Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Ice in D Minor

Originally published in the Timberland Reads Together anthology, 9/15.

Rinna Sen paced backstage, tucking her mittened hands deep into the pockets of her parka. The sound of instruments squawking to life cut through the curtains screening the front of the theater: the sharp cry of a piccolo, the heavy thump of tympani, the whisper and saw of forty violins warming up. Good luck with that. Despite the huge heaters trained on the open-air proscenium, the North Pole in February was cold.

And about to get colder, provided she did her job.

The stage vibrated slightly, balanced in the center of a parabolic dish pointed straight up to the distant specks of stars in the frigid black sky. The stars floated impossibly far away—but they weren’t the goal. No, her music just had to reach the thermo-acoustic engine hovering ten miles above the earth, centered over the pole.

Rinna breathed in, shards of cold stabbing her lungs. Her blood longed for summer in Mumbai; the spice-scented air that pressed heat into skin, into bone, so deeply a body wanted to collapse under the impossible weight and lie there, baking, under the blue sky.

That had been in her childhood. Now, nobody lived in the searing swath in the center of the globe. The heat between the tropics had become death to the human organism.

Not to mention that her home city was now under twenty feet of water. There was no going back, ever.

“Ms. Sen?” Her assistant, Dominic Larouse, hurried up, his nose constantly dripping from the chill. “There’s a problem with the tubas.”

Rinna sighed—a puff of breath, visible even in the dim air. “What, their lips are frozen to the mouthpieces? I told them to bring plastic ones.”

“Valve issues, apparently.”

Dominic dabbed his nose with his ever-present handkerchief. He’d been with her for two years, and she still couldn’t break through his stiff formality. But little things, like insisting on being called by her first name, weren’t worth the aggravation. Not here, not now.

“Get more heaters on them,” she said, “and tell those damn violins we start in five minutes, whether they’re warmed up or not.”

“Five minutes. Yes ma’am.”

Her job included being a hardass, but she knew how difficult it was to keep the instruments on pitch. The longer they waited, the worse it would get.

Goddess knew, they’d tried this the easy way by feeding remote concerts into the climate engine. Ever since the thing was built, the scientists had been trying to find the right frequencies to cool the atmosphere. They’d had the best luck with minor keys—something about the energy transfer—and at first had tried running synthesized pitches through. Then entire performances. Mozart’s Requiem had come close, but not close enough.

It had to be a live performance; the immediate, present sounds of old wood, horsehair, brass and felt, the cascade of subtle human imperfection, blown and pulled and pounded from the organic bodies of the instruments.

There was no substitute for the interactions of sound waves, the immeasurable atomic collisions of an on-site concert fed directly into the engine. Once the thing got started, the techs had promised they could loop the sound. Which was good, because no way was Rinna giving up the rest of her life to stand at the North Pole, conducting a half-frozen orchestra. Not even to save the planet.

She’d spent years working on her composition, assembled the best symphony in the world, rehearsed them hard, then brought them here, to the Arctic. Acoustic instruments and sub-zero temperatures didn’t get along, but damn it, she’d make this happen.

What if the composition is a failure? The voice of all her doubts ghosted through her thoughts, sounding suspiciously like her long-dead father.

She pinned it down and piled her answers on top, trying to smother it into silence.

The simulations had proven that certain frequencies played through the engine could super-cool the air over the pole. Then, with luck, a trickle-down effect would begin and slowly blanket the world. The scientists had run the models over and over, with a thousand different types of sound. But it wasn’t until the suits had hired Rinna—one of the best composers in the world (not that the world cared much about symphonies)—that the project had really started to gel.

“Ms. Sen.” Dominic hurried up again, holding out the slim screen of her tablet. “Vid call for you.”

“I told you, I don’t want any interruptions.”

“It’s the President.”

“Oh, very well.” Fingers clumsy through her mittens, Rinna took the call.

President Nishimoto, Leader of the Ten Nations of the World, smiled at her through the clear, bright screen. Behind him, the desert that used to be Moscow was visible through the window of his office.

“Ms. Sen,” he said. “The entire world wishes you the very best of luck in your performance.”

He didn’t need to say how much was at stake. They all knew.

“Thank you.” She bowed, then handed the screen back to Dominic.

It was almost too late. Last winter, the pole ice had thinned so much it couldn’t support the necessary installation. Doom criers had mourned the end, but a freak cold-snap in January had given them one final chance.

Now here they were—the orchestra, the techs, Rinna. And five thousand brave, stupid souls, camping on the precarious ice. Come to see the beginning of the world, or the end of it.

Out front, the oboe let out an undignified honk, then found the A. Rinna closed her eyes as the clear pitch rang out, quieting the rest of the musicians. The violins took it up, bows pulling, tweaking, until there was only one perfect, single note. It deepened as the lower strings joined in, cellos and basses rounding the A into a solid arc of octaves.

She could feel the dish magnifying the vibration, up through her feet. Sound was powerful. Music could change the world. She had to believe that.

As the strings quieted, Rinna stripped off her mittens, then lifted her conductor’s baton from its velvet-lined case. The polished mahogany grip was comfortable in her hand, despite the chill. The stick itself was carved of mammoth ivory, dug out of the ground centuries ago.

She ran her fingers up and down the smooth white length. It was fitting, using a relic of an extinct animal in this attempt to keep humans from going out the same way.

She stepped onstage, squinting in the stage lights, as the wind instruments began to tune. First the high silver notes of the flutes, then the deep, mournful call of the French horns and low brass. Sounded like the tubas had gotten themselves sorted out.

From up here, the ice spread around stage—not pale and shimmering under the distant stars, but dark and clotted with onlookers. Originally, she’d imagined performing to the quiet, blank landscape—but that was before some brilliantly wacko entrepreneur had started selling tickets and chartering boats into the bitter reaches of the North.

The concert of a lifetime, plus the novelty of cold, drew spectators from all over the planet. No doubt the thrill of the chill had worn off, but the performance, the grand experiment, was still to come.

And truthfully, Rinna was glad for the crowd. Thermo-acoustics aside, she knew from long experience that the energy of playing in front of responsive listeners was different. Call it physics, call it woo-woo, but the audience was an integral part of the performance.

The project director had been reluctant at first, constructing only a small shelter and selling tickets at prices she didn’t even want to contemplate. The enclosed seating held roughly forty people: heads of state, classical music aficionados, those with enough money and sense to try and stay warm. But when the boats started arriving, the tents going up, what could he do?

The spectators all wanted to be here, with the possible exception of Dominic hovering beside the podium.

The crowd caught sight of her striding across the stage, and applause rushed like a wind over the flat, frigid plain. She lifted her hand in acknowledgement. Overhead, the edge of the aurora flickered, a pale fringe of light.

Rinna stepped onto the podium and looked over her orchestra, illuminated by white spotlights and the ruddy glow of the heaters.

She’d bribed and bullied and called in every favor owed her, and this was the result. The best symphony orchestra the entire world could offer. Rehearsals had been the Tower of Babel: Hindi, Chinese, English, French—over a dozen nationalities stirred together in a cacophonous soup. But the moment they started playing, they had one perfect language in common.

Music.

The orchestra quieted. One hundred and five pairs of eyes fixed on her, and Rinna swallowed back the quick burst of nausea that always accompanied her onto the podium. The instant she lifted her baton and scribed the downbeat, it would dissipate. Until then, she’d fake feeling perfectly fine.

“Dominic?” she called, “are the techs ready?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Blow your nose.” No point in marring the opening with the sound of his sniffles.

Pasting a smile on her face, Rinna turned and bowed to the listeners spread out below the curve of the stage. They applauded, sparks of excitement igniting like distant firecrackers.

She pulled in a deep breath, winced as the air stabbed her lungs, and faced the orchestra—all her brave, dedicated musicians poised on the cusp of the most important performance of their lives.

The world premiere of Ice.

The air quieted. Above the orchestra a huge amplifier waited, a tympanic membrane ready to take the sound and feed it into the engine, transmute it to frigidity.

