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“What’s that?” Mark said, tilting his head back. “I don’t recall those mountains.”

Cristina looked ahead and saw a dark smudge on the horizon. It certainly resembled a ridgeline, but she didn’t recall a mountain range being here either. On the other hand, the geography of Faerie wasn’t always reliable.

She laid her cheek against Mark’s shoulder, against the softness of well-worn cotton that smelled like Mark and home. She could feel the tension in him, the worry that somehow they would be trapped here in Faerie, where they had Kieran, who loved them, but where their families and friends would be impossible to reach.

She told herself not to be alarmist. Whatever was going on, there was no reason to think it would be permanent, and they’d been in much worse situations before.

Windspear crested the rise of a small hill, and she heard Mark gasp. They could now see the dark smudge on the horizon clearly, and it was not a mountain range.

It was a wall. A jet-black wall, looking absolutely unnatural among the greens and browns of Faerie. It sliced across the landscape like a blade, extending in either direction as far as the eye could see.

Cristina felt herself shudder. There was something about the wall that was more than unnatural. It felt evil, and not the faerie sort of evil. It felt demonic.

“It runs right along the border,” Mark said, in a hushed voice. “We’re not just cut off from the mortal world. We’re cut off from Seelie, too.”

9

The Deed of the Queen

“All right,” Ty said, adjusting his headphones around his neck. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Kit straightened in his seat, which was quite comfortable. They’d spent the money to get a private carriage on the train. It seemed that Ragnor, alias Reginald Murgatroyd, had provided them with a surprising amount of funds, probably since he’d been aware they’d be on the road for an unknown amount of time.

The carriage wasn’t luxurious, but it was nice enough. A sliding glass door closed it off from the narrow corridor outside. Inside, two long cushioned bench seats faced each other: Each could have fit three or four people sitting, but after last night, Kit had wanted to stretch out and sleep the journey away.

As the train began to leave the station, Ty drew a flip-out metal tray from a hidden compartment under the windows, and upended a plastic bag onto the surface with an expression that made Kit reconsider having given his companion free rein at the snack kiosks.

“What we have,” Kit said, sorting through the bags, “is an absolutely deranged amount of licorice. Black licorice, salted black licorice, licorice wheels…”

“It’s not just licorice,” Ty protested.

“We also have…Bolognese-flavored potato chips,” Kit noted, as Ty poked through the various plastic bags as if he were a scientist examining the habits of aliens. “Cinnamon pillows. Stroopwafels. Some kind of crackers flavored like paprika.”

“You try those,” Ty said, and Kit remembered long ago, Livvy telling him that Ty was sometimes bothered by new textures and flavors. Though clearly he was all right with licorice.

Kit rolled his eyes before picking up the bag and liberating a paprika cracker from its captivity. “Not bad,” he admitted. “Kind of a weird breakfast, but not bad.”

“Oh, right. I got you this.” Ty dug into his pack and removed a white paper bag, which he handed to Kit. Inside was a waffle—smaller than the ones he was used to, but filled with delicious pearls of caramelized sugar.

Kit looked out the window while he ate his waffle. It had been raining all morning, and the suburban area around Amsterdam was gray and cheerless in the damp. Across from him, Ty looked meditative as he nibbled his stroopwafel, which turned out to be two thin cookies stuck together with caramel.

“These remind me of the pancakes Julian used to make,” Ty said, starting on a second cookie.

Kit remembered those pancakes. He remembered the light-soaked kitchen at the LA Institute, and Julian standing over the stove. The smell of maple syrup. The Blackthorns crowded around a table. He felt a tightness in his chest; he’d done so much to try to forget all those memories.

“Used to make? Doesn’t he cook anymore?” Kit asked, keeping his tone light.

“He does, if it’s a holiday,” Ty said. “I’m just usually at the Scholomance, and he and Emma are in London half the time.” If the fact bothered him, he didn’t show it.

Before Kit could respond, Livvy materialized on the bench seat next to Ty, perched comfortably as if she’d been there the whole time.

Kit wished she didn’t always appear in that white dress, her feet bare, as if she were waiting to be laid on her funeral pyre. Not that it was her fault. Most ghosts appeared in their burial garments, or the thing they’d been wearing when they died. At least she wasn’t in the blood-soaked shirt she’d died in; it hadn’t been one of her favorites.

Livvy gave him a sharp-sad smile, almost as if she knew what he was thinking. She pointed at the salted licorice. “Part of me wishes I could taste that, and part of me is glad I can’t.”

Ty smiled—that easy smile of his that he only really directed at his family. “Any news from the outside world?”

Livvy put her ghostly feet up on the tray table. “I went to check out the Amsterdam Institute, but it looks completely closed down. Windows dark, chains on the doors. And I didn’t feel the presence of anyone there. It was deserted. Oh, and”—she held up a finger, looking thoughtful—“Ukraine won Eurovision four months ago.”