A Star Shall Fall by Marie Brennan Page B

as an Olympian satyr? I was expecting goat hooves, panpipes—that sort of thing.” Fauns were the ones with goat hooves; according to Ktistes, satyrs had human feet. But it sounded better this way.
    Dr. Andrews looked disgruntled. “My apologies, Miss Dinley. I’m afraid the advertisement you saw is the work of a man I hired, who persuaded me that such language is necessary to attract attention. Were it not for him, I assure you I would have described this fellow in more scholarly terms.”
    “So he isn’t a satyr.”
    Evidently the good doctor saw the specter of disappearing profits looming near. He hastened to say, “As it happens, Miss Dinley, I think he may be—in a manner of speaking. The orgiastic behaviors attributed to the satyr in the art of the Greeks and Romans may well be an echo of the practices of those two societies, but why the description of goatish features? I theorize that it owes something to deformities such as those seen here: just as the myth of centaurs may have arisen from a race of horse-mounted men, so may instances of this deformity have become the basis for an entire race of goatish creatures, upon whom men laid the burden of their own licentious behavior.”
    “So you don’t think there’s any such thing as a real satyr.” She tried very hard to keep the laugh out of her voice.
    “Miss Dinley,” Andrews said in a condescending voice, “I traveled Italy and Greece as a young man, and saw no such creatures. This is the closest I have come.” He gestured at the poor, forgotten man beside him.
    Irrith blinked innocently. “But just because you never saw them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
    Segraine intervened before Irrith got a chance to find out what kind of annoyance she could provoke. “Come, Pru; we’ve taken up enough of the good doctor’s time.”
    Sighing, Irrith gave in. “Very well, Teddy. I’m famished anyway. We’ve seen the satyr; now I want my dinner.”
    Segraine gave Dr. Andrews their polite thanks, and accepted his offer to send a man for a carriage. Once Irrith was safely inside, skirts and all, she said, “Wouldn’t it be something if we sent Ktistes in to prance all over his fancy carpets?”
    “It would be something,” her friend agreed, “but nothing good. Let’s go back; the Queen is waiting for our report.”
    The Onyx Hall, London: November 11, 1757
    “Weekly meetings,” Galen said, “and I shall attend as many as I can. I fear the time itself will be less than fruitful, unless the quality of presentations improves greatly—”
    “But it is worth it, for gaining the acquaintance of the men there.” Lune nodded. “I would be very much surprised if anyone were to stand up and deliver a lecture that contains the solution to our problem, tied up with a bow.”
    Harpsichord music formed a pleasant background to their conversation, Lune’s attendant Nemette playing for her mistress’s relaxation. Various other ladies sat at their leisure, playing backgammon or embroidering; one fed bits of candied fruit to a human child. With some of them, he knew, the distraction was a mask. The Queen’s ladies of the bedchamber were not merely for decoration; she made excellent use of them in her political negotiations with other courts. But some of them, he suspected, paid little attention to anything that went on around them.
    A knock at the door brought Lady Yfaen to her feet. She spoke briefly to someone outside, then turned to curtsey. “Dame Segraine and Dame Irrith, your Majesty, returned from Red Lion Square.”
    “Send them in.” Lune set down the fan she had been toying with and straightened in her chair.
    The two had dropped their mortal glamours, leaving behind clothes suitable for their visit above. Masculine garb was a common sight on Segraine, though usually not so fine. But the delicate sprite at her side . . .
    The muddy, sharp-tongued creature he’d brought in to see Lune last month had vanished. In her place stood a modest