The Ghost frowns but doesn’t contradict him.

What I must do is put the puzzle pieces together. Here’s what doesn’t make sense—why is Madoc backing Balekin? Balekin is cruel and volatile, two qualities not preferable in a monarch. Even if Madoc believes Balekin will give him the wars he wants, it seems as though he could have gotten those some other way.

I think of the letter I found on Balekin’s desk, the one to Nicasia’s mother: I know the provenance of the blusher mushroom that you ask after. Why, after all this time, would Balekin want proof that Dain orchestrated Liriope’s murder? And if he had it, why hadn’t he taken it to Eldred? Unless he had and Eldred hadn’t believed him. Or cared. Or … unless the proof was for someone else.

“When was Liriope poisoned?” I ask.

“Seven years ago, in the month of storms,” the Ghost says with a twist in his mouth. “Dain told me that he’d been given a foresight about the child. Is this important or are you just curious?”

“What was the foresight?” I ask.

He shakes his head, as if he doesn’t want the memory, but he answers. “If the boy was born, Prince Dain would never be king.”

What a typical faerie prophecy—one that gives you a warning about what you’ll lose but never promises you anything. The boy is dead, but Prince Dain will never be king.

Let me not be that kind of fool, to base my strategies on riddles.

“So it’s true,” the Roach says quietly. “You’re the one who killed her.” The Ghost’s frown deepens. It didn’t occur to me until then that they might not know one another’s assignments.

Both of them look uncomfortable. I wonder if the Roach would have done it. I wonder what it means that the Ghost did. When I look at him now, I don’t know what I see.

“I’m going to go home,” I say. “I’ll pretend I got lost at the coronation revel. I should be able to figure out what Cardan is worth to them. I’ll come back tomorrow and run the particulars by you both and the Bomb, if she’s here. Give me a day to see what I can do and your oath to make no decisions until then.”

“If the Bomb has better sense than we do, she’s already gone to ground.” The Roach points to a cabinet. Wordlessly, the Ghost goes and gets out a bottle, placing it on the worn wooden table. “How do we know you won’t betray us? Even if you think you’re on our side now, you might get back to that stronghold of Madoc’s and reconsider.”

I eye the Roach and the Ghost speculatively. “I’ll have to leave Cardan in your care, which means trusting you. I promise not to betray you, and you promise that the prince will be here when I get back.”

Cardan looks relieved at the idea that there will be a delay, whatever happens next. Or perhaps he’s just relieved by the presence of the bottle.

“You could be a kingmaker,” the Ghost says. “That’s seductive. You could make Balekin even more deeply indebted to your father.”

“He’s not my father,” I say sharply. “And if I decide that I want to throw in with Madoc, well then, so long as you get paid, it won’t matter, will it?”

“I guess not,” the Ghost says grudgingly. “But if you come back here with Madoc or anyone else, we’ll kill Cardan. And then we’ll kill you. Understood?”

I nod. If it wasn’t for Prince Dain’s geas, they might have compelled me. Of course, whether Prince Dain’s geas lasted past his death, I do not know and am afraid to find out.

“And if you take more than the day you asked for to get back, we’ll kill him and cut our losses,” the Ghost continues. “Prisoners are like damson plums. The longer you keep them, the less valuable they become. Eventually, they spoil. One day and one night. Don’t be late.”

Cardan flinches and tries to catch my eye, but I ignore him.

“I’ll agree to that,” I say, because I am no fool. None of us is feeling all that trusting at the moment. “So long as you swear Cardan will be here and hale when I return tomorrow, alone.”

And because they’re not fools, either, they swear it.

I don’t know what I expect to find when I get home. It’s a long walk through the woods, longer because I give the encampments of the Folk here for the coronation a wide berth. My dress is dirty and tattered at the hem, my feet are sore and cold. When I arrive, Madoc’s estate looks the way it always does, familiar as my own step.

I think of all the other dresses hanging in my closet, waiting to be worn, the slippers waiting to be danced in. I think of the future I thought I was going to have and the one yawning in front of me like a chasm.

In the hall, I see that there are more knights here than I am used to, coming in and out of Madoc’s parlor. Servants rush back and forth, bringing tankards and inkpots and maps. Few spare me a look.

There’s a cry from across the hall. Vivienne. She and Oriana are in the parlor. Vivi runs toward me, throws her arms around me.

“I was going to kill him,” she says. “I was going to kill him if his stupid plan got you hurt.”

I realize I have not moved. I bring one hand up to touch her hair, let my fingers slip to her shoulder. “I’m fine,” I say. “I just got swept up in the crowd. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

Everything is, of course, not at all fine. But no one tries to contradict me. “Where are the others?”

“Oak is in bed,” Oriana says. “And Taryn is outside Madoc’s study. She’ll be along in a moment.”

Vivi’s expression shifts at that, although I am not sure how to read it.

I go up the stairs to my room, where I wash the paint off my face and the mud off my feet. Vivi follows me, perches on a stool. Her cat eyes are bright gold in the sunlight streaming in from my balcony. She doesn’t speak as I take a comb to my hair, raking through the tangles. I dress myself in dark colors, in a deep blue tunic with a high collar and tight sleeves, in shiny black boots, with new gloves to cover my hands. I strap Nightfell onto a heavier belt and surreptitiously put the ring with the royal seal into my pocket.

It feels so surreal to be in my room, with my stuffed animals and my books and my collection of poisons. With Cardan’s copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass sitting on my bedside table. A new wave of panic passes over me. I’m supposed to figure out how to turn the capture of the missing prince of Faerie to my advantage. Here, in my childhood home, I want to laugh at my daring. Just who do I think I am?

“What happened to your throat?” Vivi asks, frowning at me. “And what’s wrong with your left hand?”

I forgot how carefully I had concealed those injuries. “They’re not important, not with everything that happened. Why did he do it?”

“You mean, why did Madoc help Balekin?” she says, lowering her voice. “I don’t know. Politics. He doesn’t care about murder. He doesn’t care that it’s his fault Princess Rhyia is dead. He doesn’t care, Jude. He’s never cared. That’s what makes him a monster.”

“Madoc can’t really want Balekin to rule Elfhame,” I say. Balekin would influence how Faerie interacts with the mortal world for centuries, how much blood is shed, and whose. All of Faerie will be like Hollow Hall.