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Ruskin’s shirt is still open and the smirk is back in his voice as he hands me a cool glass of water. I down it without a word, rolling my eyes at his teasing even as my treacherous body tingles in reaction to both his suggestion and the renewed sight of his exposed torso. Apparently, our interlude wasn’t enough to work my attraction to him out of my system. How inconvenient.
“I was serious before,” I say, handing the glass back to him. “I think I know what’s going on, but I need you to explain it to me. No more evasions. The truth.”
I feel sure that he’ll actually give it to me now, even if I’m not sure of the exact why. Because I was smart enough to work it out? Because it will help me help him? Or because of what we just shared? Giving ourselves to each other so intimately would be a notable sign of trust for most people, and certainly for someone as guarded as him.
“It’s a long story,” he says, setting the glass down on the table beside the bed. I sit down on the covers, settling myself comfortably, then crossing my arms in expectation.
“Very well. I’m listening.”
“It’s true that I banished Cebba. That’s common knowledge, though most assume it was due to some squabble over the throne after my mother was incapacitated.”
“It wasn’t?”
His smile is bitter. “There was a time I would have gladly given my sister the throne, even though my mother had named me as heir. I never wanted it, didn’t think myself the ruling type.” He laughs, holding his arms wide. “You can see how I’m barely holding this place together. But my mother chose me over Cebba, much to her and her father, Ilberon’s, disappointment.” His brow knits in the pain of a memory. “But then maybe my mother knew something I didn’t.”
“But you’re the oldest, aren’t you?” I asked. “Didn’t that automatically make you heir?”
“In the human realm perhaps, but here the heir is named to the founding stone. It’s the only way to make it official.”
Fiona told me this. I try not to stiffen now at the mention of the stone—the one place Ruskin’s true name is supposedly written. But my friend only had snatches of conversation to go by and my confusion about the line of succession is genuine.
“Am I expected to know what a founding stone is?” I say, but even to my own ears I sound coy.
He smiles, more genuinely this time. “When it comes to you, Eleanor, expectations don’t seem to apply. You seem to have a special knack for knowing precisely where to dig to find whatever answers you seek. I’d be very surprised if you hadn’t learned something about it by now.”
This acknowledgement, the pleasure he seems to take in my curiosity, sends a light blush across my skin—that and feeling like I’ve been caught. But knowing something and planning to use it against him are very different, and right now my focus can’t be on finding out the stone’s location. I’m sure any questions of that nature would shut this conversation down fast.
“Okay, I might’ve heard of it,” I admit. “But not much. What exactly is it?”
“The founding stone of the Seelie Court is how we confirm our monarchs around here. Heirs can be named to it by the current High King or Queen, but once the previous ruler has died, or—” He grimaces, obviously thinking of his mother. “—or had their name removed, you have to pass through its tests and inscribe your own name on it to gain the power of the High Monarch.”
“The stone gives you tests?”
His smile quirks a little higher, amused. “Yes.”
“It’s a…talking stone?”
He’s clearly holding back laughter now. “Not, perhaps, in the way you might be thinking. But it does have a certain sentience. It’s deeply magical, Ella, and deeply connected to Faerie. In a time when no heir has been named, we must trust the stone to only permit a ruler who will act in the best interests of the realm.”
“But the queen did name an heir—you,” I said. “Not Cebba.”
His smile fades as he gives a sharp nod. “Precisely. And Cebba wasn’t the only one unhappy with that decision. There’s plenty of folk who’d prefer to see a full-Seelie ruler on the throne.” It’s amazing how matter-of-fact he sounds about it, as if he’s accepted this aspect of reality, like the sun at day and the moon at night. It makes me believe his bitterness about Cebba isn’t related to this preference for her.
“So, what did she really do, your sister?”
Ruskin hesitates and I see the flash in eyes—the glimpse of emotion I’m beginning to think might be fear. He’s about to tell me something that other people don’t know, I’m sure of it. But even now his habit of secrecy and self-isolation are holding him back.
I reach out a hand to him, wanting to remind him of the way we touched just a short while ago.
“Rus,” I say—a request, not a demand.
He nods, understanding, and unclenches his jaw.
“She tried to kill the queen.”
“Your mother?” I blurt out stupidly.
“Yes. Both Cebba and my stepfather Ilberon were behind her attack.”