Rinna raised her arms, and the musicians lifted their instruments, their attention focused on her like iron on a magnet. She was their true north. The baton lay smoothly in her right hand—her talisman, her magic wand. If there ever was wizardry in the world, let it come to her now.

Heart beating fast, she let her blood set the tempo and flicked her stick upward. Then down, irrevocably down, into the first beat of Ice.

A millisecond of silence, and then the violins slid up into a melodic line colored with aching, while the horns laid down a base solid enough to carry the weight of the stars. The violas took the melody, letting the violins soar into descant. The hair on the back of her neck lifted at the eerie balance. Yes. Perfect. Now the cellos—too loud. She pushed the sound down slightly with her left hand, and the section followed, blending into the waves of music that washed up and up.

Rinna beckoned to the harp, and a glissando swirled out, a shimmering net cast across dark waters. Was it working? She didn’t dare glance up.

High overhead, the thermo-acoustic engine waited, the enormous tubes and filters ready to take her music and make it corporeal—a thrumming machine built to restore the balance of the world.

It was crazy. It was their best chance.

Ice was not a long piece. It consisted of only one movement, designed along specific, overlapping frequencies. Despite its brevity, it had taken her three years to compose, working with the weather simulations and the best scientific minds in the world. Then testing on small engines, larger ones, until she stood here.

Now Rinna gestured and pulled, molded and begged, and the orchestra gave. Tears glazed her vision, froze on her lashes, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t working from a score; the music lived in her body, more intimately known to her than her own child.

The clarinets sobbed the melody, grieving for what was already lost. The polar bears. The elephants. The drowned cities. The silenced birds.

Now the kettle-drums, a gradual thunder—raising the old magic, working up to the climax. The air throbbed and keened as Rinna rose onto her toes and lifted her hands higher. Higher. A divine plea.

Save us.

Arms raised high, Rinna held the symphony in her grasp, squeezed its heart for one more drop of musical blood. The musicians gave, faces taut with effort, shiny with sweat even in the chill. Bows flew, a faint sparkle of rosin dust flavoring the air. The trumpets blared, not missing the triad the way they had in rehearsal.

The last note. Hold. Hold. Hold.

She slashed her hand through the air and the sound stopped. Ice ended, yearning and dissonant, the final echo ringing into the frigid sky.

Above, nothing but silence.

Rinna lowered her arms and rocked back on her heels. From the corner of her eye, she saw the techs gesturing frantically, heads shaking, expressions grim.

The bitter taste of failure crept into her mouth, even as the crowd erupted into shouts and applause, a swell of sound washing up and over the open stage. She turned and gave them an empty bow, then gestured to the symphony—the musicians who had given and given. For nothing.

They stood, and one over-exuberant bassoonist let out a cheer and fist-pump. It sent the rest of the orchestra into relieved shouts, and she didn’t have the heart to quiet them. They began stamping their feet, the stage vibrating, humming, low and resonant.

Rinna caught her breath, wild possibility flickering through her.

She gestured urgently to the basses. Three of them began to play, finding the note, expanding it. The rest of the section followed, quickly joined by the tubas—bless the tubas. Rinna opened her arms wide, and the string players hastily sat and took up their instruments again.

“D minor!” she cried. “Build it.”

The violins nodded, shaping harmonies onto the note. The harpist pulled a trembling arpeggio from her strings, the wind instruments doubled, tripled the sound into an enormous chord buoyed up by breath and bone, tree and ingot, hope and desperation.

The stage pulsing beneath her, she turned to the crowd and waved her arms in wide arcs.

“Sing!” she yelled, though she knew they couldn’t hear her.

The word hung in a plume before her. She could just make out the upturned faces below, pale circles in the endless Arctic night.

Slowly, the audience caught on. Sound spread like ripples from the stage, a vast buzzing that resolved into pitch. Rinna raised her arms, and the volume grew, rising up out of five thousand throats, a beautiful, ragged chorus winging into the air.

Beneath their feet, the last of the world’s ice began to hum.

The techs looked up from their control room, eyes wide, as high overhead the huge engine spun and creaked.

Rinna tilted her face up, skin stiff as porcelain from the cold, and closed her eyes. She felt it, deep in her bones, a melody singing over and over into the sky. The thrum of sound transformed to super-cooled air, the long hard pull back from the precipice.

Something touched her face, light as feathers, insubstantial as dreams.

Quietly, perfectly, it began to snow.

The Sun Never Sets

Originally published in Alt.History 101 (Windrift Books, 2015), edited by Samuel Peralta and Nolie Wilson and part of The Future Chronicles anthology series, created by Samuel Peralta

London, 1850

Seven degrees above the horizon, she spotted it—a speck of diamond in the deepening twilight. A tiny dot of light that perchance was only a trick of vision, or a wayward dust mote.

But perhaps something more…

Miss Kate Danville’s heart raced at the prospect, but she forced herself to remain still. With a deep, steadying breath, she leaned forward and gently twisted the eyepiece of her telescope, careful not to bump the instrument. The pinprick of brightness lost focus, then sharpened.

She was not mistaken. Certainty flared through her, filling her with warmth.

The image blurred again, but this time due to her own triumphant tears. Kate sat back and brushed the foolish water from her eyes. She would show them all that her little hobby as Father called it—Mother used stronger words like unsuitable and distastefully unfeminine—was more than simply dabbling in the astronomical arts.

She, Miss Kate Danville, had discovered a comet!

Oh, she was not the first women to do so—a handful of amateur astronomers had been the first to spot celestial objects, including her idol, Maria Mitchell, who received the Danish gold medal just two years prior.

Kate closed her eyes and imagined the King of Denmark presenting her with that accolade in front of an admiring crowd. Why, she might even get to meet the esteemed Ms. Mitchell, and perhaps be inducted into the Royal Society—

“Beg pardon, miss, but her ladyship sent me up to fetch you to make ready for the ball.” The maid’s reedy voice broke through Kate’s daydream, bringing her down from the stars with a thud.

She opened her eyes, and was once again simply Miss Kate Danville, perched on the top of Danville House with her telescope and her fancies in the sooty June dusk.

“I need a bit more time,” she told the maid. “Please tell my mother I must notate my new discovery.”

The maid gave her a skeptical look, but dropped a curtsy. “I shall, but you know Lady Danville won’t take kindly to that answer.”

“I am well aware of my mother’s expectations.” They included a proper marriage and Kate’s abandoning her inappropriate scientifical leanings.

But that disapproval would surely change once Kate’s Comet was officially recognized.

Time was of the essence, however. Kate bent again to her telescope to jot down the exact location of the bright speck in the sky. If someone else notified the Royal Astronomical Society first, she would be robbed of her discovery. That must not be allowed to happen.

“Kate!” Her mother’s sharp tones drifted up from the stairwell leading to the attic. “If you don’t come down this instant, I declare I will have your father take your telescope away.”

Lady Danville would never attempt to navigate the steep stairs—neither her wide skirts nor her temperament would allow the journey—but she was not averse to raising her voice. Or delivering threats.

“Coming,” Kate called.

She hastily scribbled a second set of notes, then tucked the precious piece of paper into her pocket. Time to face her mother, and yet another social tedium where the gentlemen asked her whether she liked roses, or droned on about their own accomplishments.

She blew out an unhappy breath. Lady Danville was determined to see Kate betrothed by the end of the summer, while Kate was equally determined to resist.

Although, upon further consideration, attending the ball that evening might be for the best. If Viscount Huffton or one of the other Royal Society astronomers were there, she could notify them of her discovery at once.

At breakfast two days later, Kate stared at the morning headline in the London Times. Shock stole her breath and held her motionless for a heartbeat.

“Viscount Huffton Discovers New Comet,” the paper declared.

No. That weasel had taken credit for her discovery!

“I won’t stand for it,” she gasped, leaping to her feet and nearly overturning the teapot. “I must pay a call upon Lord Wrottesley at once.”

Surely, as one of the founding members of the Royal Astronomical Society, he would aid her. She knew he was in London, for the odious Viscount Huffton had mentioned it at the ball. The ball where he had stolen the fruits of her labors. Her hands clenched into fists.

