Aislinn looked at him, at her friends who were staring at him adoringly.
He caught her gaze and smiled.
She didn’t speed up as he kept pace with her. Now that Keenan seemed pleased, the compulsion she’d been feeling had faded to barely a whisper.
I can handle this.
But as he pulled out her chair with an unusual courtly gesture, she saw her reflection in his eyes, surrounded by a tiny halo of sun.
I hope.
CHAPTER 15
They live much longer than we; yet die at last, or [at] least vanish from that State.
—The Secret Commonwealth by Robert Kirk and Andrew Lang (1893)
When Donia returned home from her evening walk, Beira was waiting on the porch, reclining in a chair fashioned of ice.
Almost idly the Winter Queen sculpted screaming faces on a sheet of ice beside her. It looked like the faeries in the sculpture were trapped alive, writhing and shrieking.
“Donia, darling,” Beira gushed, coming to her feet with such grace that it looked like she’d been pulled upright with invisible strings. “I was beginning to wonder if I should send Agatha after you.”
The hag in question grinned, exposing gaps where a number of her teeth should’ve been.
“Beira. How very…” Donia couldn’t find a word that wouldn’t be a lie. Unexpected? Pleasant? No, neither of those. “What can I do for you?”
“Such a good question, that one.” Beira tapped her chin with one finger.
“Now, if only my son had the good manners to ask that”—Beira frowned petulantly—“but he doesn’t.”
Across the yard, at the edge of the trees, several guards saluted. The rowan-man waved.
“Do you know what that boy did?”
Donia didn’t answer; it wasn’t really a question. Just like Keenan. It’d be a relief not to be stuck between them.
“He went to the girl’s school. Enrolled there, like a mortal. Can you imagine?” Beira began pacing, the staccato rhythm of her steps cracking like falling sleet on the battered porch. “He’s spent the week with her, trailing behind her like that dog of yours.”
“Wolf. Sasha is a wolf.”
“Wolf, dog, coyote, whatever. The point”—Beira paused, standing so still she could’ve been carved of ice—“the point, Donia, is that he’s found an in. Do you understand what that means? He is making progress; you are not. You’re failing me.”
Agatha cackled.
Beira turned, slowly, deliberately. She crooked a finger. “Come here.”
Not yet realizing her error, Agatha stepped onto the porch with her grin still in place.
“Is it amusing then that my son could win? That he could undo everything I’ve built?” Beira put one finger under Agatha’s chin, her long manicured fingernail cutting into the hag’s skin. A line of blood trickled down her throat. “I don’t find it the least bit funny, Aggie dear.”
“’S not what I meant, my Queen.” Agatha’s eyes widened. She glanced at Donia, imploring.
“Aggie, Aggie, Aggie”—Beira tsk-tsked—“Donia won’t help you. She couldn’t even if she wanted to.”
Donia looked away, staring instead at the ever-present rowan-man. He shuddered in sympathy. They’d all seen Beira’s temper before, but it was still awful.