A Star Shall Fall

A chill ran down Lune’s spine. “I’ll have the Lord Treasurer disburse more bread to you. Watch him, and watch this Jew. We need to know what that bowl is for.”

MAYFAIR, WESTMINSTER

16 May 1758

“Mr. St. Clair,” Elizabeth Vesey said in a disapproving voice, “I am beginning to think you left the better part of yourself at home.”

One of the ladies let out an unregenerate cackle. She was an older woman, and not one Galen knew, but their brief introduction had made it clear she had a filthy mind, and no shame about it, either. Though she hadn’t voiced her interpretation of Mrs. Vesey’s words, Galen still blushed, and got another cackle for his pains.

“My apologies,” he told his hostess, shaking himself to alertness. “My mind was indeed elsewhere—though I assure you, in a place more pleasant than home.”

He realised too late how that would sound to the scandalous old woman. Her third cackle was even louder than the first two. Ah well, he told himself, resigned. Learn to do that on purpose, and you might pass muster as a wit.

But social reasons were the least part of his purpose here tonight. At one end of the room, Dr. Andrews was preparing his materials for a presentation. This was not the Bluestocking Circle per se, but a gathering of learned ladies and some gentlemen, and Galen was attending to continue his evaluation of the man. The days were passing, and he was painfully aware of them; but he was also aware that the consequences of trusting the wrong man could be severe.

In the meanwhile, other plans were proceeding apace, and that was reason he had come. Across the room, a redoubtable woman in her early fifties conversed with Mrs. Montagu. Galen waited for a suitable moment, then approached and bowed to her. “Mrs. Carter, good evening. My apologies for interrupting, but I was wondering if I might beg a favour of you.”

He didn’t have to feign respect. Elizabeth Carter’s learning and skill with words shamed that of most men; her translations of Stoic philosophy were renowned, and they said Greek was only one of the nine languages she spoke.

Of the other eight, one—according to rumour and Mrs. Montagu—was Arabic.

She gestured with her fan for him to continue. “I’ve recently come into possession of a strange item,” Galen said, “which the former owner claims comes from somewhere in the Ottoman lands. It’s a mirrored bowl, quite large, and bears an inscription in a language I believe to be Arabic. Might I prevail upon you to examine it, and translate the words if possible?”

If Abd ar-Rashid was telling the truth, the bowl would aid them in their attempts to veil the sky. No one wanted to use it, however, until they had some confirmation of that. Mrs. Carter said, “It might be a ‘magic bowl,’ as some call them; they have been used for centuries in that part of the world, and not just by the Arabs. Though usually they are quite small. I would be delighted to study it for you, Mr. St. Clair.”

Should the bowl prove to be what the genie claimed, it would be a great boon to Irrith’s plan. Galen thanked Mrs. Carter profusely, and made arrangements to have the bowl delivered to her house. These were scarcely completed when Galen felt a delicate hand upon his arm. “Mr. St. Clair, I believe you are acquainted with Miss Delphia Northwood?”

Galen was at the nadir of his bow before he realised he knew that name… sort of.

“My lady of the mixed metaphors,” he said, straightening in time to see Miss Northwood stifle a laugh. “Indeed, Mrs. Vesey, we met at Vauxhall, and have had the pleasure of each other’s company several times since then.”

Delphia. Had Cynthia used that nickname? It suited the young woman far better than the ponderous weight of “Philadelphia,” as did her gown tonight. The pale rose gave warmth to her complexion, and while nothing could transform her plainness to beauty, the simplicity of her dress at least suited her scholarly air. Miss Northwood smiled and said, “Indeed we have. Mama has been most… eager to see me in the company of new friends.”

“Is she here?” Galen asked, glancing about. A foolish question; his one previous encounter with Mrs. Northwood had established her as a woman not easily overlooked. She lost no opportunities to scrutinise any young man that came near her daughter.

“No, indeed. Our dear Sylph is a good friend of the family, and therefore, in Mama’s opinion, a sufficient chaperone for my good behavior.” Miss Northwood smiled at Mrs. Vesey.

The girl’s mother would probably not think that if she knew their dear Sylph kept company with an actual sylph, Lady Yfaen. Their hostess, smiling as if she had precisely that thought, excused herself to make certain Dr. Andrews had everything he needed. Watching her go, Miss Northwood added, “Of course, Mama thinks tonight is a harmless card party, with no topic more mentally strenuous than, say, the current fashion in hats.”

“You lied to her?”