“Then I was grabbed. And these things said they were going to bring me before their queen, and she would punish me. They started naming what they thought she might order done. All their suggestions were like something out of the Saw movies.” She gives a weird giggle, one that tells me she’s fighting off hysteria. “You’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, right?”

  Living in the mortal world as I did, I have some idea, but there’s no point in telling her that. Better get her mind away from what could happen. “Wait here.”

  She scrubs a hand over her face. “You have to help me.”

  I find Hyacinthe’s cell at the end of the corridor. He’s sitting on the floor, on a carpet of hay. Beside him is a tray of oranges and sweetmeats, along with a bowl of wine set down so that he might lap from it like a dog. He looks up at me in surprise, his amethyst eyes wide. I am surprised, too, because he is no longer bridled.

  “Where is it?” I blurt out, terrified that it is in the possession of Queen Annet.

  “The bridle?” He rubs his cheek against his wing. I see a few fresh feathers at his throat. The curse is spreading slowly, but it is spreading. “The prince was afraid of it falling into the hands of the Court of Moths, so he had Tiernan remove it.”

  “Oak has it?” I ask, wondering if that was the real reason he ordered it taken off. Wondering what he was planning on doing with it.

  Hyacinthe nods. “I suppose.” Then he sighs. “All I know is that I don’t have to wear it, at least until we depart the Court of Moths. Are we leaving? Is that why you’re here?”

  I shake my head. “Has Queen Annet asked anything of you?”

  He takes two steps closer to the bars. “I think she wishes to delay Oak long enough to determine if there’s a profit in returning him to the High Court, but that’s only from what I overheard the guards saying.”

  “You think his sister wants him back?”

  Hyacinthe shrugs. “Trussing him up and handing him over could bring Queen Annet some reward if Jude does, but it would not do to cross her if she and the High King turn out to support his mission. Discovering what they want takes time, hence the delay.”

  I nod, calculating. “If Elfhame wants to stop us…”

  If the High Court makes a captive out of the prince, from love or anger, then who will stop Lady Nore? Will I be held as well? And if not, then how long before Bogdana finds me?

  “I don’t know,” he says in answer to one or all the questions I do not ask.

  I lower my voice even further. “Tell me about the prince’s powers as a gancanagh? And what Lady Nore sent in her message? You’re not constrained by the bridle.”

  “Free me,” he says, eyes intent. “Free me, and I will tell you all I know.”

  Of course. Why else try to interest me in the information he had? Not for my benefit. He wanted to escape.

  I ought to focus on my own survival. This isn’t what I came to the prisons for. Helping Hyacinthe will only make it certain that I wear the bridle myself.

  And yet, I do not know how I can turn and walk away from him, leaving him in a cage. Neither Oak nor Tiernan were cruel to him when he was their prisoner, and still I was horrified. The Court of Moths could be so much worse.

  Oak would never forgive me, though.

  Unless… he never found out that I was the one who helped Hyacinthe escape. No one saw me come in here, save for Jack of the Lakes. And Jack can hardly tell anyone, since he had a part in it.

  Perhaps I could keep this secret, as Oak kept secrets from me.

  “Promise you will tell no one—especially not Lady Nore—anything of Oak, or me, or Tiernan that would put us in danger or expose our plans.” I try to convince myself that this plan might be to the prince’s advantage and that he would benefit if Queen Annet’s schemes were at least partially thwarted. After all, if Hyacinthe goes missing from her prisons after she insisted on keeping him, she can hardly call herself a good host.

  If Oak finds out, he will not see my actions in that light. He’ll believe that I kissed him to divert his attention from the way I was stabbing him in the back. He’ll believe that everything Tiernan ever said about me was true.

  But if I do nothing, then Queen Annet is likely to keep Hyacinthe, in the hopes she can detain Oak or lure him to return to her Court. I cannot stand the idea of anyone being kept as I was, locked away and helpless.

  “Help me escape and I will tell no one—especially not Lady Nore—anything of you, or Oak, or Tiernan that would put you in any danger or expose your plans,” Hyacinthe vows prettily and in full.

