The Stolen Heir: A Novel of Elfhame (The Stolen Heir, 1)

I pass bored guards, who throw hungry looks in my direction. They do not follow me, though, either because they are forbidden from leaving their post or because I look too stringy to make much of a meal.

Once they are out of sight, I begin to run. I veer through the three turns to where Lupine spoke of the gem-encrusted rooms near the prisons so fast that I nearly trip.

My thoughts are racing as fast as my feet. I kissed two people before Oak. There was the boy who liked fires and, later, one of the treefolk. Neither of those kisses felt quite as doomed as the one I shared with the prince, and they had been doomed enough.

This is the problem with living by instinct. I don’t think.

The lower level has a damp, mineral smell. I hear guards ahead, so I creep carefully to the bend in the corridor and peer around it. The enormous, copper-banded door they guard is almost certainly to the prisons, as it is carved with the words Let Suffering Ennoble. One is a knight with hair the color of red roses. She seems to be losing a game of dice to a snickering, large-eared bauchan. Both wear armor. She has a long sword at her hip, while his is curved and strapped to his back.

I am used to sliding into and out of a forest without being observed, but I have little experience in the sort of fast-talking trickery that might get me past guards. I draw myself up, though, and hope that my tongue does not betray me.

Then I feel a tap on the shoulder. Spinning, swallowing a scream, I come face-to-face with Jack of the Lakes.

“I can guess what you’re about,” he says, looking maliciously pleased, like someone who has ferreted out a delicious bit of gossip. “You intend to free Hyacinthe.”

“I just want to ask him some questions,” I say.

“So you don’t want to break him out of the prisons?” His green eyes are sly.

I’d like to deny that, but I cannot. Like all the Folk, my tongue seizes up when I start to lie, and unlike Oak, no clever deception comes easily to my lips. Just because I want to, though, it doesn’t mean I will.

“Oooooooh,” says Jack, correctly interpreting my silence for a confession. “Is he your lover? Is this a ballad we’re in?”

“A murder ballad maybe,” I growl.

“No doubt, by the end,” he says. “I wonder who will survive to compose it.”

“Have you come to gloat?” I ask, frustrated. “To stop me?” I am not sure how powerful a kelpie is out of the water and in the shape of a man.

“To surprise you,” he says. “Aren’t surprises wonderful?”

I grind my teeth but say nothing for a long moment. I may not be able to charm him with honey-mouthed words, but I understand resentment. “It must gall you, the way Tiernan talked to you.”

Jack might be a merry wight, but I bet he’s also a petty one.

“Maybe it wouldn’t bother you so much to see him looking foolish in front of the prince? And if their prisoner was gone, the one noble knight who checked on him last would look very foolish indeed.”

I don’t plan on freeing Hyacinthe. I don’t even think I can. Still, Jack doesn’t need to know that. I am only playing into what he thinks about me.

He considers my words, a smile growing on his mouth. “What if I were to make a loud noise? Perhaps the guards would abandon their posts to follow. What would you give me to make the attempt?”

“What do you want?” I ask, digging in my pockets. I take out the swan-shaped scissors I stole from Habetrot. “These are pretty.”

“Put them away,” he scoffs. “It would be an insult to be stabbed by them.”

“Then do not court that fate,” I growl softly, rummaging a bit more, past Bogdana’s note and the motel matchbook. I couldn’t fit much in the pockets of my dress, and it is not as though I had much in the first place. But then my fingers close on the silver fox with the peridot eyes.

I take it out and hold it on my palm, reluctant to show it to him.

“What’s this?” he asks.

I open my hand. “One of only three. A game piece of the Gentry.” I am proud of my answer, which is both true and yet missing the most important detail. I am learning how to speak like them.

“You didn’t steal it?” he asks, perhaps thinking of how disheveled I was when he first met me.

“It’s mine,” I tell him. “No one would dispute that.”

He plucks it up between two fingers. “Very well. Now it shall be mine, I suppose, since you have nothing finer. And in return I will lead the guards on a merry chase.”

I clench my hand to force myself not to snatch the little fox back. He sees the gesture and smiles. I can tell he likes the trinket better now that he knows I didn’t want to give it to him.

“On my signal,” he says. “Hide!”

“Wait,” I caution, but he is already moving.

The hall is lit with orbs that glow a sickly green, giving the stone walls a mossy cast. The orbs are spaced far enough apart that it is possible for me to push myself into a bend of the corridor and be concealed by darkness, so long as no one looks too closely.

