Midnight Never Come Read online

  Vidar was lounging against one doorpost, bony silk-clad arms crossed over his chest. “Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, that same smirk hovering again on his lips.

  Lune longed for a response to that, some perfect, cutting reply to check his surety that he stood in the Queen’s favor and she did not. After all, fae had been known to suffer apparent disgrace, only for it later to be revealed as part of some scheme. But no such scheme sheltered her, and her wit failed. She felt Vidar’s smirk widen as she shouldered past him and out of the presence chamber.

  His words had unsettled her more than she realized. Or perhaps it was Cadogant, or those poor, helpless country pawns. Lune could not bear to stay out in the public eye, where she imagined every whisper spoke of her downfall. Instead she made her way, with as much haste as she could afford, through the tunnels to her own quarters.

  The closing of the door gave the illusion of sanctuary. These two rooms were richly decorated, with a softer touch than in the public areas of the Hall; thick mats of woven rushes covered her floor, and tapestries of the great fae myths adorned her walls. The marble fireplace flared into life at her arrival, casting a warmer glow over the interior, throwing long shadows from the chairs that stood before it. Empty chairs; she had not entertained many guests lately. A doorway on the far side led to her bedchamber.

  At least she still had this, her sanctum. She had lost the Queen’s favor, but not so terribly that she had been forced from the Onyx Hall, to wander like those poor bastards in search of a new home. Not so terribly as Cadogant had.

  The very thought made her shiver. Straightening, Lune crossed the room to a table that stood by her bedchamber door, and the crystalline coffer atop it.

  She hesitated before opening it, knowing the dreary sight that would meet her eyes. Three morsels sat inside: three bites of coarse bread, who knew how old, but as fresh now as when some country housewife laid them out on the doorstep as a gift to the fae. Three bites to sustain her, if the worst should happen and she should be sent away from the Onyx Hall — sent out into the mortal world.

  They would not protect her for long.

  Lune closed the coffer and shut her eyes. It would not happen. She would find a way back into Invidiana’s favor. It might take years, but in the meantime, all she had to do was avoid angering the Queen again.

  Or giving Halgresta any excuse to come after her.

  Lune’s fingers trembled on the delicate surface of the coffer; whether from fear or fury, she could not have said. No, she could not simply wait for her chance. That was not how one survived the Onyx Court. She would have to seek out an opportunity, or better yet, create one.

  But how to do that, with so few resources available to her? Three bites of bread would not help her much. And Invidiana would hardly grant more to someone out of favor.

  The Queen was not, however, the only source of mortal food.

  Again Lune hesitated. To do this, she would have to go out of the Onyx Hall — which meant using one of her remaining pieces. That, or send a message, which would be even more dangerous. No, she couldn’t risk that; she would have to go in person.

  Praying the sisters would be as generous as she hoped, Lune took a piece of bread from the coffer and went out before she could change her mind.

  RICHMOND AND LONDON: September 18, 1588

  So this, Deven thought blearily as he fumbled the lid back onto the close stool, is the life of a courtier.

  His right shoulder was competing with his head for which ached worse. His new brothers in the Gentlemen Pensioners had taught him to play tennis the previous night, in the high-walled chamber built for that purpose out in the gardens. He’d flinched inwardly at having to pay for entry, but once inside, he took to it with perhaps more enthusiasm than was wise. Then there was drinking and card games, late into the night, until Deven had little memory of how he had arrived here, sharing Vavasour’s bed, with their servants stretched out on the floor.

  An urgent need to relieve himself had woken him; in the bed, Vavasour slept on. Scrubbing at his eyes, Deven contemplated following his fellow’s example, but told himself with resignation that he might as well put the time to use. Otherwise he would sleep until noon and then get caught up once more in the social dance; then it would be too late to leave, so he would stay another night, and so on and so forth until he found himself crawling away from court one day, bleary-eyed and bankrupt.

  Checking his purse, he corrected that last thought. Perhaps not bankrupt, judging by his apparent luck at cards the previous night. But such winnings would not finance this life. Hunsdon was right: he needed to borrow money.

  Deven suppressed the desire to groan and shook Peter Colsey awake. His manservant was in little better shape than he, having found other servants with whom to entertain himself, but fortunately he was also taciturn of a morning. He rolled off the mattress and confined himself to dire looks at their boots, his master’s doublet, and anything else that had the effrontery to require work from him at such an early hour.

  The palace wore a different face at this time of day. The previous morning, Deven had been too much focused on his own purpose to take note of it, but now he looked around, trying to wake himself up gently. Servants hurried through the corridors, wearing the Queen’s livery or that of various nobles. Outside, Deven heard chickens squawking as two voices argued over who should get how many. Hooves thudded in the courtyard, moving fast and stopping abruptly: a messenger, perhaps. He bet his winnings from the previous night that Hunsdon and the other men who dominated the privy council were up already, hard at work on the business of her Majesty’s government.

  Colsey brought him food to break his fast, and departed again to have their horses saddled. Soon they were riding out in morning sunlight far too bright.

