Page 42

I eyed him sidelong. It seemed wrong to confide in him what Lilja had said—and yet, now that I thought about it, I no longer saw why. This was Wendell, not some wicked faerie in a story. So I told him all.

I did not know how he would react, but I certainly wasn’t expecting him to look pleased. “It’s a kindness that she shares her concerns with you,” he said. “Lilja is a good friend.”

“A kindness!” I repeated. “Is that really what you think? She is not much better than Farris, who thinks you will have me strung up in a tree.”

“Naturally she worries about my feelings for you,” Wendell said, passing his hand absently over the tall ferns that bordered the path. “Think of the source. Lilja suffered greatly at the hands of the Hidden Ones—it would be strange for her to trust me.”

I did not find this a satisfying answer, particularly given the disquiet Lilja’s words had aroused in me. “That is all you have to say? You yourself told me that you were worried the throne would change you. And it does seem true that, in many tales, power corrupts those Folk who wield it.” I did not mention my ambivalence regarding this interpretation, for it has always seemed to me more likely that power only draws out the amorality inherent in all Folk, giving it free rein, rather than instilling a preference for wickedness.

“Yes.” Wendell came to a stop, frowning as he rubbed at his hair. “I do wish you would allow me to give you my name. Then if one day I do turn into a vengeful monster, as my stepmother has—or that bloody ice king of yours, wasn’t he a terror!—you can simply speak one word, and I will be under your command, free to become whatever you want me to be. Would it not ease your worries?”

Well, how on earth was I supposed to respond to this? After blinking at him in silence for a moment, I said, “I would prefer you not to turn into a monster in the first place. One murderous fiancé is enough for me.”

“More than enough,” Wendell said with such passionate resentment that I snorted with laughter. His expression changed as abruptly as sun breaking through cloud.

“Where would I be without you, Em?” he said. It was an old joke of ours, but it wasn’t a joke now, the way he said it. I did not reply, merely straightened the hair he had mussed, brushing it back into place. He took my hand and we kept going. Soon, the castle came into view—its light was visible first, a glow that silhouetted the nearby trees. Wendell stilled.

“What?” I said, instantly on my guard.

“It wasn’t here when I left,” Wendell murmured.

“What?” I repeated.

He hurried forward, and I followed him, Shadow giving a huff of displeasure at the length of this walk, when by rights he should have been abed already. It was several moments before the trees thinned enough that I could see what Wendell did.

In the forest behind the castle, stretching all the way to the brow of the hill, and laterally for as much as an acre, perhaps, was the same dark mist we had seen in the yew grove. The trees seemed shrunken and indistinct, and the silver bridges that draped this part of the forest, crowded with common fae, had vanished entirely.

What was more, the curse had consumed part of the castle grounds. At least two of the gazebos had been reduced to dark, skeletal things, like slashes of ink put to canvas by an impatient artist. The path that had led to the Monarchs’ Grove was gone—and was the Grove as well? I couldn’t be certain.

“The gardens,” Wendell murmured.

“What is the extent of it?” I said. My voice was shaking. “Is it growing?”

“I don’t know.”

I took his hand before he could fly into a temper—violence would not serve us now; there was nowhere to direct it.

We needed to find the queen.

“Let us see for ourselves,” I said. “Quickly.”

13th January

We convened before sunrise in the sprawling banquet hall. Niamh had suggested we meet here, where the court could see us. I had not fully understood what this meant, for I had imagined, given both the importance of my research and the likelihood that the queen’s spies still haunted the castle, that our discussion would take place in private, with only those we trusted in attendance. But, in addition to being open to the sky, the hall had many glassless windows so long and tall one could simply step through them from the gardens beyond, which meant we had an audience of innumerable eavesdroppers, courtly and common alike. Most did not even bother to conceal what they were doing; I saw several boyish-looking courtly fae setting up a table for playing cards just outside the closest window, and another brownie selling nuts from a basket on his head wandered along the wall (only the basket and two long-fingered grey hands were visible). A troupe of ghoulish-looking bogles dressed in rags perched upon the roofless walls, gawping down at us with their hollow eyes, occasionally catching hold of insects and tossing them into their cookpots. Nobody seemed to think any part of this strange; as far as I could tell, this was simply how court business was conducted in Where the Trees Have Eyes.

I was dressed once again in my queenly attire, much as I missed the simple shifts and cardigan I had worn at Trinity. The cardigan in particular, shapeless and scholarly as it was, had large pockets at the front that could hold my notebook and an array of pencils. Today’s gown—black again, with intricate silver lace across the bodice in the shape of flowering vines, which extended up my neck—had pockets, but I did not wish to use them. They seemed to be under a similar enchantment to the cloak I had obtained from the Hidden Ones; whenever I put my hand inside, I found some new trinket, or sometimes a piece of fruit or handful of sugared nuts. I worried that if I stored my notebook there it would vanish—or, almost as bad: become sticky.

Callum Thomas was present, as was Lord Taran, who leaned his head on his hand, looking bored, his dark eyes gazing absently up towards the sky. Niamh Proudfit sat across from them at the oak table, tapping at her typewriter and occasionally muttering inquiries and instructions to her personal attendant, a merry-faced spriggan.[*1] In addition to these was Wendell’s half-sister, whom he kept ordering away, after which the girl would simply sneak in through a window and crouch somewhere out of sight, until he eventually gave up and ignored her. There were also two members of the Council—which had dwindled in numbers due to many councillors having fled the castle in terror of the queen’s curse. One was a poet, and solely referred to as such, an elderly mortal man who spent much of his time dozing off, which was no great loss, for when he did speak it was a largely incoherent jumble of metaphor that gave the impression of consequence. I assumed this to be the result of too much time spent in Faerie, yet his speeches often had an air of affectation. The second was—unfortunately—the Lady in the Crimson Cloak. I preferred not to look at her, and she seemed to feel the same where I was concerned, though I suspect our reasons differed somewhat.

Wendell was pale. His hand was bandaged, for he had driven the queen’s curse back from the castle with his own blood. The corruption still lurked within the royal forest, but we were not at present in danger of being devoured by it. His fury had faded, but he was in a state of constant agitation, pacing back and forth and regularly going up to one of the windows to stare out into the forest. I found it very distracting and wished he would sit down.

“Now,” Niamh said, “give us the tale again.”

I had already told them the story of King Macan’s bees, but I respected her wish to be thorough. I repeated the tale, with which I am now so familiar that I could likely recite it backwards. I had to raise my voice a little, for the usual background rustle of the forest was even louder that morning, though it was not windy. I assumed the trees were as agitated as ourselves.

“It’s good,” Niamh said with a nod. “The story has many echoes of our present troubles—the usurper, the vengeful monarch, the curse. There is even a treacherous mortal queen.” She smiled in my direction. “I don’t know why we couldn’t make use of it. So, you propose—what? That we question the servants?”

I nodded. “In the story, the new king has no need to search for the old one, because Macan the First’s hideaway is known, or partly known, by those servants who were closest to him. So it is likely that there are three servants among the castle staff who each know a different clue that will lead us to the queen.”