I hold my breath. I hear the pelting of hoofbeats, then a great and foolish whooping accompanied by shouts.

“That’s my sword!” the rose-haired knight yells, and then I see Jack of the Lakes streak by, running hell-for-leather in his horse form, laughing and gripping a bright silver sword in his teeth.

The knight comes into view. “When I catch you, I am going to turn you inside out, like a toad!” she shouts as she gives chase. The bauchan follows at her heels, his blade drawn.

When they are far enough, I slip out of the dark.

I head swiftly to the copper-banded door to the prisons. The rocks around the door are studded with crystals that gleam bright against the dull gray stone.

I turn the latch and walk inside. All the rooms are like chambers of a cave, with massive stalagmites and stalactites functioning as bars. It appears not unlike looking at rows and rows of mouths with rows and rows of awful teeth.

Figures move in some of the cells, shifting to blink at me from the gloom within.

A clawed hand darts out, grabbing for my arm. I jump out of its reach, jerking the cloth of my dress from its grip. I step on, shuddering.

Most of the chambers are empty, but in one I see a merrow. The floor of his cell is wet, but not enough for him to be comfortable. His scales have grown dull and dry. He watches me with eyes that are pale all the way through, the pupils barely discernible from the irises or scleras.

There is a scuffing sound from the other side, and I see a girl tossing a piece of rock into the air and catching it. For a moment, I think I am looking at a glamour, but a moment later I realize that she’s actually human.

She looks as though she might be around my age, with hair the color of straw. There’s a bruise on her cheek. “Can I have some water? Will you tell me how much longer I have to be here?” Her voice trembles.

I follow her gaze to the wooden tub in the corner of the room, a copper ladle hanging off one side, its body streaked with verdigris. She pushes a ceramic bowl toward the bars and looks up at me plaintively.

“Is a man with a single wing for an arm here?” I ask.

The human comes eagerly to her feet. “You’re not one of the guards.”

I dip the ladle into the tub and haul up some water, then pour it into her bowl. Across the way, the merrow makes a low moan. I dip the ladle again and splash him.

“The winged guy?” the human whispers. “He’s down there.” She points toward the end of the corridor. “See? I can be helpful. Let me out, and I could be of service to you.”

It is tragic that she has only me to beseech. Does she not see my predator’s teeth? How afraid must she already be for me to seem like a possible ally?

I splash the merrow again. With a sigh, he sinks down to the floor, gills flexing.

I need to see Hyacinthe, but looking at the girl, I cannot stop myself from thinking of Bex, my unsister. Imagining her in a place like this, with no one to help her and no way out.

“How did you come to be here?” I ask, knowing that more information is only going to make it harder to walk away.

“My boyfriend,” she says. “He was taken. I met a creature, and he told me I could win Dario back if I threatened to dig down into their—” She stops, possibly at the remembrance that I am one of them.

I nod, though, and that seems enough to get her speaking again. “I got a shovel and came out to the haunted hill, where everyone says weird things happen.”

While she talks, I evaluate the stalagmites and stalactites of her prison. Perhaps one could be cracked if someone very strong swung something very heavy at it, but since these prisons must have been constructed to hold even ogres, there’s no way I would be able to do it.

“Then I was grabbed. And these things said they were going to bring me before their queen, and she would punish me. They started naming what they thought she might order done. All their suggestions were like something out of the Saw movies.” She gives a weird giggle, one that tells me she’s fighting off hysteria. “You’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, right?”

Living in the mortal world as I did, I have some idea, but there’s no point in telling her that. Better get her mind away from what could happen. “Wait here.”

She scrubs a hand over her face. “You have to help me.”

I find Hyacinthe’s cell at the end of the corridor. He’s sitting on the floor, on a carpet of hay. Beside him is a tray of oranges and sweetmeats, along with a bowl of wine set down so that he might lap from it like a dog. He looks up at me in surprise, his amethyst eyes wide. I am surprised, too, because he is no longer bridled.

“Where is it?” I blurt out, terrified that it is in the possession of Queen Annet.

“The bridle?” He rubs his cheek against his wing. I see a few fresh feathers at his throat. The curse is spreading slowly, but it is spreading. “The prince was afraid of it falling into the hands of the Court of Moths, so he had Tiernan remove it.”

“Oak has it?” I ask, wondering if that was the real reason he ordered it taken off. Wondering what he was planning on doing with it.