“Sit down,” her mother said, regarding her sternly over the white damask tablecloth. “What an unladylike outburst. And you have never been introduced to Lord Wrottesley. You cannot simply visit the man—what would he think of such improper behavior?”

Kate slowly sank back into her chair and used her napkin to mop up the spilled tea. “Please, mother. It’s important.”

Thank heavens she’d kept her original notes. She only prayed Lord Wrottesley would listen when she explained that she had spotted the comet first, then brought her findings to the viscount. Who was supposed to have reported it to the Royal Society, not claimed the discovery as his own, the worm.

Lady Danville raised her brows. “Is this matter important enough that you will consent to receive Lord Downing-Wilton tomorrow, should he pay you a visit?”

Oh, rot it. Kate should have known her mother would take every opportunity to foist a suitor upon her. She closed her eyes a moment, pushing back the scream of frustration bubbling in her throat. When she had mastered herself, she opened her eyes.

“Of course, mother. Only, we must see Lord Wrottesley today.”

“So you keep insisting.” Lady Danville regarded her a moment more. “It is most irregular. Perhaps you ought to admit Sir Wexfield into your circle, as well.”

“As you say.” Kate spoke the words through gritted teeth.

“And perhaps—”

“I shall go up and change now.” Kate tossed the tea-stained napkin upon the table. She had lost her appetite completely.

“Wear your dove walking dress with the violet trim,” her mother said. “If we are fortunate, Lord Wrottesley will be entertaining gentleman guests when we arrive.”

As it transpired, and to Kate’s great relief, Lord Wrottesley was at home, and he was alone. The butler ushered them into his cluttered study, where Kate presented her notes and explained the circumstances.

“Hmph.” Lord Wrottesley peered at the jotted numbers and angles, then shook his head. “That puppy Huffton needs to be taken down a peg. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Danville.”

Kate slid forward to the edge of her chair. “Does this mean my claim will be upheld?”

Lady Danville, seated in the adjoining wingback, gave her a placid smile. “Patience, my dear. I’m certain Lord Wrottesley does not like to be rushed. He will do what is best.”

“But—”

“Thank you, sir, for your time.” Lady Danville rose. “Certainly you have more pressing concerns than listening to my daughter complain.”

“Perhaps.” He folded Kate’s notes and tapped them against his hand. “I shall review the evidence and share it with the Royal Astronomical Society. Thank you for your visit, ladies.”

Before Kate could protest, her mother hauled her to the doorway. She dropped a quick curtsey to Lord Wrottesley, and then the butler shut the study door in her face.

Kate spent a wretched two days being polite, if not pleasant, to a stream of gentleman callers. None of them were the least bit interested in discussing any type of science, let alone astronomy, and several of them looked faintly horrified that she would broach the subject at all.

It was worth it, though, when she received the letter bearing the seal of the Royal Society, confirming that she, Kate Danville, was credited with the discovery of what would henceforth be known as Miss Danville’s Comet.

Throughout the following week, the mote in the sky grew brighter. First it matched, then overtook, the light of the stars, until it was visible during the day as well as searing the night. Her comet went from being a source of mild speculation to casting a worrisome light over the population of London. Reports soon came in that the comet was affecting every corner of the British Empire.

Local uprisings, raving prophets, and strange tides were reported regularly in the newspapers, along with sensationalized speculation: the comet would smash into London and devastate the country—nay, the entire world, it was not a comet at all but a vehicle bearing explorers from the stars, the end times were nigh and everyone might as well drink and make merry while they still could. Some took this as a call to rampage about the streets, causing an increasing number of clashes between unruly members of the populace and the constabulary.

Queen Victoria issued a half dozen regal reassurances—none of which were taken to heart. It was noted that she and Prince Albert sent their children up to Scotland with a coterie of Royal Nannies, prompting an exodus of nobly-born sons and daughters to the countryside.

Kate, however, refused to go.

“Mother, I’m seventeen, not a child. And I’ve been invited to court to speak with the queen on Thursday afternoon. Surely you would not deprive me of such a triumph?”

Social standing won over familial safety, and Kate was allowed to remain in an increasingly turbulent London.

By Wednesday, the Royal Society astronomers confirmed that the celestial object was, indeed, on a trajectory toward London. They were no longer calling it a comet, however, as it was behaving in a rather perplexing—some might say frightening—manner. The astronomer’s calculations suggested that the object was under its own power, able to make course and speed adjustments.

Kate had to agree that they appeared to be correct, based on her own observations. In addition, the object grew closer every hour, until it was a looming brightness over the country. Speculation exploded, and apprehension turned to panic as soldiers began to filter into London. The queen exhorted her subjects to remain calm, and expressed her approval of those who chose to carry on with their daily lives.

Handbills were posted at every corner, bearing Queen Victoria’s profile and the words, “Nothing is certain, except that We will meet this Challenge with Fortitude, Grace, and the Might of God and Empire behind Us. Stay strong and true, Loyal Subjects, and fear not.”

Kate’s original euphoria at discovering the comet had curdled to an odd mix of pride and guilt. In a way, she felt responsible for whatever was about to happen.

If she had not first identified that speck in the sky, would it have changed its course? Had the act of observing its approach made its arrival inevitable? Was the Empire, perhaps the entire earth, doomed?

In a brave attempt at normalcy, the queen and prince continued to keep their court hours at Buckingham Palace. The Prime Minister and most of the peers still in London spent their time cloistered in Parliament, arguing over what course to pursue.

Thursday dawned bright, with the strange metallic light filtering over the city, and the Danville household made ready for Kate’s appearance at court.

“Must you tie my laces so tightly?” Kate asked the maid. “I can scarcely breathe.”

“Not every day you’re invited to the palace, Miss.” Still, the woman left off trying to constrict Kate’s lungs beyond bearing, and fetched the rose muslin day dress from the wardrobe.

An hour later, appropriately garbed and coiffed and bejeweled, Kate and her mother stepped into their carriage. The footman folded up the steps and closed the door, and the driver set out for the palace. Despite the well-sprung seats, every jolt over the cobblestones sent a jab through Kate. She tried to distract herself by looking out the window, but there was little to be seen. All the fine shops were closed up, and only a few dandies roamed the streets instead of the cream of Society going about their business. Most of the upper crust had departed London for their country estates.

“Will the looting spread this far?” Kate asked her mother.

“Of course not. The rabble knows better than to set foot in Mayfair.”

Despite the clipped assurance in Lady Danville’s tone, Kate could not help noticing that her mother’s gloved fingers were laced tightly together in her lap.

“Do you think Parliament has come up with a plan?”

Lady Danville sniffed. “According to your father, nothing but dithering is being accomplished. At least there are plenty of soldiers about. Don’t fret, darling. Everything shall turn out for the best. I have utmost faith in the queen.”

Kate was not convinced the queen could, by pure force of royal will, keep a meteor from smashing London to smithereens. Yet what else could they do but persevere?

The approach to Buckingham Palace was crowded with people. Some were shouting for the queen and God to save them, some were exhorting the throng to rush the gates, while others held signs proclaiming the world’s imminent destruction. Overhead, the bright sphere in the sky appeared to be growing larger.

With the aid of a dozen red-coated soldiers, the carriage managed to push past the press of bodies and through the well-guarded iron gates of the palace. Behind them, Kate heard the crowd murmuring like a restless creature ready to leap from its kennel.

A shout and the crack of a gunshot made both Kate and her mother jump. Kate’s heartbeat thudded in her chest, and Lady Danville pushed open the window.

“What is happening?” she demanded, her voice shrill.

A soldier jumped up, catching the side of the carriage, and the vehicle rocked slightly from his weight.

“Rest easy, ladies,” he said. “The rabble tried to rush forward, but so far shots fired into the air are keeping them back. We’ll have you to the door in a trice.”

Lady Danville nodded at him, then patted nervously at her hair. The gates shut behind them with a clang that Kate did not find as reassuring as she ought.

Their driver pulled the carriage up before the arched entry, and the footman handed Lady Danville and Kate out. Guards stood impassively on either side of the doors, ignoring the strange light overhead and the cries of the crowd.

