The Queen took a sharp breath. Then—so marginally I almost missed it—she nodded. “If the Undersea will absolve us of all complicity in this matter, and if no subject of this Kingdom dies . . . perhaps I can see fit to standing down the troops.”

It wasn’t enough. It was going to have to do. “Who told you I’d gone into the water?” I asked, trusting my abrupt change of subject to get me an answer.

“A messenger,” she said, eyes narrowing.

“Who spoke to the messenger?”

“Dugan.”

“In that case, we’d like to speak to Dugan, if you don’t mind.”

She looked like she wanted to refuse me, but couldn’t find a good reason. In the end, she shook her head, and grudgingly replied, “Fine. He’s in the armory.”

“Your Highness is gracious,” I said, and bowed before turning to walk away, leaving her standing, alien and angry, surrounded by the preparations for a war we didn’t need to have.

Sometimes I think the world never learns. Or changes.

TWENTY-ONE

DUGAN WAS WHERE THE QUEEN said he��d be: in the armory, conducting a small army of pages in the complicated business of preparing for a war. Most of them were too occupied with their tasks to notice our arrival. I cast a glance toward Etienne, raising an eyebrow. He was frowning, his attention on the children. I shared the sentiment.

It’s hard to estimate age on fae kids—differing rates of growth and standards of physical maturity mean it’s possible for an adolescent to be in his thirties, although most don’t slow that sharply until they hit puberty—but even so, I wouldn’t have placed some of those kids at more than nine. There’s a certain ungainliness that comes with the years between eight and fourteen that tends to fade away on kids who get stuck at that age for more than the customary span. These kids didn’t just look young; they were young.

“Should I be calling child welfare, Harrow?” I asked, leaning in the doorframe.

Dugan’s head snapped up, eyes widening, then narrowing as he took in the sight of me. He focused on Etienne, and spat, “You bring a traitor here, unbound? Is this a joke? Or have you elected to join her in her treasons?”

“Um, hello?” I raised a hand. “Not a traitor, and the Queen told us where to find you. Or do you think we’re such major badasses that we fought our way through the knowe to come and loiter at you in an imposing fashion? Because I’ve got to say, I’m flattered.”

I was forcing a levity I didn’t feel. It had the desired effect. Several pages ducked their heads, trying to hide their amusement. Dugan’s anger faded as confusion and irritation battled for dominance over his expression. As seemed to be often the case with Dugan, irritation won. “How is it that you were allowed to enter without being arrested and—one would hope—executed on the spot?”

“I’m starting to think I may be the only person in this Kingdom who doesn’t see my survival as a bad thing.” I pushed away from the wall. “Well, except for the local King of Cats, and the Duke and Duchess of Saltmist, and most of the staff at Shadowed Hills, and everyone at Goldengreen, and if we’re done with the name-dropping and being pissy part of our program, we did come here for a reason. Beyond annoying you, I mean. That’s just a really nice bonus.”

“October,” said Etienne. He was trying to sound chiding, but he couldn’t even manage to sound like he meant it. Turning his attention back to Dugan, he continued, “We were sent by Her Highness to speak with you. If you would have a moment?”

“Oh, of course. I always have time to drop everything for the Countess,” said Dugan, sounding disgusted.

I smiled. There’s nothing like open disdain to make me feel better about my role in this world. “And that’s how I like it. Can we get on with it?”

“Will it make you leave faster?”

“Generally.”

“Please.”

“According to the Queen, you’re the one who spoke to the messenger who saw me go into the water with the Duchess of Saltmist. Can you describe this messenger to us, please?”

Dugan frowned. “You’re here for that?”

“Yup. So it should be easy for you to give me what I want and get me out of your hair.” A page paused next to me, staggering under the weight of his armload of arrows. I leaned over to steady him, never taking my eyes off Dugan. “I can wait until you do.”

“She was a changeling. Brown hair. Blue eyes. I’d never seen her before in my life.” He sneered. “Just another bit of mongrel trash seeking to purchase a place in the Court.”

“I’m going to ignore the part where you’re trying to bait me,” I said. “What else? What breed was she? Did she use magic in your presence?” A nasty suspicion was taking shape at the back of my mind. Brown hair and blue eyes didn’t describe any of the changelings I knew—except, by a very generous definition of “blue,” me. But illusions are wonderful things, and if you keep them subtle, they can make a lot of details difficult to be certain of.

“Some sort of Daoine Sidhe out-breed,” he said, sniffing. “I’m surprised you don’t know her by description, Daye. I’d think you mongrels would have a great deal in common.”

“I’ve been upgraded to mongrel? You flatter me.” Taunting him was keeping me from losing my temper, if only just. “Magic, Harrow. Did she use any?”

“She had some sort of filter around her,” he said dismissively, as if nothing a “mongrel” did could be of any concern.

Idiots like that are why I sometimes despair for the future of Faerie. “What did it smell like?” I asked, from between gritted teeth.

“Wax,” he said, with a wave of one hand. “Wax and some sort of flower.”

That was what I’d expected. It still hurt to hear it said. “Cold wax, or wax from a candle that’s still burning?” Oberon help me, but I had to be sure.

“Hot.”

“I see.” The scent and feel of a person’s magic isn’t one hundred percent unique; I’m not the only one in Faerie who smells like copper when she casts a spell, although I’ve never encountered anyone whose magic incorporates all the elements mine does. Hot wax and flowers only described the magic of one person I’d ever met.