Hyacinthe nods. “I suppose.” Then he sighs. “All I know is that I don’t have to wear it, at least until we depart the Court of Moths. Are we leaving? Is that why you’re here?”

I shake my head. “Has Queen Annet asked anything of you?”

He takes two steps closer to the bars. “I think she wishes to delay Oak long enough to determine if there’s a profit in returning him to the High Court, but that’s only from what I overheard the guards saying.”

“You think his sister wants him back?”

Hyacinthe shrugs. “Trussing him up and handing him over could bring Queen Annet some reward if Jude does, but it would not do to cross her if she and the High King turn out to support his mission. Discovering what they want takes time, hence the delay.”

I nod, calculating. “If Elfhame wants to stop us…”

If the High Court makes a captive out of the prince, from love or anger, then who will stop Lady Nore? Will I be held as well? And if not, then how long before Bogdana finds me?

“I don’t know,” he says in answer to one or all the questions I do not ask.

I lower my voice even further. “Tell me about the prince’s powers as a gancanagh? And what Lady Nore sent in her message? You’re not constrained by the bridle.”

“Free me,” he says, eyes intent. “Free me, and I will tell you all I know.”

Of course. Why else try to interest me in the information he had? Not for my benefit. He wanted to escape.

I ought to focus on my own survival. This isn’t what I came to the prisons for. Helping Hyacinthe will only make it certain that I wear the bridle myself.

And yet, I do not know how I can turn and walk away from him, leaving him in a cage. Neither Oak nor Tiernan were cruel to him when he was their prisoner, and still I was horrified. The Court of Moths could be so much worse.

Oak would never forgive me, though.

Unless… he never found out that I was the one who helped Hyacinthe escape. No one saw me come in here, save for Jack of the Lakes. And Jack can hardly tell anyone, since he had a part in it.

Perhaps I could keep this secret, as Oak kept secrets from me.

“Promise you will tell no one—especially not Lady Nore—anything of Oak, or me, or Tiernan that would put us in danger or expose our plans.” I try to convince myself that this plan might be to the prince’s advantage and that he would benefit if Queen Annet’s schemes were at least partially thwarted. After all, if Hyacinthe goes missing from her prisons after she insisted on keeping him, she can hardly call herself a good host.

If Oak finds out, he will not see my actions in that light. He’ll believe that I kissed him to divert his attention from the way I was stabbing him in the back. He’ll believe that everything Tiernan ever said about me was true.

But if I do nothing, then Queen Annet is likely to keep Hyacinthe, in the hopes she can detain Oak or lure him to return to her Court. I cannot stand the idea of anyone being kept as I was, locked away and helpless.

“Help me escape and I will tell no one—especially not Lady Nore—anything of you, or Oak, or Tiernan that would put you in any danger or expose your plans,” Hyacinthe vows prettily and in full.

The gravity of this moment settles heavily on my shoulders.

“So how do I get you out?” I ask, trying to focus on that and not the dread I suddenly feel at taking fate in my own hand, mine and Hyacinthe’s. I study the stalagmites instead, looking for a seam. “These jaws must open somehow, but I can’t see the way.”

Hyacinthe puts his fingers through the gap in the teethlike bars and gestures toward the ceiling. “There’s something up there, written in the stone. One of the guards looked up when he spoke, like he was reading. He shuffled his feet, too, as though there’s a particular place to stand.”

“You didn’t hear what he said?” I ask, incredulous.

He shakes his head. “That must be part of the enchantment. I saw his mouth move, but there was no sound.”

I squint up and spot a few scratchy, thin lines of writing. I take two steps back, and am able to make it out. It is no password to open the teethlike bars, however. It’s a riddle. And as I look, I note a different one above each of the cells.

I suppose that if each chamber requires a different word or phrase to open or close, it’d be useful to have a reminder, especially with new guards coming in all the time. Not everyone’s memory is keen, and there’s a risk that should a word be forgotten, the cell would cease to work forevermore.

“Daughter of the sun,” I read. “Yet made for night, fire causes her to weep, and if she dies before her time, cut off her head and she may be reborn.”

“A riddle,” Hyacinthe groans.

I nod, thinking of the Folk’s love of games. Of how Habetrot had called Oak the Prince of Sunlight. Of the word puzzles my unfamily would play—Scrabble, Bananagrams. Of the poems I memorized from Bex’s schoolbooks and recited to squirrels.