  The gravity of this moment settles heavily on my shoulders.

  “So how do I get you out?” I ask, trying to focus on that and not the dread I suddenly feel at taking fate in my own hand, mine and Hyacinthe’s. I study the stalagmites instead, looking for a seam. “These jaws must open somehow, but I can’t see the way.”

  Hyacinthe puts his fingers through the gap in the teethlike bars and gestures toward the ceiling. “There’s something up there, written in the stone. One of the guards looked up when he spoke, like he was reading. He shuffled his feet, too, as though there’s a particular place to stand.”

  “You didn’t hear what he said?” I ask, incredulous.

  He shakes his head. “That must be part of the enchantment. I saw his mouth move, but there was no sound.”

  I squint up and spot a few scratchy, thin lines of writing. I take two steps back, and am able to make it out. It is no password to open the teethlike bars, however. It’s a riddle. And as I look, I note a different one above each of the cells.

  I suppose that if each chamber requires a different word or phrase to open or close, it’d be useful to have a reminder, especially with new guards coming in all the time. Not everyone’s memory is keen, and there’s a risk that should a word be forgotten, the cell would cease to work forevermore.

  “Daughter of the sun,” I read. “Yet made for night, fire causes her to weep, and if she dies before her time, cut off her head and she may be reborn.”

  “A riddle,” Hyacinthe groans.

  I nod, thinking of the Folk’s love of games. Of how Habetrot had called Oak the Prince of Sunlight. Of the word puzzles my unfamily would play—Scrabble, Bananagrams. Of the poems I memorized from Bex’s schoolbooks and recited to squirrels.

  I try to clear my head. “The moon?” Nothing happens. As I look down, I notice there’s a circle etched into the floor, just a little beyond where I stand. I step into it and speak again. “Moon.”

  This time, the jaws creak, but instead of opening, the cell shrinks, as though biting down on its prisoner.

  Hyacinthe bangs on the toothlike stone bars, panicked. “How is the moon beheaded?”

  “It thins to a sliver,” I say, horrified at what I’d nearly done. “But it comes back. And it could be seen as the daughter of the sun—I mean, reflected light and all that.”

  No number of explanations for why I thought my answer was right can change that it almost got him crushed. Even now that the movement ceased, I am still left afraid that it will snap closed, grinding him to pieces.

  “Be careful!” he hisses.

  “Give me your answer, then,” I growl.

  He is silent at that.

  I think more. Perhaps a rose? I have a vague recollection of being with my unmother at one of her friends’ houses, playing in the backyard while the friend trimmed her rosebushes. There had been something about cutting off the flower heads so there would be more blooms the following year. And daughter of the sun—well, plants liked sun, right? And they didn’t like fire. And, well, people thought of roses as romantic, so maybe they were made for night because people romance one another mostly at night?

  That last seems like a stretch, but I can think of nothing better.

  “I have something,” I say, my lack of confidence clear in my voice.

  He gives me a wary look, then heaves a sigh. “Go ahead,” he tells me.

  I move to the spot and take a deep breath. “A rose.”

  The teeth grind lower, the ceiling dropping so fast that Hyacinthe sprawls on the floor to avoid getting hit. I hear a sound that might be laughter from the merrow’s cell, but the winged soldier is deathly silent.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask.

  “Not yet,” he says carefully. “But I don’t think there’s room for the cell to close farther without cracking me like a nut.”

  It was different to lie in wait for the glaistig and rip apart her spells, knowing I was the one in danger. To sneak through mortal houses or even run from hags. But to think that because of a mistake of mine, a life could be snuffed out like a—

  Daughter of the sun. Made for night. Cut off her head and she’s reborn.

  “Candle,” I blurt out.

  The stone cavern shifts with a groaning sound, and the bars spring apart like a mouth, like some enormous carnivorous flower. We stare at each other, Hyacinthe moving from terror to laughter. He springs to his feet and spins me around in one arm, then presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You delightful, amazing girl! You did it.”

