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Dru’s ears had perked up at the mention of Shadowhunters, but when she leaned over to pour his wine, Byrne grinned up at her, his gaze roaming freely over her body. “Mortal flesh,” he purred. “There are those who find it distasteful. But I appreciate its transience. How fully it ripens before it rots.”

“Lord Byrne, really,” tittered Aminta, as the other faeries sitting around him burst into laughter, as if he’d said something unusually witty.

Dru wondered what would happen if she poured the rest of the wine on his head. Thais would have punched Byrne in the face. But Thais wouldn’t have gotten herself into this situation in the first place.

Byrne reached up to caress the side of Dru’s breast. Jerking back, Dru spun and walked away, her cheeks burning, the sound of giggling following her across the room.

I should have broken every bone in his hand, she thought. She imagined going back and hitting him with the pitcher, but knew that would only bring down a new punishment from the Queen, who was watching with a look of avid interest. As she stared, Dru saw her move her hand slightly.

Magic hit Dru like a shove from the back. She stumbled and sprawled onto the hard ground, the pitcher tipping out of her hands, spilling wine all over the floor.

Laughter rang through the room, and Dru heard muttered words among the titters: clumsy, and so stupid, and Shadowhunter.

Dru pushed herself to her feet, furious, wiping her hands on the apron of her dress, and realized she was leaving smears of blood and wine on the white fabric. She had scraped her left hand when she fell.

Only the Queen—and Rathna, who looked worried—were not laughing. In fact, the Queen wasn’t focused on Dru at all, but on something past her, with an expression that mixed triumph and consideration. Dru couldn’t help but follow her gaze.

Ash was standing in the doorway of the cavern, wearing a deep green tunic with gold embroidery on the sleeves and placket. A gold circlet glittered against his pale hair. He wasn’t laughing, either, Dru realized. If anything, he looked—disgusted. Which was so much worse.

Dru caught up the empty pitcher and spun on her heel, hurrying out of the room, ignoring the rude comments hissed at her as she passed. Her head was pounding when she reached the archway that led to the kitchens. She ducked through and found herself in a stone passageway that split into two directions: One led to the kitchen, the other to the wine cellar.

It was dim and cool in the passage, and for a moment Dru just leaned back against the wall, her eyes half closed, welcoming the darkness and silence. She felt an ache inside that had nothing to do with physical pain or even the sting of humiliation. She missed her family. She missed Thais. She was worried about Kit—

“What,” said a familiar voice, “is going on?”

Dru opened her eyes. Ash stood in front of her, a strange expression on his face. A mix of anger and something else. “Your mother’s punishment for me,” she said. “She demanded I serve the gentry tonight.”

“I told you not to attract her attention—”

“Nobody likes someone who says ‘I told you so,’ ” Dru informed him. “Besides, this was all on her. She had me dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. She wanted me to make contact with a Shadowhunter for her.”

“And you said no?”

“I said no.”

“She hates that,” said Ash, looking slightly pleased. Then he frowned. “Who did she want you to contact?”

Dru bit the inside of her lip. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.” He caught at her left hand, turned it over. The abraded skin was still seeping blood. He swore, and reached into his jacket, drawing out his stele. Not that it’s his, Dru reminded herself. It doesn’t belong to him.

Still, it was interesting that he had it with him. She’d thought it was always locked up in the training room. Apparently not.

He cradled her left hand in his. His fingers were longer than hers, gracefully shaped. Hands a concert pianist would die for. She suppressed a shiver as he sketched an iratze against her wrist, then watched in apparent fascination as the cuts on her palm faded and vanished.

“There,” he said, releasing her hand. He slid the stele back into his pocket. “Now tell me who it was.”

“No,” Dru said, closing her now-healed hand. She could feel the imprint of his palm, still, against the back of her hand. It made her furious.

“Really?” he said, softly. “No?”

His eyes had darkened; they seemed a deeper green than his tunic. He was staring at her. And Dru realized, with a thump of horror in her chest, that she’d forgotten, just for a moment, that she was supposed to be under his spell. To be loyal to him, to want to please him. Unless he is bound with cold iron, his power cannot be dimmed.

“It’s not safe here,” she said quickly, her pulse hammering. “Anyone could hear us. Later, in the training room. I’ll tell you.”

His features relaxed. Relief, she thought, that everything was working as it always did. That he had power over her. “Will you now?” Ash said, still in the same soft voice, and she felt his gaze rake over her, from her bare feet to the tendrils of hair that had escaped from under her gray kerchief.

Then he turned on his heel and walked away. Dru stayed where she was for a moment, letting her heartbeat slow, letting the wall hold her up. Her legs felt shaky. She’d almost blown it completely.