I try to clear my head. “The moon?” Nothing happens. As I look down, I notice there’s a circle etched into the floor, just a little beyond where I stand. I step into it and speak again. “Moon.”

This time, the jaws creak, but instead of opening, the cell shrinks, as though biting down on its prisoner.

Hyacinthe bangs on the toothlike stone bars, panicked. “How is the moon beheaded?”

“It thins to a sliver,” I say, horrified at what I’d nearly done. “But it comes back. And it could be seen as the daughter of the sun—I mean, reflected light and all that.”

No number of explanations for why I thought my answer was right can change that it almost got him crushed. Even now that the movement ceased, I am still left afraid that it will snap closed, grinding him to pieces.

“Be careful!” he hisses.

“Give me your answer, then,” I growl.

He is silent at that.

I think more. Perhaps a rose? I have a vague recollection of being with my unmother at one of her friends’ houses, playing in the backyard while the friend trimmed her rosebushes. There had been something about cutting off the flower heads so there would be more blooms the following year. And daughter of the sun—well, plants liked sun, right? And they didn’t like fire. And, well, people thought of roses as romantic, so maybe they were made for night because people romance one another mostly at night?

That last seems like a stretch, but I can think of nothing better.

“I have something,” I say, my lack of confidence clear in my voice.

He gives me a wary look, then heaves a sigh. “Go ahead,” he tells me.

I move to the spot and take a deep breath. “A rose.”

The teeth grind lower, the ceiling dropping so fast that Hyacinthe sprawls on the floor to avoid getting hit. I hear a sound that might be laughter from the merrow’s cell, but the winged soldier is deathly silent.

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

“Not yet,” he says carefully. “But I don’t think there’s room for the cell to close farther without cracking me like a nut.”

It was different to lie in wait for the glaistig and rip apart her spells, knowing I was the one in danger. To sneak through mortal houses or even run from hags. But to think that because of a mistake of mine, a life could be snuffed out like a—

Daughter of the sun. Made for night. Cut off her head and she’s reborn.

“Candle,” I blurt out.

The stone cavern shifts with a groaning sound, and the bars spring apart like a mouth, like some enormous carnivorous flower. We stare at each other, Hyacinthe moving from terror to laughter. He springs to his feet and spins me around in one arm, then presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You delightful, amazing girl! You did it.”

“We still have to get past the guards,” I remind him, uncomfortable with the praise.

“You freed me from the prison. I will free us from the hill,” he says with an intensity that I think might be pride.

“But first,” I say, “tell what you know about Oak. All of it, this time.”

He makes a face. “On the way.”

I shake my head. “Now.”

“What is it he’s supposed to tell you?” the human girl asks from her cell, and Hyacinthe gives me an exasperated look.

“Not here,” he says, widening his eyes to suggest the reason should be obvious: The girl can hear us. So can the merrow.

“We’re going to get them out, too, so it doesn’t matter,” I say. After all, it wasn’t as though I could be in more trouble if I were discovered.

He stares at me, wide-eyed. “That would be unwise.”

“My name is Gwen,” the girl calls. “Please. I promise I won’t tell anyone what I overheard. I’ll do whatever you want if you take me with you.”

I look up at the writing over the door to her cell. Another riddle. It gorges, yet lacks a maw. Well-fed, it grows swift and strong. Give it a draught, though, and you give it death.

No mouth, but eats…

“Wren, did you hear me?” Hyacinthe demands.

“They’re witnesses,” I tell him. “Leaving witnesses behind would also be unwise.”

“Then give me your knife,” he says, frowning. “I’ll take care of them.”

Gwen has come to the edge of the stalagmites. “Wait,” she says, her voice edged with desperation. “I can help you. There’s lots of stuff I can do.”

Like navigate the human world. I don’t want to hurt his pride to say it, but she might be able to hide him in places the Folk are unlikely to look. Together, they can escape more easily than either of them could alone.

“The knife,” Hyacinthe says, putting out his hand as though he really expects me to give him one and let him do it.

I turn, frowning. “You still haven’t told me anything useful about the prince.”

“Very well,” he says. “When Lady Nore took Madoc, she sent a message to the High Court, asking for something in return for the old general’s freedom. I don’t know what she wanted, only that the king and queen refused her.”

I nod. Oak spoke to me of desiring Lady Nore’s defeat, though an exchange of messages suggests he might be willing to appease her instead. For a moment, I wonder if it is me that she wants. But if so, he hardly needs to go to the Thistlewitch. He knows exactly where I am. And the High Court would give me up immediately.

