The mortal girl hesitates. “There was a witch, and she brought me here to see my sister. But I haven’t seen her yet. The witch says she’s in trouble.”

  “A witch…,” he echoes. He wonders how aware the girl has been of the passage of time. “You’re Wren’s sister, Bex?”

  “Bex, yes.” A small smile pulls at her mouth. “You know Wren?”

  “Since we were quite young,” he says, and Bex relaxes a little. “Do you know what she is? What I am?”

  “Faeries.” Monsters, her expression says. “I keep rowan on me at all times. And iron.”

  When Oak was a child, living in the mortal world with his oldest sister, Vivi, he was super excited to show her girlfriend, Heather, magic. He took his glamour off and was crushed when she looked at him in horror, as though he wasn’t the same little boy she took to the park or tickled. He thought of the news as a surprise present, but it turned out to be a jump scare.

  He didn’t realize then how vulnerable a mortal in Faerie can be. He should have, though, living with two mortal sisters. He should have, but he didn’t.

  “That’s good,” he says, thinking of the burn of the iron bars in the Citadel. “Rowan to break spells, and iron to burn us.”

  “Your turn,” Bex says. “Who are you?”

  “Oak,” he says.

  “The prince,” Bex says flatly, all the friendliness gone from her voice.

  He nods.

  She takes two steps forward and spits at his feet. “The witch told me about you,” Bex says. “That you steal hearts, and you were going to steal my sister’s. That if I ever saw you, I ought to run.”

  Used to people liking him, or at least used to having to court dislike, Oak is a little stunned. “I would never—” he begins, but she’s already moving across the room, flattening herself against the curved wall as though he’s going to come after her.

  There’s a sound in the distance, loud and sharp. The walls shake.

  “What’s that?” she demands, stumbling.

  “My friends,” Oak says. “I hope.”

  Bright light flashes, and the prison tilts to one side. Bex is thrown against him, and then they’re both on the floor of Mother Marrow’s cottage.

  Hyacinthe has a crossbow pointed at Mother Marrow. The window Oak unlatched is open, and Jack is inside. The kelpie stoops down to lift an acorn, unbroken.

  Mother Marrow glowers. “A bad-mannered lot,” she grouses.

  “You found her!” says Jack. “And what a toothsome morsel—I mean mortal.”

  Bex jumps up and pulls an antique-looking wrench from her back pocket—that must be the iron to which she was referring. She appears to be considering hitting the kelpie over the head with it.

  In two strides, Oak is across the room. He claps his hand against the girl’s mouth hard enough for her teeth to press against his palm.

  “Listen to me,” he says, feeling like a bully almost certainly because he was behaving like one. “I am not going to hurt Wren. Or you. But I don’t have time to fight you, nor do I have time to chase you if you run.”

  She struggles against him, kicking.

  He leans down and whispers in her ear, “I am here for Wren’s sake, and I am going to take you to her. And if you try to get away again, remember this—the easiest way to make you behave would be to make you love me, and you don’t want that.”

  She must really not, because she goes slack in his arms.

  He takes his hand from her mouth, and she pulls away but doesn’t scream. Instead, she studies him, breathing hard.

  “I should have known something was wrong when you knew my name,” Bex says. “Wren would have never told you that. She says that if you know my name, it would give you power over me.”

  He gives a surprised laugh. “I wish,” he says, then winces. He should have found a better way to phrase that, one that didn’t make him sound quite so much like an actual monster. But there is little for him to do but forge on. “You need someone’s full name, their true name. Mortals don’t have those. Not in the way that we do.”

  Bex’s gaze shifts to the door of the cottage and then back, calculation in her eyes.

  “Wren is in trouble,” he says. “Some people are using your safety to make her do what they want. Which is going to mean killing a lot of my people.”

  “And you want to use me to stop her,” Bex accuses.

  That’s a harsh way of putting it, but true. “Yes,” he says. “I don’t want my own sisters hurt. I don’t want anyone hurt. Not Wren and not you.”

  “And you’ll take me to her?” Bex asks.

  He nods.

  “Then I’ll go with you,” she says. “For now.”

