Morgan’s lips moved on Kit’s. “Meanwhile, consider how you might repay me for returning your wits, that you might bandy words with the Mebd.”

Remembering the white flame the Mebd had kindled in him with a mere smile and a turn of her hand, Kit shivered.

“Anything, so long as it is mine to give, the lady may claim as her own. Only how did you protect me, madam?”

“Your boots,” she murmured, wickedly, “have iron nails.”

He stopped. And then he laughed, delighted at the simplicity of it, and stretched against her as he took her in his arms. She wrapped him in silk, and Murchaud enfolded him in steel, and he could have wept at the silence they gave him, and the forgetting, that when they drew him down between them nothing whispered remember. Instead, the whisperer was Morgan, speaking against his ear: “Things are different in Faerie.”

Christofer Marley closed tight his eye. The mirror was not hidden in a private chamber or guarded under lock and key. Rather, it stood at the end of a blind corridor, in an oval frame of tarnished silver tall as a door wrought with lilies and spirals. The stand was swathed in velvet. The polished glass could have been obsidian.

It’s called the Darkling Glass, Murchaud said when Kit hesitated. He stepped closer, laid one hand on cool crystal polished without a ripple. His palm left no print; his reflection was more a matte sheen than an image.

And I step through it.

Morgan came up beside him. A tall white candle he did not recollect having seen her light, burned in her right hand. She raised it beside his face, illuminating the dark band of his new eyepatch crossing a pale seam of scar. Flecks of blood and scab showed where Morgan had pulled stitches free, but the ridged white line was straight from his hairline to where it vanished under the eyepatch. Morgan touched a finger to his mouth and he dressed it in a kiss.

His lips had been called voluptuous by men and women both, his dark eyes enormous, exotic with the fairness of his hair. The heavy diagonal of eyepatch exaggerated the softness of his mouth. Not as good as an eye in his head, and he knew he’d have work to make up the lack, but it had a rakish dignity. And it might win him Walsingham’s sympathy.

Morgan leaned against his shoulder. He caught a pale glimmer like the moon over his left shoulder: Murchaud’s reflection, further back.

“Step through any mirror to return. I put that power in thee. And there’s something you need to know.”

“I’ve tasted the food of Faerie.”

Her gown gapped at the collar when she inclined her head.“It will draw you back. A few days, a week. A passing of the moon. It is impossible to predict.”

“And if I do not come?”

Her cool cheek brushed his ear; her dark hair spread across the black velvet of his doublet. “You will suffer, Christofer Marley,” she said with a luxurious smile. “And when you have suffered more than you can imagine, you will die. Look there is your Walsingham now. Dost see him?”

The old spymaster’s accustomed image swam into the glass. He bent over his desk examining a document with a lens held between bony fingers. Light streamed over Walsingham’s shoulder in a swirl of dust motes, limning his hair and beard silver-gilt like a cloud.

“Now we know he lives, we can find him,” Morgan whispered. “Have a care.”

Kit opened his mouth to reply, but a firm hand pressed the small of his back. He stepped forward and tripped through the mirror, and fell with ill grace into a stunned silence and Sir Francis Walsingham’s arms.

That silence lasted moments, as Walsingham studied him, and turned as if to see what door in the air he’d fallen from, and then studied him again. And then knotted fingers like ribbons of steel in his hair and turned his face upand kissed him hard, as a brother might. Before jerking back suddenly and stepping away, the long sleeves of his robe falling across his knuckles.

“Marley,” he said, touching his lips and speaking between the fingers. “Not a ghost, I wot. Hell threw you out?”

“Hell wants me back when you’ve done with me, Sir Francis.” The smile came up from somewhere under Kit’s breastbone, and it bubbled through his chest and throat until his lips could not contain it. “But I have secured a visitation.”

Walsingham turned away, shuffling his papers into a pile and weighting them with the lens. He stole a glance across his shoulder, and Kit tried the smile again. “Sir Francis. You re fussing.”

“Kit, thine eye.” He turned again as Kit came forward, his right hand rising to touch the terrible scar. “Plucked out?”

“Cut through.” Kit looked down. “Your cousin Tom had a hand in it, I’ll grant. How am I living? Do you know?”

Walsingham crossed to the arched window and shuttered it; he crossed again, and barred the door. “Will you drink wine with me, Christofer? Thomas and the Queen’s Coroner identified your body. I’ve broken with Thomas over it. He maintains his men were innocent, your death the result of some unhappy double-dealing you revealed in the course of the conversation that day, but what were you doing in Deptford, and where have you been the past four months and more? Why did you leave me thinking you dead?” It wasn’t said, but Kit could taste the betrayal.

“Four months?” He put a hand on the desk to steady himself as his belly contracted. “Four months and a night. Long enough for that to heal.”

Walsingham touched his face again. “Oh, that grieves me, Kit. But not so much as the thought of your body cold in an unmarked grave. I’d have pricked thee out for a lover, not a fighter.”

“Cannot a man be both?]

“And a poet as well. Where have you been?”

“Stolen away by Faeries. I have what day is’t, Francis?

“Then don’t answer me, man. October the third. Good Christ! Your wound is well healed.” Walsingham poured the wine after all, though Kit had never answered him, and let Kit choose his glass. “And you stepped into my rooms as if from thin air.”

“I told thee. Stolen by Faeries. Would I lie?” Kit tasted the wine, rolled it on his tongue. He set the glass down by the papers, and the handwriting drew his eye. An angled look, a gesture for permission, and Walsingham’s nod, and Kit reached across the sand tray and took up the sheaf.

“Will’s improving. But then this is Oxford’s hand … Oh, Francis. Not Will.”

Walsingham covered his eyes with his hand, the other one with the glass in it dropping to his side. “We needed someone.”

“Will’s…” Kit set the papers back on the desk and weighted them with his now-empty wineglass. “Naive.”

“Will’s as old as you. Older than when you came to me.”

Kit turned to regard Walsingham square from his one good eye. “Francis, the man has children.”

Which was a body blow. He’d never married, and Walsingham knew why. He wiped the taste of wine from his mouth. Never married. Now he never would. Too much to risk. To much to fear for. Too much to give up for a nuptial bed.

“Kit, so do I.” Walsingham shook his head. “Something’s altered in you.”

“A knife in the eye will change your perspective.”

“Kit, cruel.” Walsingham’s face went white, and his mouth worked, and Kit saw him as if for the first time: old. “I would have protected you,” he said, and then quoted words that might have broken Kit’s heart in his chest. “Wouldst thou be loved and feared? Receive my seal, save or condemn, and in our name command, what so thy mind affects or fancy likes.'

“Nay!” A hiss, not a shout. Kit’s hand stinging flat on the polished desk, cupped to explode the air beneath it, and Walsingham leapt at the sound and the rattle of the ink pot. Edward II, and Kit couldn’t bear it. “Nay, sweet Francis. I wrote those words not for thee, and I’ll not have you filthy your mouth on them!”

“Not to me? To an age, surely. It’s put about that you were killed for them, by Essex’s men, or those who took them as an affront to Scottish James, a satire on his love for his exiled minion lennox.”