“What about being a gancanagh?” I ask.

Hyacinthe huffs out a frustrated sigh, clearly wishing to be away from here. “I will tell you what I know as quickly as I am able. He inherited some of Liriope’s power, and she was able to kindle strong emotions in the people who got close to her, feelings of loyalty and desire and adoration. I am not certain how much of it was conscious and how much of it was just a tide all around her, sweeping people who got too close onto the shoals. Oak will use you until you’re all used up. He will manipulate you until you don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.”

I remember what Tiernan said about Hyacinthe’s father.

“Forget this quest. You will never know what the prince is thinking behind his smiles,” Hyacinthe says. “You are a coin to be spent, and he is a royal, used to throwing around gold.”

My gaze goes to the riddle above Gwen’s door again, which suddenly seems easier to solve than any of my other problems.

What eats but doesn’t drink? My gaze drifts to the water, to the verdigris. Then to gorging. To hungry mouths.

Mouths like the one that the bars represent, ready to devour Gwen if I get the answer wrong. The cell that Hyacinthe was in gave me three tries, but I note that the ceiling of Gwen’s is lower. I might have only two guesses before she’s crushed.

And since the guards may come in at any moment, it’s possible I have less time than that.

I am terrified of coming up with the wrong answer and yet equally worried we will be caught. Both thoughts are distracting, creating a loop of nerves.

Give it a draught and you give it death.

I think of splashing the merrow with water. I think of the sea.

I think of the answer to the other door, a candle. It gorges, and giving it a drink would put out its flame. Could both riddles have the same answer? Could all the cells be opened the same way?

I open my mouth to speak, but caution stops me. Well-fed, it grows swift and strong. Candles do not grow. I almost spoke the wrong word again.

No, not a candle, but something like one. A candle might not grow, but its flame could.

“Fire,” I whisper, and Gwen’s cell opens, disgorging her.

She stumbles out, looking around the room as though this might be a trick. She studies Hyacinthe warily, perhaps worried he might use a knife on her after all.

“You’re going to take her with you,” I inform him. “Instead of me.”

He looks at me as if I have lost my mind. “And why would I do that?”

“Because I am asking you to, and I got you out of prison,” I say, fixing him with what I hope is a firm look.

He is not intimidated by me, however. “Nowhere in your price was helping a foolish mortal.”

Panic churns in my gut. “What if I take the curse off you?”

“Impossible,” he says. “Even Oak couldn’t permanently remove it, and he is from the High Court.”

The prince hasn’t had the practice I have in removing curses, though. And perhaps he hadn’t wanted it completely gone.

“But if I could…,” I ask in my rough voice.

Grudgingly he nods.

I turn to Gwen and show her my teeth, pleased when she flinches. “You solve the riddle to release the merrow. Do not get it wrong.”

Then I reach for Hyacinthe’s wing.

I feel the feathers in my hands, the softness and lightness of the bones underneath. And I sense the curse reknitting itself inside Hyacinthe, as though it were a living thing.

I reach into the magic and am surprised by the stickiness of the threads. It’s like tugging at a spiderweb. The harder I pull, the more the curse seems to attach itself to me, trying to transform me, too. I feel the draw of the enchantment, the shimmer and burn of it, tugging at something inside me.

“What are you doing?” Hyacinthe asks. His wing pulls free of my fingers.

I open my eyes, only then realizing I’d closed them. “Did it hurt?”

“No—I don’t know,” he says. “It felt like you were touching—under my skin.”

I take a breath and return to the work of pulling apart the curse. But each time I attempt to break it, the strands of the spell slip through my fingers. And each time I am drawn further in, until I feel as though I am choking on feathers. Until I am drowning. The knot inside me, at the center of my magic, is coming undone.

“Stop,” Hyacinthe says, shaking my shoulder. “Enough.”

I find myself on the ground with him kneeling beside me. I can’t seem to get my breath back.

The glaistig’s spells were simple compared with this webbing of enchantment. I grit my teeth. I might be good enough among the solitary fey of the mortal world, but it was sheer arrogance to think that meant I could unstitch the magic of the High Court.

A few feet away, I see Gwen and the merrow looking over at me. He blinks, his nictating membrane following a moment later.

“We puzzled out the riddle together,” Hyacinthe says with a frown at Gwen. “Now let’s go.”

