A Star Shall Fall

A few more, if they looked up at the right moment tonight. But grand faerie spectacle had gone out of fashion with the Puritans; even now, when folk went rambling in the countryside on Sundays instead of attending church, it wasn’t wise to draw too much attention. They would ride because the fae owed a duty to the dead, not because they wished to announce their presence to London.

“You’ll have new chance to mock my riding skills tonight.”

Irrith jumped. When the Queen rarely went anywhere without a host of attendants, it was easy to forget that she could move very quietly indeed. Lune stood behind Irrith, wearing a riding habit of black. She only wore the colour on All Hallows’ Eve. It cast a grim pall over her usual serenity.

A pall that was somewhat countered by the dog frolicking at her side. Teyrngar, a cream-coated faerie hound, knew full well what night it was, but the solemnity mattered less to him than the chance to run free. Smiling, Lune scratched behind his red ears.

With her good hand, of course. The left, as always, hung in a stiffened claw. Irrith wondered if it hurt her, as the iron wound surely did.

Belatedly she remembered her manners and dropped into a curtsy. “I would never mock you, your Majesty.”

Lune’s smile turned wistful. “You used to. I confess a part of me misses it.”

It was true that the Queen was a terrible rider. Living in the Onyx Hall, she rarely had cause to sit a horse. But the terrible weight of knowledge and doubt inside Irrith’s head made her reluctant to open her mouth, for fear something might slip out that shouldn’t.

“Ride alongside me,” Lune said, taking Irrith’s arm with her good hand. “Then you can catch me if I fall.”

If she fell, it would be the fault of her mount. The tatterfoals and brags changed before they passed through the Old Fish Street arch into London, dropping to all fours and growing into horse shape. But the arch was too low to admit a rider, and so they went in pairs into the small courtyard outside, where the riders climbed astride and rode out onto the larger street. When their company had formed up, all thirteen riders and the hound, well masked by charms, Lune gave the command—and they leapt into the sky.

The surge took Irrith’s breath away with delight. It’s been too long since I rode beneath the moon. Not that there was any moon now; it was in its dark phase, and the ever-present clouds veiled the stars. The only real light came from London below, lanterns marking the better streets, candles burning late into the night. Still. Free air—above the coal smoke for once—and a horse beneath me, and no politics to concern us.

Old Fish Street was the easiest passage for horse-shaped beings, but they had to ride east to begin the night’s work. Irrith marvelled as she saw how far the city stretched: past the Tower, past the docks, houses stringing out along the river, the water clogged with ships at anchor. “Wapping,” Lune said at one point, nodding downward; that was where Abd ar-Rashid lived. Though he was more in the Onyx Hall than not, lately—him and the mortal doctor both.

When they’d reached Lune’s chosen point, she gave the command, and they turned westward once more. Irrith’s gaze swept the ground below, seeking the telltale flickers that would indicate a ghost. A goblin in the Vale had said once this ritual was like a housewife sweeping her floor: it didn’t get all the dirt, but without the effort, filth—or ghosts—would pile up until there was no living among them. With the number of people London held, she imagined they had more shades than most.

Cries rose from three throats at once, but Irrith was the first to move. Her horse swooped downward, carrying her with terrifying speed toward a dingy house. Irrith leaned sideways in her saddle, hand out, and concentrated as she skimmed over the battered roof tiles. Goblins were better at this than sprites, but she was here first, and she was determined not to miss.

A feeling snagged her fingers, like fog. She seized hold and wrenched upright, and when her mount leapt upward once more, a tattered wisp of white trailed from her fist. It moaned as she rejoined the company above, bearing their first catch of the night. “My child,” the dead woman sobbed, face rippling in the wind. “Oh, my poor child, lost, lost…”

“What happened to your child?” Irrith asked, but the ghost showed no sign of hearing her.

“Few of them will converse,” Lune said. The Queen made a regal figure on her white tatterfoal—so long as you ignored her good hand’s desperate clutch on the reins. “The ones with that awareness often resist joining us, because they know they must go on at the end of the night.”