Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

The faintest exhalation from Leslic, at Lune’s left shoulder—sardonic amusement at the delicate phrasing. Or perhaps irritation that, after all these years, he had gained the office of Master of Hounds, but not the royal bed. Lune ignored him. “Go on. Leave out nothing.”

The beauty patch of star-shaped taffeta Carline had applied to her cheekbone was peeling off. Its loose edge danced as she swallowed hard and said, “I went above—by way of the well in Threadneedle Street. With a glamour, of course. He’s in Finch Lane. It wasn’t far. But as I was turning the corner, a man—I don’t know who he was—he began to sing a psalm—”

Whispers ran around the walls. Scowling, Lune gestured sharply; Amadea began herding, and soon the Lady Chamberlain had cleared the room of everyone except Lune, Carline, Leslic, and herself.

Carline turned her tear-streaked face up to Lune. “Your Majesty—my glamour fell.”

So Lune had heard. The lady was a fool, venturing forth on a Sunday for an afternoon’s dalliance. What others turned into the stuff of rumor and fear, though, Lune credited to a more ordinary source. “You had eaten bread?” Carline nodded. “How long before?”

“Scarce half an hour, madam.”

Which should have been safe. A single bite protected for a day. Lune’s gaze fell upon an intricate casket, grown instead of carved out of intertwining birch twigs. When she lifted the lid, she found easily two weeks’ worth of bread inside, torn into suitable pieces. She wondered what favors Carline had been trading, to have so much on hand. Three bad harvests in a row had made bread scarce for everyone, and mortals did not tithe to fae when they could barely feed their own.

She lifted a piece: coarse-ground wheat, a little burnt on the bottom. “Is this what you ate?”

“No, madam. It was oat bread I had.”

Oat bread. Poor stuff, but not surprising; the wealthy of London were much more strongly Puritan than their lessers, and spared little thought for the fae, except to term them devils in disguise. If the pattern continued, she would have to find other solutions to this chronic shortage.

From behind her, Carline whispered, “Your Grace—what if it no longer works?”

Lune turned back to see the lady on her feet, dark hair tumbled around her face in a cloud, framing her dead white skin. “What—what if their faith has grown so strong—”

“I doubt it,” Lune said coolly, cutting her off before she could go further. Before she could give strength to the fears already spreading outside the chamber door. “More likely an error on the part of whatever goodwife placed it out. Perhaps the local minister came by and blessed the house. Lady Amadea—” Her chamberlain curtsied. “Ask among the court; find who else has that bread, and confiscate it.”

“They will complain, madam.”

And if she did not confiscate it, they would complain she failed to protect them. “Replace it from my own stores. And bring me what you find.”

Leslic stood attentive at the foot of Carline’s bed. Not putting himself forward, not offering his aid; he had learned that pushing gained him little. But always ready to help, yes.

That was why Lune had given the task to Amadea.

I have nothing but instinct—yet it has served me well enough in the past. And instinct tells me this trouble is his doing.

Certainly other troubles were. Lune resisted the urge to press one hand over her shoulder, where the iron wound ached. Still not fully healed, and it never would be. The pain was a useful reminder.

Unfortunately, she could not ignore Leslic entirely; the slight would be all over court before the next meal. Drawing him aside, she murmured, “Stay with Carline, and give her comfort. Else she will dwell on this incident, and worry herself sick.”

The knight bowed his shining head. Comfort would probably involve the bed Carline once more swooned upon, but so much the better. It might blunt his advances toward Lune herself, at least for a while.

She could not put any warmth into her countenance as Leslic went gallantly to Carline’s side. His Ascendants had disrupted Puritan conventicles, in such a manner as to direct the blame toward Royalist sympathizers; they found it great sport, to watch the mortals fight amongst themselves. Lune kept watch on all the entrances to the Onyx Hall, forestalling any repeats of Taylor’s attempted destruction, and had Antony more closely guarded than the Prince knew, but some of Leslic’s schemes she allowed to play out, cringing at the need, because they revealed the threads of the web in which he sat.

But perhaps it was time to end it. She knew his allies, his resources, his methods of communicating with Nicneven and Vidar. They were preparing for some final move, she had no doubt, to hamstring the treaty with Charles; civil war was not enough, when they could depose the King entirely. Leslic’s troublemakers would be crucial to their plans. What profit remained in keeping him at her side?

Very little. Perhaps none. And that meant that, at long last, the time had come to dispose of the golden Sir Leslic.

THE ANGEL INN, ISLINGTON: October 11, 1648

Antony’s shoulders ached with tension as he rode north out of the City. Peace stood so close he could taste it; all they needed was this treaty with the King, restoring him to his proper place. But if the Army and its Leveller supporters staged some rebellion, it might all yet fall apart again.

To forestall that, he worked with one hand in each world. During the day, he ate, breathed, and slept Parliamentary affairs, struggling alongside others to maintain a strong enough alliance to oppose the Army’s officers in the Commons: Henry Ireton, Oliver Cromwell, and all the rest.

At night, he turned to the faerie folk for help. And tonight, that meant riding to Islington.

On horseback, it took mere minutes to reach the Angel Inn. He had to bribe a guard to let him through Cripplegate; the curfew on the City was much more stringent than usual. Come daylight, though, he would need to be back in Westminster. He was missing a debate regardless, as once again the Commons ran late into the night.

His destination was not the Angel, but an enormous, tangled rosebush that stood behind it, resisting even the thought of being trimmed back. Antony concealed his horse in a stand of trees and crossed to the bush, which offered up one stubborn blossom, despite the dreary autumn chill. “Antony Ware,” he murmured into it, and reached into the leather purse he wore over his shoulder.

While he pulled a cloth bundle out, the branches shifted and wove themself into a thorn-studded archway over a set of battered steps leading downward. Treading carefully in the hollows worn by untold feet before his, Antony descended into the Goodemeades’ home.

Rosamund was waiting for him in the comfortable chamber below. “We heard your pigeon, my lord,” she said, offering him a curtsy. “I’d be happy to look at what you have.”

Fae had several advantages over mortals when it came to secret communication, among them the usefulness of pigeons. Antony had no need to tie a message to its leg; the sisters conversed with birds as easily as with him.

He unwrapped his bundle and held a small hunk of rye bread out to Rosamund. She had put on a glamour, making herself the height of a short woman, instead of a child. The brownie pinched off a bite and chewed it thoughtfully. “Hard to say,” she told him once she had swallowed, “but I fear you may be right. Shall we test it?”

Not in the house, certainly. They went back to the open air, and for safety’s sake into the trees, where his horse dozed—a more sensible creature than him. Rosamund folded her hands expectantly. Antony hesitated. “If our suspicions are correct—”