“But—” I start.

“I’ll take her,” he says. “The mortal girl. I will get her out of here, and that creature, too. Just get up.”

I ought to do that. But his words seem to come from far away as I reach for the magic again, and this time when it tries to draw me into it, I pull it into me instead. I let it drag me under. I take the whole curse in a rush.

Everything stops. No air is in my lungs. There is a pain in my chest, as though my heart cannot beat. As though something inside me is cracking. As though I am going to come apart.

I concentrate on the curse. On wrestling that sticky, grasping enchantment and quashing it down until it is a solid thing, heavy and cold. And then I press it further, into nothing.

When I open my eyes, my ragged nails are digging into the skin of Hyacinthe’s arm. His arm, which is no longer feathered, no longer a wing. He is on his knees, still. I am trembling all over, so light-headed that I can barely remember where I am.

“You did it. You broke the curse. My lady, I swear fealty to you.” His words take a moment to sink in, and when they do, horror sweeps over me. “To you and you alone. I was wrong to doubt.”

“No,” I manage to choke out.

I do not want that responsibility. I have seen what power does to people. And I have seen how those who pledge loyalty come to resent those oaths and wish for the destruction of the one who holds them. I was never less free than when I ruled.

“I am your servant forevermore,” he says, heedless, pressing his dry lips to the back of my hand. His dark brown hair falls forward in a curtain, brushing my arm like silk. “Obedient to your command.”

I shake my head, but the vow is made. And I’m too tired to even be able to explain why that worries me. My mind feels too adrift.

I look up at the three prisoners I freed and am suddenly, acutely aware of how much trouble I made. I didn’t realize how much I have changed from that terrified girl, forever looking for a place to hide in the Court of Teeth. Breaking spells on mortals has made me rebellious.

And for a moment, I am viciously glad. It doesn’t feel good exactly, to be in danger, but it does feel good to be the cause of events rather than being swept along into them.

“Take off your shoes,” I tell the girl, my voice rasping worse than ever.

She looks down at her sneakers. “What for?”

I give her a commanding look, and she toes them off.

I push myself up, trying to remember my half a plan. Hyacinthe grabs my arm as I sway, and my pride urges me to snap at him, but I am too grateful.

“So that your steps will be quiet,” I explain. “You three can fit behind the water trough. It’s dark, and if you crouch down, you won’t be seen.”

Hyacinthe pauses. “And you?”

I shake my head. “I said I wasn’t coming. I’ll keep the guards busy. Can you find your way out from here?”

He nods, briefly. He’s a soldier, hopefully trained for situations not totally unlike this. Then he frowns. “If you stay behind, you will be in great danger,” he tells me.

“I’m not going,” I say.

“He won’t forgive you for this.”

If Oak discovers what I’ve done, Hyacinthe is probably right. But I still have to face Lady Nore or she will hunt me down. Nothing about this changes that.

“You swore to me,” I remind him, although his words echo my fears. “Moments ago. What I ask is for you to get yourself and Gwen out of the Court of Moths alive. And get the merrow to the sea cave. It’s on the way.”

“Send me north, to Lady Nore, then,” Hyacinthe tells me, almost whispering. “Should you make it there, at least you’ll have an ally.”

“And that is why you ought not dramatically vow to obey someone,” I say, a growl in my voice. “They seldom ask for what you hope they will.”

“I know about faeries and bargains,” Gwen says to me, foolishly. “You’re going to ask something from me, too, right?”

I look her over. I hadn’t planned on asking for anything, but that was unwise. She probably has little on her, but her clothes and sneakers would allow me to pass into the mortal world more easily, if I had to do so. And there are other things. “Do you have a phone?”

Gwen appears surprised. “I thought you would ask for a year of my life, or a cherished memory, or my voice.”

What would I do with any of that? “Would you prefer to give me a year of your life?”

“I guess not.” Gwen reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, along with a plug-in charger she detaches from a key chain. “There’s no reception here.”

“When you and Hyacinthe get to safety, let me know,” I say, taking it. The metal-and-glass object is light in my hand. I haven’t held one in a long time.

“I was going to call my boyfriend,” she tells me. “Once, he picked up, and I could hear their music in the background. If he calls—”

“I’ll tell him to get out,” I say. “Now hide, and when they come in, you leave.”

Hyacinthe gives me a speaking look as he guides the mortal toward the darkness.

