereford, and wed elsewhere, it did not matter. Dudley did not have to marry her. He had only to give his heart, turning it from the target at which it had ever been fixed: his beloved Queen Elizabeth.

Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, moaned deep in his throat as he writhed on the bed, aware of nothing but the dream that suffused his mind. Above him hovered the ghostly form of Lettice Knollys, perfect as she had never been, even in the blossom of her youth.

The scholars of Europe spoke of demons they called succubi. But more than one kind of creature in the world wielded such power, and not all served the devil.

Some served a faerie Queen, and did her bidding with pleasure, dividing from the mortal Queen her most loyal and steadfast admirer.

A man might die of such surfeit. The ghostly figure lost its definition, fading once more into indistinct mist, and with an unfulfilled sigh the Earl of Leicester subsided into dreamless sleep.

There would be other nights. The creature that visited him considered itself an artist. It would work upon him by slow degrees, building his desire until he thought of no one else. And when his heart turned away from the mortal Queen, and the creature’s work here was done….

There would be other mortals. Invidiana always had use for this creature’s talents.

WHITEHALL PALACE, WESTMINSTER: November 3, 1588

Deven stood in front of the polished mirror and ran one hand over his jaw, checking for stubble. Colsey had shaved him that morning, and his hair was newly trimmed into one of the more subdued styles currently fashionable; he wore a rose-red doublet with a falling collar, collected from the tailor only yesterday when the court completed its move into Whitehall, and even his low shoes were laced with silk ribbons. He looked better than he had when he was first presented to the Queen, but felt very nearly as inadequate.

From behind him, Colsey said, “Best you get moving, master.”

The reminder was appreciated, though a little presumptuous —Colsey occasionally forgot he was not Deven’s father, to order him about. It made Deven take a deep breath and turn away from his blurred reflection in the mirror, setting himself toward the door like a man at the tilt.

Tilting. He had thought about entering the upcoming Accession Day jousts, but knew it would be a waste of his time and coin; certainly one could catch the Queen’s eye by performing well, but he was at best indifferent with the lance. He would have to content himself with the usual pageantry of the Gentlemen Pensioners, who would make a brave show around Elizabeth during the celebrations.

He had a hard time focusing on pageantry, though, when his feet were leading him toward a real chance for success at court.

He fingered the tabs at the bottom of his new doublet and wondered if it looked too frivolous. A useless thought — he had not the time to go change — but he was second-guessing himself at every turn today.

Deven gritted his teeth and tried to banish his nerves.

Several men were in the chamber when he arrived, and a number more came and went. Such was the inevitable consequence of absence from court, even with someone like Beale to cover one’s duties. But Deven was expected, and so he waited very little before being ushered into the chamber beyond, where the Principal Secretary sat behind a small mountain of paper.

Deven advanced halfway across the floor and then knelt on the matting. “Master Secretary.”

Sir Francis Walsingham looked tired in the thin November sunlight that filtered through the palace’s narrow windows. They had not been lying, when they said he was ill; the marks of it showed clearly. Deven had met him twice before — the rest of their dealings had been through intermediaries — and so he had sufficient basis for comparison. Walsingham was dark complected for an Englishman, but his skin had a pale, unhealthy cast to it, and there were circles under his eyes.

“I am glad,” Deven said, “that God has seen fit to restore you to health.”

Walsingham gestured for him to rise. “My illness was unfortunate, but ’tis past. Beale tells me you have some matter you would beg of me.”

“Indeed.” He had expected more small talk beforehand, but given the pile of work facing Walsingham, perhaps he should not be surprised the man wished to cut directly to what was relevant. That encouraged Deven to speak plainly, as he preferred, rather than larding his words with decoration, which seemed to be a substantial art form at court.

He clasped his hands behind his back and began. “I wished to thank you in person for your good office in securing for me the position I now hold in the Gentlemen Pensioners.”

