“So what’s his play?” I ask her. “I don’t imagine he intends for Bale-kin to keep the throne long. I think he would consider it some kind of crime against strategy to leave such an obvious move unexploited.”

“What do you mean?” She looks honestly baffled. They don’t pretend with each other, my ass.

“He’s going to put Oak on the throne,” I tell her, as though it’s obvious. Because it is obvious. I don’t know how he intends to do it—or when—but I am sure he does. Of course he does.

“Oak,” she says. “No, no, no. Jude, no. He’s just a child.”

Take him far from the dangers of this Court. That’s what Liriope’s note had said. Maybe Oriana should have listened.

I remember what Madoc told us at the dinner table ages ago, about how the throne was vulnerable during a change in power. Whatever he intended to happen with Balekin—and now I am wondering if what he imagined was for Dain to die and Balekin to die, too, for the High King to suspend the coronation, for Madoc to make a different play—he had to see the opportunity in front of him, with only three royals left. If Oak was the High King, then Madoc could be the regent. He would rule over Faerie until Oak came of age.

And then, who knew what might happen? If he could keep Oak in check, he might rule over Faerie forever.

“I was just a child once, too,” I tell her. “I don’t think Madoc was enormously concerned about what I could handle then, and I don’t think he will be too worried about Oak now.”

It’s not like I don’t think he loves Oak. Of course he loves him. He loves me, too. He loved my mother. But he is what he is. He cannot be other than his nature.

Oriana grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly enough that her nails sink into my skin. “You don’t understand. Child kings do not survive long, and Oak is a frail boy. He was too little when he was brought into this world. No king or queen from any Court will bow their heads to him. He wasn’t raised for this burden. You must stop it.”

What might Madoc do with so much power unchecked? What might I do with a brother on the throne? And I could put him there. I have the winning card to play, because while Balekin would resist crowning Oak, I bet Cardan wouldn’t. I could make my brother the High King and myself a princess. All that power is right there for the taking. All I have to do is reach out my hand.

The odd thing about ambition is this: You can acquire it like a fever, but it is not so easy to shed. Once, I was content to hope for knighthood and the power to force Cardan and his friends to leave me alone. All I wanted was to find some place to fit in here in Faerie.

Now I wonder what it would be like to choose the next king.

I think of the tide of blood running over the stone dais to drip down onto the packed-earthen floor of the hill. Running over the bottom edge of the crown so that when Balekin had lifted it, his hands had been smeared red. I imagine that crown on Oak’s brow and flinch from the image.

I remember, too, what it had felt like to be glamoured by Oak. Over and over I’d slapped myself until my cheek was red and hot and sore. A bruise bloomed the next morning, a bruise that didn’t fade for a week. That’s what children do with power.

“What makes you think I can stop it?” I demand.

Oriana doesn’t release my hand. “You once said that I was wrong about you, that you would never hurt Oak. Tell me, can you do anything? Is there a chance?”

I’m not a monster, I’d told her, back when I said I would never hurt Oak. But maybe being a monster was my calling. “Maybe,” I tell her, which is no answer at all.

On my way out, I spot my little brother. He is out in the garden, picking a bouquet of foxgloves. He’s laughing, sunlight turning his brown hair gold. When his nurse comes toward him, he darts away from her.

I bet he doesn’t even know that those flowers are poison.

Laughter greets me when I return to the Court of Shadows. I am expecting to find Cardan as I left him, cowed and quiet, perhaps even more miserable than before. Instead, his hands have been untied, and he is at the table, playing cards with the Roach, the Ghost—and the Bomb. At the center are a pile of jewels and a jug of wine. Two empty bottles rest beneath the table, green glass catching the candlelight.

“Jude,” the Bomb calls happily. “Sit down! We’ll deal you in.”

I am relieved to see her, here and unscathed. But nothing else about this tableau is any good.

Cardan grins at me as though we’ve been great friends all our lives. I forgot how charming he can be—and how dangerous that is.

“What are you doing?” I burst out. “He’s supposed to be tied up! He’s our prisoner.”

“Worry not. Where’s he going to go?” the Roach asks. “You really think he can get past all three of us?”

“I don’t mind being one-handed,” Cardan interjects. “But if you’re going to restrain both of my hands, then you’ll have to pour the wine directly into my mouth.”

“He told us where the old king kept the really good bottles,” says the Bomb, pushing back her white hair. “Not to mention a stash of jewelry that belonged to Elowyn. He figured that in the confusion, no one would notice if it got lifted, and so far, no one has. Easiest job the Roach has ever done.”

I want to scream. They weren’t supposed to like him, but why wouldn’t they? He’s a prince who’s treating them with respect. He’s Dain’s brother. He’s Folk, like them.

“Everything is spiraling into chaos anyway,” says Cardan. “Might as well have some fun. Don’t you think, Jude?”

I take a deep breath. If he undermines my position here, if he manages to make me an outsider, then I am never going to get the Court of Shadows to go along with the plan that is still jumbled up in my head. I can’t seem to figure out how to help anyone. The last thing I need is him making everything worse.

“What did he offer you?” I ask, like we’re all in on the same joke. Yes, it’s a gamble. Maybe Cardan didn’t offer them anything at all.

I try not to seem like I’m holding my breath. I try not to show how small Cardan makes me feel.

The Ghost gives me one of his rare smiles. “Mostly gold, but also power. Position.”

“A lot of things he hasn’t got,” said the Bomb.

“I thought we were friends,” Cardan says halfheartedly.

“I’m going to take him in the back,” I say, putting my hand on the top of the chair in a proprietary fashion. I need to get him out of the room before he gets the better of me in front of them. I need to get him away now.

“And do what?” asks the Roach.

“He’s my prisoner,” I remind them, squatting down and slicing through the strips of my dress still tying his legs to the chair. I realize he must have slept this way, sitting upright, if he slept at all. But he doesn’t look tired. He smiles down at me, as if the reason I’m on my knees is because I am curtsying.

I want to wipe that smile off his face, but maybe I can’t. Maybe he’ll go on smiling that way to his grave.

“Can’t we stay out here?” Cardan asks me. “There’s wine out here.”

That makes the Roach snicker. “Something bothering you, princeling? You and Jude don’t get along after all?”