  They did not talk for the first few miles. Only when they stopped to water their horses at a stream did Deven say, “Well, Colsey, we have until Michaelmas. Then I am due to return to court, and under orders to be better dressed when I do.”

  Colsey grunted. “Best I learn how to brush up velvet, then.”

  “Best you do.” Deven stroked the neck of his black stallion, calming the animal. It was a stupid beast for casual riding — the horse was trained for war — but a part of the fiction that the Gentlemen Pensioners were still a military force, rather than a force that happened to include some military men. Three horses and two servants; he’d had to acquire another man to assist Colsey. That still earned him more than a few glares.

  By afternoon the houses they passed were growing closer together, clustering along the south bank of the Thames and stringing out along the road that led to the bridge. Deven stopped to refresh himself with ale in a Southwark tavern, then cocked his gaze at the sky. “Ludgate first, Colsey. We shall see how quickly I can get out, eh?”

  Colsey had the sense not to make any predictions, at least not out loud.

  Their pace slowed considerably as they crossed London Bridge, Deven’s stallion having to shoulder his way through the crowds that packed it. He kept a careful hand on the reins. Travelers like him wended their way one step at a time, mingling with those shopping in the establishments built along the bridge’s length; he didn’t put it past the warhorse to bite someone.

  Nor did matters improve much on the other side. Resigned by now to the slower pace, his horse drifted westward along Thames Street, taking openings where he found them. Colsey spat less-than-muffled curses as his own cob struggled to keep up, until at last they arrived at their destination in the rebuilt precinct of Blackfriars: John Deven’s shop and house.

  Whatever private estimate Colsey had made about the length of their visit, Deven suspected it was not short. His father was delighted to learn of his success, but of course it wasn’t enough simply to hear the result; he wanted to know every detail, from the clothing of the courtiers to the decorations in the presence chamber. He had visited court a few times, but not often, and had never entered such an august realm.

&nb
sp; “Perhaps I’ll see it myself someday, eh?” he said, beaming with unsubtle optimism.

  And then of course his mother Susanna had to hear, and his cousin Henry, whom Deven’s parents had taken in after the death of John’s younger brother. It worked out well for all involved; Henry had filled the place that might otherwise have been Michael’s, apprenticing to John under the aegis of the Stationers’ and freeing him to pursue more ambitious paths. The conversation went to business news, and then of course it was late enough that he had to stay for supper.

  A small voice in the back of Deven’s mind reflected that it was just as well; if he ate here, it was no coin out of his own purse. Why he should dwell on pennies when he was in debt for pounds made no sense, but there it was.

  After supper, when Susanna and Henry had been sent off, Deven sat with his father by the fire, a cup of fine malmsey dangling from his fingers. The light flickered beautifully through the Venetian glass and the red wine within, and he watched it, pleasantly relaxed.

  “Your place is assured, my son,” John Deven said, stretching his feet toward the fire with a happy sigh.

  Elizabeth’s ominous words about Tylney had stayed in Deven’s mind, but his father was right. There were graybeards in the Pensioners, some of them hardly fit for any kind of action. Unless he did something deeply foolish — like conspiring to kill the Queen — he might stay there until he wished to leave.

  Some men did leave. Family concerns called them away, or a disenchantment with life at court; some broke their fortunes instead of making them. Seventy marks yearly, a Pensioner’s salary, was not much in that world, and not everyone succeeded at gaining the kinds of preferment that brought more.

  But then his father drove all money concerns from his mind, with one simple phrase. “Now,” John Deven said, “to find you a wife.”

  It startled a laugh from him. “I have scarcely earned my place, Father. Give me time to get my feet under me, at least.”

  “ ’Tis not me you should be asking for time. You have just secured a favorable position, one close to her Majesty; there will be gentlewomen seeking after you like hawks. Perhaps even ladies.”

  There certainly had been women watching the tennis matches the previous day. A twinge in Deven’s shoulder made him wonder how bad a fool he had made of himself. “No doubt. But I know better than to rush into anything, particularly when I am serving the Queen. They say she’s very jealous of those around her, and dislikes scandalous behaviour in her courtiers.” The last thing he needed was to end up in the Tower because he got some maid of honor pregnant.

  The best eye to catch, of course, was that of the Queen herself. But though Deven was ambitious, and her affection was a quick path to reward, he was not at all certain he wanted to compete with the likes of the young Earl of Essex. That would rapidly bring him into situations he could not survive.

  “Marriage is no scandal,” his father said. “Have a care for how you comport yourself, but do not stand too aloof. A match at court might be very beneficial indeed.”

  His father seemed likely to keep pressing the matter. Deven dodged it with a distraction. “If all goes as planned, my time will be very thoroughly employed elsewhere.”

  John Deven’s face settled into graver lines. “You have spoken to Walsingham, then?”

  “No. He was not at court. But I will do so at the first opportunity.”

  “Be wary of rushing into such things,” his father said. Much of the relaxed atmosphere had gone out of the air. “He serves an honorable cause, but not always by honorable means.”

  Deven knew this very well; he had done some of that work in the Low Countries. Though not the most sordid parts of it, to be sure. “He is my most likely prospect for preferment, Father. But I’ll keep my wits about me, I promise.”

