I did not come here to meet the bean-nighe, but the fae clearly wants me to see her.
Her hunched body stills as if she senses me watching her. When she looks up, her eyes are like glittering hunks of hardened coal, not a trace of white around them. She smiles at me, a mouth full of sharpened white tips, a pointed reminder that she is not human.
Silently, she holds up the laundry she was working with in the cold, gray water.
It’s the same shirt as before, the one that had been in her basket, due to be washed after the one of the man I murdered. The linen is marred with soot and dark grime—although most of the stains are gone now. It must belong to a rich man, one who’s tall and slender.
I am certain that I will be seeing this shirt again soon, on the body of someone pulled from some sort of fire. And when I see the smoke and flames, I will know the washerwoman is done with her chore, her prophecy fulfilled.
“Soon,” she says, the word quiet but sure.
Soon. There’s no use arguing with fate, no way to delay it.
I kick my horse, going farther north. There’s no way to outrun fate either, but I’ll damn well try.
There are various areas where the space between Scotland and the Seelie Court is thin, like where I met with the glaistig or even Moyra’s bog. Some of these spots are marked with ancient stone rings erected by the Picts or the Celts. I’ve heard there are even circles of standing stones in England, but if they once led to the fae world, those portals have long since been closed.
I reach the Beltane Stone soon enough, the last remnant of what was once a great portal, a ring of megaliths that, one by one, have broken and fallen. But the stone circle isn’t the portal itself, just the marker of one.
I don’t have time to fight my way into the Seelie Court, but I can at least raise the alarm. I toss my reins over a low-hanging tree branch and walk up to the stone.
This would be so much easier if I knew my father’s true name, I think. I could have used the mirror and comb like I called Lady Lennox with. But despite being his daughter, I am not trusted with that information.
I trace a four-pointed knot pattern over the hard gray rock. While it still glows, I lean close and whisper my father’s open name, the one he gives to anyone. The stone is powerful enough that I know my message can reach him with just that.
My words will go directly into his mind. I choose them carefully.
“Be warned. The Red Caps have found a weakness in the wall. Traitors at the human court.” I take a breath, release it. “War is coming to both our lands.”
My magical mark fades from the stone.
For a moment, I wait, my breath caged behind my tightly pressedlips. My father is high-ranking in the court, a prince with power that most fae cannot even comprehend. I know my message got to him.
I know he could come—right now—if he wanted.
I release my breath.
It doesn’t matter that he’s my father.
Like all fae, he will come only in his own time and not a single damned moment before.
28
Samson
It’s not hard to find out where Darnley is—one question to a passing servant, and she points me to his rooms. I don’t miss how she shudders when she says it and gives me a distrustful, fearful look until I dismiss her.
I’m one of his lackeys. Rumor’s already spreading. Lord Latimer’s secretary went out hunting with Darnley and helped the drunk bastard to his room after the ball last night. I’m part of his group now, and people fear me.
They should.
It’s good if news spreads that I’m dangerous.
I tell myself that, repeat it over and over like saying it is a penance. I’m dangerous. Each lash of those words cuts deeper until I’m all internal bleeding, but I can’t afford to forget. Can’t afford to get complacent. It’s a responsibility, what I am, and I ain’t about to let it get away from me, not now.
I stop outside Darnley’s chambers.
How do I wanna play this? Go in, pretend to be his loyal supplicant still?