“’Tis no great matter,” Walsingham said. “You did me good service among the Protestants in the Low Countries, and your father has much aided her Majesty in the suppression of seditious pamphlets.”

“I am glad to have been of service,” Deven answered. “But I hope my use might not end there.”

The dark eyes betrayed nothing more than mild curiosity. “Say on.”

“Master Secretary, the work I did on your behalf while on the continent made it clear to me that the defense of her Majesty — the defense of England — depends on many types of action. Some, like armies and navies, are public. Others are not. And you are clearly a general in the secret sort of war.”

The Principal Secretary’s lips twitched behind their concealing beard. “You speak of it in poetic terms. There is little of poetry in it, I fear.”

“I do not seek poetry,” Deven said. “Only a chance to make my mark in the world. I have no interest in following my father in the Stationers’ Company, nor does Gray’s Inn hold me. To be utterly frank, my desire is to be of use to men such as yourself, who have the power and the influence to see me rewarded. My father earned the rank of gentleman; I hope to earn more.”

And that, he hoped, would strike a sympathetic chord. Walsingham had been born to a family with far greater connections than Deven’s own, but he had earned his knighthood and his position on the privy council. Whether Deven could strike a target so high, he doubted — but he would aim as high as he could.

Or perhaps his words would turn, like a knife in his hands, and cut him. Walsingham said, “So you serve, not out of love for England and her Queen, but out of ambition.”

Deven quelled the urge to flinch and salvaged what he could. “The two are not in conflict with one another, sir.”

“For some, they are.”

“I am no dissident Catholic, Master Secretary, nor a traitor tied to the purse strings of a foreign power, but a good and true-hearted Englishman.”

Walsingham studied him, as if weighing his every virtue and vice, weakness and use, with his eyes alone. He was, in his way, as hard to face as Elizabeth.

Under the sharp edge of that gaze, Deven felt compelled to speak on, to lay on the table one of the few cards he possessed that might persuade the Principal Secretary and undo the damage of his own previous words. “Have you heard of the incident at Hampton Court?” Walsingham nodded. Of course he had. “Then you know ’twas I who came across the intruder.”

“And pursued him over the rooftops.”

“Even so.” Deven’s fingers had locked tight around each other, behind his back. “You have no reason to believe me, Master Secretary — but ambition was the farthest thing from my mind that night. I pursued that man without concern for my own safety. I do not tell you this out of pride; I wish you to understand that, when I had only an instant to think, I thought of the Queen’s safety. And when the man was gone — vanished into the night — I blamed myself for my failure to catch him.

“I have no wish to run across rooftops again. But you, Master Secretary, are dedicated to making such things unnecessary, by removing threats before they can approach so near to her Grace. That is a task to which I will gladly commit myself. I had rather be of more use to the Queen and her safety than simply standing at her door with a gold ax in my hands.”

He hadn’t meant to speak for so long, but Walsingham had let him babble without interruption. A shrewd move; the more Deven spoke, the less planned his words became, and the more inclined he was to speak from the heart. He just hoped his heart sounded more like a fervent patriot than a callow, idealistic boy.

Into the silence that followed his conclusion, the Principal Secretary said, “Then you would do what? Fight Catholics? Convert their faithful? Spy?”

“I am sworn to her Majesty’s service here at court,” Deven said. “But surely you have need of men here, not to find the information, but to piece together what it means.” He offered up an apologetic smile. “-I — I have always liked puzzles.”

“Have you.” The door creaked behind Deven; Walsingham waved away whoever it was, and then they were alone again. “So the short of it is, you would like to solve puzzles in my service.”

And to benefit thereby — but Deven was not fool enough to say that again, even if they both heard those words still hanging in the air. He hesitated, then said, “I would like the chance to prove my worth in such matters to you.”

It was the right answer, or at least a good one. Walsingham said, “Inform Beale of your wishes. You shall have your chance, Michael Deven; see you do not squander it.”

He was kneeling again almost before the words were finished. “I thank you, Master Secretary. You will not regret this.”