  Oak turns his gaze to Mother Marrow. “I am going to grant you this, for whatever I owe you. Should I survive, I will not tell the High King and Queen that you took Bogdana’s part against them. But now my debt is dismissed.”

  “And if she wins, what then?” Mother Marrow says.

  “Then I will be dead,” Oak tells her. “And you are more than welcome to spit on the moss and rocks where my body fell.”

  It is at that moment that the front door cracks in two. The smell of ozone and burning wood fills the air. The storm hag stands there as though summoned by the speaking of her name.

  Lightning crackles between her hands. Her eyes are wild. “You!” cries Bogdana as she spots Bex beside the prince.

  “Take the mortal to Wren,” Oak shouts to Jack and Hyacinthe, drawing his sword. “Go!”

  Then he rushes at the storm hag.

  Electricity hits his blade, scorching his fingers. Despite the pain, he manages to swing, slashing through her cloak.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Oak sees Jack lift Bex and push her feet through the window. From the other side, Hyacinthe grabs hold of her.

  Bogdana reaches for Oak with her daggerlike fingers. “I am going to enjoy stripping the skin from your flesh.”

  He swings, blocking her grab. Then he ducks to her left. She takes another step toward him.

  By now, Hyacinthe and Jack are out of sight, Bex with them.

  A move occurs to Oak—a risky move, but one that might work. One that might get him to Wren faster than anything else. “What if I surrender?” he asks.

  He can see her slight hesitation. “Surrender?”

  “I’ll sheathe my sword and go with you willingly.” He shrugs, lowering his blade a fraction. “If you promise to bring me straight to Wren with no tricks.”

  “No tricks?” she echoes. “That’s a fine thing coming from you.”

  “I want to see her,” he says, hoping he seems convincing. “I want to hear from her lips what she’s done and what she wants. And you don’t want to leave her alone too long.”

  Bogdana regards him with a sly expression. “Very well, prince.” She reaches out and runs her long claws over his cheek so lightly that they only scrape his bruises. “If I can’t have the sister, then you’ll be my prize. And I’ll have you well-seasoned by the time I end you.”

  Bogdana has one clawed hand around his wrist as she tugs him toward the water and the storm.

  “I thought we were going back to Wren,” he says.

  “Ah, did you think she was still here on Insmoor? No, I brought her to Insear. We were there together when Mother Marrow signaled me.”

  He should have suspected Mother Marrow had a way to let Bogdana know her hostage was being released and regrets his generosity with her. All he is likely to get in the way of gratitude is a curse. “On Insear?” he says, staying with the part that matters. If Wren and Bogdana made it to Insear, what did that mean for his family?

  “Come,” Bogdana says, stepping off the edge of the rocks. A swirling wind catches and lifts her, as it caught and lifted the ship. The storm hag’s robes billow. She gives a sharp tug on Oak’s wrist. He follows her, his hooves walking on what seems like nothing but knots and eddies of air.

  The fog parts, and droplets of rain do not fall in their path as the wind carries them over the sea.

  Minutes later, they drop onto the black rocks of Insear. Oak slips and nearly falls, attempting to find his footing.

  And in front of him, he sees Wren and Jude.

  They are squared off, his sister holding a sword in one hand, her eyes shining. Most of her brown hair has come out of its braids and hangs loose and wet around her face. Her cheeks are pink with cold, and the bottom of her dress is raggedly cut away, as though she wants to be sure it won’t trip her.

  Wren wears the clothes she wore at the hunt, the same clothes she wore on Insmoor. They hang on her, as though there is even less of her now, as though more of her has been eaten away. Her cheekbones are sharper, the hollows beneath them more pronounced. Her expression is as bleak as the rain-streaked sky. As bleak as when she was going to let him stab her.

  Behind his sister are four other Folk. The Roach, a dagger in one hand and a fresh wound on his brow. Two archers—knights that Oak recognizes, holding longbows. And a courtier, dressed in velvet and lace, hair and beard in braids, hands gripping a hammer. They are all soaked to the bone.

  On Wren’s side are more than a dozen of her soldiers—armored, swords at their belts and bows in their hands.