  With that, his father had to be satisfied.

  LONDON AND ISLINGTON: September 18, 1588

  Leaving the Onyx Hall was not so simple as Lune might have hoped. In the labyrinthine politics of court, someone would find a way to read her departure as suspicious, should she go out too soon after Invidiana’s sentencing of Cadogant. Vidar, if no one else.

  So she wandered for a time through the reaches of the Onyx Hall, watching fae shy away from her company. It was an easy way to fill time; though the subterranean faerie palace was not so large as the city above, it was far larger than any surface building, with passages playing the role of streets, and complexes of chambers given over to different purposes.

  In one open-columned hall she found Orpheus again, this time playing dance music; fae clapped as one of their number whirled around with a partner in a frenzied display. Lune placed herself along the wall and watched as a grinning lubberkin dragged a poor, stumbling human girl on, faster and faster. The mortal looked healthy enough, though exhausted; she was probably some maidservant lured down into the Onyx Hall for brief entertainment, and would be returned to the surface in the end, disoriented and drained. Those who had been there for a long time, like Orpheus, acquired a fey look this girl did not yet have.

  Their attention was on the dance. Unobserved, Lune slipped across to the other side of the hall and out through another door.

  She took a circuitous route, misleading to anyone who might see her passing by, but also necessary; one could not simply go straight to one’s destination. The Onyx Hall connected to the world above in a variety of places, but those places did not match up; two entrances might lie half the city apart on the surface, but side-by-side down below. It was one of the reasons visitors feared the place. Once inside, they might never find their way out again.

  But Lune knew her path. Soon enough she entered a small, deserted chamber, where the stone walls of the palace gave way to a descending lacework of roots.

  Standing beneath their canopy, she took a deep breath and concentrated.

  The rippling, night-sky sapphire of her gown steadied and became plainer blue broadcloth. The gems that decorated it vanished, and the neckline closed up, ending in a modest ruff, with a cap to cover her hair. More difficult was Lune’s own body; she had to focus carefully, weathering her skin, turning her hair from silver to a dull blond, and her shining eyes to a cheerful blue. Fae who were good at this knew attention to detail was what mattered. Leave nothing unchanged, and add those few touches — a mole here, smallpox scars there — that would speak convincingly of ordinary humanity.

  But building the illusion was not enough, on its own. Lune reached into the purse that hung from her girdle and brought forth the bread from her coffer.

  The coarsely ground barley caught in her teeth; she was careful to swallow it all. As food, she disdained it, but it served its own purpose, and for that it was more precious than gold. When the last bit had been consumed, she reached up and stroked the nearest root.

  With a quiet rustle, the tendrils closed around and lifted her up.

  She emerged from the trunk of an alder tree that stood along St. Martin’s Lane, no more than a stone’s throw from the structures that had grown like burls from the great arch and surrounding walls of Aldersgate. The time, she was surprised to discover, was early morning. The Onyx Hall did not stand outside human time the way more distant realms did — that would make Invidiana’s favorite games too difficult — but it was easy to lose track of the hour.

  Straightening her cap, Lune stepped away from the tree. No one had noticed her coming out of the trunk. It was the final boundary of the Onyx Hall, the last edge of the enchantments that protected the subterranean palace lying unseen below mortal feet; just as the place itself remained undiscovered, so would people not be seen coming and going. But once away from its entrances, the protections ended.

  As if to hammer the point home, the bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral rang out the hour from within the tightly packed mass of London. Lune could not repress the tiniest flinch, even as she felt the sound wash over her harmlessly. She had done this countless times before, yet the first test of her own protections always made her nervou
s.

  But she was safe. Fortified by mortal food against the power of mortal faith, she could walk among them, and never fear her true face would be revealed.

  Settling into her illusion, Lune set out, walking briskly through the gate and out of London.

  The morning was bright, with a crisp breeze that kept her cool as she walked. The houses crowding the lane soon spaced themselves more generously, but there was traffic aplenty, an endless flow of food, travelers, and goods into and out of the city. London was a voracious thing, chewing up more than it spat back out, and in recent years it had begun to swallow the countryside. Lune marveled at the thronging masses who flooded the city until it overflowed, spilling out of its ancient walls and taking root in the formerly green fields that lay without. They lived like ants, building up great hills in which they lived by the hundreds and thousands, and then dying in the blink of an eye.

  A mile or so farther out, it was a different matter. The clamor of London faded behind her; ahead, beyond the shooting fields, lay the neighboring village of Islington, with its manor houses and ancient, shading trees. And along the Great North Road, the friendly, welcoming structure of the Angel Inn.

  The place was moderately busy, with travelers and servants alike crossing the courtyard that lay between the inn and the stables, but that made Lune’s goal easier; with so many people about, no one took particular notice of one more. She passed by the front entrance and went toward the back, where the hillside was dominated by an enormous rosebush, a tangled, brambly mass even the bravest soul would be afraid to trim back.

  This, too, had its own protections. No one was there to watch as Lune cupped a late-blooming rose in her hand and spoke her name into the petals.