A Star Shall Fall by Marie Brennan

matters, Mr. St. Clair. Do you intend to go on attending our meetings?”
    Galen couldn’t hide his wince. “As much as I may, Dr. Andrews. Dependent upon the goodwill of my father.”
    He didn’t have to say any more. Andrews and his father were acquaintances, not close friends; the man had treated Charles St. Clair for gout, before his own illness forced him to retire from active practice. Their degree of familiarity was enough for Andrews to understand, and not enough for him to take offense. “I see. If you would like, Mr. St. Clair, I could serve as your patron in his stead; I attend every week, and would be more than happy to aid you in the same.”
    Gratitude warmed Galen to the soles of his feet. “I would be much obliged to you, sir.”
    “Then it is easily done,” Andrews said. “I will write to him tomorrow.”
    Red Lion Square, Holborn: November 11, 1757
    The hackney carriage circled the green lawn in the center of Red Lion Square and rattled to a halt in front of No. 17. The coachman leapt down to open the door, and a tall gentleman in a sober red coat stepped out with a graceful motion, then turned back, one hand extended to help his lady companion maneuver her skirts out the narrow portal.
    She needed the help. The false hips that bulked out her dress to either side had been folded up like wings to fit her into the carriage, and now impeded her ability to reach the gentleman’s hand. When she twitched her cloak out of the way to ensure a secure footing on the step, the quilted dimity of her gown caught against the frame of the door. The coachman saved it before it could tear, and with a stumble and an unladylike curse, she was free.
    While her companion paid their fare, the young woman sorted her skirts and cloak back into something resembling order. And then they were alone, and Irrith had the freedom to be herself for a moment, rather than the meek mortal girl she was impersonating—and badly at that. “How in the name of Ash and Thorn does anyone manage these things?”
    Segraine shrugged, looking every inch the gentleman. “Practice, I presume.”
    “Right. Just as you winning our bet was ‘luck.’ There’s magic in both, I’m sure of it.”
    The lady knight’s grin was fleeting. Irrith was convinced her friend had cheated at dice, but her best efforts had failed to catch it happening. As a result, she was the one wrestling with yards of fabric and undergarment architecture that would do a cathedral proud, while Segraine got to play the role of her indulgent elder brother, bringing her to see the Marvelous Menagerie.
    Which apparently dwelt behind the innocent facade of No. 17 Red Lion Square. The house was like any other in the row: three stories of red brick, with a servant’s attic above and cellars below, and to Irrith’s eye indistinguishable from a thousand others they’d rattled past on their way out of the City. Horsemen rode through the square, on their way to important business no doubt, dodging past a handful of carriages and sedan chairs, scattering folk on foot as they went.
    Arranging this visit had taken far longer than it should. The proprietor of the Marvelous Menagerie had been ill this last month—or so his butler claimed—and only now recovered enough to do business. Lune had forbidden them to break in without evidence of a real satyr, and so they’d been forced to wait. But now that the time had come, Irrith was reluctant. She eyed the blue-painted door as if it were the maw of a beast, waiting to swallow her. “Shall we go in?” Segraine asked.
    Irrith took a deep breath. “Whatever we find in there—it isn’t as if he’ll know what we are. So we’re quite safe.”
    “Quite,” her friend agreed.
    They stood a moment longer on the hard-packed dirt of the street. Then Segraine said in a breezy voice, “Come along then, Pru; you were the one who wanted to see the Oronuto savage,” and strode across to the house.
    Irrith followed with as much grace as she