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fragrant air; the constellation of faerie lights regrouped themselves into a tight mass, a counterfeit moon. “I take it something troubles you,” Antony said, and felt Lune’s fingers tighten on his arm.
    “Not something—some one . Would you care to guess?”
    He smiled wryly. “There are but two likely suspects. I shall guess Nicneven.”
    “I almost wish it were.”
    The sour response surprised him. Faerie Scotland was not a single kingdom, no more than faerie England was, and Lune had occasional trouble with the monarchs up north. The Gyre-Carling of Fife, however, was a constant thorn in her side. Nicneven made no secret of her hatred for this court and everything it stood for, the close harmony of mortals and fae. She had on more than one occasion threatened to kill Antony, or curse his family for nine generations.
    On the whole, his preference was for Irish trouble. “I can guess the substance of it, then,” he said.
    Lune released his arm, going to the side of the path, where a lily bloomed in an urn. Its pristine white petals darkened into a bloody throat, and she stroked them with a fingertip. “One day some clever lad over there will get it into his head to murder Wentworth.”
    “They know better than that,” Antony said, alarmed. “If the King’s deputy in Ireland dies, it will go much harder for them.”
    “Oh, indeed— some of them know it. But all it needs is one hotheaded warrior, one goblin out to make mischief ...” Behind them, the flock of ladies hovered, like birds in jeweled feathers and elegant little masks. Lune sighed and continued down the path to a fountain, where she arranged herself on a bench, and her ladies perched themselves near enough to listen discreetly. “Eochu Airt said his masters at Temair had information I would desire. I shall have to find something else he wants in exchange.”
    Antony leaned against the lip of the fountain, palms flat to the cool marble. The water flecked his back, but his rose-colored doublet was of plain serge; it could survive a wetting. He had not dressed for elegance. “Wentworth isn’t popular at court. His relationship with the King is uneven; Charles does not entirely trust him, but still supports him, for he is one of the few effective men serving the Crown. There has even been talk of his making Wentworth a peer. But the Lord Deputy has enemies in plenty, not just in Ireland but in England, who do not like his influence over the King. His downfall might not be far away.”
    “Will that change anything for Ireland?” Lune’s question was clearly rhetorical. She scowled at the embroidered toe of her slipper for a moment, then fixed her attention back on Antony. “So what has brought you below? When last you were here, you said you wished to spend more time with Lady Ware and your new son. How fares he? Is he growing quickly?”
    Her distraction was charming. Children came so rarely to fae; they found the young of mortals fascinating. “Robin grows healthy and strong—no doubt thanks to your blessing.” Three children, and none of them lost to childhood illness. Antony knew more godly sorts would say he had sold his soul for those blessings, consorting with fae as he did. Seeing his family thrive, he thought it a worthy price.
    Lune’s eyes narrowed. “But you, it seems, did not come to talk about your son. What, then? You walked into the presence chamber with a purpose.”
    “An opportunity,” Antony admitted. “One that may sweeten your mood.”
    The ladies leaned closer to hear as he went on. “The war with Scotland does not go well. Charles has marched an army up there to suppress the Covenanters, but that army is falling apart at the seams, for want of money to hold it together. And so he has asked the City for a loan.”
    “Again?” Lune said, echoing his own response to Soame. “This begging has become habit, and unfitting to a king.” He couldn’t argue the truth of that. “But why bring you this to me? It