“That’s what you’re calling a plan?” Hyacinthe snorts. “We can’t be seen together, so give me a head start. I don’t want anyone to guess what I’ve done, in case it doesn’t work.”

  “It would be a lot easier to get into the Great Hall with your help,” Oak points out.

  “I’m sure it would be,” says Hyacinthe.

  The falcon stalks off, leaving Oak to wait. To pace the Hall of Queens some more. Count off the minutes. Trace his fingers over his cheek to feel for any trace of the straps. There’s something there, but light, like the creases left from a pillow in the morning. He hopes these marks will disappear soon. Finally, he can bear to bide his time no longer. He pushes back the hood of his cloak and, head held high, walks toward the Great Hall.

  If there is one thing he has learned from Cardan, it is that royalty inspires awe and awe can be cultivated easily into menace. It is with that in mind that he strides toward the guards.

  Startled, they raise their spears. Two falcons, neither of whom he recognizes.

  Oak looks at them blandly. “Well,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “Open the doors.”

  He watches them hesitate. After all, he’s dressed well and clean. He doesn’t have on the bridle. And they must all know he is no longer being held in the prisons. They must all know Wren killed the last guard who put a finger on him.

  “The emissaries of Elfhame are inside, are they not?” he adds.

  One of the falcons nods to the other. Together, they open the double doors.

  Wren sits on her throne; Bogdana and Hyacinthe stand beside her—along with a trio of heavily armored falcons.

  And standing before her are four Folk—all of whom Oak recognizes. Unarmored, the Ghost appears to be playing the part of an ambassador. He’s dressed in finery, and the slightly human cast of his features makes him look far less threatening than he is.

  An actual ambassador, Randalin, one of the Living Council, bites off his words at Oak’s arrival. Known as the Minister of Keys, he is short, horned, and even more beautifully dressed than the Ghost. As far as Oak is aware, Randalin can’t fight and, given the danger, Oak is surprised he came. Jude never much liked him, though, so he can certainly see why she allowed—and even perhaps encouraged—it.

  Behind them are two soldiers. Oak knows Tiernan instantly, despite the helmet hiding his face. He assumes Hyacinthe knows him, too. At his side is Grima Mog, the grand general who replaced Oak’s father. A redcap, like Madoc, and the former general of the Court of Teeth. No one knows the defenses of the Citadel better than she does, so no one would have an easier time breaching them.

  As Oak strides in, everyone becomes more alert. Tiernan’s hand goes automatically to the pommel of his sword in a foolish rejection of diplomacy.

  “Hello,” the prince says. “I see you all started without me.”

  Wren raises both her brows. Good game, he imagines her saying. Point to you. Possibly right before she tells her guards to pop off his head like a wine cork.

  And then the Ghost stabs her in the back. And everyone cuts everyone else to pieces.

  “Your Highness,” says Garrett, as though he really is some stuffy ambassador who hasn’t known Oak half his life. “After receiving your note, we expected you to be in attendance. We were growing concerned.”

  Wren gives the prince a sharp look at the mention of a note.

  “Hard to choose the right outfit for such a momentous occasion,” Oak says, hoping that the sheer absurdity of his plan will help sell it. “After all, it’s not every day that one gets to announce one’s engagement.”

  At that, all of them stare at him agog. Even Bogdana seems to have lost the power of speech. But that is nothing to the way Wren is looking at him. It is as though she could immolate him in the cold green flame of her eyes.

  Heedless of the warning, he walks to her side. Taking her hand, he slides the ring—the ring he was sent in the belly of an enchanted metal snake—off his pinkie finger and onto hers in the stealthy way the Roach taught him. So that it might be possible to believe she’d been wearing it the whole time.

  He smiles up at her. “She’s accepted my ring. And so, I would be delighted to tell you that Wren and I are to be wed.”

  Oak keeps his gaze on Wren. She could deny him, but she remains silent. Hopefully she sees that in the face of their engagement, it will be possible to avoid a war. Or, since she holds all the cards, maybe she finds it amusing to let him reshuffle a little.

  A wordless growl comes from deep in Bogdana’s throat.

