“You again,” she sighs as we enter.
It’s shocking to see her, especially looking so serene. I haven’t seen her since Bram’s coup. It’s like my body can sense how dangerous she is; I have a sudden urge to turn on my heel and run.
“Have you been in Bath this whole time?” I ask.
“My son loves me. He prefers me close by,” she answers coolly.
The four of us jump at a clatter in the shadowy corner of the room.
Olive emerges, her gray cloak still pulled over her head. She’s got a tray of food in her hands: a bowl of milk, a saucer of thick honey, glazed buns, and thick slices of bread. She calmly lays it on the floor and pushes it through the gap between the bars of the cell.
“Olive?” I say. It’s the oddest thing. She doesn’t even glance my way.
“You enchanted her?” I ask Queen Mor.
“Mysonenchanted her,” she answers. “He needed someone to care for me.”
Emmy grasps Olive’s blank face in her hands. “Olive?”
Olive just blinks.
Faith approaches Queen Mor’s cell with her hands on her hips. “If he loves you so much, why does he have you in a cage?”
“This is one of the things I hate about humans. Your lives areso short you have no stomach for conflict. This is simply a”—she searches for the right word—“brief disagreement.”
“He’s wreaking havoc,” I say. “People are dying.”
She levels me with a glare. “That’s what people do. They die.”
I point to Olive. “Undo it.”
Queen Mor gestures vaguely to the bars. “I can’t. But don’t fuss too terribly, she’ll be back to her old self the moment you leave.”
I search for a response, but tears spring to my eyes and I’m afraid if I keep speaking, I’ll cry with frustration. I don’t want to cry in front of her.
Her head tips back and she rests it against the bars. “How is it I’m bored of you already?”
“Does anyone have a deck of cards?” I ask. The girls look confused, but Emmy raises her beaded reticule.
“I have my tarot cards,” she says.
I extend my hand and she places the creased deck in my palm.
I sit down on the floor, as close to Queen Mor as I can manage, so close my knees are pressed against the cold bars, and shuffle the deck. Mor’s dark eyes narrow as she watches.
I sift through the stack, pulling out every major arcana card as I go. The World, the Fool, the Hanged Man, the Empress.
Then, with only the minor arcana left, I shuffle.
The cards are thick, with golden edges, and not easy to shuffle, but I do a serviceable enough job, and then I begin dealing.
With two hands dealt, mine in front of me, and hers pushed just slightly through the bars, I stare her down and wait.
“What is this?” she asks cautiously. It feels like a victory.
“A game.”
“Why?”