  “Jude,” Oak says, but she doesn’t even seem to hear him.

  As he watches, Wren lunges toward Jude, grabbing for her unsheathed blade. Wren’s blood smears over the bare steel where the edge catches her palm. But before the sword can bite more deeply, before Jude can wrench it from her grip, the metal begins to melt. It pools on the ground, hissing where it hits water, cooling into jagged metal shapes. Unmade.

  Jude takes a step back, dropping the hilt as though it bit her.

  “Nice trick.” Her voice isn’t quite steady.

  “I see you have things well in hand, daughter,” Bogdana calls to Wren. “I have the prince. Now, where is the High King?”

  “Shoot them,” Jude snaps, ignoring Bogdana’s words and instead focusing on the falcons transforming into soldiers. “Shoot all our enemies.”

  Arrows fly, soaring through the air in a beautiful and deadly arc.

  Before they can fall, Wren raises a hand. She makes a small motion, as though brushing away a gnat. The arrows break and scatter like twigs caught in a harsh wind.

  Jude has pulled two daggers from her bodice, both of them curved and sharp as razors.

  Oak steps away from Bogdana, hand on the pommel of his own sword. “Stop!” he shouts.

  The storm hag sneers. “Don’t be foolish, boy; you’re surrounded.”

  Several of the falcons have notched their own bows, and though Oak believes Wren doesn’t want more death, if they fire, he isn’t at all sure she’d stop her own archers’ arrows from striking. It would be a drain on her power, and her falcons would take it much amiss.

  “I have your sister,” he calls, because that’s the important thing. That’s what she needs to know. “I have Bex.”

  Wren turns, her eyes wide, hair plastered to her neck. Lips parted, he can see her sharp teeth.

  “He’s stolen her from us,” Bogdana shouts. “Believe nothing he says. He would use her to fetter you, child.”

  Jude looks across at them, eyebrows raised. “Blackmail, brother? Impressive.”

  “That’s not—” he starts.

  “You have some decisions to make,” Jude tells him. “The falcons follow your lady. But perhaps she wants your head on a pike as much as the storm hag does. Give her an inch, and she might take your life.”

  Bogdana answers before Oak can. “Ah, Queen of Elfhame, you see how useless your weapons are. You’re married to the faithless child of a faithless line. Your crown was secured with my daughter’s blood.”

  “My crown was secured with a lot of people’s blood.” Jude turns to her archers. “Ready another volley.”

  “You cannot so easily hurt us with sharp sticks,” Wren says, but her gaze keeps drifting to Oak. She must be aware that this is his family and he has hers.

  Wren’s magic harrowed her before they got to Elfhame. She sagged in Oak’s arms just the day before. She cannot stop arrows endlessly. He’s not sure what she can do.

  “Randalin is dead,” the prince tells the storm hag. “He conspired against Elfhame. He poisoned the Ghost. He planned this coup long before he tried to involve you in it. There is no reason to let him drag you down, too.”

  “Don’t let him manipulate you,” Bogdana says, as though it’s Wren he’s trying to convince. “He’s using you just as Randalin hoped to—Randalin, who wanted to help put Prince Oak on the throne. See how the councilor was rewarded for his loyalty? And this is the person you would trust not to use your sister against you?”

  Once Bex was safe, Oak thought Wren would be free of Bogdana’s control. And she is, but that doesn’t mean she’s free. He has Bex. He can control Wren the way Bogdana did. He could make her crawl to him as assuredly as if strips of the bridle were digging into her skin.

  He doesn’t know how to convince her that’s not what he intends to do. “You care for your sister. And I, mine. Let’s end this. Tell Bogdana to stop the storm. Tell your falcons to stand down. This can be over.”

  Bogdana sneers. “He gave the mortal to Jack of the Lakes. Jack’s likely drowned her by now.”

  Wren’s eyes widen. “You didn’t.”

  “He’s bringing her to you,” Oak says, realizing how bad it sounds. Not only that, but he isn’t sure it’s possible for Jack to bring Bex here, if he even guesses where they are. Oak nearly drowned, getting across.

