Nothing happens.

  I draw in a breath. Then another.

  Minutes later, there’s a knock. I don’t move.

  Oak’s insistent voice comes from the other side. “Wren, open up.”

  “No,” I shout, crawling out from underneath the bed and scrambling into my clothes.

  I hear shuffling and a thud, and then something metal slides down the gap between door and jamb. It opens.

  “I thought you were…” I start to explain, but I am not sure he’s paying attention. He’s put away what he was using to jimmy the door and is gathering back up a cardboard drink holder of coffees and a large paper bag.

  When he looks up, he freezes for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he averts his gaze, turning it toward something just over my shoulder.

  I glance down, at the way the damp cloth of my dress has stuck to my body, and flinch. My breasts are visible, even my nipples. Could he think I did this for his attention? Shame heats my cheeks, crawls down my neck.

  Walking past me, he sets down the sack on the bed. His golden curls are only slightly mussed, his fresh linen shirt white and unwrinkled, as though he’d never been poisoned, or shot, or fallen off a horse. He certainly hadn’t cleaned his clothes in the sink. And his mouth is twisted in an expression of insufferable amusement.

  I wrap myself in the coverlet from the bed.

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked.” Oak proceeds to take out a mango, three green apples, a handful of dried figs, a bag of crackers in the shapes of goldfish, frozen pizza bites, and four foil-wrapped hot dogs. He does all this without looking at me. “They seem like meat, but they’re not.”

  I am hungry enough to accept one of his weird vegan hot dogs. “You don’t eat meat? Your father must hate that.”

  He shrugs, but there’s something in his face that tells me it’s been discussed before. “More for him.”

  Then I am distracted by eating. I gobble three out of the four hot dogs so quickly that when I stop, I see Oak has his hand curved protectively over the remaining one. I pick up a fig and try to take smaller bites.

  Leaving the remainder of the food on the mattress, he goes to the door. “Tiernan told me I should be grateful for your unwillingness to drop me on my head, however tempted you were,” he says. “They’ll sing ballads to your restraint.”

  “And why would you think I was tempted?” There’s a growl in my voice I can’t seem to get out.

  “Many are. It must be something about my face.” He smiles, and I think of the jealous lover with the knife.

  “Maybe you keep dragging them on quests,” I say.

  He laughs. “This isn’t how I thought to see you again.”

  “I imagine you thought you’d never see me again,” I say, to remind myself of the many, many differences between our positions in life.

  His grin slides off his mouth. “That did seem to be what you wanted.”

  I wish it didn’t bother me that he isn’t smiling anymore, but it does.

  The door opens. Tiernan is on the other side, glowering at us. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

  Outside, I see that we have acquired a new horse, black as ink and smelling of seawater. Oak’s faerie steed shies away from it, blowing panicked breaths from flared nostrils.

  The new mount catches my eye hungrily, and I realize what I’m looking at. The creature is one of the solitary Folk, a devourer of flesh. A kelpie.

  Get on up,” Tiernan says impatiently, nodding toward the kelpie. The thing doesn’t even have a saddle, no less reins. I look longingly at Damsel and wonder if the knight is forcing me onto a carnivorous monster out of sheer dislike.

  But Oak goes to it willingly enough, patting its flank absently. Then he swings onto the kelpie’s back and reaches down a hand to me. He is wearing his golden armor again, the boy who’d been my friend disappearing into a man I don’t know.

  The knight heaves me up behind the prince. As my hands go to Oak’s waist, I am aware of the warmth of his skin even through the scale armor, of his body pressed against my thighs, and while the cloak he loaned me covers the thinness of my gown, it cannot protect me from that.

  “Hope you’re feeling rested after all that deathsweet,” Tiernan tells Oak. “Because you’re mutilating our timetable.”

  Oak gives him a look that makes me suspect the prince will finally call him to account for his familiarity. But if so, this is not the moment.

  I wonder how hard it is for the kelpie not to run directly into a pond and drown us both. But, as one of the solitary fey, he has very likely made vows of obedience to Elfhame, and I can only hope those hold. I barely have time to wrap my arms around the prince’s waist and try not to fall. Then we’re off, thundering through the late afternoon without cease.

