Wally entered carrying two steaming plates—grilled fumblefish, a small dish of melted butter, and fresh oysters. I lowered my sword, exhaling. Just Wally. The briny smell filled the room. He set them on the table, then pulled out a bottle of Muchness Wine.
“Thought you could use this.” His eyes flicked between us, reading the tension. “Everything all right?”
“You’ll be relieved to know Alice doesn’t work for the queen. I can guarantee that.”
His gaze fell on the hat sitting next to Alice. The color drained from his face. He knew exactly what that guarantee meant.
“Carpenter will be pleased to hear it.” He bowed slightly, already backing toward the door. “Enjoy.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Alice glared. “I take it you used the hat on him as well.”
“He disappeared for a month, and we had to be sure he hadn’t turned traitor.” I hadn’t felt a thing when I’d used the hat on Wally. With Alice… that was different. I didn’t want to think why.
She edged closer to the table, staring down at the steaming plates. “Where had he gone?”
“To look for oysters in the deep sea. He and Carpenter are obsessed with oysters. They’d turn their own mothers over to the queen to get even a dozen of them.”
She stared at the hat then at the door where Wally had gone. “Is that what was in the bag you gave Carpenter?”
“Itistheir greatest desire.” I poured two glasses of wine. “And my greatest leverage.”
She put her hand on her stomach. “I don’t know if I can eat or drink anything after having my thoughts scraped out like a jack-o’-lantern.”
I set down the bottle, not looking at her. I’d done what I had to do. The queen’s spies were everywhere. I couldn’t afford to trust anyone.
But she wasn’t a spy. And I’d hurt her anyway.
I glanced up at her. “You’re as pale as a sheet. The side effects will be worse if you don’t eat.”
“You mean there are side effects to wearing your hat?” She bit her lip, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“Nothing physical.” I pushed a plate toward her. “Just bad dreams.”
“You mean nightmares?” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “And you think that’s okay?”
I looked away. She was peeling back my defenses, exposing something I didn’t want to examine.
“Nightmares don’t hurt you.”
“How do you know nightmares don’t hurt?” She leaned forward. “Nightmares can drive you insane. When was the last time you had one? How did you feel when you woke up?”
I took a sip of the Muchness Wine. “I don’t have nightmares.” I met her eyes. “I live them.”
I didn’t tell her the rest. That I’d felt the madness creeping in for years. That some days I couldn’t remember my own name.
But sitting here with her—watching her fight, watching her refuse to break—something settled inside me.
Ifeltmore sane than I had in a long time.
She took a cautious sip, then set the glass down. “It’s like a cross between champagne and white wine. Smoother, though. Richer.” She tilted her head. “And there’s something floral. Elderflower?”
“You have a good palate.” I swirled my glass. “But it’s not elderflower. It’s moonpetal—a flower that only blooms at midnight here.”
She picked up her fork and stared down at her plate. “What kind of fish is that? I’ve never seen a black fish like this.”
“Fumblefish. The scales are black but the meat is sweet, especially dipped in butter.”
