Their guards stopped them ten paces from the throne and bowed low. Rooke poked Emeline hard in the back, making her wince before she realized that she, too, was expected to bow.
When the hedgemen stepped back, the Wood King leaned forward in his throne. His liquid gaze slid over Emeline before darting to the shiftling at her side.
“What have you brought me?” His voice sounded old, like dust and earth.
“This”—Rooke swept out a slender hand—“is Emeline Lark.”
The king’s honed gaze felt like an arrow pulled taut across a bowstring, aimed straight at her heart. Beneath it, Emeline felt like cornered prey. Vulnerable and exposed before this ancient thing.
“Come closer.”
She did as he commanded, her footsteps crunching the fallen yellow leaves on the path. The cloying smell of magic swelled in the air here, like rotting bones.
When she stopped three paces from his throne, she saw that the king’s eyes were the color of liquid ink from corner to corner. Instead of irises, a white crescent moon burned at the center of each eye.
“Why have you come here, dustling?”
There was something cold and dead in those eyes. It made her throat shrivel. Unable to summon her voice, Emeline pulled the small orb from her pocket and held it out to him.
A rippling murmur echoed through the grove behind her. Emeline turned to see people emerging from the shadows of the trees, gathering to cluster and stare. Clothed in leather and fine wool, delicate lace and soft silk, they held themselves with moonlit grace. Their eyes shone too bright and their shadows twisted behind them, hinting at other shapes.
They were … not quite human.
Remembering Tom’s stories, Emeline knew this was the shiftling court.
I’m really here,she thought, resisting the urge to pinch herself.All the stories were true.
Emeline turned back to the king. He held out his palm, which was lined and weathered like an autumn leaf, his nailsthick and chipped like bark. As water streamed down his wrists, dripping to the earth below, Emeline willed her hand not to shake as she placed the tiny orb onto his palm.
He raised it to catch the starlight. It glowed milky white.
“You came all this way … to return my marker?”
“No,” she managed. “I’ve come for my grandfather.”
Those eerie eyes narrowed. His fist closed hard and swift, swallowing the orb.
“And with what do you intend to barter?”
Barter?
Emeline tried to remember the stories she’d grown up with. But in no story had anyone ever sought out the Wood King to demand back their tithe. She had no idea what to offer. Tithes were, by definition, a sacrifice. They were supposed tocostyou something. Your favorite milking cow. Your best and only three-piece suit. The last note your mother ever wrote you before she died.
What are my most precious possessions?
“My guitar,” she realized aloud. It was a Taylor, top of the line, and given to her by an anonymous fan. The instrument had been delivered to the green room before her very first music festival, with wildflowers woven through the strings. Emeline had assumed it was a gift from Pa, except her grandfather couldn’t afford such a gift and when she called to thank him, he didn’t know what she was referring to.
She loved her mysterious Taylor like a pet, and more important: she needed it to do her job. But she could buy another. She would just have to put it on credit and pay it off gradually. “I can give you my guitar.”
Several people in the crowd behind her laughed nervously, the sound chiming like discordant bells.
Heat crept up Emeline’s cheeks.
“Or my car?” she blurted out. The one she and Pa saved up to buy before she moved away.
That car had taught her the value of hard work and sacrifice. And, in its way, represented the love of her grandfather, reminding her of him every time she got in—like his cardigans, which she borrowed and never returned. More than this, though: She needed it for her out-of-town gigs. To drive her to and from festivals.
The Wood King continued to stare at her, eyes narrowing. “These things are of equal value to your grandfather?”
