“Before we do that, we have something to show you.”
“Show me?”
“Did you think we were just down here twiddling our thumbs? Give us more credit than that, Your Majesty.”
She says my title like a fond little nickname but it still makes me wince.
I follow them deeper into the darkness, down to the very end of the hall, where the prison ends in a jagged dirt wall. Cold groundwater seeps into the soles of my slippers and a fat drop of condensation lands on the top of my head.
There’s a figure huddled in the last cell. A flicker of torchlight illuminates my face as I step forward, and then I hear her laugh.
“Always a pleasure,” I greet Queen Mor.
“Oh, there’s no need to lie. I find it so distasteful.” Her voice is as cool and regal as it was when we were in her Kensington Palace throne room.
“He brought you here?” I ask.
She stands, straightening to her full height. Even in a simple white shift dress, she’s so inhumanly beautiful that the sight of her causes my heart to leap into my throat. “I told you, my son loves me.”
I gesture to her cell, the rusted bars, the water dripping from the crumbling earth above her. “Is this what it means to be loved by him?” I ask the question as much for her as for myself and Lydia.
“He wants me here.”
“But he doesn’t trust you.”
Her perfect face betrays no emotion. “He’s a wise and careful leader.”
“He’s a monster. Help me, please. Both your kingdoms depend on it, surely you see that.”
She cared enough for humans once upon a time that she staked her whole throne—her wholelife—upon it. Has she changed that profoundly in the years living among us?
“You want this brutality to stop. Iknowyou do.”
She retreats into the cell and sits down against the wall. With an exaggerated yawn she says, “Come back and see me when you’re less boring, Ivy Benton.”
I’m already walking away, but I pause and whip around to face her. “It’s Her Majesty, Queen Ivy, now.”
I can’t be sure, but I think I hear a low chuckle as we walk out of the dungeons.
I take Faith and Marion directly up to my room and dress them in the gowns from my closet. Faith’s is a pale blue the color of her eyes. Marion is in a deep purple gown with ribbons for sleeves. Together, we do our best to scrub the dirt from their faces and dress their hair with the variety of creams and brushes and combs we find in the drawers of my vanity.
“Where are the others?” I ask once we are alone.
“Safe, I think... I hope,” Marion answers. “Faith and I bought them time to run. We believe they all fled north. That was the plan, at least.”
I stay in my simple black gown, but at the last moment, I snag a diamond tiara from my wardrobe and place it on my tangled curls.
I lead them down the stairs to the ballroom. We pause at the double doors and take a deep breath. The three of us have survived in Bram’s English faerie court—all of it was training for this moment.
The doors crack open and the music of the faerie revel pours around us like a tide, sweeping us into the undercurrent.
The ballroom is packed with bodies, and I suspect Bram’s return may have something to do with it. Vines with dark, ripe fruit have been hung in garlands across the rafters. Golden orbs of enchanted faerielight cast the room in long shadows.
We cut across the writhing dance floor to the dais where Bram sits on his throne. His handsome face is vacant, his head propped up on his elbow.
He perks up as soon as he sees us, righting himself and grinning.
“Hey, I know you,” he slurs as we approach. “You’re all very pretty. Very pretty andvery mean.” His full bottom lip juts out in a pout. “Not you, Marion. You’re too sweet for your own good. One day someone is going to eat you up.”