A liveried servant waiting before the entryway glanced at the crest on their carriage, then bowed to Kate’s mother.

“Lady Danville, Miss Danville, you are expected. Please, follow me.”

He led them into the palace, past the grand sweeping double staircase and down a high-ceilinged hall lined with paintings and the marble busts of former rulers. The air smelled of flowers and lemon polish, with an undertone of must.

Kate lifted her chin and resolved to remain calm. Although her mother thought the queen only wanted to congratulate her on her discovery, Kate feared an interrogation lay ahead.

The servant ushered them through a set of tall doors and into an immense room decorated in scarlet and white. The numerous soldiers scattered about the hall looked as though they had been placed there for decoration, in their matching red and white. The ceiling overhead was ornately patterned, but the most imposing sight was at the far end, where Queen Victoria sat upon an elaborately carved and gilt-covered throne.

A crown set with rubies adorned her brown hair, and her large, dark eyes surveyed the hall from above her thin nose and rounded cheeks. At her side sat Prince Albert, dressed in a military uniform. He was slighter than Kate had anticipated—or perhaps he was simply dwarfed by the queen’s voluminous indigo skirts and penetrating gaze.

The room was filled with nobility: lords looking somber and consulting their pocket watches, ladies whose laughter sounded a bit too forced, a handful of young bucks who turned and watched the Danville ladies enter with over-bright eyes.

And a cluster of Royal Society astronomers, including Lord Wrottesley and the contemptible Viscount Huffton. Kate deliberately glared at the man, hoping the viscount would feel the burn of her stare, unmannered though it might be.

“Wait here,” the servant said, leading Kate and her mother to the side of the room. “The steward will fetch you when the queen is ready.”

“Very good,” Lady Danville said, then turned to her daughter. “Kate, you must remember to smile. And don’t, I pray, speak overmuch. The queen has far more important matters to attend to than listening to you drone on about telescopes.”

Kate swallowed past the dryness in her throat.

“Yes, mother,” she said.

In truth, she could not offer the queen any better insight than the astronomers. Despite watching the approaching object every night, she had gleaned no particular truths or insights from it—other than it appeared to be headed on a direct trajectory toward London, and approaching rapidly.

An officious-looking fellow wearing the palace livery and an ornate medallion about his neck, strutted up to them.

“Miss Danville, the queen will speak with you now.”

Kate smoothed the pink flounces on her skirt and tried to calm her sudden surge of nerves.

“Well, come along,” her mother said. “We mustn’t keep her majesty waiting.”

The steward turned a cold eye on Lady Danville. “You may remain here, madam. The queen wishes to converse with your daughter, not you.”

Lady Danville’s mouth hung open for a moment. She snapped it shut, a flush creeping up from her neck.

“Very well,” she said with a sniff. “Kate, pray endeavor not to embarrass the family name.”

There was really no response Kate could make to that. She gave her mother a tight smile, then let the steward usher her through the room. Whispers followed in their wake, a buzz of gossip hovering like gnats about her head. As they passed the knot of astronomers, Lord Wrottesley gave her an encouraging nod, while Viscount Huffton looked bitter.

“Miss Kate Danville,” the steward announced when they were before the thrones.

Kate bowed her head and dipped into her best curtsey, her heart pounding so loudly she feared the queen could hear it.

“Rise,” Queen Victoria said, beckoning her to approach. “Welcome to court, Miss Danville. I understand you were the first to spot the object now approaching London.?”

“Yes, your majesty.” With force of will, Kate kept her fingers from knotting desperately together.

Prince Albert gave her a sharp look. “Indeed. Do tell us more. Do you have any idea what it is?”

“I’m simply an amateur astronomer, your highness. I don’t—”

“Your majesty!” A guard burst into the room and ran up to the thrones, halting a few paces away to make a breathless bow.

“Yes?” the queen asked, her tone unbelievably calm.

“The thing in the sky, it’s stopped. And, and…” He gulped for breath.

“Out with it, man,” the price snapped.

“Something has detatched from it, and is approaching through the sky.”

A buzz of speculation moved through the room, edged with panic. Kate bit her lip.

“Approaching through the sky, you say?” The queen rose, her skirts rustling. “Well then. We had best repair to the palace gardens to better view whatever is transpiring.”

“My dear.” The prince caught her arm. “Do you think it’s safe?”

Queen Victoria gave him a quelling look. “I am Queen of England, Princess of Hanover, Empress of India and supreme monarch of the British Empire. I shall not cower inside while great events unfold at my doorstep. And if we are all to perish, let it be said that we went forth to meet our fate bravely.”

“Of course.” Price Albert gave her a faint smile. “Lead on, my lady.”

The queen, the prince, and their guards swept forward. Half of the court went with them, including the astronomers, while the rest clearly did not want to risk setting foot outside the dubious safety of the palace.

Kate followed close behind, her pulse racing with fear and anticipation. Something was finally happening, and she, Miss Kate Danville, was about to witness a great event in history.

As they traversed the hallways and formal rooms of Buckingham Palace, Kate did not try to locate her mother in the throng. Lady Danville could hang safely back, or attempt to return home, but Kate resolved to remain as close to the center of events as possible.

Even though it might prove her doom.

Yet the fact that something was approaching—something smaller than the glowing sphere that filled the sky—suggested it was guided by intelligent entities. Perhaps it was simliar to a tender boat being launched out from a great galleon.

What a frightening thought! If that were the case, she could only hope these visitors from the stars were as benign and enlightened as the British explorers who landed upon heathen islands, bringing civilization and enlightenment to the poor natives on faraway shores.

Following that reasoning, then, if there truly were beings from beyond the stars, humans would be the ignorant savages. Kate gave a sharp shake of her head. She did not like that notion one bit.

At last they reached several pairs of French doors leading out to the terraces behind the palace. Outside, the sunshine was overlaid with silver, making the grass and shrubbery appear metallic.

The guards opened a set of doors, then preceded the queen and prince outside. Shading their eyes, they peered upward.

“Good gad,” one of the redcoats exclaimed. “It appears to be heading directly for us.”

The remainder of the court poured out onto the terrace. The air was filled with a deep, nearly inaudible hum. The light struck Kate like a blow, and she blinked against the brilliance. One of the queen’s ladies in waiting handed the monarch a parasol, and a few others sprouted above the throng like colorful mushrooms after a rain.

Lacking that apparatus, Kate cupped her hands around her eyes and squinted into the sky. Good heavens! And rather literally, at that.

The shining sphere hung over London, so bright she could not look at it for long. From the sphere, a dark ribbon descended—a plume of smoke left by a smaller orb. That object was most decidedly coming closer.

Was it a weapon, aimed at the heart of the Empire?

“Your majesty,” the captain of the guard urged, “please, return inside.”

“I will not be any safer within the walls than without,” Queen Victoria replied. “Whatever is approaching, we must meet it with fortitude.”

Already, the orb was much closer. Kate estimated it would land in the garden in no less than two minutes. As it approached the noise grew to a loud rumble.

The soldiers lifted their guns and trained them on the dark blot descending from the sky. Closer. Closer, until it was the size of a small outbuilding. It brushed past a few trees on the outskirts of the garden, and their branches snapped off and tumbled to the ground.

The air shook with a deep, mechanical roar. The surface of the man-made lake nearby shivered violently. Kate clapped her hands over her ears, watching as the object slowed to nearly a hover.

With excruciating delicacy, it landed on the manicured lawn of Buckingham Palace. The blades of grass beneath it wilted and sizzled. The orb seemed made of metal, yet no light sheened off the surface, and it had no discernible seams or rivets.

The noise cut off, and for a moment Kate wondered if she’d gone deaf. Perspiration stuck her dress to her chest, and she plucked at the fabric. Then the shouts of approaching soldiers punctuated the air as they poured into the garden and surrounded the black hulk of the orb, raising their guns.

“Hold your fire,” the queen commanded, sweeping out one gloved hand.

The soldiers shifted, but remained at the ready.

