Hawk Hawk Hawk,the ravens cried in alarm, which was foolishness. Kit’s sharp triangular wings showed him a falcon, no hawk. And no threat to anything as big as a raven. Or a swan. A merlin,he realized, amused, as the magpie led him flitting over the rooftops and marketplaces of London. St. Paul’s Churchyard, where the booksellers were. King’s Street, and the merlin caught a glimpse of a balding human who seemed familiar, somehow, leaning against a stucco wall between a big man and a stout man, all three of them shaking, slumped, breaths smoking in the cold.

Blackfriars, Whitefriars. Charing Cross and then somehow it was sunset, it was nightfall, and through the gray twilight five men were unloading a barge on a bank near Westminster. One a cavalier with shining golden hair–hair that glowed,even in the gathering dark–and to look at him, the little falcon’s wings skipped a beat in fear and distant–or perhaps forward?–memory. He dropped several feet before he caught himself, and went back for another look. A big man stood in the barge, handing barrels up the bank to the other four: a broad‑shouldered soldier with a luxuriant red mustache and a kind, hooded eye.

The merlin circled over their heads. The magpie flew out over the river, dipping and diving, chattering still. The air sustained other sounds and odors, as if there were a wood across the water and not the stews and bear‑pits of Southwark: dry leaves and tannin, a hollow knocking like the rattle of a stag’s autumn‑velveted tines among the low branches of oaks.

And then a cry, a lamentation or a sugared moan of delight, a voice too sweet, chromatic, resonant to reveal the difference.

The belling of a stag, the entreaty of a falcon, the toll of a carillon. Wingbeats. A name that seemed to resonate over his taut‑drawn skin like shivers through a tapped drumhead.

Mehiel.

Mehiel.

Mehiel

Kit woke curled tight in the layers of his cloak, the French seams he’d stitched flat still prickling his skin, a name on his lips. Mehiel.Sweat soaked his brown‑blond hair and his face itched with dried salt, eyes burning, scars burning. The fists pressed to his face smelled of tears, so very like blood.

So very like blood indeed. “Not a night terror, at least,” he said, sitting up, at sea in a giant bed. “There was a prophecy in that one, I wot.” His bedroom was empty; he spoke only to the walls and to the sunrise beyond his window. Mehiel.He knew the name. An angel’s name, by the sound of it.

He was sure he had heard it before.

He stood and washed, cleaned his teeth, relieved himself, combed his hair. Once he had dressed, he gritted his teeth, tugged down his doublet, and made his way to the hall to break his fast. The patchwork bard’s cloak he swung around his shoulders smelled of smoke and sweet resin and strong whiskey, so every time he inhaled it was as though the Devil’s hand traced his spine.

He had anticipated the silence in the hall when he entered, still mincing on feet worn sore by barefoot climbing the steps from Hell. He’d known heads would turn and voices would still, that the clink of silver on Orient porcelain would halt. And he’d called himself ready for it.

His steps didn’t slow. He was Christofer Marley, brazen as they came, and he would walk down the center row between the long tables and find his breakfast of porridge and honey and sheep’s milk–such homely stuff, for Faerie, but man did not live by thistledown and morning dew alone–and take a seat, and he would dine. And let them mutter what they would. He was Christofer Marley.

Except he wasn’t. The name had no power over him, for good or ill. It was no longer his.

He had sold it.

His stride did lag when he recollected that, and he nearly stumbled on the rushes. But he recovered himself and squared his shoulders, thinking Needs must replace my rapierwhen his hand went to his belt to steady the blade, and found it absent. That, too, was left in Hell.

He carried on, limping more heavily now that he’d hurt his foot again. But chin up, eyes front, not because he was Christofer Marley but because he was not willing to bow his head today.

When he was halfway to the board, the silence broke. At first, when but a single pair of hands struck together, he thought the clapping ironic. But then another joined, and a third, and by the time he stood ladling porridge into a bowl, he did so at the center of a standing ovation.

Two days previous, he would have set the bowl aside and turned and given them a mocking bow. But he was not the man he had been, two days previous. He had passed through that man, passed beyond him, been transformed on his quest to retrieve his beloved Will from the devil’s grasp. And as with Orfeo, there was no looking back to see where he had been.

Now, he was a man who had been to Hell and back again, and whose feet still hurt with the journey. He turned, and nodded blindly to the room, and found his seat with as little ceremony as possible.

When he sat, and hunched over his bowl, the rest sat too, and that was the last that was said of it.

It’s time wert about thy duties, Kit,he thought, half hearing the rattle of antlers on wood. Thou hast charged from the Queen and thy Prince that thou hast much neglected, in pursuit of love and poetry.

He would to the library, and see what he could find there. And perhaps start researching Will’s crackpot scheme to retranslate the Bible.

For once, Amaranth was not in the library. Kit sought through old texts until near the dinner hour, and found nothing on the names and ranks of angels, and little after the fashion of Bibles. Which should not have surprised him, he knew: there was little of Christian myth in the Queen of Faery’s archive. Hast never heard to know thine enemy, and keep him close?And then Kit laughed. Why, no. Of course not. I wonder if the Book itself ‘could do them injury.

He wiped dusty hands on his doublet and then cursed the mouse‑brown streaks across its front. A wave of his hand spelled them away again. It seemed frivolous to use hard‑won power for such petty purposes, but there was no reason not to. No one told me witchcraft was so useful. If word gets out, ‘twill be all the rage indeed.

He cast one more lingering glance around the room before he left, but lunch–truthfully–held a greater allure. And mayhap I can find Puck or Geoffrey there.It suddenly occurred to him to find it odd that a being with a stag’s head would eat beef and bread like a man, but he shrugged as he stepped through the open double doors of the hall and walked silently across the fresh‑strewn rushes.

The Mebd, Queen of the Daoine Sidhe, sat at the high table, although she did not usually take her dinner in public, and the Prince, her husband, sat beside her. Kit might have slipped aside and taken a seat just above the salt–there was one near Amaranth, on the bench she had pushed aside to make room for the bulk of her coils–except Prince Murchaud raised his head and smiled, and beckoned with one refined oval hand.

Kit turned his head to get a glimpse of Amaranth through the otherwisevision Lucifer had awakened in his right eye. She seemed to him a long spill of dark water, a black surface shattered with ephemeral reflections of light. Murchaud and the Mebd – all the Fae – shimmered like dust motes in dawnlight as Kit walked down the center aisle of the hall between the long trestles. He didn’t need the second sight to show him every eye guardedly upon him. It was there again, the way they had stared in the morning, before the applause. Climbing the steps to the dais, Kit realized belatedly what it was. You’re among the legends now, Marley.

Or not‑Marley, as it were.

The Fae were in awe of him, mortal man in a journeyman bard’s cloak who had gone to Hell in pursuit of his mortal lover–and brought them both back out again, alive and to all appearances whole, no matter how much a lie that might be. “Your Highness.” Kit bowed low before the Mebd, scraping his boot on the floor. The only sound it made was the rustle of rushes: damned elf‑boots.