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had not meant to share the story, but perhaps it was appropriate; she could hardly ask for aid without explaining at least some of why she needed it, and the Goodemeades were generally ignorant of politics. They might be the nearest fae who had
not
already heard.
    “I am disgraced at court,” she admitted.
    She tried to speak as if it were of small moment. Indeed, sometimes it was; if everyone who angered Invidiana suffered Cadogant’s fate, there would soon be no court left. But she stood upon the edge of a knife, and that was never a comfortable place to be.
    Gertrude made a sympathetic face. “Queen’s taken a set against you, has she?”
    “With cause,” Lune said. “You listen to the talk in the mortal inn, do you not?”
    The brownie dimpled innocently. “From time to time.”
    “Then you know they fear invasion by Spain, and that a great Armada was only recently defeated.”
    “Oh, we heard! Great battles at sea, or some such.”
    Lune nodded, looking down at the remnants of her coney. “Great battles. But before them and after, great storms as well. Storms for which we paid too high a price.” She had confessed the details only to Invidiana, and would not repeat them; that would only deepen the Queen’s wrath. But she could tell Gertrude the shape of it. “I was Invidiana’s ambassador to the folk of the sea, and did not bargain well enough. She is displeased with the concession I promised.”
    “Oh dear.” Gertrude paused to assimilate this. “What was so dreadful, then? I cannot imagine she wants us to be invaded; surely it was worth the price.”
    Lune pushed her trencher away, painting a smile over her ever-present knot of worry. “Come, you do not want to talk of such things. This is a haven away from court and its nets — and long may it remain so.”
    “True enough,” the brownie said complacently, patting her apron with plump but work-worn fingers. “Well, all’s well that ends well; we don’t have any nasty Spanish soldiers trampling through the Angel, and I’m sure you’ll find your way back into her Majesty’s good graces soon enough. You have a talent for such things, my lady.”
    The words returned Lune to her original purpose. “I hesitate to ask you this,” she admitted, looking at the doorway through which the last of the refugees had vanished. “You have so many to take care of now — at least until they can be settled elsewhere. And I wonder Rosamund could even bring them here safely.”
    Her reluctance had exactly the desired effect. “Oh, is that all?” Gertrude exclaimed dismissively, springing to her feet. The next Lune knew, the brownie was pressing an entire heel of bread into her hands. It was not much different from what the Goodemeades had served, but any fae could tell one from the other at a touch. Mortality had a distinctive weight.
    Looking down at the bread, Lune felt obscurely guilty. The maidservants of the Angel put out bread and milk faithfully; everyone knew that. And Invidiana taxed the Goodemeades accordingly, just as she taxed many country fae. Many more rural humans than city folk put out food for the fae, yet it was in the city that they needed it most. The Onyx Hall shut out the sounds of the bells and other such threats, but to venture into the streets unfed was an assurance of trouble.
    She needed this. But so did the Goodemeades, with their guests to take care of.
    “Go on, take it,” Gertrude said in a soft voice, folding her hands around the bread. “I’m sure you’ll find a good use for it.”
    Lune put her guilt aside. “Thank you. I will not forget your generosity.”
    M emory :
May–August 1588
    I n villages and towns all along the coast of England, piles of wood awaited the torch, and men awaited the first sight of the doom that was coming to devour them.
    In the crowded harbor of Lisbon, the ships of the
Grande y Felicícisma Armada
awaited the order that would send them forth, for God and King Philip, to bring down the