I nodded, trying to look as though I was bloodthirsty, and that I could be patient. Wanting anything that would let me sit a little longer in the sun.

  I wasn’t looking forward to murdering a boy I had never met, but by then I hadn’t thought much of it, either. If that was what she wanted me to do and it would spare me pain, I’d do it.

  It’s hard to believe how swiftly I became unrecognizable to myself.

  I wonder how Oak sees himself when he’s about to fight. And then I wonder how he sees himself after.

  “Wren,” Tiernan says, pulling me out of those thoughts. “What can you tell me about where we’re going?”

  I cast my mind further through that painful blur of time. “The Citadel has three towers and three entrances, if you count the aerial one.” I sketch them with a wet finger on the wood of the hull.

  Tiernan frowns.

  “What?” I ask. “I know the place as well as Hyacinthe.”

  “I was only wondering over the aerial entrance,” Tiernan says carefully. “I don’t think I’ve heard that before.”

  I nod. “I mean, it’s not a proper door. There’s an arched opening in one of the towers, and flying things come in through it.”

  “Like birds,” he says. “Hyacinthe might have mentioned that was what he used.”

  “There were guards at all the gates but that one,” I say. “Mostly huldufólk then. Maybe stick creatures now.”

  Tiernan nods encouragingly, and I go on. “The foundation and the first level of the Citadel are all black rock. The walls beyond that are ice, translucent in some places—often closer to transparent—and opaque in others. It’s hard to be certain there will be anywhere to hide where your shadow won’t give you away,” I say, knowing this fact all too well. “The prisons are in the black rock part.”

  Tiernan fishes a piece of lead from his pocket. “Here, see what you can draw with this.”

  I sketch out the garrison gate and the courtyard in the center of the Citadel in dull marks on the wood deck.

  I know the Citadel, know where Lady Nore sleeps, know her throne room and banquet hall. Hyacinthe might have been better suited to explain its current defenses, but I know the number of steps to the top of every spire. I know every corner that a child could hide in, every place she could be dragged out from.

  “If I could get into her chambers, I could command her,” I say. “Lady Nore won’t have many guards with her there.”

  What Lady Nore will have, though, is ferocity, ambition, and no hesitation about spilling an abundance of blood. She and Lord Jarel hated weakness as if it were a disease that could be caught.

  I imagine the bridle sinking into Lady Nore’s skin. My satisfaction at her horror. The moment before she realizes the trap is sprung, when she still wears her arrogance like armor, and the way her face will change as panic sets in.

  Perhaps I am more like them than I would care to believe, to find the image pleasing.

  At that upsetting thought, I rise and go to the prow of the boat, where Oak sits, wrapped in a sodden cloak.

  Wet locks of hair kiss Oak’s cheeks and are plastered to his throat and the small spikes of his horns. His lips look as blue as mine. “You should put on dry clothes,” he tells me.

  “Take your own advice, prince.”

  He looks down at himself, as though surprised to find himself half-frozen. Then he looks over at me. “I have something for you.”

  I put out my hand, expecting him to return my hairpin, but it’s the bridle that he places in my palm.

  “Why?” I ask, staring.

  “One of us has to hold on to it. Let it be you,” he says. “Just come to the Citadel by our side, and try to believe, whatever happens, whatever I say or do or have done, that my intention is for us to all survive this. For us to win.”

  I want to trust him. I want to trust him so much.

  My hand closes over the leather straps. “Of course I’m coming to the Citadel.”

  His eyes meet mine. “Good.”

  I let myself relax into the moment, into friendship. “Now what about my hairpin?”

  He grins and hands it over. I smooth my thumb over the silver bird, then use it to pull back his hair, instead of mine. As my fingers skim over his neck, threading through the silk of his locks, he shudders from something I do not think is cold. I am suddenly too aware of the physicality of him, his long legs and the curve of his mouth, the hollow of his throat and the sharp point of his ears, where earrings once hung. Of the hairs hanging loose from my pin, falling across one light brown horn to rest on his cheekbone.

