The words rolled on and on, in a sonorous, ceaseless chant. He supplicated the Creator, Lune sensed, extolling the glory of Heaven and its Lord, describing the intricate structure of the world, from the pure realms of God down to the lowliest part of nature. And for a brief span she perceived it as if through his eyes: a beautifully mathematical cosmos, filled with pattern, correspondence, connection, like the most finely made mechanical device, beyond the power of any mind save God’s to apprehend in its entirety, but appreciable through the study of its parts.
To this, he had devoted his life. To understanding the greatest work of God.
In that moment, all the aimless, immortal ages of her life seemed by comparison to be flat and without purpose.
And then she felt suffused by a radiance like that of the moon, and her lips parted; she spoke without thinking. “Something comes.”
Dee’s invocation had finished, she realized, but how much time had passed, she did not know. A soft scratching reached her ears: his quill upon paper. “What do you see?”
“Nothing.” The sphere filled her vision; how long since she had last blinked?
“Speak to it.”
What should she say? Her mind was roaringly empty of words. Lune groped for something, anything. “-We — I — most humbly beseech your power, your aid. The Queen of the Onyx Court has formed a pact with Hell. Only with your power may it be broken. Will you not help us?”
Then she gasped, for the crystal vanished; she saw instead a figure, its form both perfect and undefinable. The table was gone, the chair was gone; she stood in an empty space before the terrible glory of the angel, and sank to her knees without thinking, in respect and supplication.
As if from a great distance, she heard Dee utter one word, his own voice trembling in awe. “Anael.”
Her spirit lay exposed, helpless, before the angel’s shining might. With but a thought, it could destroy her, strip all faerie enchantment from her being, leave her nothing more than a mortal remnant, forever parted from the world that had been hers. She was no great legend of Faerie to defend herself against such, and she had laid herself open to this power of her own free will.
All that defended her now was, as Dee had said, charity and love.
She trembled as the figure drew closer. The strength might have crushed her, but instead it held her, like a fragile bird, in the palm of its hand. Lune felt lips press against hers, and the cool radiance flooded her body; then they were gone.
“Bear thou this kiss to him thou lovest,” the angel Anael said, its words the true and pure form of the language Dee had spoken, a force of beauty almost too much to bear.
Then the light receded. She was in her chair; the crystal was before her; they were alone once more in the room.
Dee murmured a closing benediction, and sank back into his own chair, from which he had risen without her seeing. The notebook sat next to him, hardly touched.
Lune’s eyes met the philosopher’s, and saw her own shock echoed there.
He, who had no gift for seeing, had seen something. And he knew, as she did, that it was a true angelic presence, and it had answered her plea.
Bear thou this kiss to him thou lovest.
She had made that choice. What it meant, she did not know; she had never given her heart before. How a kiss would aid her, she could not imagine. It seemed a weak weapon against Invidiana.
But it was Heaven’s response to her plea. For Michael Deven’s sake, she would go into the Onyx Hall, and somehow win her way through to him. She would bring him Anael’s kiss.
What happened after that was in God’s hands.
THE ANGEL INN, ISLINGTON: May 8, 1590
“She must be distracted,” Lune said. “Else she will place all her knights and guardsmen and other resources between me and Deven, and I will stand no hope of reaching him. They will kill me, or they will bind me and drag me before her; either way, I will not be able to do what I must.”
The Goodemeades did not question that part of it. Lune had told them in brief terms of what had passed in Mortlake — brief not because she wished to hide anything from them, but because she had few words to describe it. Their eyes had gone round with awe, and they treated her now with a reverent and slightly fearful respect that unnerved her.
Not so much respect, though, that they didn’t question certain things. “My lady,” Gertrude said, “she will be expecting you to do exactly that. You have not come back, which means you know of your peril. If you are not simply to walk into her claws, then you must try to draw her attention away. But she will recognize any diversion as just that — and ignore it.”
From across the rose-guarded room, Rosamund, who had been silent for several minutes, spoke up. “Unless the diversion is something she cannot ignore.”
“The only thing she could not ignore would be—”
“A real threat,” Lune said.
Something Invidiana truly did have to fear. A war on her very doorstep, that she must send her soldiers to meet, or risk losing her throne.
The list of things that fit that name was short indeed.
Gertrude’s face had gone white, and she stared at her sister. Grimness sat like a stranger on Rosamund’s countenance, but if a brownie could look militant, she did. “We could do it,” she said. “But, my lady, once such a force is unleashed, it cannot be easily stopped. We all might lose a great deal in the end.”
Lune knew it very well. “Could anything stop them?”
“If she were to draw the sword out again — perhaps. That, more than anything, is what angers them. They might be satisfied, if she renounced it.”
“But Invidiana would never do it,” Gertrude said. “Only Suspiria, and perhaps not even her.” She stared up at Lune, her eyes trembling with tears. “Will we have her back, when you are done?”
The unspoken question: Or do you go to kill her?
Lune wished she could answer the brownie’s question, but she was as blind as they. The angel’s power waited within, alien and light, but she did not know what it would do. Could a faerie spirit be damned to Hell?
Her reply came out a whisper. “I can make no promises.”
Rosamund said heavily, “With that, we must be content. We have no other choice.”
“You must move with haste.” The knot of tension in Lune’s stomach never loosened, except for a few timeless moments, in the angel’s presence. “Use Vidar.”
“Vidar?”
“Corr was his agent, or at least an ally. He bade me be silent about any others I might find at court. I do not know his scheme, but there must be one; we can make use of it.” Her vow did not prevent her from telling the Goodemeades; the last person in creation they would share the information with was Invidiana. But she had never expected to use such a loophole.
Rosamund came forward, smoothing her apron with careful hands, and put an arm around her white-faced sister. “Make your preparations, my lady. Gertrude and I will raise the Wild Hunt.”
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 9, 1590
The sun’s heat baked his shoulders and uncovered head. His ride had been a long one, and he was tired; he swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, handing off his reins to a servant. They were gathered by the riverbank, an elegant, laughing crowd, playing music, reciting poetry, wagering at cards. He longed to join them, but ah! He was so thirsty.