.

himself into their company. “There is something I have not told you about my life in the Lightworld.”

      Where to begin? Would he tell her how many years he’d existed? That he’d seen women as old as her grandmother born and dead ten, fifty, a hundred times over? Should he tell her of watching the Earth slowly shift apart, of walking the Human world and watching them “discover” the magic in plants to cure sickness, the sun to tell time?

      No. All of that could come in good time. Now, she needed to hear this, without any embellishment or Faery tales to dazzle her. “In the Lightworld, I am not an ordinary…man.” What a strange word when applied to himself. “I am an advisor to the Queene of the Faery Court. Her closest advisor. And recently she has charged me with a very important task.” He wondered if the stories of jealous Human women were true, and if this would seem to her as ridiculous as it did to him, or enrage her. “She wishes that I should mate myself to her daughter.”

      “Oh.” She did not meet his eyes.

      “I will not. She is a mere child.” He stumbled over this, as he wasn’t certain Dika was much older than Cerridwen. He wasn’t sure how Human age worked, really. “She is old enough to find a mate, but she has been coddled and spoiled. I do not wish to spend an eternity with her.”

      Dika looked up, a glint in her eyes that was caught between amusement and anger. “And me? Would you wish to spend an eternity with me?”

      He opened his mouth to answer, and realized it was a trick. He could no more spend an eternity with her than she could spend one with him. “If it were possible, yes.”

      “Then you content yourself to living with me until I am as old and withered as the Dya?” She came closer now, and gripped the front of his robes to pull their bodies together. “Will you still love me then?”

      “I will love you for as long as I am able.” He knew now what had taken so long in the caravan, what the Dya’s muffled voice had been saying. “You know that I am merely an inconstant Faery, with no heart for Human love.”

      “I know this,” she said, rising on her toes to touch their mouths together. Her breath moved over his lips. “I wanted to know that you knew it.”

      Four

      Cerridwen did not go to her mother that night. She didn’t have the stomach to, after the scare in the tunnels, and after she’d left without telling Fenrick goodbye.

      Fenrick. His face tumbled over and over in her memory. She brought her fingers to her lips to better remember the touch of his mouth. In the safe darkness of her room, her refusal of his advances made no sense. Why had she not let him do what she had secretly wished he would do—what she had been wishing he would do for the long weeks since they’d met?

      She was a coward, she decided. And she did not like cowards.

      You are furthermore being cowardly by not going to your mother and facing whatever punishment she has in store for you, a nasty voice taunted in her head, and she blocked it out.

      She would face her mother. After the Great Queene made her morning audience, before the Royal Heir’s day became another endless series of dutiful appearances at her mother’s side.

      It was so she could learn the way to be Queene, or so everyone told her. When would she ever need such knowledge? The Queene that had ruled before her mother, Mabb, had only fallen when slain by her brother.

      Cerridwen did not like to think of her gone father murdering his own sister, so she put that from her mind.

      But Fae were an immortal race, and, despite her mother’s half-mortal blood, she had never grown older once she’d come of age. No one would kill Queene Ayla, worshipped as she was. And if someone did, well, there were others who were more qualified for—and interested in—ruling the Faeries. Cerridwen would happily quit the Faery Court altogether.

      These thoughts, and thoughts of her impending punishment, and thoughts of Fenrick—she tucked his knife under her pillow and rested a hand on it—kept sleep from her. By the time it arrived, it seemed only to pay her a short visit before Governess was shaking her awake, muttering angrily about her mother wishing to see her.

      Cerridwen sat silent through Governess’s torturous grooming, though she scrubbed her skin raw and pulled at tangles mercilessly. She was thinking of a plan.

      Cedric had made a bargain with her. Had he kept to it? What if he had not? Should she barge into her mother’s chambers and tell her exactly where she had been, stand defiant and argue that it was her right as a grown Faery to go where she pleased and do what she wanted? Or would it be more prudent to stay silent, play the wide-eyed innocent if her mother already knew of her stray into the Darkworld? She’d overplayed wide-eyed…perhaps outrage would suit her. Wait and see if her mother knew about the Darkworld, about Fenrick.

      She smiled at her freshly brushed and scrubbed reflection in the mirror. No matter what took place this morning, she would not let her mother get the upper hand. She would pretend to be the dutiful daughter for a few days, perhaps a week. And then she would resume her life as normal, and as she pleased.

      The morning audience was over, but the guards led her to the throne room and not to her mother’s chambers. Courtiers clustered outside of the doors, whispering behind their hands at the sight of her. This was not unusual, and she ignored it, lifting her chin as though she could not even deign to look at them.

      “Congratulations, Your Highness,” someone called out, and this bizarre exclamation was met with a smattering of applause and few huzzahs. For the most part, though, the Courtiers kept up their malicious whispering.

      “Congratulations?” she muttered under her breath, wondering what she’d done to be congratulated on, what foolish new story her mother had concocted to excuse her absence.

      The guards standing at the doors pushed them open, while the guards at Cerridwen’s back kept the Courtiers from streaming in. A private audience between the Queene and the Royal Heir in such a formal setting? This would certainly set the whisperers gossiping at a frantic pace.

      Her mother sat on the throne, an uncomfortable-looking rock thing covered on the sides by clumps of quartz. She dressed in less formal robes than she would don before her evening audience with the Court. The morning audience was when everyday business was proposed to the Queene. In the evening she would hear more important petitions.

      The rest of the room was empty, not even a guard remained. But her mother’s faithful mortal servant stood at her side and showed no signs of leaving. There had long been rumors that he was the Queene’s Consort, and the thought of it, once she had come to understand the term, made Cerridwen ill.

      “Is he going to stay?” she asked, and cursed herself inwardly. She’d already gotten her back up, as she had sworn to herself she would not do.

      Her mother nodded, seemingly unperturbed by her daughter’s strident tone. “Come closer, Cerridwen. You do not stand awaiting your execution.”

      It certainly felt like it. Normally, her mother was in a full rage before the doors closed, screaming down the walls over whatever transgression Cerridwen had committed. This solicitous nature made the skin on her neck creep.

      “You missed an important announcement last night,” her mother said, still in that maddeningly kind tone.

      Was this the time, then, to burst out in her own defense? To break her bargain with Cedric? She opened her mouth to protest.

      Her mother shook her head. “I do not wish to hear your excuses. I was angry with you, but now that anger has passed. I trust you will not leave the Lightworld again.”

      And that trust was woefully misplaced. “Of course not, Mother.”

      “Cedric brought you back to the Palace?” Though phrased as a question, it was a statement of fact, so Cerridwen did not answer. “Did he tell you anything of what occurred at the feast?”

      Cerridwen shook her head slowly.