Page 86 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Lachlan knew Pippa was as safe as Fae oaths could make her, at least for the duration of the Revels. Therefore, telling her the truth was not going to put her in any more danger.

But it wasn’t good enough.

It was bad enough that she was linked to the Thorn Court at all. He woke most nights sweating about it, when he was not trying to fight his way through the mists. He worried about it claiming her, trapping her. Untouchable. Unreachable. He had already failed everyone else. Like hell would he fail her.

The Thorn Court was a shining jewel, made of pale crystal and stone. Snarled blackthorn thickets created a wall around it as strong as one made of stones and iron. Owls swooped overhead, like ghostly sentinels. He had lived here as a child, naming them as they passed his windows. He had ridden his first Pegasus down in the courtyard, kissed the baker’s daughter in the grove. Knelt to be crowned, next to his sister, even as he dreamed of books and lecture halls and long days in Hallow.

“The Dancers,” Lachlan explained when Pippa stared at the pink swirls of light. He ought to have guessed that she would be more arrested by them than by the sprawling castle.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “Why don’t you live here?”

He motioned to the damned mists churning around his ankles, reaching up to his knees. “It’s safer.”

She frowned. “Safer for whom?”

“For them. The curse is after me. The only reason you’re safe is because of the Revels. But even that is not foolproof.” He would find the person who had tried to pull her through the ring, and they would not fare half as well as the Redcap. Examples had to be made.

“Well, who protects you?” she demanded.

If he hadn’t already fallen in love with her the moment she saved him in the Library, he would have right then and there. She was so indignant and fierce, under those mild manners and the face that belonged in a Baroque painting of Aphrodite.

She had already seated herself on a large boulder, with a journal and a pencil she had seemingly conjured from midair. A glance showed him a neatly written list of the books he had stolen. Alphabetized, naturally. “I knew your stolen books must all have something in common,” she said. “The Red Grimoire. The one you stole. And then lost.”

“Is lost the right word?”

“Did you have it last?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have it now?”

“No.”

“And do you know where it is?”

“No.”

“Then lost is exactly the right word.”

“You are a formidable interrogator. But the one I stole is not the original. Though apparently any edition triggers the curse.”

“Is that why you were naked in my library?”

“Yes. And stabbed,” he reminded her.

“How many pages have you summoned?”

“Three. We keep them separated for safety. Archimedes, Cai, and Arcadia each keep one. I don’t, for obvious reasons. Can you use them to track the curse?”

She shook her head. “Not without hurting you.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Well, I do, you absolute cabbage. Now, do you know who placed the curse?”

Her gaze was steady and expectant. He knew she was not going to let it go. Cold sweat prickled the back of his neck at the thought that not knowing might somehow put her into more danger. She would go digging. Gentle but unmovable. Patient but unbreakable. It was her way.

“No.” He scrubbed a hand over his beard. “But someone is trying to steal the Tithe wish.”