  “You believe that, girl?” snaps Bogdana. “They would have delighted if one of their arrows had pierced your heart. Let’s find the High King and cut his throat. Your falcons can watch the prince.”

  Oak may be able to draw and strike before Bogdana can stop him, but if Wren tells her archers to fire, he’ll be dead. He has no magical cloak to hide behind.

  Jude shifts her stance. “Anyone who goes toward that tent, kill them,” she orders her remaining Folk. “And you, little queen, better not interfere. If Oak has your sister, I assume you want her back in one piece.”

  “That’s not helping, Jude,” he says.

  “I forgot,” she says. “We’re not on the same side.”

  “You’re hiding the High King from me?” Bogdana asks. “He must be the coward everyone says, letting you fight his battles.”

  Oak sees rage flash across Jude’s face, watches her swallow it. “I don’t mind fighting.”

  Cardan isn’t a coward, though. Hurt though he was, he picked up a weapon when Randalin’s knights turned on them. How badly wounded must he be not to be here now—not to even have given Jude his cloak. Cardan was bleeding when Oak left—but he was conscious. He was giving orders.

  “So before this battle happens and we all have to pick sides, I have a question.” Jude’s gaze sharpens. She’s stalling, Oak realizes but has no idea what she can gain from it. “If you wanted the throne for Wren so badly, why not let her marry him? She was supposed to marry Prince Oak this very evening, isn’t that so? Wouldn’t that have given her a straight path to the throne? After she became High Queen, all she’d have to do is what she intended all those years ago—bite out his throat.”

  Perhaps Jude just meant to remind him not to trust Wren.

  “As though you would ever let Prince Oak come to his throne,” Bogdana sneers.

  “Generally speaking, one doesn’t have to let one’s heir do the inheriting,” says Jude. “Of course, perhaps you’re acting now because you had no choice. Maybe Randalin moved ahead without consulting you. You meant for the marriage to happen, but he set the thing in motion before you managed it.”

  Bogdana’s lip curls. “Do you think I care about the treason of one of your ministers? Your courtly intrigues are of little consequence. No, with Wren by my side, I can return Insear to the bottom of the sea. I can sink all the isles.”

  It would destroy Wren to do that. The magic would unmake her along with the land.

  “We can all die together,” Oak says. “In one grand, glorious final act of stupidity fit for a ballad.”

  Wren’s hands tremble, and she presses them together to conceal it. He notices how purple her lips have gone. The way her skin looks pale and mottled, such that even the blue color of it cannot hide that something is wrong.

  Unmaking the sword and the arrows must have cost her—and he was uncertain if that was all she’d done since the hunt.

  “I was the first of the hags,” Bogdana returns, her voice like the crash of waves. “The most powerful of the witches. My voice is the howl of the wind, my hair the lashing rain, my nails the hot strike of lightning that rends flesh from bone. When I gave Mab a portion of my power, it came with a price. I wanted my child to have a place among the Courtly Folk, to sit on a throne and wear a crown. But that’s not what happened.” Bogdana pauses. “I was tricked by a queen once. I will not be tricked again.”

  “Mab is gone,” Oak says, trying to reason with her. Hoping that he can find the real words, the true words, ones that will be persuasive because they are right. “You’re still here. And you have Wren again. You’re the one with everything to lose now and nothing to—”

  “Quiet, boy!” Bogdana says. “Do not try your power on me.”

  “It lets me know what you want.” He glances at Wren. “I don’t need to charm you to tell you this isn’t the way to get it.”

  Bogdana laughs. “And if Wren wants her throne? Will you stand aside as she plans to take it? Will you help? Let your sister die to prove this love you claim to have for her?” She turns to Jude. “And you? Bluff all you want, but you have only four Folk behind you—half of them probably contemplating turning on you. And a brother whose loyalty is in question.

  “Surely your people do not want to face three times as many soldiers, all of whom can shoot at will while you return no volley. I would greatly reward boldness. Should one of them kill the King of Elfhame—”

  “What if I give you Oak’s head instead of Cardan’s?” Jude asks suddenly.