“It’s terrible for everyone.”
“Yes, of course. Fae breaking free, running loose … who knows what they’ll do.” She tilts her head, studying me the way a cat studies a mouse. “Though I have to say, the timing is rather remarkable, don’t you think? You come home defending these creatures, speaking out against their use, and then …” She spreads her hands. “This.”
“The fae who took me escaped days ago. What happened has nothing to do with me.”
“Doesn’t it?” Her smile sharpens. “Some might say that you know something the rest of us don’t.”
I lift my chin. “If you have an accusation to make, make it. Otherwise, step aside.”
“Accusation?” She presses a hand to her chest in mock surprise. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything, Princess. I’m simply sharing what others are saying. The court talks. Surely you know that by now.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “People are wondering what really happened during those days you spent alone with that creature. Maybe you grew closer to the beast than you’re willing to admit.”
My fingers flex. I want to hit her. I want to grab her by her perfectly styled hair and slam her face into the wall the same way Cairn slammed Cowen’s face into the trophy plaques.
The violence of the thought shocks me. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone before.
“Careful, Maren.” My voice comes out steady, but there’s a threat beneath it that makes her eyes widen and startles me. “You’re very close to accusing the king’s daughter of treason. I’m sure my father would be interested to hear about it.”
She recovers quickly, her smile sliding back into place. “As I said, I’m not accusing anyone. I’m only thinking of your reputation. Some friendly advice … if I were you, I’d be very careful about how I conducted myself over the coming days. Sympathy for the fae could be seen as … Well, I don’t need to go into detail, do I?” She gives me a smile, and steps aside, her companions parting to let me through.
The whispers continue to follow me all the way to my chambers. I keep my head up, and my face blank the entire way, but once I’m inside, I close the door behind me and lean against it, breathing hard. Nella must have left to work on other chores, leaving the room empty and quiet.
I push off from the door and cross to the window. I need air. I need to think. I need?—
My eyes catch on the small package sitting on my dressing table.
I stop mid-step, staring at it. It’s wrapped in cloth and tied with twine—the kind of rough wrapping they use in the butcher’s stalls. Dark stains have seeped through in places, blooming against the pale fabric like rust.
It wasn’t here this morning. I’m certain of that. Which means someone came into my chambers while I was at the council meeting and left it here.
My hands are shaking worse than ever as I approach the table, everything inside me screaming that I shouldn’t open it. I should call for a guard, or wait for Nella to return, or?—
But it’s too late. My fingers are already working at the twine. It comes loose with a soft whisper, and the wrapping falls open.
For a moment, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.
Flesh and cartilage, curving in a shape that’s almost familiar. Pale skin beneath a slick of red. And something metal, driven through the lobe … A tag. The kind used to mark livestock.
Dear gods, it’s anear.
Afae’sear.
It’s pointed at the tip, longer than a human’s would be. Andthe blood is still wet and warm.
While I stare at it, a piece of bloodied paper floats to the floor, landing on the carpet. The words written on it are big and bold.
FROM MY KENNELS.
The room tilts. I grab the edge of the table, my fingers slipping against the wood, keeping me upright while I stare at the severed ear in my other hand.
Someone did this. Someone cut off a fae’s ear. A fae who could be dead or still alive—I don’t know which is worse—wrapped it up like meat from a market stall and left it on my dressing table for me to find.
From my kennels.
I don’t know what that means. Is it a threat? A warning? A reminder of what fae are? Property, livestock, something to be tagged and disposed of?
My stomach heaves. I stumble toward the washbasin and barely make it before I’m sick, retching up everything I ate this morning. The spasms go on and on, even after there’s nothing left to bring up, and I stay hunched over the bowl with tears streaming down my face and the taste of bile burning my throat.
When it finally stops, I straighten slowly and wipe my mouth with a still-shaking hand.
