The fae who waited for her there was not Vidar.
Lune swore inwardly, though she kept her face smooth. A change of plans? A deliberate deception on Vidar’s part? Or just the draca lying for its own amusement or self-interest? It did not matter. Gresh, one of her more common contacts, was waiting for her.
“Your bread,” he grunted, and tossed it at her without ceremony. Like most goblin fae, he was a squat and twisted thing; ceremony would have been a painful mockery on him. Lune sometimes thought that was why so few of them occupied places of importance in the Onyx Court. In addition to their chaotic and unrefined natures, which disrupted the elegance Invidiana prized, they did not look the part. Mostly they operated as minions of the elfin fae, or stayed away from court entirely.
But elegance and beauty were not the only things that mattered; Dame Halgresta and her two brothers proved that. Raw ugliness and power had their places, too.
Lune caught the bread and examined it; she had been shorted on her ration more than once. The lump was large enough to make up the requisite seven bites, though, and so she tucked it away in her purse. “So what you got?” Gresh asked, scratching through the patchy, wiry hairs of his beard. “Make it quick — just the important stuff — got better things to do with my time than sit under some drippy tree listening to gossip.” He glared up at the willow’s swaying branches as if personally offended by them.
She had spent much of the day planning out what she would say to Vidar, how she would answer the questions she anticipated him asking. Faced with only Gresh, she felt rather deflated. “The Earl of Tyrone is likely to come before the privy council again soon,” she said. “If her Majesty wishes to take some action, that would be an opportune time; he is an ambitious man, and a contentious one. He can be bought or provoked, as needed.”
Gresh picked something out of his beard, examined it, then threw it away with a disappointed sigh. “What about what’s-his-face? The one you supposed to be watching. Not the Irish fellow.”
“Walsingham may be my assignment,” Lune said evenly, “but he is not the only way to advance our Queen’s interests at court. I began with the most significant news.”
“Planning to bore me with insignificant news?”
“Less significant is not the same as insignificant.”
“Dunna waste time arguing; just get on with it.”
Tedious experience had taught her that Gresh could neither be charmed nor intimidated into better behavior. It simply wasn’t in his nature. Lune swallowed her irritation and went on. “Walsingham continues to defend Sir John Perrot against the accusation of treason. His health has been poor, though. If he has to take another leave of absence, Robert Beale will likely stand in for him with the privy council, as he has done before, but while Beale will follow his master’s wishes, he will be less effective of an advocate for Perrot.”
Gresh scrunched his brows together in either pain or intense thought, then brightened. “Walserthingy, Wasserwhatsit… oh, right! Something I was supposed to ask you.” He feigned a pensive look. “Or should I make you wait for it?”
Lune didn’t bother to respond to that; it would only amuse him more.
“Right, so, Water-whoever. Got some mortal fellow dangling that serves him, right?”
“Michael Deven.”
“Sure, him. How loyal’s he?”
“To me?”
“To his master.”
She hadn’t expected that question. To buy herself time, Lune said, “He has been in Walsingham’s service since approximately a year and a half ago—”
Gresh snorted, a phlegmy sound. “Ain’t asking for a history. Would your mortal pup betray him?”
Her nerves hummed like harpstrings brought suddenly into tune. Lune said carefully, “It depends on what you mean by betrayal. Would he act directly against Walsingham’s interests?” She didn’t even have to ponder it. “No. Deven, like his master, is dedicated to the well-being of England and Elizabeth. At most, his opinion on how to serve that well-being might differ from Walsingham’s. I suppose if it differed enough, and he thought the situation critical enough, he might take action on his own. But a direct betrayal? Never. The most he has done so far is indiscreetly share some information he should have kept secret.”
“That so?” Gresh greeted this with an eager leer. “Like what?”
Lune kept her shrug deliberately careless. “Matters I have already shared with her Majesty. If you are not privy to them, that is no concern of mine.”
“Aw, c’mon.” The goblin pouted — a truly hideous sight. “No new scraps you could toss the way of this poor, bored soul?”
Why was he pressing? “No. I have nothing new to report.”
It could have been the wind that stirred the branches of the willow. By the time she realized it wasn’t, the knife was already at her throat.
“Really,” Vidar breathed in her ear, his voice soft with malice. “Would you care to rethink that statement, Lady Lune?”
Gresh cackled and did a little dance.
She closed her eyes before they could betray her. More than they already had. With sight gone, her other senses were sharpened; she heard every quiet tap as the willow’s bare branches met and parted, the chill whistling of the damp spring breeze. Frost left a hard crust on the ground and a hard scent in the air.
The edge against her throat rasped imperceptibly across her flesh as she inhaled, its touch light enough to leave the skin unbroken, firm enough to remind her of the blade’s presence.
“Have you heard something to the contrary, Lord Ifarren?” she asked, moving her jaw as little as possible.
His left arm was wrapped around her waist, nails digging in hard enough to be felt through the boning of her bodice. Vidar was taller than her, but with his skeletal build, he weighed about the same. What would Gresh do, if she tried to fight Vidar?
There was no point in trying. Even if she got the knife away from him, what would she do? Kill him? Invidiana had been known to turn a blind eye to the occasional murder, but Lune doubted this one would go unremarked. If she could even best the faerie lord.
He laughed silently; she felt it where his body pressed against her back. “How very evasive an answer, Lady Lune.” Vidar pronounced her title like a threat. “I have heard something very interesting indeed. I have heard that you spoke with that mortal toy of yours.”
“I speak with him often.” The words came out perfectly unruffled, as if they stood in ordinary discourse.
“Not so often as you might. You should have told me he was at Richmond without you.”
“My apologies, my lord. It was an oversight.”
Another silent laugh. “Oh, I am sure. But this recent conversation — that is the one that interests me. A little whisper has said he told you something of import.” His grip tightened around her waist, and the knife pressed closer. “Something you have not shared.”
She knew the conversation he meant. There was no way the draca could have heard it; they stood in the palace kennel at the time, well away from the river. What manner of fae could have overheard them without being seen?
A black dog, perhaps — some skriker or brash. Hidden in among the hounds. But how much had it heard?
Not everything, or Vidar would not be here now, forcing the information out of her. But she had to be very careful of what she said.
She opened her eyes. Gresh had vanished, his duty done; if he was eavesdropping, that would be Vidar’s problem.
“Sir Francis Walsingham,” she said, “has begun to suspect.”
Vidar went still against her back. Then his arm uncurled; the elfin lord kept the knife against her throat as he circled around to stand in front of her. His black eyes glittered in the near-total darkness.