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of mere idleness.
    Valentin Aspell had a mortal client in the Onyx Hall, the bastard son of a baron. Lady Carline had her own candidate. And they were not the only ones putting men in Lune’s path. But in two and a half years of searching, Deven had not found anyone he favoured more to succeed him than Henry Ware.
    The young man wasn’t perfect. Henry was politically naïve; he took most of his opinions from the likes of Robert Penshaw, who was more than happy to influence an impressionable mind. Lune depended upon Deven—upon the Prince of the Stone—to keep her informed of the mortal court and its doings, and that required a mind that would not be swayed by every eloquent gentleman who opened his mouth.
    But Henry had his own merits. He had a good place at court, and—thanks to his father’s wealth and connections—every chance to rise higher. He also made friends easily, both here and in Westminster, which laid solid foundations for alliance.
    And Lune enjoyed his company.
    That last consideration, perhaps more than any other, persuaded Deven. If I must contemplate surrendering my place to another, I would rather it not be the cut-throat protégés the others put forward. He could trust Henry to have a care, not just for England, but for Lune’s happiness.
    The politics could be learned. That could not.
    Now Deven was the one neglecting his cards and the ongoing game. “If her Grace would help England,” Henry said, apparently oblivious to his distraction, “then she should contrive Buckingham’s downfall. He is corrupt beyond the telling of it. And who can say what he has been whispering in Charles’ ear while they gambol about Europe?”
    “Lune can,” Deven answered him, grinning. “Her knight Sir Adenant is among their train.”
    Henry’s eyes widened. “A faerie knight—riding with the heir to England’s crown?”
    “Not that any among them know. ’Tis a risk,” Deven acknowledged. “Lune sent him with a goodly supply of bread, but Charles and Buckingham have been in Spain long months now—far more than anticipated. Adenant has been forced to negotiate with the Spanish fae for protection, at no little cost to this court. But Charles is, as you say, the heir. If he insists on being mad enough to put himself into Spain’s hands, she must do what she can to protect him.”
    Fingers playing across the petals of a faerie tulip, Henry mused this over. “They say he is mad, for love of the Infanta.”
    As mad as any twenty-two-year-old man might be, unwed and constrained by both position and personal inclination from the kind of dalliances that might blunt the edge of his desire. “Mad enough to leap a garden wall, at least, for a glimpse of his promised wife. But the journey itself? ’Twas a matter of diplomacy, more than passion. Charles went—and James allowed him to go—because they hoped it might tip the balance, pushing Spain into agreement.”
    Henry snorted, and that was comment enough.
    “And now Spain keeps him,” Deven said. “The latest word is that he will depart at the end of August. Lune hears a great many disturbing things about the promises the Spanish offer, to keep Charles there without Buckingham at his side, but neither man has much trust for such promises any longer. As for your original point…” He had to smile, ruefully. “I have no great love for Buckingham, but his corruption is of the same sort found in every great lord and minister; his venality differs only in degree, not kind. And, no doubt, ’tis hated in greater proportion because he began so low. But he is beloved of both James and Charles, which promises a modicum of stability that will serve England well, when that day of transition must come.”
    “That’s what worries me,” Henry muttered. “He is too beloved, of James in particular. No man who is not King should have such a voice in the governance of a realm.”
    Except, perhaps, a Prince. Would this work, when the time came? Would Lune be able