  Hyacinthe gives Oak an accusatory look that seems to say, I can’t believe you talked me into helping you with such a stupid plan.

  This was the gamble. That Wren didn’t want to fight. That she’d see the path to peace with Elfhame was through playing along with him.

  “Quite a surprise,” the Ghost says, voice dry. Hyacinthe’s gaze drifts to him, and his expression stiffens, as though he recognizes the spy and understands the danger of his being here.

  Tiernan’s hand has yet to leave his sword hilt. Grima Mog’s eyebrows are raised. She seems to be waiting for someone to tell her this is all a joke.

  Oak goes on smiling, as though everyone has been expressing only their utmost delight.

  Randalin clears his throat. “Let me be the first to offer my felicitations. Very wise to secure the succession.”

  Although the councilor’s reasoning seems muddled, the prince is happy for any ally. Oak makes a shallow bow. “I can occasionally be wise.”

  Eyebrows raised, the Ghost moves his gaze from Wren to Oak. “Your family will be pleased to know you are well. The reports… let’s say they suggested otherwise.”

  At that, Bogdana manages a toothy smile. “Your besotted princeling seems none the worse for wear. Accept our hospitality. We offer you rooms and repast. Stay the night, then take your army and toddle back to Elfhame. Perhaps send the king and queen for a little visit.”

  “I didn’t realize you were empowered to offer us much of anything, storm hag.” Grima Mog makes the words sound almost as though they were spoken in honest confusion. “Is it not Queen Suren alone who rules here?”

  “For now,” says the storm hag with an almost gracious nod toward Oak, as if she were indicating he would rule beside Wren rather than asserting her own power.

  Wren motions toward a servant and then turns back to the Minister of Keys. “You must be tired after your travels, and cold. Perhaps a hot drink before you are led to your rooms.”

  “We would be honored to accept your accommodation,” Randalin says, puffing himself up. He accompanied the army, so he must have thought there would be some kind of negotiation for him to lead. Maybe he convinced himself this would be an easy situation to resolve and is gratified to believe himself correct. “On the morrow, we must discuss your plans to return to Elfhame. The prince returning with his bride-to-be will be glad tidings indeed and a cause for much celebration. And of course, there will be a treaty to negotiate.”

  Oak winces. “A treaty. Of course.” He cannot help but cut a glance in Wren’s direction, trying to gauge her reaction.

  The Ghost tilts his head as he regards Wren. “Are you certain about accepting the young prince’s proposal? He can be something of a fool.”

  Her lips twitch.

  Randalin draws in a shocked breath.

  Oak gives the Ghost a speaking look. “The question is whether she will have me be her fool.”

  Wren smiles. “I’m certain.”

  Oak glances at her in surprise, unable to help himself. He attempts to smooth out his expression but is certain he’s too late. Someone saw. Someone knows he isn’t sure of her love.

  “We have a great deal in common, after all,” Wren affirms. “Especially a love of games.”

  She’s good at them, too. Quick to pick up on his plan, to measure its worth, and play along. They’ve been working against each other for so long that he forgot how easy it was to work together.

  “We can unravel the details of the treaty in Elfhame,” Randalin says. “It will be easier with all parties present.”

  “I am not sure I’m ready to leave my Citadel,” says Wren, and she glances at Oak. He can see her weighing the choice to let him return with them. Can see the calculation in her face as to whether this was his intention all along.

  Two servants enter the room bearing a large wooden tray with steaming silver goblets atop it.

  “Please, take one,” Wren offers.

  Do not try to poison them, he thinks, staring at her as though he can somehow speak through his gaze. Garrett will switch cups with you, and you’ll never guess it.

  The Ghost takes the hot drink. Oak lifts one, too, the metal warm in his hand. He catches scents of barley and caraway.

  Randalin raises his glass. “To you, Lady Suren. And to you, Prince Oak. In the hopes you will reconsider and join us in returning to Elfhame. Your family will insist on it, prince. And I was meant to remind you, should I be so fortunate as to have an audience with you, Lady Suren, that you made vows to the High Court.”