  Through the sap-smeared woods of the Pine Barrens, crossing highways filled with the bright headlights of cars, we ride. My hair whips behind me, and when Oak glances back, I have to look away. Circlet at his brow, sword at his belt, in his shining mail, he looks like a knight from a child’s imaginings, out of a storybook.

  Break of day comes in pinks and golds, and the sun is high above us when we come to a stop. My thighs are sorer than before from rubbing against the kelpie’s flanks, and even my bones feel tired. My hair is knotted worse than ever.

  We make camp in a forest, quiet and deep. The distant hiss of traffic tells me that mortal roads are near, but if I don’t listen too closely, I could mistake that for the sounds of a stream. Oak unpacks and unrolls blankets while Tiernan starts a fire. Hyacinthe watches, as if daring to be asked to help.

  I slip away and return with handfuls of persimmons, two dryad’s saddle mushrooms as large as helmets, wild garlic, and spicebush twigs. Even Tiernan pronounces himself impressed by my finds, although I think he’s annoyed that Oak allowed me to wander off.

  The prince ignores him and rigs up a way to cook the mushrooms. They’ve brought cheese and good black bread, and while we eat, Oak tells us stories of the Court. Ridiculous parties held by the High King. Pranks Oak has personally played and been punished for. No mention of his lovers, but he recounts a tragicomic romance involving a phooka, a pixie, and one of the king’s counselors that was still playing out when he left.

  Even Tiernan seemed different in the firelight. When he poured tea for Hyacinthe, he added honey without being asked, as though he’d made it that way many times before. And when he handed it over and their fingers met, I recognized in his face the sharp pain of longing, the unwillingness to ask for what you knew you would be denied. He hid it quickly, but not quickly enough.

  “Will you tell me what this hag in the Court of Moths is supposed to find for us?” I ask when the stories come to an end.

  I want the answer, but more than that, I want to know if they trust me enough to give me one.

  Tiernan looks in Oak’s direction, but the prince is looking directly at me, clear-eyed. “The limits of Lady Nore’s power, I hope. The Thistlewitch lived during the time of Mab, and there was a curse on Mab’s bones, if I understand right.”

  “So not an object?” I ask, thinking of their conversation in the woods.

  Oak shrugs. “That depends on what she tells us.”

  I mull over his answer as I bed down in some of the prince’s blankets. They are perfumed with the scents of Elfhame, and I pull my own muddy covering close to my nose to blot out the smell.

  That afternoon there is another long, exhausting ride, with only a brief break for food. By the time we stop, I feel ready to fall off the kelpie’s back and not care if it starts nibbling on me.

  Nearby a wide, brackish river froths, bubbling around rock. Tall, slender saw palmettos make lonely islands of rubble and root. On a steep slope, a single wall of a five-story concrete building stands. It looks like a castle cut out of construction paper, flat instead of three-dimensional.

  “The entrance to the Court of Moths is supposed to be here somewhere,” Tiernan says.

  I slide off the kelpie and lie down in the weeds while Oak and Tiernan debate where to find the entrance to the brugh. I breathe in the fine mist from the water, the scents of loam and clotted river grass.

  When I open my eyes, a young man is standing where the kelpie was. Brown hair the color of mud in a riverbed and eyes the murky green of stagnant water. I startle, scuttling away, and reach into my pack for a knife.

  “Greetings,” he says expansively, bowing. “You must wish to know the name of the one who carried you on his back, who so stalwartly aided a young prince in his time of need, before the beginning of his true reign—”

  “Sure,” I say, interrupting him.

  “Jack of the Lakes,” he says with a menacing grin. “A merry wight. And whom do I have the honor of addressing?” He looks at me.

  “Wren,” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t. It’s not my true name, but all names have some power.

  “You have an unusual voice,” he says. “Raspy. Quite fetching, really.”

  “I damaged my vocal cords a long time ago,” I inform him. “Screaming.”

