“I see. I suppose, again, that blood will tell.” Sylvester opened his eyes. “What will you do?”

There were so many questions packed into that short, seemingly-simple sentence. What would I do? Would I hand Rayseline over to the justice of the Undersea? To the Queen’s justice? To anyone at all? She and I were close, once, before she was stolen and raised in darkness. It wasn’t her fault that she grew up broken—and sadly, the fact that it wasn’t her fault wasn’t enough to un-break her.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m going to prevent this war. I don’t know what that’s going to mean, but I’m going to prevent this war. I need to search her rooms. I need to know if there’s anything here that might help me figure out what’s really going on.”

Sylvester nodded. Luna wasn’t saying anything. Her eyes were closed, pink lashes unnaturally bright against the stark whiteness of her skin.

“I . . . appreciate that you did not call us with this news. This is too important for that.” Sylvester sighed. “You have free run of her apartments. Etienne will accompany you and provide anything else you need.”

“He isn’t needed in the armory?”

“This is more important,” said Sylvester. “You’ll be sure we know the situation?”

“I will,” I said, with all the sincerity of a promise.

“Good.”

That was my dismissal; it couldn’t have been any clearer. I turned, walking back across the throne room to the doors. They didn’t call me back, and I didn’t turn around. Then the doors swung open, and I left my liege and his lady behind.

ELEVEN

TYBALT WAS LEANING against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the pages walk by with their armfuls of weaponry. I stopped in my tracks, struggling with the image of Tybalt looking so at home in Shadowed Hills. He’d always been a part of my life, a figure lurking on the fringes making snide comments and yet somehow, reliably, coming to my rescue when I needed him.

How long had it taken me to notice that?

He straightened when he saw me. “I take it you’ve finished?” he asked. There was open concern in his tone.

“Yeah. I told them.”

“How did they react?”

“As well as could be expected.” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I need to find Etienne. He’s going to accompany us for the search of Rayseline’s rooms.”

Tybalt blinked. “Really? Why?”

“Because otherwise, the Queen could question any evidence you produced,” replied Etienne, stepping through a doorway that hadn’t been there a moment before—a glittering hole in the air that vanished as soon as he was through it. “A changeling with reason to have a grudge against the accused, and a King of Cats with his own agendas? Best not to give her the opening.”

“I hate politics,” I sighed. “Hi, Etienne.”

“Countess Daye,” he replied. Tybalt received a nod, which he returned without visible annoyance. It can be hard for the more traditionalist members of the nobility to know how they should address a King of Cats—“Your Majesty” gives them too much credit, but anything else verges on insult.

Most days, watching Etienne talk to Tybalt would be high comedy, and I’d be the first to break out the popcorn. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time. “You know the way?”

Etienne nodded. “Sir Grianne will be meeting us there.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Etienne waved his hand, filling the air with the smell of limes and cedar smoke. A glittering hole opened in the wall next to Tybalt. I could see the arched windows of the Torquills’ private hall through the portal. Grianne, another of Sylvester’s knights, was waiting for us there.

“I love the Tuatha Express,” I said.

All breeds of fae have their own strange skills. The Tuatha de Dannan are teleporters, capable of opening temporary doors between places. They used to manage the gates between the realms of Faerie, before Oberon sealed them and left the Tuatha looking for something else to do with their time. Most have chosen Etienne’s career path. The rest have Courts of their own, and make pretty decent regents. Some people say they’re just killing time until Oberon returns and puts them all back to work. Stranger things have happened.

Tybalt and Etienne entered the gate close behind me. There was a moment’s blinding light, like I was stepping between the levels of a knowe—

—and I was standing in a different hall. Grianne turned in our direction, the glowing spheres of her Merry Dancers spinning in wide circles around her. She didn’t say anything. That wasn’t unusual; I’ve never met a chatty Candela, and Grianne makes most of her race seem positively loquacious.

“What will you need from us?” asked Etienne. He closed the portal with another wave of his hand.

I resisted the urge to answer “More coffee.” Instead, I asked, “Has either of you been in Raysel’s rooms before?”

“I have,” said Grianne grudgingly, like even that much communication hadn’t been in her plans for the day.

“Good. I’m going to need you to tell me if anything’s out of place.” The lintel above the nearest door was marked with a circlet of pale pink roses, identifying the rooms beyond as Rayseline’s. I started to step forward, and paused, a feeling of undeniable wrongness washing over me. After squinting at the doorframe for a long moment, I realized what it was.

There were no wards, either active or inactive. There weren’t even signs that there had been wards set in the past. “Etienne?” I said uncertainly.

He followed my gaze, and sighed. “The young Mistress Torquill never made much use of her magical gifts. Her quarters have never been warded.”

“Oh,” I said, cringing inwardly. Wards are complicated magic. They don’t come instinctively, like basic illusions or some racial gifts. Rayseline never had a childhood; she never got the training that was her birthright.

Out of everyone in Faerie, she might be one of the few who had less of a clue about her own abilities than I did. Something about that struck me as unutterably sad. But there was nothing to be done about it now, and, tragic or not, Rayseline was no longer on the side of the angels. I took a breath to steady myself, trying to dismiss any preconceptions, and stepped past Grianne into the receiving room.