Noiselessly, the orb split in the front to reveal an elongated oval opening. Something stirred inside. The crowd leaned forward, fearfully fascinated, like a rodent before the sway of a cobra.

Faint movement—and then a creature floated out. It was not human, although it had two long appendages on either side that might be termed arms, and a head on top of its torso, surrounded by a clear bubble. Two flat, black eyes, turned on the crowd. Below those eyes, the creature had a slit for a nose, and a mouth full of writhing tentacles.

Bile rose in Kate’s throat at the sight, and she swayed. A nearby lady screamed and fainted, eased to the ground by her companion. No one else bestirred themselves to help—they were all transfixed by the dreadful sight hovering before them.

One of the soldiers yelled and discharged his musket. Kate flinched at the sound, half hoping the bullet hit its mark, the other half knowing they were all doomed.

The creature turned its head, and the soldier slumped to the ground. It was impossible to tell if he were dead, or merely stunned.

“Halt!” Queen Victoria cried, her voice finally taut with fear. “Do not shoot.”

“But, your majesty—” the captain of the guard began.

“No. We shall wait, and greet this creature as civilized beings, not vicious animals.” The queen took a single step forward. Her grip on her parasol seemed inordinately tight.

The thing turned toward Queen Victoria, and Prince Albert caught her elbow.

“Greetings,” the queen called. “We mean you no harm.”

“Yet,” a nearby lord muttered. “I think we’re better off shooting the damned thing.”

His wife hushed him, and Kate could not decide if she agreed with the man or not. Part of her could not believe this was happening—that the glint of light she had first spotted two weeks ago had brought a being from the stars to land here, in the heart of London. Such things simply did not happen.

And yet, the dark orb sat implacably on the greensward, and its occupant was even now gliding toward the terrace.

Kate sucked back a breath and resisted the urge to bolt for the French doors and cower beneath a table. Instead she clenched her hands and watched. The creature stopped a safe distance from the queen. Perhaps it understood the tightening of soldiers’ fingers on their guns, or recognized the acrid smell of human fear.

A crackling sound filled the air, and then a voice. Inhuman, certainly, with odd inflections and staggered pauses, but the words it spoke were recognizable.

“These…beings wish no harm is speaking…to ruler of earth.”

There was a pause, and Kate wondered if the last bit had been meant as a question. The queen seemed to draw the same conclusion.

“Indeed,” the queen said. “I am Queen Victoria, ruler of the British Empire. Who are you?”

“We are…eeixlltiey.” The final word was a garble of sound. Likely there was no match for it in the English language.

The creature’s tentacled mouth did not move, and the voice seemed to emanate more from the orb it had arrived in than from the alien figure. Still, there was no doubt it was communicating directly with them.

“Welcome to earth, Yxleti,” the queen said, making a valiant attempt to pronounce the name. “Tell us, why have you come?”

“To observe…explore…assess…”

A bead of sweat ran down the side of Kate’s neck, and she wiped it away. She did not much like the idea of being “assessed” by inhuman creatures from the stars. But they had devised a way to communicate in English, and clearly been wise enough to come directly to the queen of the largest empire on earth.

The prince leaned over and whispered something in Queen Victoria’s ear. She nodded, then turned to her captain of the guard.

“I believe our further dealings with the Yxleti are best done more privately,” she said, in a carrying voice. “Your guards may remain, of course, and my attendents, but please disperse the onlookers.”

The group of Royal Society astronomers protested, as did a few self-important lords. The rest of the crowd began to edge back toward the palace. No one quite turned their backs on the creature, or the strange conveyance in which it had arrived.

Kate was torn. Part of her wished nothing more than to find her mother and flee the bizarre spectacle. She craved a hot bath, and the opportunity to forget for as long as possible the proceedings of the afternoon.

Yet a larger part was aquiver with possibility. Their world had changed, of that there could be no question. She had been witness to what could only be the most extraordinary event in human history. She could meekly turn away and return to the path her parents and Society had laid out, or she could seize the opportunity before her. This was her chance.

Lifting her skirts, Kate strode past the astronomers, taking some small satisfaction from treading upon Viscount Huffton’s foot.

“Your majesty.” She made the queen another curtsey. “I beg your leave to remain. As discoverer of the vessel that bore this star explorer hither, I will pledge my life to your service, to the Empire, and to forwarding the understanding between humans and Yxleti. Please, let me stay.”

The queen regarded her a long moment from her cool brown eyes, and Kate fought to keep her legs from trembling. She must be confident and bold in this moment.

“Miss Kate Danville,” the queen said, “are you betrothed?”

“No, your majesty.” Despite her mother’s best efforts. “I am wholly committed to this endeavor, if you will accept me.”

“Your majesty,” Lord Wrottesley approached the queen. “If I may speak?”

The queen nodded, and the astronomer continued. “I happen to know that this is a young lady of great fortitude and determination. You might do well to take her.”

Queen Victoria inclined her head. “Very good. We consent to add you to our staff—for the time being. You may remain here.”

Kate shot a grateful look at Lord Wrottesley. She did not care if he had put in a word for her simply to spite Viscount Huffton, or if he truly believed she had the mettle to be of service. In either case, she vowed to be worthy.

In moments only a small retinue surrounding the queen remained, including the astronomers and her guardsmen. The Yxleti had stayed silent, impassively floating a few handspans above the ground as the humans reorganized themselves.

Kate glanced at the flat black eyes and suppressed a shiver at the sight of its tentacle-fringed mouth. It might be a horrible-looking creature, but so far its purposes had not seemed inimical, and it was clearly possessed of an intelligence equal to their own.

“Are you the only one of your kind who has come?” the queen asked it.

“More await…in vessel…this emissary.”

The captain of the guard stirred at this news, and the prince sent him a quelling look. It had been wise of the creatures to send a single ambassador, and Kate was further convinced the Yxleti had arrived with peaceful intentions.

“You are welcome here at the palace,” Queen Victoria said. “What might we do to further relations between your kind and ours?”

“Stable rule must first be…many queens.”

Queen Victoria glanced at her husband, then back to the creature.

“Do you mean our children?” Her voice was chilly.

“Not…it is Victoria Regina…reign again.”

The queen’s brow furrowed, and Kate understood her confusion. How could the queen reign again? She was already the monarch.

“I think, though it is simply a guess, that they mean to replicate you in some fashion,” Prince Albert said in a low voice.

Kate blinked at the notion. It seemed unbelievable—but who knew what the Yxleti were capable of? After all, they journeyed between the stars. Perhaps creating a new Queen Victoria was a simple matter for them.

“Is this true?” the queen asked the Yxleti hovering a few paces before her. “You mean to re-create my very essence? It seems most ungodly.”

“Each queen sleeps until reign is ended…then wakes and is self…at moment of preserve. Best…for peaceful humans always.”

Queen Victoria took a step back, her mouth twisting in distaste. “I cannot countenance such a perversion.”

“Then…Napoleon three will select to rule…if you decline. Humans must have single ruler.”

“Bloody hell,” the captain of the guard muttered. “The damnable creature’s blackmailing you, your majesty.”

“Of course it is.” The queen’s eyes narrowed. “But what choice do we have? We cannot let the French rise to ascendency.”

“I have little doubt Bonaparte’s nephew will leap at the chance,” Prince Albert said. “Much as it might go against the laws of nature, my dear, you must accept the Yxleti’s offer, or the world will end up under the thumb of a petty dictator rather than your beneficent and enlightened reign.”

The queen drew in a breath through her nose, and Kate leaned forward, her chest tight. Of course her majesty would do what was best for the Empire, but what a difficult choice.

“Very well,” Queen Victoria said. “We will do this thing—under three conditions.”

“Tell,” the Yxleti said.

“The first, that we be allowed to continue to reign as we see fit, without Yxleti intervention.”

“Is already plan,” the crackling voice said.

Kate regarded the creature. Of course it would make promises, but who knew if it would actually keep them?

“The second,” the queen said, “is that our beloved husband also be subject to this process, so that we might have him at our side during every reign.” She threaded her arm through Prince Albert’s and gave him a look filled with emotion. “Will you consent to this, my dear?”

