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“The queen holds each card—the deck is mist, and the jesters dance with royalty,” the poet declared, which was to be his sole contribution; thereafter he dozed off again. How he had attained a position on our Council was beyond me, until I remembered that Wendell had merely rounded up a handful of mortals at random, under the misguided assumption that this would please me.

“Let us interrogate the servants immediately,” said the Lady in the Crimson Cloak in her imperious manner. “With threats, if necessary.” She motioned to an attendant standing by the wall, and the faerie darted away, followed by three others, all looking wide-eyed with fear; the lady’s gesture had been vague.

“No, wait—” I said, but the attendants were already gone. I quelled a sigh. Nothing in this court, it seemed, could be accomplished without some amount of chaos.

“We should start with Queen Ar—the old queen’s ladies-in-waiting,” I said. “In the story, the first clue came from a servant who ran the king’s baths.”

“Most of them have fled,” Wendell said from his position by a window. He wandered back to the table and began to pace behind my chair, driving me to distraction.

“Or they’ve been killed,” Lord Taran said. “Oops.”

“We will look for any that remain,” Niamh said, motioning to the spriggan at her side. The little creature grinned wider—she was always grinning, which I found off-putting, but I did not doubt Niamh had reason to trust her—and hurried off.

“Has anything else of note occurred during my absence?” I enquired. “I would particularly appreciate good news, if there’s any to be had.”

“The realm may be slowly disintegrating,” Lord Taran said, “but the invaders have left. My scouts have informed me they have fled back to Where the Ravens Hide. Apparently they do not wish to be cursed along with the rest of us.”

“Thank you,” I snapped. “You consider that good news, do you?”

He gave me an amused look. “Not particularly.”

Callum murmured something to him, and Taran rolled his eyes, slouching in his chair with his hands folded, and went back to examining the walls. Wendell, meanwhile, was still pacing energetically. I was perhaps thirty seconds away from strangling him. Fortunately, an idea occurred, and I pretended to forget about Wendell’s coffee cup as I rearranged my notebook on the table. My elbow struck it, and the cup overturned. As I’d hoped, Wendell stopped pacing, seizing one of the napkins and applying it to the spill.

“Forgive me,” Callum said, “but I feel as if I’ve fallen a few bars behind. I understand that stories are an important part of Faerie, but—”

“Not a part,” Niamh said, pausing at her typing. “They are the very foundations of this world, and all the others. As such, they may be used as compasses. Guiding stars. Choose whatever analogy you like.”

“Yes,” Callum said after a little pause. As if seeking reassurance, he glanced at Lord Taran, who gave him a smile that I had never seen from him before, in that it was entirely devoid of malice. “I suppose what I am wondering is,” Callum continued, “why this story? Are there not others that may be useful to us?”

I bristled instinctively, as I would at a conference when an audience member questions my methods. Part of it was that I had worried over the same question myself; after all, I had spent only a few days at Trinity. Had I truly exhausted all the possibilities? “Other stories may exist,” I said, “but I assure you, ‘King Macan’s Bees’ is the likeliest candidate I could unearth.”

Wendell was still preoccupied with removing the coffee stain from the table, rubbing at a crack in the wood with a napkin and some of the lavender water from the finger bowls. “It is the right story,” he said, and though he did not elaborate, there was something in his voice that swept away my lingering doubts.

“Yes,” Taran said, running his thumb over the back of Callum’s hand. “Don’t worry about that part, my love. The real concern is whether we can locate my sister before her curse devours the castle, along with everything else. Our new queen may have discovered this answer too late.”

“Your confidence is much appreciated,” I said tightly. “But you need not be so grim about our prospects.”

“I am not,” Lord Taran said. “Should this poison continue to spread, I shall be taking Callum and fleeing to another realm, even if it be Where the Ravens Hide. I am more powerful than any of their nobility. They will be unable to do anything about it.”

I did not bother mentioning that most in Wendell’s realm could not do the same; apart from a few wanderers, Folk do not flit from realm to realm in the manner Lord Taran was proposing.

But Callum sighed, and somehow, that slight sound transformed Taran’s expression. He gave Callum a look that was half affection and half exasperation, and added, “But, naturally, I will do whatever it takes to stop my sister. She deserves a lingering death, as do those who have helped her, which I would be happy to administer. I guessed she would throw a tantrum once she lost her grip on the throne, but I did not anticipate her destroying her own kingdom in pursuit of vengeance. Truly, I have never known her to be so uncouth.”

Niamh made some reply to this, but I could not make out all the words, for the rustling of the leaves had grown so loud as to drown out most sounds—it was almost a roar. “Good Lord!” she yelled. “What has possessed the forest? Are we under fresh attack?”

“It’s the attentive oaks,” Lord Taran said. For some reason, he was looking at Wendell, so the rest of us did, too.

He glanced up—he had finished cleaning up the coffee spill and was now scrubbing obsessively at the inlaid carvings on the lip of the table. I would not have been surprised if he soon wore holes in the wood. I put my hand on his arm.

“What? Oh, yes.” His face went abruptly blank, as if he had stepped out from behind it and gone—elsewhere. This gave me the same dreadfully unsettled feeling as when he used trees as doorways. “The oaks,” he said. “They know.”

“Know what?” I didn’t much like the idea of those things knowing anything.

“That I’m—they can sense—” He ran a hand over his face, and then he closed his eyes. “If I can calm myself, I think they will stop.”

He kept his eyes closed for a moment while we stared at him like jittery attendees at a seance. Gradually, the rustle of the oaks lessened, and then, finally, the noise sank to little more than a whisper.

Wendell opened his eyes. “My apologies,” he said, then poured himself a fresh cup of coffee as if nothing had happened.