“It’s unfair, isn’t it?” I muse as we turn down a narrow side street lined with several butcher shops and a bakery. “That she and I are forced into such a silly spat over a man.”
“And such a silly man at that,” Aowen says, tossing her empty bowl into a bin. “One you don’t even want.” There’s a challenge in her side-eyed glance.
“Right. Because I want Desmond.”
“Where is Lachlan this afternoon?”
The subtlest of segues.
I do my best not to react. “Back at the castle answering some correspondence from your brother. Did you not know?”
“Must have forgotten,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “What news from my dear baby brother? Is he any closer to securing you an invite from Cernunnos?”
“Lachlan seems to believe it’s imminent. The Gazette’s been reporting on the reversal of my odds with a sort of frenzied awe. If I find the fragment and Torvil proposes, it may be the final push to change Duke Cernunnos’s mind. Which would, of course, be wonderful.”
A soft hum is Aowen’s only response.
On our way back to the castle, we’re stopped numerous times. And while several fae offer me well-wishes in my quest for the Bannrhorn, most want to speak to Aowen—requests for counsel or thanks for a kindness. A few want nothing more than to bask in her presence.
We’re about to turn up the main avenue when there’s a commotion behind us, and I’m nearly knocked off my feet by a man fleeing a cadre of celestial knights.
“Stop him!”
I turn at the knight’s bellow. Sir Quinn.
The fugitive in question pushes through the crowd clutching a brown parcel against his tattered tunic. He begs for help as fae peel away from him, some indifferent, some sneering.
Two knights tackle him from behind, the parcel flying out of his arms as his cheek hits the ground with a meaty splat. I wince sympathetically as they drag him over to Sir Quinn.
“Please,please,” the man begs, falling to his knees. “We’re desperate.”
A third knight hands the parcel to Sir Quinn, who unwraps it to reveal a marbled hunk of beef shoulder. “Stealing from a shop in Tír na Lune is equivalent to stealing from His Grace. Surely, you’re aware of the penalty?”
“He claims we are his citizens, but you’re killing us,” the man chokes out. “You destroyed our home, so we fled. And now no one will hire me in your shining city.” He spits at Sir Quinn’s feet.
Sir Quinn’s nose crinkles and his lip curls into a sneer. “Your failures are not His Grace’s concern. The laws apply to everyone regardless of circumstance.”
“My starving children are not a circumstance,” the man shouts, struggling against the knights’ grip.
Sir Quinn smiles cruelly. “Take him to the hold. His Grace will decide what to do with him.”
The man wails as the knights yank him upright, but before they can march him away, I step forward.
“Is this how House Áine treats its people, Sir Quinn? Have you no mercy?”
Sir Quinn rolls his eyes, and I fight an urge to kick him in the shins. I wish Lachlan were here so I could command him to attack. “This is none of your concern, Miss Fitzroy. Move aside.”
I hold my position, eyes narrowed, the breeze catching a few strands of hair. The crowd reforms, drawn by the stand-off. “I will not.”
Sir Quinn jerks his sword an inch out of its sheath. A blatant threat. “Move. Aside.”
“Or what? You’ll cut her down in the street?” Aowen steps up beside me, and though Sir Quinn has several inches on her, she’s by far the more imposing figure. “Provoke House Macán at your peril, Sir.” She turns to the prisoner. “What’s your name?”
“Stafford, my lady,” he sniffs. “My wife and boys are staying at a care home down on Front Street.”
“Leniency is a rot, Lady Macán,” Sir Quinn interjects. “There are hundreds more where this dog came from. If we feed and clothe one beggar, we must feed and clothe them all.”
Aowen and I stand down, allowing Sir Quinn and his knights to pass. But her words ripple through the crowd in their wake.
