“Have I found him,” she repeated, flat and unamused. “No. I have not. He is no one at the mortal court — no gentleman or lord, no wealthy merchant, no officer serving in any capacity. He is not a poet or playwright or painter in the city, nor a prisoner in the Tower. If he lives in some future time that you have foreseen, then I doubt me I will be here to see him come, unless my fortune changes a great deal for the better. If he lives now, then he is no one of any note, and I have no reason to seek him.” She glared at him, full of fury, as if all her fall in station were his fault. It was not, but she could and did blame him for how long she had spent chasing a vain, false hope. “I believe you invented Francis Merriman, out of your own mad fancies.”
“Perhaps I did.” It came out unutterably weary, heavy with resignation. He glanced down, his delicate shoulders slumping under a familiar weight of pain. “Perhaps only Tiresias is real.”
The words stole the breath from her body. Anger died without warning, as his meaning became clear. “You,” Lune whispered, staring at him. “You are Francis Merriman.”
His eyes held lifetimes of wistful sadness. “Long ago. I think.”
Invidiana’s pets, with their classical names, each one collected for a special talent. Lune had given little thought to where they came from, who they were before they fell into the shadows of the Onyx Court. And how long had Tiresias been there? After so many years, who would bother to recall Francis Merriman?
Except him. And not always then. “Why?” Lune asked, hands lifting in wordless confusion. “You scarcely even remember who you were. What changing tide brought you to speak that name again?”
He shook his head, hair falling forward like a curtain too short for him to hide behind. “I do not know.”
“’Twas in my chamber,” Lune said, remembering. “I was considering my situation. I asked myself how I might better my standing in the Onyx Court — and then you spoke. Do you remember?”
“No.” A tear glimmered at the edge of his sapphire eye.
A swift step brought her close; she took him by the arms and shook him once, restraining the urge to violence. Could she have avoided her downfall, had she seen what lay under her very eyes? “Yes, you do. Madman you may be, but ’twas no accident you said those words. You said you knew what she did. Who?”
“I cannot.” His breath caught raggedly in his throat, and he twisted in her grip. “I cannot. If I—” He shook his head, convulsively. “Do not ask me. Do not make me do this!”
He tore himself free and stumbled away, catching himself against the wall. Lune studied his back for a moment, noting in pitiless detail the trembling of his slender shoulders, the whiteness of his fingers where they pressed against the stone. He feared something, yes. But her life hung in the balance; she could not stay ahead of her enemies forever.
If the price of her survival was forcing him to speak, then she would not hesitate.
“Francis Merriman,” she said, enunciating the name with soft precision. “Tell me.”
The name stiffened his whole body. He might have done anything in that moment; Lune tensed, wondering if he would strike her. Instead he whispered, almost too faint to hear, “Forgive me, Suspiria. Forgive me. ’Tis all I can do for you now. Forgive me…”
His voice trailed off. Francis Merriman lifted his head and turned back to face her, and Lune saw the transcendent effort of his will push back the fogs and shadows of untold years among the fae, leaving his eyes drawn and strained, but clear. The resulting lucidity, the determination, frightened her more than his madness ever had.
With a deliberate motion, he reached out and gripped Lune’s arms, fingertips digging into the thin tissue of her sleeves.
“Someone must do it,” he said. “I have known that for years. You have asked, and you have little left to lose; therefore I lay it upon you. You must break her power.”
Lune wet her lips, willing herself not to look away. “Whose power?”
“Invidiana’s.”
The instant he spoke the name, a paroxysm snapped his head back, and his hands clenched painfully on Lune’s arms. She cried out and reached for him, thinking he would collapse, but he kept his feet and brought his head down again. Six points of red had blossomed in a ring on his brow, flowers of blood, and they poured forth crimson ribbons as he spoke rapidly on, through gritted teeth. “I saw, but did not understand — and neither did she. ’Tis my fault she formed that pact, and we have all suffered for it, fae and mortals alike. You must break it. ’Twas not right. She is still c—”
The words rasped out of him, ever wilder and more strained, until the only thing keeping him on his feet was their mutual grip and the splintering remnants of his will. Now his voice died in an agonized cry, and his legs gave way. He slipped free of Lune’s hands and crumpled bonelessly to the floor, his face a mask of blood.
The only sound in the room was the pounding of Lune’s heart, and the ragged gasping of her own breath as she stared down at him.
I cannot, he had said, when she demanded he speak. If I —
If I do, I will die.
Lune remembered where she was. In a chamber of the Onyx Hall, with the Queen’s mad seer lying bloody and dead at her feet.
She ran.
MORTLAKE AND LONDON: April 25, 1590
A man might not be thought strange if he took an early supper before riding the eight miles back to London, nor if he spoke cheerfully of his purpose in coming to Mortlake. Deven’s observations on his way in were true; though some in the village were suspicious of Dee’s conjurations, casual chatter over his food revealed that the astrologer often served as a mediator in local problems, settling disputes and offering advice.
Deven was not sure what to think.
The delay meant a late start back to London, though, and full dark came well before he reached the Southwark end of London Bridge. The bankside town offered many inns, but without a manservant it would be irritating, and Deven was in no mood to stop yet; his mind was too full of thoughts. Though the great bell at Bow had long since rung curfew, he bought his way through the Great Gate House that guarded the bridge, trading on his coin and his status as a gentleman and a Gentleman Pensioner.
Dee could not have murdered Walsingham by black magic. Deven simply did not believe it. But did that mean that Walsingham had died of purely natural causes, as Beale insisted, or merely that Deven had pinned his suspicions on the wrong man? The astrologer might still be the hidden player, without being a murderer. Was he working with Anne, or not? And if so, how much stock — if any — should Deven put in the man’s predictions?
He thought he was keeping at least marginally alert for movement around him. Cloak Lane was deserted, empty of others who like him were braving the curfew, but there might be footpads; alone, without a manservant, Deven had no intention of being taken by surprise.
Yet he was, when a figure stumbled abruptly out of the blackness of a narrow alley.
The bay horse reared, as surprised as his rider, and Deven fought to control the beast with one hand while reaching for his sword with the other. Steel leapt free, his gelding’s hooves thudded into the unpaved street, and he raised his blade in readiness to strike—
—then the figure lifted its face, and Deven recognized her.
“Anne.”
She shied back from him, hands raised as if to defend herself. The sword was still in his hand. Deven scanned Cloak Lane quickly, but saw no one else.
Dee had spoken of enemies and conflict.
He had said that death would send Anne into his path again.