I follow Eloree down the grand staircase to the first floor, past a library with ceiling-high shelves of forest-green marble, and a strategy room in dark burgundies with an enormous map in the center. There’s another rickety wooden staircase that leads down to a cellar smelling strongly ofsomething.
The prickles of fear have turned into full-on, stabbing panic. The castle is silent and still. We pass no others, hear no voices.
“Where is everyone?”
“Waiting.”
“Where?” I prod, but Eloree gives nothing away.
The doors to the castle are at least three stories tall, carved of white wood. They creak against the stone floors as they swing open on their own, revealing a crisp, blue day.
We walk all the way to the gates of the castle. They, too, swing open freely as we approach.
“Please,” I beg, but Eloree doesn’t so much as turn around.
I think about running, sprinting into the woods or something, but that feels useless. I have an eerie feeling there’s nowhere in this kingdom Bram couldn’t find me.
We’ve only been walking for a few minutes when I hear the distant roar of voices.
It starts so low I convince myself I’m imagining it, but as we get closer there is no denying the cacophony.
It brings to mind the day of the regatta, when hundreds gathered on the banks of the Thames to watch the boats race.
“What are they cheering for?” I ask.
“You.”
We turn a corner, and I see them. The winding streets of town are packed with faeries who stand shoulder to shoulder.
Some hang out of upper windows, waving ribbons or sloshing wine onto the onlookers below.
The crowd parts reverently as Eloree and I approach, and this close, I can tell they’ve been up all night or longer. They have the glassy, bedraggled look of faeries at the end of a long revel. Their mouths and clothes are stained with bloodred wine, and their cheering is reaching a near frenzy.
In the very center of town, where four roads converge to make a square, a hasty platform has been built.
In the center is Bram. He’s sitting on a throne, one hand holding up his bored-looking head, the other spinning a knife against the armrest.
I gasp softly upon seeing him. Some animalistic part of me, the place in my brain that has kept humans alive for generations, begs me torun or fight, but all I can manage to do is freeze.
Lydia said we had more time. I thought we had more time.
Bram’s full mouth pulls up into a half smile, and he gestures at me lazily with the tip of his dagger. “You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”
The crowd goes wild as I step onto the platform. In the far back, I spot little Aurelia Vallen and her husband who look just as delighted as the rest of them.
On either side of Bram are Lydia and Emmett. Lydia wears a cream-colored dress similar to mine, and Emmett is in black court regalia like Bram, a golden circlet on his dark hair.
Lydia’s eyes meet mine with a weight I’ve never seen in them before. No longer the vacant stare I grew used to in our last months together, but something desperately urgent. I used to be able to read my sister’s mind with nothing but a glance, but in this moment she feels as far from me as she did when I was in London.
Emmett, on the other hand, can’t even look at me. His eyes are fixed on the eaves of some far-off building.
Bram lounges on his throne, as handsome and relaxed as ever.
Not seeing any other choice, I shuffle up beside Lydia, so I’m standing next to Bram.
Now that I’m up here I can see the banners. They hang fromevery window in the town square, painted with borders of stars and moons and wildflowers, all bearing the same message boldly in the center: WELCOME, IVY.
This spectacle isn’t something you could plan overnight.