  “If they mean to give me orders, let them come here and do so,” Wren says. “But perhaps I can sweep aside a promise like I would a curse. Pull it apart like a cobweb.”

  The Folk stare, horrified by even the possibility that someone in Faerie could not be bound by her word. Oak never thought of the promises they made as magic, but he supposes they are a kind of binding.

  “You ought not want things to start off on the wrong foot,” Randalin warns, sounding as though he were reprimanding a student who gave a wrong answer. The councilor seems unaware of how quickly this conversation might devolve into violence.

  Grima Mog cracks her knuckles. She is very aware.

  “Randalin—” Oak begins.

  Bogdana interrupts him. “The councilor is correct,” she says. “Wren ought to be properly wed to the heir of Elfhame, with all the pomp and circumstance appropriate to such a union. Let us journey together to the Shifting Isles.”

  Wren gives the storm hag a sharp look but doesn’t contradict her. Doesn’t say she won’t go. Instead, her fingers linger on the ring sitting loosely on her hand. She turns it anxiously.

  Oak recalls Wren coming to the gardens of Elfhame years and years ago, where Jude had received her, along with Lord Jarel, Lady Nore, and Madoc. Recalls that one of them had proposed a truce, cemented with a marriage between him and Wren.

  He was a little afraid of her, with her sharp teeth. He had yet to hit the growth spurt that came at thirteen and pulled his body like taffy; she almost certainly was taller than him. He didn’t want to marry her—he didn’t want to marry anyone—and was relieved when Jude refused.

  But he saw the expression in Wren’s face when Vivi referred to her as creepy. The sting of hurt, the flash of rage.

  She is going to destroy Elfhame. It’s what she was born to do. That’s what Bogdana believes, what she wants. And maybe Wren wants it a little bit, too. Maybe Oak has made a horrifically large mistake.

  But, no. Wren couldn’t have known he would do anything like this. Still, whatever Bogdana favors is unlikely to be a good idea.

  “We don’t need to depart immediately,” the prince hedges. “No doubt you will need time to get together your trousseau.”

  “Nonsense,” says Bogdana. “I know a hag who will enchant Queen Suren three dresses, one for every day in Elfhame before her wedding. The first shall be the pale colors of morning, the second the bright colors of the afternoon, and the last spangled with the jewels of night.”

  “Three days won’t be enough time,” says Randalin, frowning.

  “Now who is trying to delay?” the storm hag demands, as though the councilor has committed a grave offense. “Perhaps none of this is necessary. He could marry her now, with those gathered here as witnesses.”

  “No,” says Wren firmly.

  A shame, because Oak doesn’t think it’s such a bad idea. If they were married, then surely his sister couldn’t attempt to burn the Citadel to the ground. Her troops would have to pull back while Oak could keep the ragwort stalk safely in his pocket and bide his time.

  “We would not want to disrespect the High Court,” Wren says. “We will return with you to Elfhame so long as you withdraw your army from this territory. Whatever preparations are necessary, we will manage.”

  The Ghost smiles enigmatically. “Excellent. Randalin, your ship is small and swift and well outfitted for traveling in comfort. We can use it to return to Elfhame ahead of the army. If you expect to be ready within a day or two, I will send the message right now.”

  “You may do so,” Wren tells him.

  “No, no need,” Grima Mog interrupts them gruffly. “I am here to negotiate over battles, not withdrawals. I will return to my army and inform them that no blood will be shed upon the morrow, nor possibly at all.” She says this as though they are to be deprived of a great treat. She’s a redcap; she might actually believe that.

  Her leaving is also almost certainly a test, to see if her departure will be allowed.

  As she stomps out, the rest of them drink the contents of their steaming goblets. Randalin makes an officious and confusing speech that manages to be partially about his grievances over the discomforts he endured on the journey, his loyalty to the throne and to Oak, and his belief that alliances are very important. By the time he’s done, he’s behaving as though he negotiated the marriage himself.

  After that, servants make ready to lead each of them to rooms.

  The Ghost catches Wren’s eye. “We hope that you will choose wisely when you select your retinue.” He gives a pointed look in the direction of the storm hag.

