His arm tightened around her. Cupping the nape of her neck, he pressed his lips to her forehead and held the position for a long moment before he relaxed. When he spoke, his murmur sounded pragmatic. “Modred did that on purpose.”

She lifted her head. “What do you mean?”

“There were even more clues in what you told me, if you knew how to look for them. You said yourself that you were exhausted, hungry, and it sounds like you were at the end of your rope.”

She sighed. “I was dirty too, and I smelled like a barnyard.”

“What he did was wildly inappropriate,” he told her. “One should never go into an audience with the Queen like that, unless there’s some overriding reason or dire emergency. Recently I had to meet with her in just such a state, and she was quite displeased… until I reminded her I was there because of her orders, and she had left me no other choice. You said she was having a bad morning and had a headache?”

“Yes.”

“Modred watches her moods with the same kind of intensity that a fisherman watches the sea. He would have known she was having a bad morning. When he took you to her, there was no way he could lose. Isabeau loves music, so if, despite everything, she took to you, he gained credit for pleasing her out of her bad mood. If things didn’t go well, then he had given her someone to take her ill temper out on. It never matters to him who becomes the brunt of Isabeau’s temper as long as it isn’t him.”

“Which was exactly what happened.” Her hands curled into fists. She would give a lot for the opportunity to plant a first in Modred’s handsome, smiling face.

“Yes. Isabeau might be manipulative, but she’s also prey to manipulation, if you know how to handle her, and Modred has been handling her for a very long time.” He shifted position and eased away from her. “I should leave.”

She scowled. They had taken their time eating, but surely they hadn’t talked the night away. And anyway, how could he tell what time it was down here? “If you must.”

“I don’t want to, but there’s something I need to do while it’s still dark,” he whispered. When he stood, she did as well. “Here, drink as much as you can before I go.”

Reluctantly, she accepted the flask and drank until she thought she would burst. When she handed it back to him, he tucked it into the canvas bag.

Following him to the cell door, she touched his shoulder. When he turned, she walked forward deliberately to hug him again.

As his arms came around her, she said haltingly, “Don’t scold me for saying this, but thank you again for everything. And be careful, will you? I can tell you have a bandage around your ribs, and I worry about you when you leave.”

His arms tightened. “There’s nothing wrong with my ribs that won’t heal. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back again this evening.”

With any luck, this evening she wouldn’t be here to greet him, but she didn’t tell him that.

Because she couldn’t trust him, after all.

After he slipped away, Sid listened for the bolt sliding into place. Once the sound confirmed he was truly gone, she turned to pace around the confines of her cell, one hand outstretched and the tips of her fingers touching lightly against the wall to keep her from running into it.

Practice your truth, he had said. Practice until you believe it.

So she began to tell a story to herself.

Not a story of what had actually happened, but a story of what she wanted the truth to be. What she needed the truth to be, in order to get out of this cell and back into the sunlight. She whispered it to herself over and over again, pacing and repeating until she had it thoroughly memorized.

She had enjoyed Juilliard. While most of her time had been focused on her obsession with music, she had played with some of her electives and had taken a few acting classes. The classes helped her to find a way to bridge some of the social isolation she had grown up with.

Acting on the stage or in front of a camera was not the same as acting to save one’s life, but if it was one thing she knew something about, it was how to face the pressure to perform, and how to hide her fear in front of a sometimes pitiless audience.

After she had memorized her story the way she wanted to tell it, she sat cross-legged facing one wall and ruined the zipper of her hoodie by running the metal teeth against the rock until she saw small, fleeting sparks.

Unwilling to miss a single precious flash of color, she didn’t blink. Aside from the guard’s torch, those sparks were the first thing she had seen in days.

The blackness in her cell started to lighten to gray. Then the reflection of a far-off fire appeared and drew closer. She listened to the squeaking wheels of the cart and the metallic clang as the guard shoved food trays into the cells of other prisoners down the hall.

Cry, she told herself. She bit the insides of her cheeks until she drew blood, and the pain became bad enough to bring tears to her eyes.

Then the guard was at her cell door, squatting to take the empty tray and shoving a full one through the slot. It was always the same guard, a dull-eyed Light Fae male with a scarred face. She had always wondered what he had done to be punished with such duty.

Jumping to her feet, she rushed to the cell door and grasped the bars as she sobbed, “Thank you! Thank you!”

Curling a lip, he sneered, “What nonsense are you spouting?”

“My hands. They’re healed!” Shoving her arms through the bars, she held out her hands for his inspection while she bit her cheek harder to make tears run down her face. “Someone came to heal me while I slept. The Queen must have decided to show me mercy after all. Please give me the opportunity to thank her in some way!”

The guard paused, the dullness in his gaze sparking with surprise. Staring at her fingers while she wiggled them, he said slowly, “You think the Queen did this?”

“Well,” she replied, “who else would have done it? I don’t have any magic. I certainly couldn’t have healed myself. If there was only some way I could repay her. I’d be so honored if she would give me another chance to play for her, but even if that isn’t possible I just want the chance to apologize.”

He laughed, a cynical, grating sound. “As if she would waste any more of her time on the likes of you.”

“I know, I know, but… just look at my hands,” she said, opening and closing them in front of his face. “Everybody knows how much she loves music. What if she wants to give me a second chance to perform?”