“And Emma?” She seems genuinely interested.
“I found her. She’s here, but she’s … changed.”
“A seeker?” she whispers.
“More than that. But yes, in part.”
“She can survive the sun?”
“She can. I’m not entirely sure if it’s Grimelda’s ward, perhaps another ward, or if it’s simply part of her nature.”
“Hmm.” She leans back, seemingly comfortable in her cell. “That’s interesting.”
For a moment I think Brock must be mistaken, that Lunarie happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But no, she’s here for a reason. She seems to know it, too, because she hasn’t asked to be released.
“Would you like to tell me about the uprising?”
She folds her hands in her lap. “It’s time.”
“Time for a violent overthrow of the realm?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I never wanted violence. I tried to make it easy, to take steps that would guide you away from disastrous choices. That way there wouldn’t be an all-out rebellion.”
I have a sense of vertigo, because the fae I’m looking at is nothing like I thought her to be. Not at all. “What steps did you take, Lunarie?”
She glances down, then holds my gaze again, though now she’s wincing a bit. “I suppose there’s no point in hiding it anymore.”
“Tell him. Tell him what you did,” Gwenarie says drowsily from the dark.
“Gwenarie had no part in it,” Lunarie says quickly.
“I would’ve killed you if I had known, sister. I may yet.” Gwenarie’s voice trails off into a snore.
Lunarie tangles her fingers together. “I …” She clears her throat. “Well, I was the one who cursed you not to see your fated mate.”
My breath stills in my lungs.
Because what I heard must be wrong.
Lunarie is mistaken.
This makes no sense.
“Lunarie, I’m afraid that’s not possible. It would take a witch, a strong one to—”
“A witch who understands alchemy.” She holds up her fingers, the tips a fading purple.
Purple. The curse that hid Emma from me. When Grimelda revealed it, Tristano had said it looked as if I’d been wrapped in a violet spider web. “There are purple lines, like gossamer strands.”
I shake my head, utterly baffled. “Why, Lunarie? Why?”
“Because of Gwen.” She glances toward her snoring sister. “I was afraid she was your true mate. She’d been saying it for centuries, so I worried it would come true—that once you were king the bond would snap into place and you’d make her your queen. I couldn’t let that happen, so I worked a spell and sewed it up tight with alchemy. You wouldn’t be able to see your true mate, so you never would claim Gwen as your queen.” She shrugs as if it’s the simplest math in the world.
“Why?” I ask again, still trying to unravel Lunarie’s layers of intrigue and lies.
“Because Gwen would’ve kept the old ways, the cruel ways, the ways that keep freedom in the hands of the nobles and away from others. The lesser fae—I hate that term—would remain downtrodden, the changelings treated little better than slaves. With her as your queen, nothing would change, and this realm would go another thousand years with more and more injustice.” She stands and comes to the bars, her impassioned words driving her forward. “I love my sister, fiercely. I do.” Her eyes water. “But I couldn’t let her hurt anyone else. She would’ve made you into your father, and you would let her, because she’d be your mate. As queen, her word would be law. No equality, no love between the races, no way forward for all to live their lives as equals. I know my sister. I know what she’d do.”
“You could’ve come to me, Lunarie.” I stand, too. “I amnotmy father.”
