How much of a difference did it make? Lune wondered if she deluded herself into thinking it too much, assuaging her own guilt through a show of action. Antony had bade her protect the people of London, and so she did what she could. Ellin, who was far more knowledgeable in these matters than she, said it did some good.
Fae moved through the space, carrying water, medicines, food brought from above. Hobs made up the greater part of their number, called to this service by their helpful natures, but there were others as well. Some of the goblins came out of a twisted interest in the suffering and putrefaction of flesh. Ellin hated them, but so long as they followed his orders, they were permitted to stay.
A despairing cry broke the quiet atmosphere. “God help me—please, I beg you, end my pain…” Several fae flinched, purely out of reflex. They were all protected. None of them, though, liked it when the mortals called out in their extremity. And the Onyx Hall’s stones trembled, but held.
Lune exhaled slowly. Isolated voices, crying out in delirium, could not destroy this place—but she tensed every time it happened.
She saw Ellin up ahead, wiping sweat from his face despite the cool air. Lune touched Segraine’s arm and pointed at an ugly little hob struggling along beneath a copper of water. “Aid him. I will not go far.”
Alone, she approached the doctor, who gave her a weary smile. “Did the Goodemeades send you?”
“No one ‘sends me’ anywhere,” Lune said with asperity. The shared misery of easing Antony through his final hours had created a peculiar bond between them, one that bypassed the deference of her rank. They had somehow transformed from strangers to close allies without any intervening stages, as if they had known each other for years. “I keep my own eye on you, Dr. Ellin.”
“They left here not an hour ago,” he said, dropping his sodden handkerchief on a tray carried by a passing puck. “To purchase more food, I think.”
Lune raised an eyebrow. “They left nearly half a day ago, and the food came not long after. They are resting. As you should be.”
His surprise looked genuine. Lune smiled wryly. “Time is strange in this place. You are still not accustomed to it.”
“Apparently not.” Ellin sank down upon a crate, resting his back against the wall. He could do courtesy when he chose to, but here, working in his element, he lapsed into a more casual manner, sparing his energy for those he tried to save. “I’ll rest; you have my word. In fact…”
While he trailed off into thought, Lune snapped her fingers and summoned a hob. Exile in Berkshire had taught her the names of all her subjects who followed her there, but those who stayed apart were often unfamiliar to her. She knew her courtiers, but not those who lived below the glittering beauty of her court, shunning the elegant amusements of the privileged. “Mead, for Dr. Ellin,” she said. The Goodemeades provided barrels full, though when they had the time to make it, she could not guess.
Ellin accepted the cup when it came. Initially he had feared its effect on him, but Gertrude convinced him it was safe for mortals to drink. After a hearty swallow, he said, “I think it may be time to close this place.”
“Oh?”
He nodded, gesturing around. “If you look, you’ll see that it’s emptier than it was. Plague weakens in the winter months. I don’t think this visitation has run its course, but I’m mindful of the dangers posed by keeping people here. G—” He almost choked on the name. “Ah, that is—someone forbid that next summer should be as bad as the last, but if it is, we might consider this little pest-house again. But for now, we may return these people to the London they left.”
I almost want to argue with him. Having come so late to the defense of the city, Lune was loath to end this service. But if she deferred to Ellin in the creation of the pest-house to begin with, she could hardly disagree when he decided to close it. “I have noticed myself that trade is reviving.”
“Yes, and the King may return soon. Nor is he the only one.” Ellin contemplated his mead cup for a moment, then muttered, almost too quietly to hear, “Lady Ware has returned.”
Lune went still. Then she asked, “Is that safe?”
He snorted. “Safety has rarely been her foremost concern.”
Antony’s children were grown and gone. The blessings they had received in the cradle would shelter them as much as could be; beyond that, Lune had no interest in them. Some fae assumed she would pursue the eldest as the next Prince of the Stone, but Lune had no such design; Henry’s disposition would be far too hostile to her, both as a faerie and a Queen. Antony, however, had loved Katherine Ware, and would want her looked after.
“Thank you for telling me,” Lune murmured, then strengthened her voice. “Well. If you are certain it is time to move on, then let us arrange the return of your patients to their homes.”
LOMBARD STREET, LONDON: December 31, 1665
The church service was a long one, praying for the souls lost to the plague, and beseeching the Lord God to preserve those who remained. Many who filed out of St. Nicholas’s afterward wore deep mourning; it was a wealthy parish, whose members could afford the black cloth that had grown so dear.
Fortified by the tithe, Lune could have gone in. It felt too great a hypocrisy, though, and so she waited outside in the winter air, watching, until she saw the drawn face and white hair of Lady Ware among the mourners. Then she followed at a discreet distance, from the church to the house on Lombard Street. Once enough time had passed to make it seem she had not followed, she crossed the street and knocked on the door.
Lady Ware answered it herself. Her weary eyes hardened at the sight of the face Lune wore: Anne Montrose, a familiar guise for her, and the one Antony’s widow would recognize. She had altered it for the years that had passed since their last meeting, but that was not so much.
“What do you want?” Lady Ware asked.
Lune offered her a respectful curtsy. “If it please you—I would beg a moment of your time. Nothing more.”
Katherine Ware hesitated, then grudgingly stepped back. “Come in.”
The parlor upstairs was a bare place; like so many other Royalists, Antony had been but meanly rewarded by the bankrupt King upon his restoration. What recovery he made through trade, he had spent in parish relief during the long, awful summer. His widow’s stiff posture suggested her embarrassment at the spartan furnishings—or perhaps that was hostility.
Lune sat upon a hard chair and doubted her own purpose in coming. What could the two of them say to one another, across the chasm that divided them?
She must say something. Smoothing the looped-up layers of her skirt, Lune said, “I am very sorry for your husband’s death.”
The aging woman across from her closed her eyes briefly against the grief. “Dr. Ellin tells me you were here.”
“Yes. I—am not vulnerable to plague. I have survived it already.” It happened; Antony’s old manservant Burnett was one of Ellin’s assistants now, having emerged alive from the pest-house. “If I could have done anything to save him, I would have.”
Lady Ware’s brown gaze was steady now. “I see. You were close to my husband?”