  Oak steps between us, and I am grateful for the reprieve. “What a fine gentleman you make, Jack.”

  Jack turns to the prince, his sinister smile dropping back into place. “Oak and Wren. Wren and Oak. Delightful! Named for woodland creatures, but neither of you so simple.” He glances at Tiernan and Hyacinthe. “Not nearly as simple as these two.”

  “That’s enough,” Tiernan says.

  Jack’s gaze stays on Oak. “Will you caper for the pleasure of the Queen of Moths? For she is a grim ruler, and her favor hard to win. Not that you need to concern yourself with impressing anyone, Your Highness.”

  I get a cold feeling at his words.

  “I don’t mind a caper,” Oak says.

  “That’s enough impertinence,” says Tiernan, inserting himself into the conversation. He stands with his shoulders back and his arms folded, the picture of the officer in Madoc’s army that he must have once been. “You had the privilege of carrying the prince a ways, and that’s that. Whatever we see fit to give you in recompense, be it a coin or a kick in the teeth, you’ll take it and be grateful.”

  Jack of the Lakes sniffs, offended.

  Hyacinthe’s eyes glitter with anger, as though he feels the knight spoke directly to him.

  “Nonsense,” Oak tells Jack. “Your hooves were swift and sure. Come with us to the Court, rest your feet, and take some refreshment.” He claps his hand on Tiernan’s shoulder. “We’re the ones with reason to be grateful, isn’t that so?”

  The knight pointedly ignores him, clearly not experiencing the awe of Prince Oak that he expects of Jack of the Lakes.

  “This way,” the prince says, and ushers us along the bank. I follow, trying not to slide on the wet mud.

  “Decide for yourself how well they repay gratitude,” says Hyacinthe to the kelpie, touching the leather strap of the bridle he wears. “And do not give them cause for too much of it.”

  Tiernan rolls his eyes.

  There’s solid concrete blocking our path, with the river on one side and a hill covered in poisonous manchineel trees on the other. The remains of the old building have no door, only large windows that show an even more forbidding and swampy landscape beyond. And yet I can feel the stillness in the air, the crackling presence of magic. Oak stops, frowning. I am sure he can feel it, too.

  The prince presses his hand against the concrete, like he’s trying to find the source.

  Jack of the Lakes is wading in the water, looking eager to drag someone down into its depths.

  Hyacinthe moves to stand nearby, his free hand clenching as though missing something. I wonder what weapon he used when he was a soldier. “I bet you think you’re all great friends now.”

  I lower my voice to a rasp, remembering our conversation by the sea. “I am not under anyone’s spell.”

  His gaze goes to the prince, standing on a windowsill, and then back to me. “He seems like an open book, but that’s the game he plays. He keeps plenty of secrets. For instance, did you know he received a message from Lady Nore?”

  “A message?” I echo.

  He smiles, satisfied he has rattled me.

  Before I can press him for details, Oak turns to us with a grin that calls for an answer. “Come look.”

  A meadow of flowers flows impossibly from the other side of the window. There is no river there, no scrub grass or mud. Just endless blooms, and among them scattered bones, as white as petals.

  He hops into the meadow, hooves sinking beneath the flowers, and then reaches up for me.

  Do not fall under his spell.

  I remind myself that I knew Oak when we were children, that we have the same enemies. That he has no reason to play me false. Still, thinking of Hyacinthe’s words, I shake my head at Oak’s offer of help and climb down myself.

  “It’s beautiful, no?” he asks, a little smile on his face. A light in his fox eyes.

  It is, of course. All of Faerie is beautiful like this, with carnage hidden just beneath. “I am sure the Queen of Moths will be delighted that the Crown Prince thinks so.”

  “You’re in a prickly mood,” he tells me.

  As though I am not all-over briars at all times.

  We walk through a landscape with no sun or moon above us until we come to a patch of earth with a deep pit half-hidden by swirling fog. There cut into the dirt are steps spiraling down into darkness.

  “The Court of Moths,” says Jack of the Lakes softly.