He covered her hand with his own. “I do. My place is at your side, your majesty. Year after year, to time immemorial.”

The Yxleti remained motionless, but the still air was interrupted by a brief hum. After a moment, the creature turned its head toward the orb.

The crackling voice rang out. “Agreed…what is third ask.”

“That you share with us the means by which you travel and explore the celestial sea. We, too, harbor the desire to set out in search of worlds unknown, and to bring the Empire to every corner of the stars. Will you aid us in doing so?”

This time there was no hesitation.

“Is intent,” the Yxleti said. “In starset we come…procure duplicates of queen.”

It turned and glided back to its vessel, clearly signaling that the meeting was at an end. The queen did not call after it, though her face was still filled with questions. As soon as the Yxleti entered, the oval doorway sealed shut. The now-familiar humming suffused the air, and slowly the dark orb rose.

The nearby guardsmen scrambled back, and with a whoosh of air and a steady hum, the Yxleti ascended. The orb hurtled away nearly as quickly as it had come. Kate followed its flight until it was swallowed by the searing brightness of the larger sphere.

Blinking away tears, she dropped her gaze.

“Oh my,” Queen Victoria said under her breath. “Whatever have we done?”

“Either saved all of humanity, or doomed it.” Prince Albert slid his arm about the queen’s shoulders. “I prefer to think the former. Steady on, my dear.”

The queen nodded, then turned to the dozen people gathered on the terrace. Kate glanced about, to see that everyone wore half-stunned looks that no doubt mirrored her own. She still could not quite credit what she had just witnessed.

“Everyone,” Queen Victoria said, “attend me inside. We must draw up our accounts of this momentous event. On this day, the course of the word has turned.”

She swept regally toward the French doors leading into the palace. The captain of the guard followed close behind, and then the astronomers and queen’s attendants.

Kate hung back a moment, casting a final look over her shoulder at the sphere that had once been nothing but a bright speck in the sky, and now was the harbinger of an unimaginable future. It cast its silvery reflection over London, offering no answers—only strangeness beyond compare.

The London Universal Times, August 1907

Obituary Notice: On 10 August, Lady Kate Danville, member of the Royal Society and bestowed the title of Baroness of Canticus by Victoria I, passed quietly in her sleep. She is survived by her younger brother, nieces and nephews. A long-time advisor of the prior queen, Lady Danville was one of the few still alive in this century who witnessed the glorious arrival of the Yxleti, and was part of the council which helped usher in the new age of space exploration and global prosperity. Queen Victoria II has commissioned a statue of Lady Danville to be placed in the First Greeting sculpture garden on the landing site at Buckingham Palace.

Per Lady Danville’s request, her ashes will be scattered between the stars, to float forever at peace beneath the eternal suns of the British Empire.

Fae Horse

Originally published in Tales of Feyland & Faerie by Anthea Sharp, published November 2015.

If the men caught her, they would tie her to the stake and set the fire.

Eileen O’Reilly crouched beneath a hawthorn tree, her heartbeat dinning in her ears so loudly it nearly drowned out the sound of her pursuers. Torchlight smeared the night, casting fiendish shadows over the hedgerows. She clenched her hands in her woolen skirt and gasped for air, trying to haul breath into her shaking lungs.

She had heard there was no worse agony than burning alive.

The flames would scorch and blister her skin before devouring her, screaming, as her bones charred. Eileen swallowed back bile.

Shredded clouds passed over the face of the half moon. One moment, sheltering darkness beckoned; the next, the newly-planted fields were washed with silver, her safety snatched away.

“I see her—there, across the field!”

Cursing the fickle moon, and her fair hair, which had surely given her away, Eileen leaped to her feet and ran. She crashed through a thicket, heedless of the thorns etching her skin with blood. In the distance she heard the pounding waves below the cliffs of Kilkeel.

Better a death by water than by flame. There was no other escape.

Five months ago, when the new vicar came to town with his fierce sermons and piercing gaze, she had not seen the danger. She’d lived in the village most of her life, first as apprentice to her aunt, then later taking on the duties of herb-woman and midwife.

But Reverend Dyer sowed fear and superstition—an easier harvest to reap than charity and love, to be sure.

Eileen stumbled, falling to her hands and knees in the soft soil. Get up, keep running. She must not give in, though her side ached as if a hot poker had been driven through it, and the air scraped her laboring lungs.

“There’s no escape, witch!” The vicar’s voice, deep and booming, resonated over the fields.

The stars above her blurred, and she tasted the salt of her own desperate tears. She risked a glance over her shoulder.

If she did not find a hiding place, they would catch her before she reached the cliffs. She veered toward the remains of the ancient stone circle that stood beyond the fields. Only two of the stones remained upright, the rest tumbled and broken. Still, she might find some shelter there.

She reached the ruin, and a figure loomed before her, large and dark. Lacking the breath to scream, Eileen staggered to a halt. What new enemy was this?

Four-legged and blacker than the shadows, it let out a soft whicker. A horse, untethered, with a rope halter dangling from its neck.

Blessing her luck, Eileen caught the rope. It stung her hands, as though woven of nettles, but she did not care. Hope flared up, painfully bright. She might yet live to see the dawn.

“Easy now,” she whispered, forcing back the panic pounding through her.

The horse was tall, and lacked any saddle or bridle. She gazed up at it and choked on misery. Her escape was in her hands, but she could not mount it unaided.

“Quick, lads!” the vicar bellowed.

Now, she must go now. For a strangled second she considered kicking the horse and holding fast to the rope, letting it drag her to her death.

A faint glimmer of gray caught her eye—a fallen stone tangled in the tall grasses. She tugged, and the horse followed her to the stone. Fingers trembling, trying to ignore the pounding footsteps of the men of Kilkeel, she scrambled onto the stone and pulled the horse close.

“Grab the witch!” That was Donal Miller, whose advances she had spurned. “She’s summoned her familiar. Stop her!”

Torchlight flared orange and red against the horse’s glossy hide. It rolled its eye, the white showing, and whinnied, high and strange.

The men were almost upon her. With a cry, Eileen tangled her hands in the horse’s mane and heaved herself up.

“A devil steed! Catch it!”

As if only waiting for her to mount, the horse leaped forward. Hemmed in by the men, it let out a shrill whinny and rose up, hooves flashing. The coarse mane cut into her palms as she clung there, half falling. She must not slide off.

The horse stamped and feinted. She heard the thunk of hooves on flesh, and two of the men cried out in pain. Then they were through, bowling past the grasping hands and shouted curses. Eileen held on as the jolting pace smoothed into a gallop and the cries of the men grew distant.

Slowly, her breath returned, the stark edge of her fear blunted. She had escaped—for now.

But what of Aidan? His name was a knife through her chest.

Did her true love still live?

When Young Sean, the village simpleton, had come to tell her that Aidan had fallen into a fever, she’d gathered her herbs and charms and raced to the cottage he shared with his mother. The widow had grudgingly opened the door, her eyes narrowed in animosity. Eileen had handed the woman the herbs for a soothing tisane. Then, as planned, Young Sean caused a racket, freeing the widow’s chickens and chasing them about the yard.

The moment Aidan’s mother went to tend her fowl, Eileen darted into the cottage and rushed to Aidan’s side. His dark hair was plastered with sweat to his forehead, and he shivered uncontrollably beneath the blankets. She dropped a kiss on his brow, flinching at the heat rising off him. As she slipped the charm over his neck, his skin scorching her hands, he mumbled. A coughing spasm shook him. When it finished he lay in a stupor, breath wheezing in and out of his lungs.

“Peace, mo chroi,” she said, then softly wove the words to send him into a healing sleep.

’Twas perilous, to take a person to that between place, but Aidan was gravely ill. Even a few minutes of that enchanted rest would do much to ease the sickness. Her charm would protect him while his body fought for life.

However, if he slept too long the connection would fray, then break. Aidan’s soul would slip free, and death would bear him away into the West.

She began singing the song to draw him back.

“Eileen,” Young Sean whispered at the window. “Reverend Dyer is coming, fetched by the widow. Go!”