  When his eyes meet mine, desire, as keen as any blade, bends the air between us. The moment slows. I want to bite his lip. To feel the heat of his skin. To slide my hands beneath his armor and trace the map of his scars.

  The owl-faced hob takes off from the mast, startling us. I stand up too quickly, jolted into awareness of where I am. I have to grab the wooden wings of the cormorant to keep from pitching into the sea.

  Tiernan is perhaps twenty feet away, his gaze on the horizon, but my cheeks heat as though he can read my thoughts.

  “Wren?” Oak is looking at me strangely.

  I head to the cockpit, ducking under the boom as I go. But even with distance between us, the longing to touch him persists.

  I can only be glad Oak does not follow me but heads below to put on dry clothes. Later, when he makes his way to the stern, he wordlessly takes the tiller from Tiernan.

  The faerie boat, blown by unseen winds, flies across the sea. We catch sight of mortal schooners and tankers, pleasure barges, and fishing skiffs. Heading north, we skim the edge of the Eastern Seaboard, passing Maine on one side and the isles of Elfhame on the other. Then we sail farther north, through the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the Labrador Sea.

  Everything ought to be as it was before, except it isn’t. Whenever my hand brushes Oak’s as he passes me a piece of bread or a skin of water, I can’t help but notice. When we sleep in shifts, one of us left to navigate by the stars, I am drawn to watching his face, as though through his dreams, I will learn his secrets.

  Something is very wrong with me.

  On the third day, as we eat, I turn to throw an apple core into the sea and notice sharks circling the boat. Their fins cut smoothly through the swells. This close to the surface of the water, even their long, pale bodies are visible.

  I suck in a breath.

  Oak puts a hand up to shade his eyes from the sun just as a mermaid surfaces. Her hair is as silvery as the shine on the waves.

  “Loana,” he says with a smile that looks only slightly forced. I remember her name. She is one of the girls he fell in love with, the one who wanted to drown him.

  I glance at Tiernan, who is gripping the hilt of his sword, though it is still sheathed. I do not think a blade is going to be particularly useful here.

  “You sent for me and I came, Prince Oak. And lucky that I did, for the Undersea has challengers on all sides as Queen Orlagh weakens, each of them looking for an edge. Soon I may be your only friend beneath the waves.”

  “The treaty with the land still stands,” Oak reminds her.

  “For now, beautiful one.” Her hair floats around her in a silver halo. Her eyes are the bright blue of chipped beach glass. Her tail surfaces lazily behind her, slapping the water before slipping beneath it again. “It is said that Nicasia intends to have a contest and marry the winning challenger.”

  “Ah,” says Oak carefully. “Fun?”

  “Or perhaps she will call on the treaty.” A shark swims to the mermaid, and she strokes its side. I stare in fascination. The jaws of the beast look as though they could bite the boat in half. “And once she has all the contestants in one place, let the land destroy them.”

  “Alas,” says Oak. “The land is trying to remedy its own problems. Which is why I sought your help. We would like to be concealed as we travel over the seas so that we may arrive onshore undetected.”

  “You could travel more swiftly beneath them.” Her tone is all temptation.

  “Nonetheless,” he says.

  Her expression turns into a pout. “Very well, if that’s all you will have of me. I shall do as you ask for the price of a kiss.”

  “Oak—” Tiernan begins, a warning in his voice.

  I take a step closer to the prince, who is going down on his knees on the hull.

  “Easy enough,” Oak says, but there is something in his face that cuts against those words. “And no hardship.”

  I spot a rope attached to the mast. As the prince speaks, I push the end in Oak’s direction with my foot.

  He does not look down when it hits his thigh. He loops it around one arm stealthily as he bends toward Loana.

  She reached up with her webbed fingers, cupping the back of his head. Pressing her lips to his. They must be colder than the sea, colder than mine. His eyes almost close, lashes dipping low. Her tongue is in his mouth. Her grip on him tightens.

  I hate watching, but I cannot look away.

  Then she yanks him toward her sharply, thrashing with her tail. The rope goes taut, the only thing keeping him from being pulled into the sea.

  He scrambles backward onto the boat, breathing hard. His shirt is wet with sea spray. His lips are flushed from her kiss.