It is the merrow that takes my hand. “Lady of the land,” he says, voice even raspier than mine, skin chilly. “The only gift I have to give you is knowledge. There is a war coming in the waves. The Queen of the Undersea has grown weak, and her child is weaker. When there comes blood in the water, the land would be well served to stay away. Cirien-Cròin is coming.”

Then he lurches toward the water barrel.

And at his warning, I walk to the copper-banded door and turn the knob. I still feel wobbly and breathless, as though I have cast off a long fever. No breaking of a curse ever felt like this before, and it frightens me.

But the bauchan and the rose-haired knight on the other side scare me even more. At the sight of me, she reaches for her sword, which I note she retrieved. I hope that means that Jack of the Lakes dropped it and not that he was caught.

“How did you—” the bauchan begins.

I cut them off with the firmest voice I can summon. “The cursed soldier—the prince’s prisoner—he’s not in his cell!” Which is true enough, since I let him out.

“That doesn’t explain what you’re doing where you’re not supposed to be,” the rose-haired knight says.

“When I came, there was no one guarding the entrance,” I say, letting that accusation hang in the air.

The rose-haired knight strides past me impatiently, a blush coloring her cheeks. She stalks to the end of the prison where Hyacinthe ought to be. I follow, carefully keeping my gaze from the shadows.

“Well?” I say, hand on my hip.

The panic in their eyes tells me that Queen Annet has earned her reputation for brutality honestly.

“The girl,” the rose-haired knight says, realizing the human is gone, too.

“And the spy from the Undersea.” The bauchan speaks a word to open the merrow’s cell, then walks around it. Letting all the prisoners out has confused their suppositions about what happened, at least.

“You saw nothing?” the rose-haired knight asks.

“What was there to see?” I return. “What did you see, to leave your post?”

The bauchan gives the knight a look, seeming to will her to silence. Neither of them speaks for a long moment. Finally, the knight says, “Tell no one of this. We will catch the prisoners. They must never make it out of the Court of Moths.”

I nod slowly, as though I am considering her words. I lift my chin as I have seen the Gentry do, as Lady Nore did. No one would have believed the part I am playing were I in my rags, with my wild hair, but I see the guards believe me now. Perhaps I could come to like this dress for more than its beauty.

“I must rejoin the prince,” I say. “I will keep this from him as long as I can, but if you don’t find Hyacinthe before we depart for the Thistlewitch at dawn, there will be no hiding that he’s gone.”

Heart thundering, I walk out into the hall. Then I retrace my steps to the revel, pressing my hands to my chest to still their trembling.

I head to a table and pour myself a long draught of green wine. It smells like crushed grass and goes straight to my head, drowning out the sour taste of adrenaline.

I spot Oak, a wine bottle in one hand and the cat-headed lady I saw before in his arms. She reaches up to pet his golden curls with her claws as they dance. Then there is a change of partners, and a crone moves into the cat lady’s place.

The prince takes her withered hand and kisses it. When she leans in to kiss his throat, he only laughs. Then sweeps her away into the steps of the gavotte, his inebriated smile never dipping or faltering.

Until the ogre dancing with the cat-headed lady abruptly pulls her out of the spinning circle. He pushes her roughly through the throng toward a second ogre.

Oak stops dancing, leaving his partner as he strides across the floor to them.

I follow more slowly, unable to make the crowd part for me as he did.

By the time I get anywhere close, the cat-headed lady is standing behind Oak, hissing like a snake.

“Give her over,” says one of the ogres. “She’s a little thief, and I’ll have it out of her hide.”

“A thief? Purloining hearts, perhaps,” says Oak, making the cat lady smile. She wears a gown of the palest pink silk with panniers on either side and earrings of crystals hanging from her furred ears. She looks too wealthy to need to steal anything.

“You think because you’ve got that good royal blood in you, you’re better than us,” says the ogre, pressing one long fingernail against the prince’s shoulder. “Maybe you are. Only way to be sure is to have a taste.”

There’s a drunken wobble to Oak’s movements as he pushes off the ogre’s hand and obvious contempt in his voice. “The difference in flavor would be too subtle for your palate.”

The cat-headed lady presses a handkerchief to her mouth and steps delicately away, not sticking around to witness the consequences of Oak’s gallant defense of her.

“I doubt it will be much trouble to bleed you and find out,” one ogre says, causing the other to laugh and close in. “Shall we put it to a test?”

