“It was a glamour,” he says. “It’s what I do when I feed.”
“When youwhat?”
He lets out an exasperated groan. “I’m a psy vampire. I do more than simply taste emotions. I also feed on them. They sustain me the same way food nourishes others. I choose to feed on fear because it’s easy to come by. And when I feed on one’s fear, it generates more fear. I weave a glamour, it frightens those who see it, and I drink the fear that emerges. I drink fear, I create more fear, and I drink that too. Got it?”
I cross my arms. “So you were terrorizing those children. Devastating them.”
“They attacked our mode of transportation.” He waves a hand at the front end of the coach. “They unhitched Donna and Dominus and would have stolen our wheels next and sold them by sundown.”
“Our wheels,” I echo. “Five hungry children inconvenienced your leisurely ride and tried to steal your carriage wheels, and you found it prudent to traumatize them.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “This isn’t the first time these urchins have attacked, and it’s about time they learned their lesson. Normally, it’s the adults who target the royal coaches, hoping they’ll get their hands on our coffers after tax collection. The young ones steal wheels and any part of a carriage that can be quickly removed, carried, and sold.”
I grit my teeth. “They’re poor and hungry. What do you expect?”
“I expect them to not break the law or to at least have the decency to refrain from doing so in front of their prince. I could have rounded them up and thrown them in the dungeon, you know. At least this way, they run home to their parents and perhaps think twice next time about robbing travelers.”
“You aren’t at all worried about fixing the root cause, are you?”
“What root cause?”
“That they’re homeless. From the slums at best. That they’re underfed and overworked. That they’re probably orphans.” A lump rises in my throat at the last word. I know what it’s like to be orphaned. While I may have been treated poorly by Mrs. Coleman after Father died, I’ve lived a life of luxury compared to most children who are left parentless. I can’t even begin to imagine the horrors underprivileged orphans are forced to endure every day.
“I’m an unseelie prince. It’s up to the seelie rulers to look after humankind. The Seelie King of Lunar should be taking care of the human cities—”
“Well, he’s doing a shit job,” I say, my voice trembling with fury. “His palace lies in the south, while yours ishere. I don’t care that you’re politically unseelie. You’re a prince. Your palace is within a stone’s throw of Evanston, and yet you act like you have no responsibility for its people.”
“Why am I even arguing with you? I have no idea who you really are.You’rethe one breaking the law.You’rethe one I should be terrorizing. Have you any idea what the punishment is for impersonating a princess?”
“Severe, I’m sure. Which means I have nothing to lose by speaking my mind.”
He scoffs. “Oh? By all means, speak. Get off your high moon mare and tell me what exactly you expect the Unseelie Prince of Lunar to do for these dear little ruffians you’re so keen to defend.”
“Well, you could start by entertaining the aristocracy less and try just giving a breezing shit about the starving and the poor. Or anyone but yourself, for that matter.”
He tilts his head back. “Entertaining the aristocracy? I’m hosting the social season because it keeps the elite in check. The rebellions were started by Saint Lazaro and the elite families. They took first action in cities and towns closest to the unseelie palaces. Hosting the social season reminds them the unseelie are watching too. That we remember. That they would do best to keep our favor.”
I shake my head and begin to turn around, although I’m not sure where I expect to go. All I know is that there’s no point arguing with him. I’ve said my piece and I know he won’t take a word of it to heart.
“How dare you shake your head at me,” he says, following behind. “What you’re saying is potentially treason. Hosting the social season is Queen Nyxia’s policy. Do you think she’s wrong? You think she’s foolish for doing this one thing to placate the aristocracy?”
I round on him. “I think you’re focusing on the wrong people. Yes, the elite funded Saint Lazaro’s rebellion, but who do you think they got to fight it? The poor. The hungry. Those who already had nothing to lose. Who do you think lost most at the end of it? Who do you think isstilllosing?”
Surprise flashes over his face, but he steels it behind suspicion. “Who are you?”
I purse my lips, then lift them into a cold smile. My words come out quiet. “No one. Just another nobody far below your notice.”
He holds my gaze too long, and I can’t tell whether his expression reveals hurt or anger. I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t. He just watches, one tense moment after the next. Then finally, he turns around and starts walking away. “I’ll deal with you later. For now, we need to find Donna and Dominus. Come on.”
He doesn’t wait for me to follow, but I do, trailing several feet behind him. As we walk in barbed silence, I consider whether my outburst dug me a deeper hole than I already had. How is it I’m able to hide most of my ire from my stepmother, but I can’t hold my tongue in front of the prince? I try not to think about what repercussions await and focus instead on the dirt road.
After a few minutes, Franco stops. I look up to find the moon mares off to the side, feasting on two large hares.
“Of course,” Franco says. “The little bastards have figured out the fillies’ weakness. Tempt them with raw meat and they’ll forget what they’re supposed to be doing.”
“I thought you said they listen to you.” I keep my voice neutral, not wanting to spark another argument.
“They normally do, but they’re still young. The adult mares would bite a brigand’s head off before letting them anywhere close to their harnesses, but these fillies…” He shakes his head at the feasting creatures.