Fear stabbed through her, but she must remain. She must finish the song and draw Aidan back to the waking world.

“Witch!” The vicar slammed into the cottage and grabbed her by the hair.

Her scalp burned and tears pricked her eyes from the pain, but she continued to sing. Nearly done. One more phrase…

Reverend Dyer clapped a hand over her mouth, his skin stinking of onions. To ensure her silence, he pinched her nostrils shut. Eileen clawed at his arm, her cries muffled by his meaty palm.

“Do not think to ensnare me with your spells,” he said.

“Cast her out,” the widow cried, her face twisted with hatred. “Keep her away from my son.”

“We will do better than that.” The vicar grasped Eileen’s arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. “We will burn her.”

Panic gave her the strength to whip her head free. “No! You must let me wake Aidan. The danger—”

“Aiee!” The widow had gone to Aidan’s side and spied Eileen’s charm. Now it dangled from her wizened fingers, broken.

“Proof,” she spat. “This evil creature has had dark designs on my boy since the day she set eyes upon him. Look, she has cursed him.”

Eileen writhed in the vicar’s grasp.

“He will die,” she gasped. “I must—”

“Out!” the widow shrieked. “Take her!”

“I’ll lock her in my cellar until the pyre is built,” Reverend Dyer said, shoving Eileen before him.

She stumbled over the threshold, then caught her balance. Though she knew it was hopeless, she broke free of his grasp, gathered up her skirt, and ran.

The vicar would have retaken her, but for Young Sean. He threw a chicken at the vicar’s face, granting her precious time to pelt from the yard. He would likely be whipped for it, poor man.

Now Aidan’s spirit was in terrible danger, spinning out into the mist. She must turn her mount back toward the village and wake her beloved, before it was too late.

The black horse galloped madly through the night, avoiding every obstacle with uncanny precision. The ground blurred beneath them with sickening speed.

“Turn,” she cried, yanking at the coarse mane.

Once. Twice. Thrice, until her hands stung, her muscles burning with effort.

The horse did not respond. Eileen might as well be a gnat on its hide for all the notice it paid. For one mad moment, she considered throwing herself off. But the risk was too great. She could not return to save Aidan if she broke her leg, or worse.

Over the thud of her mount’s hooves come the boom and crash of the surf.

Oh, no.

They were racing straight for the cliffs. Ahead, the stars were a veil reaching down past the horizon, disappearing into the dark Irish Sea.

“Stop! Please, stop.” She pulled back with all her strength.

Her mount did not slow. Below them, the sea glimmered and heaved.

Eileen tried to release the horse’s mane, but the strands were wrapped tightly around her fingers.

“Let me go!”

Heart pounding, she yanked. Her hands would not come free. She attempted to leap off, but her legs were bound fast to the horse’s sides. She screamed and thrashed in panic, banging her elbows against the horse’s shoulders.

They reached the cliff’s edge.

Eileen’s stomach churned as grass turned to empty air. Then they were falling, plummeting to their doom.

She found that, after all, she rather desperately wanted to live.

The water swirled restlessly beneath them. Eileen squeezed her eyes shut. She could not bear to watch the surface coming closer, closer. Or worse, the teeth of the hungry rocks, waiting to crush her body and spit it into the sea.

They hit the water with a crash. She gulped in a breath as the sea grabbed her legs, her arms, then closed relentlessly over her head.

She tightened her legs around the horse, the only warm thing in a world of shivering salt. Its withers bunched as it swam. They must be close to the surface. They must.

Lungs clenching with the need to breathe, she tipped her head back and opened her eyes, blinking past the sting and blur.

The wavering moon lapped the water, high overhead. The horse was not struggling toward the surface. Betraying its fey nature, it swam strongly downward, untroubled by the need for air. The surface glimmered, receding, and she could not free herself.

So, it was to be death by drowning after all.

Eileen released her breath in a silver stream of bubbles. They raced away from her lips, uncatchable. Crying, though she could not feel the tears, she laid her cheek against the water horse’s neck. In another moment, she must gulp in the harsh tang of salt water. It would fill her, smother her—but at least it would be a quick end.

“You are brave, for a human.” The words sounded in her head, the voice low and amused.

It was the uncanny creature she rode, speaking to her; or it was her own mind, conjuring up visions as she descended into her doom.

“Release me!” She aimed the thought at the black head bobbing through the water in front of her. “Or do you want a sodden corpse bound to your back for a blanket?”

She must breathe—her body demanded air. Against her will, Eileen’s mouth opened and she gasped in the cold seawater. Choking, she doubled over on the horse’s back as the water invaded the warmth of her throat and stopped her lungs.

Cold, and bitter, the weight of the sea lay heavy on her chest. She was dimly aware of silver spattering the surface above her head.

Then, with a thrust, the horse burst into the air, spray flying in a mighty gout. Eileen leaned over her mount’s neck and heaved up water. She coughed and vomited, the agony in her lungs like a thousand stabbing pins.

Finally, teeth chattering and fingers numb, she pulled in a breath of sweet, sweet air. The horse bore her strongly through the heavy wash of the sea, no longer seeming intent on drowning her.

“Thank you,” she whispered into its thick, black mane.

Her mount veered, swimming toward the rocky beach. Low, shadowed hills rose behind, and further down the coast the cliffs shone. Eileen coughed again and huddled against the horse’s burning heat as the waves shoved against her.

“Do not thank me yet, human girl,” came the reply. “The night is not ended.”

The voice she’d heard beneath the water had not been her imagination. It held the echo of terror, a darkness she did not want to heed too closely.

“What are you?” she asked. “A kelpie?”

Even as she spoke the word, she knew it to be untrue. A kelpie would have taken her directly to the bottom of the sea, delighting in the drowning.

“Nay.”

“Then you are a púca.”

Her aunt had raised her on tales of the fair folk. Indeed, she should have realized her peril far sooner, but fear had blinded her in one eye, and hope in the other.

“Not just any púca. I am Tromluí, shredder of sanity, waker in the night. The longer you remain astride me, the more of your mortal soul you will lose. You should have chosen drowning, girl.”

Eileen shuddered, cold to her marrow.

Better to be trapped on a kelpie’s back. But no, she was astride the NightMare. She might live to see the dawn, but only as a madwoman, chased by stones and suspicion from village to village, cackling in the grip of her lunatic visions.

The mare strode up from the sea, hooves clattering against the stones of the beach. Overhead, the half moon shone, a bowl of whitest milk. At first the air seemed warm, but in moments Eileen’s skin prickled with gooseflesh. Her hair hung in a soggy plait down her back and saltwater dripped into her face, stinging her eyes.

“Will you let me go?” she asked, despairing at the answer.

“Shall I?” The mare’s voice was ice and midnight. “I might climb into the stars and release you there, high above the earth. For a short time you would know what it is to fly.”

The copper taste of desperation flavored Eileen’s mouth. Indeed, she rode a dreadful creature. But she was not dead. Not yet.

Possibilities, sharp and painful, brought her upright, her mind racing. It was perilous to bargain with the fey folk—beyond perilous—but this night was full of wild chance. Already she had escaped death by fire, then by water.

“I will remain upon your back,” she said. “But I demand a boon.”

The NightMare turned her neck, regarding Eileen with an eye the color of moonbeams.

“It amuses me to hear your request. What is it you desire?”

Eileen swallowed and forced her voice to steadiness. “Help me save my beloved, Aidan.”

She had sent his soul spinning from his body, and she must return it. No matter how dire the consequences.

“This is no small thing you ask,” the mare said. “There will be a price, mortal.”

“I will pay,” Eileen said recklessly.

The horse gave a high whinny. Through the clear, still air Eileen heard the ring of chimes.

“Our bargain is sealed,” the mare said. “Now hold fast, for we have far to journey ‘ere the sun rises.”

The NightMare leaped forward, muscles bunching beneath Eileen’s legs. The rocky clatter of the beach fell behind as the mare galloped up the long rise of hills, leaping low stone walls and skirting tangles of briars. Eileen ceased shivering as the night wind dried her dress and the NightMare’s heat seeped into her body.