  “Come with me beneath the waves,” she calls to him. “Drown with me in delight.”

  He laughs a little shakily. “A compelling offer, but I must see my quest to its conclusion.”

  “Then I will hasten to help you get it done,” she says, diving down and away. The sharks follow, disappearing into the depths. I can see the shimmer of a mist just at the edges of my vision.

  “I hope it was worth nearly being dragged down to the bottom of the sea,” Tiernan says, shaking his head.

  “We’re concealed from Bogdana and Lady Nore,” Oak says, but does not look either of us in the eye.

  At nightfall we sail past floating chunks of ice, landing on a windswept beach just short of the Hudson Strait. Oak pulls the sea craft high onto the black rocks. Tiernan secures a rope to keep it there when the tide comes in. They do not ask me to help, and I do not volunteer.

  Above us, a waning moon shines down on my homecoming.

  I recall the words from the puppet show, when the crow sang for his millstone. Ca-caw, ca-caw. How beautiful a bird am I.

  Winds rake over the mountains, sinking into the valley with an eerie whistling sound. The late-afternoon sun shines off Oak’s golden hair, almost as bright as the snow.

  Thick cloaks hang heavily over our backs. Titch huddles in the cowl at the prince’s neck, occasionally peering out to scowl at me.

  Snow is seldom still. It swirls and blinds. It clings to everything, glimmering and glittering, and when a gust comes, it turns into a white fog.

  And it stings. First like needles, then like razors. Tiny particles of ice chafe the cheeks, and even when they settle, they hide pitfalls. I take too heavy a step and plunge down, one of my legs sinking deep and the other thigh bending painfully on the ice shelf.

  Oak leans down to give me his hand, then hauls me up. “My lady,” he says, as though handing me into a carriage. I feel the pressure of his fingers through both our gloves.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him.

  “Of course you are,” he agrees.

  I resume walking, ignoring a slight limp.

  The Stone Forest looms in front of us, perhaps twenty miles off and stretching far enough in both directions that it is hard to see how we could get around it. Tall pine trees, their bark all of silvery gray. They grow out of the snow-covered plain, rising up like a vast wall.

  As we move along, we come to a stake in the ground, on which a troll’s head has been mounted. The wooden shaft lists to one side, as though from the force of the wind, and the entire top is black with dried fluid. The troll’s eyes are open, staring into nothing with cloudy, fogged-over irises. Its lashes are white with frost.

  Written on the stake are the words: My blood was spilled for the glory of the Kings of Stone who rule from beneath the world, but my body belongs to the Queen of Snow.

  I stare at the head, the rough-cut flesh at the neck and the splinter of bone visible just beneath. Then I look ahead into the snow-covered expanse, dotted with curiously similar shapes. Now that I know they are not fallen branches or slender trees, I see there are a half dozen at least, with a grouping of three in one spot and the others spread out.

  As I am wondering what they mean, the thing opens its mouth and speaks.

  “In the name of our queen,” it creaks out in a whispery, horrible voice, “welcome.”

  I step back in surprise, slip, and land on my ass. As I scramble to get up, Tiernan draws his sword and slices the head in two. Half the skull falls into the snow, scattering frozen clumps of blood large enough to look like rubies.

  The thing’s lips still move, though, bidding us welcome again and again.

  Oak raises his eyebrows. “I think we ought to assume that our presence is no longer secret.”

  Tiernan looks out at the half dozen similar shapes. He nods once, wipes his sword against his pants, and sheathes it again. “It’s not far to the cave. There will be furs waiting for us and wood for a fire. We can plan from there.”

  “When did you provision all of that?” I ask.

  “When I came here for Hyacinthe,” Tiernan says. “Although we weren’t the first to use it. There were already some old supplies, from the time when the Court of Teeth and Madoc’s falcons made camp nearby.”

  As we trudge on, I consider Tiernan’s answer.

  I hadn’t really thought about the timing of Hyacinthe’s abduction before. I’d known that he was in Elfhame for long enough to try to murder Cardan and get put in the bridle. That had to have predated Madoc being kidnapped.