  As I glance back at the field, the bones bother me: signs of death strewn among a carpet of flowers. I wish we had not come here. I have a dread that feels like premonition.

  I notice that Oak has his hand on his sword as he begins his descent.

  We follow, Tiernan behind the prince, then me and Jack, with Hyacinthe bringing up the rear, bridle tight against his cheeks. I hold my knife against my belly, inhale the rich scent of earth, and remember all the times I broke curses, all the tricks I played on the Folk.

  We step into a long hall of packed dirt, with pale roots forming a latticework along the ceiling. Occasional glowing crystals light our way. I find myself growing more uncomfortable the deeper we go into the hill. I feel the weight of the earth above me, as though the passageway could collapse, burying us all. I bite my lip and keep going.

  Finally, we step into a high-ceilinged cavern, its walls shining with mica.

  There stands a green-skinned troll woman, with piercings through her cheeks and two sets of black horns protruding from her head. Sabers hang on either side of her hips. She wears armor of leather, carefully worked so that it seems as though there are a dozen screaming mouths on her chest plate.

  At the sight of us, she scowls. “I guard the passage to the Court of Moths. Declare your name and your purpose in coming here. Then I will very likely kill you.”

  The expression on Tiernan’s face hardens. “Do you not know your own sovereign? This is Prince Oak, heir to Elfhame.”

  The troll’s gaze goes to Oak, looking as though she could eat him in three bites. Finally, she makes a reluctant, shallow bow. “You do us honor.”

  The prince, for his part, appears genuinely pleased to meet her and not the least bit afraid, bespeaking either great arrogance or foolishness, or both. “The honor is ours,” he says, looking ready to kiss her hand if she offered it to him. I cannot imagine being so certain of one’s welcome.

  Just imagining it makes my stomach hurt.

  “We seek the Thistlewitch, who dwells in Queen Annet’s lands. We understand that without permission to see her, supplicants become lost in her swamp for a hundred years,” Oak says.

  The troll tilts her head, as if still evaluating his deliciousness. “Some don’t make it back at all.”

  The prince nods, as though she’s confirming his suspicions. “Alas, we don’t have time for either of those options.”

  The troll smiles a little despite herself, at the silliness of his words. “And your companions?”

  “Sir Tiernan,” says the knight, pointing to himself. “Jack of the Lakes. Lady Wren. Our prisoner, Hyacinthe.”

  The troll’s gaze glides over Hyacinthe and Jack to rest on me for an uncomfortably long moment. My lip curls in automatic response, to reveal the points of my teeth.

  Far from looking discomfited, the troll woman gives me a nod, as though appreciative of their sharpness and my mistrust.

  “Queen Annet will wish to greet you personally,” the troll says, kicking the wall behind her three times. “She is fain to fete you in her hall and all that sort of thing. I’ve summoned a servant to bring you to some rooms. There, you may refresh yourselves and dress for the evening’s revel. We will even lock up your prisoner for the night.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Oak says.

  The troll grins. “And yet we will do it.”

  Hyacinthe glances in Tiernan’s direction, perhaps looking to his former lover to speak in his behalf. I feel all around me the closing of a trap, and yet I do not think I am the one who is meant to be caught.

  “We would be delighted to enjoy the hospitality of the Court of Moths,” Oak says. If he hopes to get what he came for, it would be impossible for him to say anything else.

  The troll guard’s smile grows impossibly wide. “Good. You may follow Dvort.”

  I note her gaze and turn, startled to see that one of the Folk has crept in behind us. His skin and beard are the same color as the roots winding down from the ceiling, his eyes a bloodshot pink. His ears are long, like those of a rabbit, and his clothes appear to be covered in a layer of moss, heavier on his shoulders. He does not speak, only bows, then turns and shuffles down the passageway.

  Hyacinthe bumps my shoulder with his. “Before they take me, let me prove what I’ve said and give you at least this much information. The prince’s mother was a gancanagh. A love-talker. Honey-mouths, we used to call them back at Court.”

  I give a quick shake of my head, dreading what he will say next.