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Lune a cup of mead without asking. It was, of course, exactly what Lune craved at that moment. The talents of brownies were homely things, but appreciated all the same.
    One brownie, at any rate. Lune opened her mouth to ask where Gertrude’s sister was, then paused at sounds on the staircase. A moment later her question was answered, for Rosamund entered, wearing a russet dress that was the twin of Gertrude’s save for the embroidery on its apron — roses instead of daisies — just as her cheerful face mirrored that of her sister.
    Behind her came others who were less cheerful. Lune recognized the haggard male hob immediately; the others were less familiar, having mostly pressed their faces into the floor of the Onyx Hall when she last saw them.
    Gertrude made a sympathetic sound and hurried forward. For a short time the room seemed overfull, wall-to-wall with hobs and pucks and a slender, mournful-faced river nymph Lune had missed among them the first time. But no brownie would suffer there to be confusion or standing guests for long; soon enough a few of the strangers were ensconced at the tables with bread fresh out of the oven and sharp, crumbly cheese, while the more tired among them were bundled off through another door and put to bed.
    Lune wrapped her fingers around her mead and felt uncomfortable. She had dismissed her illusion of mortality — she would have felt odd maintaining it inside, as if she had kept a traveling cloak on — but the bite of human bread she had eaten still made her proof against church bells, iron horseshoes, and other anti-faerie charms. How the refugees had gotten to the Angel from the Onyx Hall, she did not know, but she doubted it had been so easy. Rosamund must have been present at court, though. Lune chided herself for not studying the crowd more closely.
    Gertrude had not forgotten her. Moments later, the smell of roasted coney filled the room, and Lune was served along with the others. The food was simple, prosaic, and good; one could easily imagine mortals eating the same thing, and it made the elaborate banquets of the court seem fussy and excessive.
    Perhaps,
Lune thought,
this is why I come here. For perspective.
    Would it be so bad, to leave the court? To find a simpler life, somewhere outside of London?
    It would be easier, certainly. In the countryside, there was less need to protect oneself against mortal tricks. Peasant folk saw fae from time to time, and told stories of their encounters with black dogs or goblins, but no one made trouble of it. Or rarely, at least. They generally only tried to lay creatures who made too much a nuisance of themselves. And out there, one was well away from the intrigues of the Onyx Court.
    Next to Lune on the bench, a tuft-headed sprite began to sniffle into his bread.
    Wherever these rural fae had come from, it was not far enough to save them from Invidiana.
    No, she could not leave London. To be subject to the tides of the court, but unable to affect them . . .
    There was another choice, of course. Across the boundary of twilight, down the pleasant paths that led neither to Heaven nor Hell, and into the deeper reaches of Faerie, where Invidiana’s authority and influence did not reach. But few mortals ever wandered so far, and for all the dangers they posed to fae, Lune would not leave them behind. Mortals were endlessly fascinating, with their brief, bright lives, and all the passion that fueled them.
    Rosamund began to shepherd the others off, murmuring about baths and nice soft beds. Gertrude came by as the sprite vacated Lune’s bench. “Now then, my lady — forgive me for that. Poor things, they were starved to the bone. Was it just a bite to eat you were looking for, and a breath of good country air?”
    Her apple-cheeked face radiated such friendly helpfulness that Lune shook her head before she could stop herself. On the instant, Gertrude’s cheerful demeanor transformed to concern. “Oh, dearie. Tell us about it.”
    Lune