This, at least, Lune was prepared for. She said, “He was a treasured friend. No less, and no more.”
“Yes,” the widow said. “Antony told me.”
An unspoken world whispered in the name. That was their bridge across the chasm: the man who had been such a vital part of both their lives. And if Lune’s own life would go on for ages to come, as Katherine Ware’s would not, still, she would not forget the forty years they shared.
Nor the principles he championed, nor the promise he wrung from her at the end.
She stared at her gloves, struggling with herself. When Lune looked up, she saw a faint smile grace Kate’s lips. “You are wondering whether you should tell me more,” the widow said. “I will save you the trouble: do not. I know something of who you are, and what you did with my husband; some of what I know, he told me, and some I pieced together on my own. I suspect, for example, that the printing press we used during the war belonged to your secret fellowship.”
Lune’s eyes widened. It deepened the smile briefly. Then the merriment faded, and Kate’s chin trembled before she regained control. “I had hoped,” the woman went on, “that in time he would find the courage to tell me what secret he kept back. The plague has robbed us of that chance. But if I cannot hear the remainder of it from my husband, then I do not wish to hear it from you. Let it be, Mistress Montrose.”
The speech surprised Lune, and she wondered if Lady Ware had rehearsed it against the possibility of this day, so that familiarity wore the most painful edges off her declaration, allowing her to speak it without faltering.
But there was no hostility in it; just sorrow and regret. Lune bent and retrieved the box at her feet. “You may refuse this,” she said, “and I will not be offended. But I should like you to have it. I have no family to whom I may pass it on, and it seems to me such a thing should be given as a gift.”
Curious, Kate accepted the box, gliding her fingers over the polished holly of its lid. Then she opened it, and lifted out a small bowl, blown from delicate glass, glowing emerald in the light.
“It is a luck,” Lune said. “The story is that a faerie woman gave it to a great-grandfather of mine, in exchange for some kind deed on his part. So long as it is not lost or broken, it will bring good fortune to the family that owns it.” She permitted herself a brief hesitation, then said, “It is, I suppose, not the most godly object I could offer—”
Kate laughed quietly. “I’ve had enough of godly folk for a lifetime. But will it not be unwise for you to give it away?”
Lune shook her head. The bowl was made for Lady Ware herself, at Lune’s request. She had blessed Antony’s three children; now she did what she could to look after his wife.
And not just his kin, of course, but all the City he had placed in her charge.
“I would rather see it passed on to a friend,” she said. “Or at least the family of a friend.”
Kate answered her with a wavering smile, but an honest one. “Say ‘friend,’ ” she replied, and held out her hand to Lune. “You may use that word without fear.”
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: December 19, 1665
Irrith did not like the snaky Lord Keeper, Valentin Aspell. He was one of those fae who seemed to take a certain delight in cruelty, though he kept it hidden behind well-oiled courtesy. He bowed often as he conveyed his ill news to the Queen, but it never went deeper than the surface. “The Gyre-Carling’s demand is unreasonable, of course, madam. Your own justice has already dealt with Ifarren Vidar, and it is not for another Queen to demand possession of him—most especially when his crimes against this court were so great. But her message was most…insistent.”
Lune scowled and spun away from Aspell, skirts whirling in a sapphire blur. She had been pacing the length of the privy chamber through his entire recitation, and showed no sign of stopping. “She can be insistent all she pleases; we will not give her Ifarren Vidar.”
Irrith wished she would. At least that damn box would be out of the Onyx Hall.
The sprite concealed a shudder. Living in the Vale, she had heard of the Onyx courtiers and their well-crafted intrigues, the poisonous traps they wove for one another. That was under the old Queen, of course, and in Lune’s time the stories were not so foul, but everyone agreed the fae of London had learned all the backstabbing, manipulative lessons of their mortal counterparts. In the Vale, if two fae hated one another, they had a duel and ended it. Here, they devised far more intricate ways of making their enemies suffer. Nothing she had seen, though, measured up to the terrible fate Lune meted out to Ifarren Vidar.
She had called it mercy, but it was nothing of the sort.
Aspell coughed delicately. “Madam—though the Gyre-Carling cannot mount a second attack, with her Irish allies lost, she will yet find other ways to trouble us. And in this court’s, ah, parlous state—”
That stopped Lune’s pacing. She glared at the Lord Keeper. “Speak plainly, Valentin; I have no patience for your hesitations.”
“Your Majesty has previously forbidden us to speak of such matters.”
“I have forbidden you to contrive about them. Speak, before I have that forked tongue of yours torn out.”
Irrith sidled backward, wishing she had some excuse to leave the room. The Queen’s temper had been uncertain ever since the death of her mortal favorite—and she had not even loved that one.
The Lord Keeper bowed deeply. “Without a Prince, madam, this court is vulnerable. I know Lord Antony was more than a symbol of your Grace’s principles; he was essential to the stability of your crown. With the Gyre-Carling threatening us once more, I must beg your Highness to consider the possibilities for his successor.”
Lune scowled and gestured sharply for wine. Irrith, unfortunately, was the nearest to it; she had to hurry forward with the cup. But Lune merely took it and drank, without so much as subjecting Irrith to a glare. “We shall take that under advisement, Lord Valentin. But our previous command still holds: this is a matter for us to decide. Anyone who attempts to interfere shall find our displeasure great indeed.”
MONKWELL STREET, LONDON: January 3, 1666
She showed up on the tenth day of Christmas, wearing the Montrose face, and startled Jack nearly out of his wits.
Christmas it might be, but disease waited neither for man nor for the Son of God; it still brazenly afflicted people, in total disrespect of the holy season. Jack worked every morning in his shop near Cripplegate, and went every afternoon to the houses of those who could not come to him. Though the plague was mostly held in abeyance by the winter cold, there were other complaints, in numbers more than sufficient to keep him busy.
He hadn’t been below for weeks, and perhaps some part of his mind had given up on curiosity, and dismissed the whole thing as a delusion.
Mistress Montrose looked so resolutely ordinary, just another gentlewoman come in to consult with a physician, that he would never have connected her with the faerie Queen of London had she not admitted it that day in Antony’s house. He even wondered briefly if it might be another; he knew well enough by now that the fae could adopt any faces they chose. But she offered him a grave nod when she entered, and he knew it was her.
Jack got rid of his patient as quickly as he could; the man had a cold, nothing more, which his fears had magnified into plague and spotted fever and the old sweating sickness, all at once. Then he offered the disguised Queen a bow. “I…didn’t expect to see you here.”
She smiled faintly at his restraint. “My apologies; I do not mean to discomfit you. We have not seen you in our halls, though, and I have a question I would put to you—before you grow too far from us, and convince yourself it was all a dream.”