  “We still have to get past the guards,” I remind him, uncomfortable with the praise.

  “You freed me from the prison. I will free us from the hill,” he says with an intensity that I think might be pride.

  “But first,” I say, “tell what you know about Oak. All of it, this time.”

  He makes a face. “On the way.”

  I shake my head. “Now.”

  “What is it he’s supposed to tell you?” the human girl asks from her cell, and Hyacinthe gives me an exasperated look.

  “Not here,” he says, widening his eyes to suggest the reason should be obvious: The girl can hear us. So can the merrow.

  “We’re going to get them out, too, so it doesn’t matter,” I say. After all, it wasn’t as though I could be in more trouble if I were discovered.

  He stares at me, wide-eyed. “That would be unwise.”

  “My name is Gwen,” the girl calls. “Please. I promise I won’t tell anyone what I overheard. I’ll do whatever you want if you take me with you.”

  I look up at the writing over the door to her cell. Another riddle. It gorges, yet lacks a maw. Well-fed, it grows swift and strong. Give it a draught, though, and you give it death.

  No mouth, but eats…

  “Wren, did you hear me?” Hyacinthe demands.

  “They’re witnesses,” I tell him. “Leaving witnesses behind would also be unwise.”

  “Then give me your knife,” he says, frowning. “I’ll take care of them.”

  Gwen has come to the edge of the stalagmites. “Wait,” she says, her voice edged with desperation. “I can help you. There’s lots of stuff I can do.”

  Like navigate the human world. I don’t want to hurt his pride to say it, but she might be able to hide him in places the Folk are unlikely to look. Together, they can escape more easily than either of them could alone.

  “The knife,” Hyacinthe says, putting out his hand as though he really expects me to give him one and let him do it.

  I turn, frowning. “You still haven’t told me anything useful about the prince.”

  “Very well,” he says. “When Lady Nore took Madoc, she sent a message to the High Court, asking for something in return for the old general’s freedom. I don’t know what she wanted, only that the king and queen refused her.”

  I nod. Oak spoke to me of desiring Lady Nore’s defeat, though an exchange of messages suggests he might be willing to appease her instead. For a moment, I wonder if it is me that she wants. But if so, he hardly needs to go to the Thistlewitch. He knows exactly where I am. And the High Court would give me up immediately.

  “What about being a gancanagh?” I ask.

  Hyacinthe huffs out a frustrated sigh, clearly wishing to be away from here. “I will tell you what I know as quickly as I am able. He inherited some of Liriope’s power, and she was able to kindle strong emotions in the people who got close to her, feelings of loyalty and desire and adoration. I am not certain how much of it was conscious and how much of it was just a tide all around her, sweeping people who got too close onto the shoals. Oak will use you until you’re all used up. He will manipulate you until you don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.”

  I remember what Tiernan said about Hyacinthe’s father.

  “Forget this quest. You will never know what the prince is thinking behind his smiles,” Hyacinthe says. “You are a coin to be spent, and he is a royal, used to throwing around gold.”

  My gaze goes to the riddle above Gwen’s door again, which suddenly seems easier to solve than any of my other problems.

  What eats but doesn’t drink? My gaze drifts to the water, to the verdigris. Then to gorging. To hungry mouths.

  Mouths like the one that the bars represent, ready to devour Gwen if I get the answer wrong. The cell that Hyacinthe was in gave me three tries, but I note that the ceiling of Gwen’s is lower. I might have only two guesses before she’s crushed.

  And since the guards may come in at any moment, it’s possible I have less time than that.

  I am terrified of coming up with the wrong answer and yet equally worried we will be caught. Both thoughts are distracting, creating a loop of nerves.

  Give it a draught and you give it death.

  I think of splashing the merrow with water. I think of the sea.

  I think of the answer to the other door, a candle. It gorges, and giving it a drink would put out its flame. Could both riddles have the same answer? Could all the cells be opened the same way?