With every stride, something burned away in Eileen’s blood. She could feel her earliest memories shred and tatter, but she clung tightly to every thought of Aidan.

Near the top of the highest hill, the mare slowed, her hoof beats no longer the frantic race of a pulse but the slow stutter of a dying heart. A dark maw gaped in the side of the hill; the doorway to a barrow grave. Starlight picked out the gray stones outlining the opening, but within was sheer blackness.

As if aware of their presence, a dank wind moved from the depths of that hole. Eileen, her hands freed from the NightMare’s mane, covered her nose at the stench of old, dead things.

A large, flat stone scribed with spirals marked the threshold. The mare raised one hoof and brought it sharply down upon the stone. Bright sparks skittered, followed by a distant, booming echo. Twice more the mare knocked, and each time the sound grew closer, until it vibrated Eileen’s very bones.

The air of the doorway wavered, like a pond stirred by the wind.

“We pass now into the Realm,” the NightMare said. “You must remain on my back, no matter the sights you see or the danger you face. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” The syllable floated up from Eileen’s mouth, a fragile moth lost in the night.

The mare stepped forward. As they passed over the threshold, Eileen felt a terrible pain, as though angry wasps swarmed over her. She bit her lip and drove her fingernails into her palms, determined not to cry out.

Inside the barrow a pallid light spread, illuminating a stone-lined corridor with a corbelled roof. Rank fungus, pale and misshapen, grew along the edge of the flagstone floor and clumped in crevices on the walls. The stinging pain passed, but the clammy air lay heavy against her skin.

She cast a look over her shoulder, straining for one last glimpse of the night sky before the mare bore her deeper in. The stars were tiny pricks of light, washed dim by the moon. Then the opening was blocked by a shambling figure. The barrow light illuminated its skeletal form, ancient skin shriveled tight against the bone. Tattered rags hung from its limbs and a golden torc encircled its neck, marking it as a chieftain of yore.

From the skull-like face, empty sockets regarded her. Deep within lurked a spark of eldritch fire. The corpse opened its mouth in a soundless laugh.

Eileen pivoted away and leaned over the mare’s neck, hoping her mount might hurry, but the NightMare continued her measured pace down the corridor. Another memory untangled itself from Eileen’s mind, flared and burned down to ash.

The echo of hoof beats was soon muted by the slither and scrape of dozens of footsteps.

Throat dry, Eileen glanced behind her again, and smothered a scream. The dead followed, patient in their stalking. Your beloved will soon join us, their tongueless mouths seemed to say.

“No,” she whispered.

The barrow amplified the sound, turning it into a long “ohhh” of despair.

“Quiet,” the mare said. “Or do you wish to bring the bean sidhe for a visit as well?”

Eileen had been afraid before, but this slow, creeping terror held her nearly paralyzed. What if the NightMare chose to stop and allow the restless corpses to touch her with their rotting fingers? Would they merely stroke the resilience of her living flesh, or would they gouge great handfuls, feasting on her in a vain bid to regain their own vitality?

From the avid lights in their eye sockets, she very much feared the latter.

The mare bore her past an opening to her left, filled with the tang of blood and the sighing of the sea. Then an opening to her right, where noxious vapors swirled. Eyes stinging, Eileen buried her face in the crook of her elbow and tried not to inhale. Her heart beat hard and fast, knocking against the fragile prison of her ribs.

She did not need to look back to hear the following dead.

At length, her mount brought her to the central chamber. The pale light revealed crumbling treasures in the corners: rotted linens, tarnished silver set with dully gleaming gems, a golden goblet with one side crushed in as though it had been used as a weapon in some vicious fight.

In the center of the room lay a stone slab, and upon that slab…

“Aidan!”

She swung her leg over the mare’s broad back, and only a shrill whinny of warning made her halt. Mere inches from dismounting, Eileen scrabbled back onto the horse. The dead hissed in disappointment behind her.

Hands trembling with impatience, she forced herself to be still as the NightMare stepped up to the slab.

Aidan lay as if asleep—or lifeless. His eyes were closed, and he was dressed in the raiment of an ancient king, with gold armbands encircling his biceps and thin circlet set upon his brow.

Digging her fingernails into her palms, Eileen watched his chest, straining for a sign of breath. At last, it rose in a long, slow inhalation. She slumped back, tears pricking her eyes.

“He lives,” she whispered.

“Not for long,” the mare replied. “You may step down now, but stay upon the marble verge. Should your foot touch the flagstones, you will be lost, and your love as well.”

Eileen slipped down, placing her feet with care. She cupped Aidan’s cheek.

“Wake, beloved,” she said.

He made no response.

“Aidan, please wake.”

She took his shoulders and shook him, gently at first, then harder as he continued his enchanted slumber. A kiss did not wake him, nor a shout. The echoes of her cry woke strange shadows that skittered across the ceiling, but Aidan slept on.

Throat choked with tears, she turned to the mare. “What shall I do?”

“He has dreamed too long, too far from the mortal world. Tír na nÓg calls to him strongly.”

As if confirming the words, the dead lined up in the chamber stirred and rustled. The fallen chieftain took a step forward. Soon, Aidan would be among their number.

No. She refused to let him slip away.

Eileen gazed at his strong, beloved face. Her heart had long belonged to Aidan, since the first time she met him while picking herbs. He was brave and kind, and deserved a long, full life. And he was lost to her, now, whether she lived or died.

“Lie beside him on the slab,” the mare said, “and take his hand.”

The stone chilled her side, but Aidan’s fingers were warm in hers. She watched the excruciatingly slow rise and fall of his chest. With one finger she traced the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw.

She must sing him back.

Pulling in a breath of grave-cold air, she began. His spirit had traveled far down the road to the West, and the simple waking chant would not be enough. It must be a call home, back to the human world.

Her voice filled the chamber as she sang the heat of summer, the call of the thrush, the taste of ripe berries on the tongue. Every warm, vital memory she once owned, she gave to him, spilling it forth. Each word carried more of her humanity out of the shell of her body and into his. The golden plait over her shoulder leached of color, the strands turning an eerie white.

Slowly, the dead began to dissipate, fading under that mortal onslaught.

Eileen sang of fresh-baked bread, a child’s laughter. The humming feel of her hand clasped in his as they laughed together above the ripening fields.

Aidan’s breathing sped, his cheeks flushed with warmth and color.

Three of the dead remained. Then two. Then only the chieftain. It stared at her, bony fingers wrapped around the golden torc at its neck. The cold malevolence of its will dampened the song, chilled the air to ice.

Shivers gripped her, but she raised her voice, defiant. This time, nothing would stop her.

The last syllables faded. The dead chieftain took another step forward, and Eileen caught her breath. Had she failed?

Then Aidan opened his eyes. Turning his head, he smiled at her so freely she felt her heart break in two. From that crack, the last of her mortal essence seeped. The dark form of the NightMare struck her hoof against the slab.

“Eileen?” Aidan asked, blue eyes clouded with confusion.

“Live well,” she said. “Live long, and happily. I will never forget you.”

“Why would you need to? I’m here, beside you.”

She shook her head, her chest aching with sorrow. “There is no future between us, my love. We must part.”

“No! Marry me, I don’t care about—”

She stopped his words with her lips, a last kiss to carry her into the night. He tasted of apples and sunlight; everything now lost to her.

The dead chieftain howled. The mare’s hoof boomed against the stone. And between one heartbeat and the next, Aidan was gone.

Weeping, Eileen bent her forehead to her knees. The breath of the NightMare was hot upon her nape and the stone beneath her wet with salt, with blood.

Yet she remained.

Wondering, she sat and lifted her hand, curling her long, wraithlike fingers. Had she a mirror, the reflection would bear little resemblance to the human features she had once called her own.

“The price has been paid,” the NightMare said. “And I have a new rider. Come.”

The far wall of the barrow clattered down to reveal a night rich with shadows and starlight, and a wild, fey wind that called them to ride.

Eileen-that-was rose from the stone, her body hollowed nearly weightless, freed of memory, freed of hope. She mounted the black horse.

Together, they flew forward into that sweet dark.