Page 9

Lord Taran recoiled. “What have you done? That isn’t—”

“It is,” Wendell said. He was still breathing unevenly, but he no longer looked liable to collapse from exhaustion. “A fragment of the Veil, which I sewed into the hem. A window, if you like. What better ward is there against the Folk?”

“That should not be possible,” Lord Taran said, which represented perhaps the only moment in which we two would understand each other. He was not looking at Wendell, but at the cloak, tensing each time it fluttered in the wind.

Wendell shrugged. “You said I must be stronger than my father. But you did not specify by what measure, when you made your oath. Indeed, my stepmother could not have beaten her husband in a swordfight—her strength is of the mind. Well, I have the stronger eye for needlework. You no doubt saw the garments my father made and mended—I already know that you never saw the equal to this.”

Lord Taran was silent. He was not so difficult to read now—there was real trepidation in his eyes, and I remembered what Wendell had said about the Veil, and that all Folk fear it.[*4]

Wendell straightened with a wince, supporting himself with a branch. I went to his side to put my arm around him, not caring, in that moment, if Lord Taran decided to slice through me to get to Wendell, because I had noticed that he was bleeding—at least a dozen small slashes along his arms and side.

“He is correct, of course,” I said to Lord Taran. “Faerie oaths have a great deal of loopholes, but yours seems particularly open to interpretation.”

“Yes, yes,” Lord Taran said, sheathing his sword hurriedly. “I am satisfied. You can—put that away now.”

I was not enthused about putting that away; I had known Wendell had enchanted my cloak in myriad ways, but I hadn’t known there was a window to some hellish otherworld sewn into it, and now that I did I was more inclined to light the thing on fire. But Wendell looked pleased, as if Lord Taran had given his workmanship a great compliment, and a part of me felt a kernel of smugness amidst the terror of owning so fearsome a garment, so I allowed him to help me back into it. The hem rippled and shrank until it was once again an ordinary—though immaculately tailored—cloak.

“You could have asked for my cloak first instead of duelling him,” I pointed out. I felt lightheaded with relief, and also as if I might burst into hysterical giggles, which I preferred to avoid in front of Lord Taran.

“I thought I could win,” Wendell said. He did not seem put out by his defeat, but almost cheerful. “And anyway, I have always wanted to duel my uncle. He is said to be the best swordsman in the realm. It’s been a while since I had so much fun.”

“He nearly decapitated you!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, but besides that, Em,” he said patiently.

Lord Taran retrieved Wendell’s sword and handed it to him, hilt-first. Wendell accepted it with a look of regret.

“I would like for us to do this again,” he said.

“God,” I muttered.

“Not to the death, obviously.”

“As you wish, my king,” Taran said. He pronounced the word with a grimace, as if it had a sour taste. “Back to the rule of housekeepers, it seems.”

“Shall we have some refreshments?” Wendell said, and they strode back to the stream, talking of tea, as if they had not just been trying to kill each other.

Orga, though, was not so easily appeased. After Lord Taran had settled himself elegantly on a flat stone, she crept up behind him and slashed at his ankle.

Lord Taran swore, pulling up his trouser leg to reveal a line of bright red. “Yes, it is clear that our friendship is at an end,” he said, sounding regretful. “Not that we were ever the best of friends; I can recall only two occasions when she deigned to let me stroke her. Come to think of it, you are the only person I know to have formed such a bond with the cat sidhe.”

Wendell waved a hand. “My Emily has a grim.”

Lord Taran examined me, and then Shadow at my side, new interest sharpening his gaze. “A mortal?”

“Are you so astonished by my mortality that you must mention it every other minute?” I said, because, like Orga, I was not so ready to forgive him. “Your husband must find this tedious.”

Lord Taran laughed. I did not have the sense that the cruelty in him had faded, only that he had sheathed it somehow, as he had his sword.

Conscious of the absurdity of the situation, I removed the leftover scones from my pack, as well as the teacups from the faerie stone. There was a third cup in my pack now. I handed one of the scones to Lord Taran.

“Thank you,” he said. “These look excellent.”

Wendell scooped water from the stream into one of the cups and handed it to Lord Taran. I watched very closely, but still I could not pinpoint the exact moment when it turned into tea. It seemed as if a shadow had fallen upon it, and then it began to steam.

“Ha!” Lord Taran took an appreciative sniff. “That’s the one. Your father used to call for it on Harvest Market mornings.”

“Now, tell me,” Wendell said, once we all had our tea. “What has become of the rhododendron meadow?”