  But Hyacinthe being in Elfhame when the general was taken seems odd, coincidental. Had he helped Lady Nore? Had he known it would happen and said nothing? Has Tiernan more reason to feel betrayed than I knew?

  The third head we pass is one of the Gentry. His eyes are black drops, his skin bleached by blood loss. The same message about the Kings of Stone that was on the troll’s stake is written on this one.

  Oak reaches out to touch the frozen cheek of the faerie. He closes the eyes.

  “Did you know him?” I ask.

  He hesitates. “He was a general. Lihorn. One of the cursed falcons. He used to come to my father’s house when I was young, to drink and talk strategy.”

  Mercifully, this head does not speak.

  Oak shivers beneath his cloak. Tiernan is doing little better. The heavy wool of their wrappings offers them some protection from the freezing temperatures, but not enough.

  The sun turns the ice scarlet and gold as we begin making our way up the side of a mountain. It’s a craggy climb. We heave ourselves over rocks, trying not to slip. I find it hard going, difficult enough that I am silent with concentration. Oak clambers behind me, his hooves slippery on the ice. Tiernan’s training keeps his steps light, but his labored breathing gives away the effort of it. The air grows colder the darker the sky becomes. Oak’s breath steams as Tiernan shivers. The cold burns through the fabric of their gloves to stiffen their fingers, making them clumsy. I am unaffected, except perhaps a bit more alive, a bit more awake.

  Gusts of wind whip sharp needles of ice against our cheeks. We edge along, barely able to see the path forward among the scrubby trees, rocky outcrops, and icicles.

  The thought comes to me, unbidden, that I am looking at what I was made from. Snow and sticks. Sticks and snow. Not a real girl. A paper doll of a child, to play with, then rip up and throw away.

  I was meant for the purpose of betraying the High Court. Never to survive past that. If I am the cause of Lady Nore’s fall, it will give me all the more pleasure for her never having anticipated it.

  The cave entrance is wide and low, its ceiling a pocked sheet of ice. I duck my head as I enter. The owl-faced hob darts from the prince’s cowl, flying into the darkness.

  Oak digs out a stub of candle from his bag. He places four around the room and lights them. Their leaping flames send shadows in every direction.

  A confusion of supplies is piled in the back: shaggy bear pelts, boxes, a small chest, and stacks of wood that have been here long enough to be covered in a thin layer of frost.

  “Interesting stuff,” Oak says, walking over to the chest and knocking the side lightly with his hoof. “Did you open any of it when last you were here?”

  Tiernan shakes his head. “I was in a bit of a rush.”

  He would have been with Hyacinthe—still a bird, before Oak removed the curse. Had he been caught then, caged? Had he ridden on Tiernan’s shoulder, sure he was being saved? Or had he gone, knowing he would help Lady Nore abduct Madoc? I frown over that, since I recall him telling me how loyal he’d been.

  Oak is peering at the lock on the chest. “Once, the Bomb told me a story about poisonous spiders kept inside a trunk. When the thief opened it, he was bitten all over. Died badly. I believe she was trying to dissuade me from stealing sweets.”

  Tiernan kicks the stack of wood with one snow-covered boot. The logs tumble out of formation. “I am going to make a fire.”

  I lift a fur and turn it inside out, brushing my hand over the lining to check for rot or bugs. There’s nothing. No discoloration, either, as there might be from poison. The only odor it contains is the faint smell of the smoke used to tan the hide.

  A few uniforms from the long-disbanded army are in a gray woolen heap. I shake them out and assess them while Oak tries to pry apart the rusty chest. “There probably aren’t any spiders,” he says when I look in his direction.

  Inside is a waxed wheel of cheese and ancient rolls, along with a skin of slushy wine. He appears disappointed.

  Again, I find myself studying his face. The curve of his smiling mouth and the hard line of his jaw. What he wants me to see and what he wants to hide. After a moment, I turn away, heading to the front of the cave, where Tiernan is striking an ancient flint against the side of his sword, hoping to get a spark.

  I wonder how much it bothers him to be back here, alone.