At that, the prince edges back a little, but the second ogre is directly behind him. “That would be a mistake.”

The last thing Oak ought to do is show them he’s afraid. The scent of weakness is headier than blood.

Unless he wants to be hit.

Should he be drawn into a fight, he would violate guest etiquette. But if one of the ogres struck first—then it would be the host who had made the misstep. Judging by the size of the ogres, though, a single blow might knock the prince’s head off his shoulders.

Not only are they large, but they look trained for violence. Oak wasn’t even able to block my hand when I scratched his face.

I must have made some impulsive, jerky movement, because the prince’s gaze goes to me. One of the ogres turns in my direction and chuckles.

“Well, well,” he says. “She looks delicious. Is she yours? Since you defended a thief, perhaps we ought to show you what it feels like to be stolen from.”

Oak’s voice hardens. “You’re witless enough not to know the difference between eating a rock and a sweetmeat until your teeth crack, but know this—she is not to be touched.”

“What did you say?” asks his companion with a grunt.

Oak’s eyebrows go up. “Banter isn’t your strong suit, is it? I was attempting to indicate that your friend here was a fool, a muttonhead, a clodpate, an asshat, an oaf—”

The ogre punches him, massive fist connecting with Oak’s cheekbone hard enough to make him stagger. The ogre hits him again, blood spattering from his mouth.

An odd gleam comes into the prince’s eye.

Another blow lands.

Why doesn’t he hit back? Even if Oak wanted them to strike first, they’ve done it. He would be well within his rights to fight. “Queen Annet will punish you for attacking the Crown Prince!” I shout, hoping the ogre will come to his senses before Oak gets hurt worse.

At my words, the other ogre clamps down on his friend’s shoulder, restraining him from a third blow. “The boy’s had enough.”

“Have I?” Oak asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His smile grows, showing red teeth.

I turn to him in utter disbelief.

Oak stands up straighter, ignoring the bruise blooming beneath one eye, pushing away the hair hanging in his face. He looks a little dazed.

“Hit me again,” the prince says, daring them.

The two ogres share a look. The companion seems nervous. The other makes a fist.

“Come on.” Oak’s smile does not seem to belong to him. It’s not the one he turned on the dancers. Not the one he turned on me. It’s full of menace, his eyes shining like a blade. “Hit me.”

“Stop it!” I scream, so loud that several more people turn toward me. “Stop!”

Oak appears chagrined, as though he were the only one I was yelling at. “Your pardon,” he says.

They allow him to stumble over to me. Whether he’s punch-drunk or just plain drunk, I cannot tell.

“You’re hurt,” I say, foolishly.

“I lost you in the crowd,” Oak says. There’s a bruise purpling at the corner of his mouth, and a few specks of blood mixed with his freckles.

The same mouth that I kissed.

I nod, too stunned to do more. My heart is still racing.

“Shall we put our dance practice to some purpose?” he asks.

“Dance?” I ask, my voice coming out a little high.

His gaze goes to the circles of leaping and cavorting Folk. I wonder if he is in shock.

I have just come from betraying him. I feel rather shocked myself.

I put my hand in his as if mesmerized. There is only the warmth of his fingers against my chilly skin. His amber fox eyes, pupils wide and dark. His teeth catch his lip, as though he’s nervous. I reach up and touch his cheek. Blood and freckles.

He’s shaking a little. I guess if I’d done what he did, I’d still be shaking, too.

“Your Highness,” comes a voice.

I drop his hand. The rose-haired knight has pushed her way through the crowd, three more heavily armored soldiers behind her. Their expressions are grim.

My stomach drops.

The knight bows. “Your Highness, I am Revindra, part of Queen Annet’s guard. And I bring news that your—that one of your companions broke into our prison and released Lady Nore’s spy as well as one of Queen Annet’s mortals and a merrow from the Undersea.”

I say nothing. There’s nothing for me to say.

“What evidence do you have?” Oak asks with a quick glance in my direction.

“A confession from a kelpie that he gave her aid. She paid him with this.” Revindra opens her palm to show the silver fox with the peridot eyes.

His jaw tightens. “Wren?”

I don’t know how to answer for what I did.

Oak takes the playing piece, an abstracted expression coming over his face. “I thought never to see this again.”

“We’re here to take Suren,” Revindra goes on. “And we will take it ill if you attempt to prevent us.”

The gaze that Oak slants toward me is as cold as the one he bestowed on the ogres.

“Oh,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”