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“So, if you’re going to make me guess…his mother was—is—Seelie, and his father is Unseelie?”
“Was. His father died a long time ago. Do we really need to get into this?” Destan whines. “Why do you want to know anyway?”
Why do I want to know? Because I’m stuck here and want information that could be useful to me? Because I’m simply a nosy busybody who has to have all the answers? Or because I want to understand the man holding me captive—to know why he’s so severe and cruel one moment and then different in the next. I need to know which one is the mask and which one the true face, then maybe I could make sense of why he confuses me so much. Why just meeting his gaze throws up…complicated feelings.
“So…his mother gets sick, and he, with parents from both courts, takes control of one. And something tells me not everyone was happy about that.”
Destan stays silent, but I know I’ve hit the nail on the head. That’s what all the tension is about in this damn place. Power, and who has it. Whether the wrong person has it. It slots together in my mind with satisfying neatness.
But there is still so much to understand.
We pick our way through the brush. I’ve never been inside a forest this size before, and it’s eerie how quickly the sound is swallowed up by the trees. Even if I didn’t know I was in Faerie, the clues are everywhere in the Emerald Forest. The light seems to work differently in here, sunshine dancing in shimmering pools on the forest floor, only to blink out of existence as soon as you reach them. We pass a tree leaking sap, and I have to stop when I notice the swirling patterns the thick, amber liquid is forming on the bark. It’s too deliberate, like someone’s mapped them out.
“I thought we were supposed to be looking for flowers?” Destan sniffs suspiciously as I examine the surface of the tree, fascinated.
“I am,” I say, reluctantly tearing my eyes away. My brain is filling up with ways I could use these discoveries in my experiments, what implications the magic here might have for my work. I’ve learned over time that there is a kind of magic to what I’m doing—I wouldn’t need the augium if there wasn’t. But it took me a while to accept it, too deep in the numbers and chemicals to see that sometimes the conclusion I needed required letting go of logic and taking a leap of the imagination. Sometimes working magic meant just trusting the invisible hand pushing you in the right direction.
I move on from the tree, worried that Destan will call off our search if I seem too distracted. I do believe the bluecups are important, whatever other intentions I might have for coming here.
There are birds chirruping in the trees, but other noises too…ones that can’t be attributed to a scampering squirrel or fox. Every now and again I catch a soft whisper riding the breeze or turn my head towards some rustling leaves I could’ve sworn morphed into the sound of quiet giggles.
“What kind of things are in this forest?” I ask Destan, trying to hide my wariness. He’d no doubt seize upon it as an excuse to drag us back to the palace. “Aside from gryphons and unicorns, I mean.”
“Gnomes and pixies, mostly. The occasional nixie or troll. You don’t usually have to worry about them if you keep your wits about you and don’t try to steal their things,” says Destan, picking a wet leaf off his jacket with a displeased curl of his lip. “It’s the beasts you have to watch out for—which is why we shouldn’t be going any deeper.” He stops, seeming to only now realize exactly how far we’ve gone.
“But—”
“Eleanor,” he says with finality. I can see that for once Destan isn’t playing around. But I’m not ready to stop yet, so I scan our immediate proximity.
“Look, there’s some wildflowers just over there,” I say, pointing to a clearing up ahead that looks grassier than the rest, where the sunlight has encouraged pops of red and yellow blooms. “That could be the kind of place to find what I’m looking for.”
“All right,” Destan sighs. “But just to there, no further.”
I carefully tread the edge of the clearing, searching for the shade of violet-blue I need. There are a few moments when I think I’ve found them, but they prove to be more like hyacinths or clematis than the tightly packed bowl shapes of the bluecups.
Destan’s breathing quickens behind me and I turn to look at him. His eyes are wide and his head is turned to one side. I can tell he’s listening to something.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Hoofbeats…but I can’t tell if…” He shakes his head, seeming frustrated with himself. “It could be nothing to worry about or…”
“Or it could be trouble,” I finish, thinking of the vicious puncture wounds in Lord Zastel’s chest. There’s no way I’d survive an attack like that.
“Stay here,” Destan orders. He doesn’t sound like his normal, indolent self. He lifts and takes hold of the walking stick I assumed he’d brought to whack away any undergrowth that threatened his outfit—and to my shock, he slides a thin sword out of it.
He’s come prepared to defend us. But against what? My curiosity tugs at me even as a more sensible part tells me that I absolutely don’t want to know.
Splitting the difference, I say, “Shouldn’t I come with you?” I’d be safer by his side, wouldn’t I? And I’d also be able to see what was going on.
“No. I’ll go meet it. Better you’re not nearby; you might get caught in the fray.”
Meet what? What “fray”? My pulse speeds up a fraction.
“What do you think it is exactly?” I demand, my imagination conjuring up terrible scenarios.
But he’s already jogging out of the clearing.
I take a breath and decide to focus on the bluecup search. It’ll probably be fine, I tell myself. Destan’s likely overreacting. He was jumpy before we even got into the forest.
