His tongue seemed to have fled. When it came back, Antony said the first thing that came into his mind—which was far from the most important objection. “But I cannot send you to print them.”
“Why not?”
Because the press lies in the Onyx Hall. He had gotten himself into this disaster by expiating the sin of keeping one secret; now he brought her hard up against another. And this one, he could not confess.
“If they saw you,” he said, “do not think they would hesitate to administer punishment because you’re a woman.”
Kate sniffed. “If you must so shelter me—surely you do not work alone? No. Send some man or boy, then, to collect the papers from our house. That will be less suspicious than you forever running off to the thing you don’t want them to find.”
Against his will, he found himself considering it. The messenger could be a fae, and disguised under a variety of glamours to prevent suspicion. And it would be one less thing for him to exhaust himself over—
“I know that look,” Kate said dryly. “You just thought of agreeing, then wondered in horror how you could possibly consider such a thing. If it salves your conscience at all, tell yourself this is safer than letting me find my own means of being useful. Else you’ll find me sailing about the countryside with as many armed men as I can raise, calling myself ‘Her She Majesty Generalissima’ like the Queen.”
Laughter snorted out of him despite himself. She would do it, too; plenty of noble and gentry women had maintained their homes against sieges during the war, or smuggled messages through enemy lines. Kate chafed under the austere life of London nowadays, with no plays or frivolity on Sundays.
Truth be told, he chafed, too. And he had the outlet of the Onyx Hall, which bit its thumb at Puritan piety.
“I shall take your silence as a ‘yes,’ ” Kate said, more cheerful than she had sounded in days. “Fear not—you may read over what I write, and tell me if it’s up to standard. Now, let us go wake the cook from her stupor, and have some supper.”
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: October 8, 1648
An assortment of fae ringed the room, whispering amongst themselves, from elf-kind to goblins, pucks, and hobs. They had come to see for themselves if the rumors were true.
From behind the figured velvet curtains circling the bed came harsh, panicked breathing. Lune gestured, and a sprite whisked them aside.
Lady Carline flinched at the movement. Her lovely, voluptuous face gleamed with the sweat that soaked the bedclothes, and her pale fingers clutched convulsively in the fabric.
“What happened?”
The lady struggled upright. “Majesty—the man sang—”
“Stop. Begin earlier.” Worry sharpened the command; Lune schooled herself to a softer tone. “Why had you gone above?”
“To—to visit a man.”
She need not have bothered asking. As far as Carline was concerned, bed play was the purpose for which mortal men had been put on earth. Men of any kind, really. “Who?”
Carline brushed damp strands out of her face, a reflexive gesture, as if being questioned about her lover made her realize her disheveled and unattractive state, and the onlookers there to witness it. “A Cavalier,” she said. “One who took arms for the King, and fought at Naseby. He lives in secret, in a friend’s cellar, and I—I keep him company.”
The faintest exhalation from Leslic, at Lune’s left shoulder—sardonic amusement at the delicate phrasing. Or perhaps irritation that, after all these years, he had gained the office of Master of Hounds, but not the royal bed. Lune ignored him. “Go on. Leave out nothing.”
The beauty patch of star-shaped taffeta Carline had applied to her cheekbone was peeling off. Its loose edge danced as she swallowed hard and said, “I went above—by way of the well in Threadneedle Street. With a glamour, of course. He’s in Finch Lane. It wasn’t far. But as I was turning the corner, a man—I don’t know who he was—he began to sing a psalm—”
Whispers ran around the walls. Scowling, Lune gestured sharply; Amadea began herding, and soon the Lady Chamberlain had cleared the room of everyone except Lune, Carline, Leslic, and herself.
Carline turned her tear-streaked face up to Lune. “Your Majesty—my glamour fell.”
So Lune had heard. The lady was a fool, venturing forth on a Sunday for an afternoon’s dalliance. What others turned into the stuff of rumor and fear, though, Lune credited to a more ordinary source. “You had eaten bread?” Carline nodded. “How long before?”
“Scarce half an hour, madam.”
Which should have been safe. A single bite protected for a day. Lune’s gaze fell upon an intricate casket, grown instead of carved out of intertwining birch twigs. When she lifted the lid, she found easily two weeks’ worth of bread inside, torn into suitable pieces. She wondered what favors Carline had been trading, to have so much on hand. Three bad harvests in a row had made bread scarce for everyone, and mortals did not tithe to fae when they could barely feed their own.
She lifted a piece: coarse-ground wheat, a little burnt on the bottom. “Is this what you ate?”
“No, madam. It was oat bread I had.”
Oat bread. Poor stuff, but not surprising; the wealthy of London were much more strongly Puritan than their lessers, and spared little thought for the fae, except to term them devils in disguise. If the pattern continued, she would have to find other solutions to this chronic shortage.
From behind her, Carline whispered, “Your Grace—what if it no longer works?”
Lune turned back to see the lady on her feet, dark hair tumbled around her face in a cloud, framing her dead white skin. “What—what if their faith has grown so strong—”
“I doubt it,” Lune said coolly, cutting her off before she could go further. Before she could give strength to the fears already spreading outside the chamber door. “More likely an error on the part of whatever goodwife placed it out. Perhaps the local minister came by and blessed the house. Lady Amadea—” Her chamberlain curtsied. “Ask among the court; find who else has that bread, and confiscate it.”
“They will complain, madam.”
And if she did not confiscate it, they would complain she failed to protect them. “Replace it from my own stores. And bring me what you find.”
Leslic stood attentive at the foot of Carline’s bed. Not putting himself forward, not offering his aid; he had learned that pushing gained him little. But always ready to help, yes.
That was why Lune had given the task to Amadea.
I have nothing but instinct—yet it has served me well enough in the past. And instinct tells me this trouble is his doing.
Certainly other troubles were. Lune resisted the urge to press one hand over her shoulder, where the iron wound ached. Still not fully healed, and it never would be. The pain was a useful reminder.
Unfortunately, she could not ignore Leslic entirely; the slight would be all over court before the next meal. Drawing him aside, she murmured, “Stay with Carline, and give her comfort. Else she will dwell on this incident, and worry herself sick.”
The knight bowed his shining head. Comfort would probably involve the bed Carline once more swooned upon, but so much the better. It might blunt his advances toward Lune herself, at least for a while.
She could not put any warmth into her countenance as Leslic went gallantly to Carline’s side. His Ascendants had disrupted Puritan conventicles, in such a manner as to direct the blame toward Royalist sympathizers; they found it great sport, to watch the mortals fight amongst themselves. Lune kept watch on all the entrances to the Onyx Hall, forestalling any repeats of Taylor’s attempted destruction, and had Antony more closely guarded than the Prince knew, but some of Leslic’s schemes she allowed to play out, cringing at the need, because they revealed the threads of the web in which he sat.