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“I know!”I bark.
My eyes remain closed until Legion’s footsteps recede, and I am alone with Varen.
In my mind, I see the face of the black-haired Guardian who caused Willow so much pain. The agony in his blue-eyed gaze reflects my own, but I shut my heart to it. If I were in Elphyne, I would track this feathered menace down and feast on his soul until his body is a dried husk.
And then I would eat his heart, enslaving him to the Wild Hunt.
But I am not in Elphyne. I am here, the Wellspring grows dry, and I do not care. Not when I have Styx and the rest of the hive to worry about. Not when Willow’s scent drives me to distraction.
How can she smell so divine when she has no magic with which to claim us?
Legion is right to worry—the sooner I accept she can’t be our queen, the easier it will be to betray her.
Chapter
Nineteen
WILLOW
The inside of the castle is as neglected as the outside. We enter a great hall with dust-laden decorative furniture. I don’t believe anyone has sat on the brocade seats. Along the filigree-paneled walls is a collection of framed oil-painted portraits, one for each of the six Sluagh. Others feature faces I’ve never seen before. The last is of the queen who cursed me.
Titania.
She is prim, proper, and carries an air of wistful decorum. Foliage and flowers are the backdrop. Her dark hair is intricately styled in loops and braids. The only ornament on her body is the tiara. The rest of her radiance comes from her natural faerie beauty.
I hate her.
I want to slash the canvas across her face. See how she likes being ugly.
She’s next on my revenge list.
“The dining room is in there this week.” Cricket points to a doorway near the front of the hall. “Dinner is done,” she says. “Breakfast is at sunrise. If you’re hungry, the kitch is down at the cellar level. Help yourself to anything in the stores. Mind the chatty gossip. She’s a handful, and don’t take anything she saysto heart. She enjoys pushing buttons. Alright, moving on. This way.”
Another staff member? Possibly the cook.
I remain bitter from seeing the queen’s face as I follow Cricket through another doorway.
“No grand staircases in this castle, I’m afraid,” she explains as we climb granite stairs. “They’re at the ends of each wing and cold as a witch’s tit. At least that’s one place that never changes.”
We arrive on the third-floor landing and head directly down a corridor.
Never changes? And earlier, she mentioned the dining room was there for “this week.” Didn’t she say something about the wings moving, too? Before I can query this, we pass an enormous library with rows of cedar shelves filled from floor to ceiling. I stop at the doorway, my lips parting in awe. Lush navy carpet sprawls across the floor. A grand fireplace is dormant across the way. The room smells like orange oil, candle wax, and ink. Chairs, sofas, and tables scattered around are occupied with historical artifacts and gadgets. It reminds me of the museum bunker in Crystal City. Alfie and I spent hours studying the history of a world long gone—the one my mother came from.
Dust and disorder are nowhere to be seen here. Cricket arrives at my side and proudly declares, “This is one room the castle won’t touch.”
“You’ve said some strange things about this castle. What do you mean?”
“You’ll see after the clock tower chimes. Before that happens, best be getting to your room, safe and sound.”
I refuse to move. “Why won’t you just tell me?”
She laughs. “You’re a direct one, aren’t you, poppet? I hope you don’t lose that here. The masters seem to be slipping more into the way of the Folk every day. So sad.”
I open my mouth to question more, but she interrupts me.
“Seeing is believing. Hurry up, now.”
She picks up speed, and her sense of urgency infects me. We take a turn down a narrow hallway and stop at a nondescript door. She sighs with relief after opening it.