  I open my mouth to speak, but caution stops me. Well-fed, it grows swift and strong. Candles do not grow. I almost spoke the wrong word again.

  No, not a candle, but something like one. A candle might not grow, but its flame could.

  “Fire,” I whisper, and Gwen’s cell opens, disgorging her.

  She stumbles out, looking around the room as though this might be a trick. She studies Hyacinthe warily, perhaps worried he might use a knife on her after all.

  “You’re going to take her with you,” I inform him. “Instead of me.”

  He looks at me as if I have lost my mind. “And why would I do that?”

  “Because I am asking you to, and I got you out of prison,” I say, fixing him with what I hope is a firm look.

  He is not intimidated by me, however. “Nowhere in your price was helping a foolish mortal.”

  Panic churns in my gut. “What if I take the curse off you?”

  “Impossible,” he says. “Even Oak couldn’t permanently remove it, and he is from the High Court.”

  The prince hasn’t had the practice I have in removing curses, though. And perhaps he hadn’t wanted it completely gone.

  “But if I could…,” I ask in my rough voice.

  Grudgingly he nods.

  I turn to Gwen and show her my teeth, pleased when she flinches. “You solve the riddle to release the merrow. Do not get it wrong.”

  Then I reach for Hyacinthe’s wing.

  I feel the feathers in my hands, the softness and lightness of the bones underneath. And I sense the curse reknitting itself inside Hyacinthe, as though it were a living thing.

  I reach into the magic and am surprised by the stickiness of the threads. It’s like tugging at a spiderweb. The harder I pull, the more the curse seems to attach itself to me, trying to transform me, too. I feel the draw of the enchantment, the shimmer and burn of it, tugging at something inside me.

  “What are you doing?” Hyacinthe asks. His wing pulls free of my fingers.

  I open my eyes, only then realizing I’d closed them. “Did it hurt?”

  “No—I don’t know,” he says. “It felt like you were touching—under my skin.”

  I take a breath and return to the work of pulling apart the curse. But each time I attempt to break it, the strands of the spell slip through my fingers. And each time I am drawn further in, until I feel as though I am choking on feathers. Until I am drowning. The knot inside me, at the center of my magic, is coming undone.

  “Stop,” Hyacinthe says, shaking my shoulder. “Enough.”

  I find myself on the ground with him kneeling beside me. I can’t seem to get my breath back.

  The glaistig’s spells were simple compared with this webbing of enchantment. I grit my teeth. I might be good enough among the solitary fey of the mortal world, but it was sheer arrogance to think that meant I could unstitch the magic of the High Court.

  A few feet away, I see Gwen and the merrow looking over at me. He blinks, his nictating membrane following a moment later.

  “We puzzled out the riddle together,” Hyacinthe says with a frown at Gwen. “Now let’s go.”

  “But—” I start.

  “I’ll take her,” he says. “The mortal girl. I will get her out of here, and that creature, too. Just get up.”

  I ought to do that. But his words seem to come from far away as I reach for the magic again, and this time when it tries to draw me into it, I pull it into me instead. I let it drag me under. I take the whole curse in a rush.

  Everything stops. No air is in my lungs. There is a pain in my chest, as though my heart cannot beat. As though something inside me is cracking. As though I am going to come apart.

  I concentrate on the curse. On wrestling that sticky, grasping enchantment and quashing it down until it is a solid thing, heavy and cold. And then I press it further, into nothing.

  When I open my eyes, my ragged nails are digging into the skin of Hyacinthe’s arm. His arm, which is no longer feathered, no longer a wing. He is on his knees, still. I am trembling all over, so light-headed that I can barely remember where I am.

  “You did it. You broke the curse. My lady, I swear fealty to you.” His words take a moment to sink in, and when they do, horror sweeps over me. “To you and you alone. I was wrong to doubt.”

  “No,” I manage to choke out.

  I do not want that responsibility. I have seen what power does to people. And I have seen how those who pledge loyalty come to resent those oaths and wish for the destruction of the one who holds them. I was never less free than when I ruled.