  A small smile pulls at the corner of Wren’s mouth, making her sharp teeth evident. “Someone will have to remain here and watch over the Citadel.”

  After the Elfhame ambassadors and their guards depart, Wren puts a hand on Oak’s arm, as though she needs to draw his attention. “What kind of game is this?” She lowers her voice, although Bogdana is watching them closely. Hyacinthe and the other guards are pretending they are not.

  “The kind where no one loses so badly that they have to throw away all their cards,” Oak says.

  “You only delay the inevitable.” She turns from him, her skirts whirling around her.

  He wonders how she must have felt when the army of Elfhame arrived. She seems to have resigned herself to the battle with a certain hopelessness, as though she couldn’t imagine a way out.

  “Maybe I can keep delaying it.” Daringly, he walks after her, stepping in front so that she’s forced to look up at him. “Or maybe it isn’t inevitable.”

  A few strands of light blue hair have fallen around her face, lessening the severity of the style. But nothing can alter the hardness in her expression. “Hyacinthe,” she says.

  He steps forward. “My lady.”

  “Take the prince back to his rooms. And this time, make sure he actually stays there.” It’s not an accusation, but it’s close.

  “Yes, my lady,” Hyacinthe affirms, taking Oak by the arm and tugging him in the direction of the hall.

  “And bring the bridle to my chambers immediately after,” she says.

  “Yes, my lady,” Hyacinthe says again, his voice remarkably even.

  The prince goes along willingly. At least until they enter the stairwell and Hyacinthe shoves him against the wall, hand to his throat.

  “What exactly do you think you were doing?” Hyacinthe demands.

  The prince holds his hands out in surrender. “It worked.”

  “I didn’t expect you to…,” he starts, but cannot seem to finish the sentence. “I should have, of course. Do you think that traveling to Elfhame will help her use her power less?”

  “Than fighting a war?” Oak asks. “I do.”

  “And whose fault is it that she’s in this position in the first place?”

  “Mine,” Oak admits with a wince. “But not just mine. You were the one who put the idea of defeating Lady Nore in order to end his exile into my father’s head. If Madoc had never come here, then none of this would have ever happened.”

  “You’re blaming me for the former grand general’s schemes. I ought to be flattered.”

  “My sister would have executed you for your part in those schemes,” Oak tells Hyacinthe. “Had we not taken you that night, at best, you would have been locked in the Tower of Forgetting. But most likely she would have had your head. And then Tiernan’s for good measure.”

  “Is that how you justify manipulating all the people around you like pieces on a chessboard?” Hyacinthe accuses. “That you’re doing the best for them?”

  “As opposed to you, who doesn’t care how much Tiernan suffers for your sake? I suppose you think that makes you honest, rather than a coward.” Oak isn’t thinking about what he’s saying anymore. He’s too angry for that. “Or maybe you want to cause him pain. Maybe you’re still furious with him for not following you into exile. Maybe making him miserable is your way of having revenge.”

  Hyacinthe’s punch sends Oak staggering back. He can taste blood where a tooth caught on the inside of his mouth. Is there no situation you’re not compelled to make worse?

  “You have no right to speak of my feelings for Tiernan.” Hyacinthe’s voice is raw.

  For a moment, in the hot flush of his anger, Oak wonders what would happen if he said all the right things now, instead of the wrong ones. It would serve Hyacinthe right to have to like him.

  But it was so satisfying to do just the opposite.

  “You’ve been wanting to hit me for a long time.” Oak spits blood onto the ice steps. “Well, come on, then.”

  Hyacinthe punches him again, this time connecting with his jaw, knocking him against a wall.

  When Oak looks up, it’s as though he’s seeing through a haze. Oh, this was a bad idea. There’s a roaring in his ears.

  He’s afraid suddenly that he cannot hold back.

  “Fight, you coward,” Hyacinthe says, punching him in the stomach.

  Oak’s hand goes to his side, to the knife he concealed there, wrapped tight enough not to muss the line of the doublet. He doesn’t remember deciding to draw it before it’s in his hand, sharp and deadly.