Of course there’s nothing remotely obvious. Bakken described the wings for me, but perhaps there’s more than one wardrobe matching that description. What if the queen finally did destroy the portal, and this is nothing more than an ordinary wardrobe?
I open all the drawers and run my hands along the walls and back. No passageway, no hidden compartments or false back. Maybe this is like the portal at the river, and you have to enter and believe.
But enter where? How?
There’s a low, husky laugh behind me that makes me spin around.
I don’t see anyone at first, but then an orb of fae light appears, floating in the air toward me, and a tall, dark-haired male emerges from the shadows. I recognize his silver eyes immediately.
I reach for the dagger I don’t have on my hip. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get into the castle if I had weapons, and against my better judgment, I’d come into this dangerous realm completely unarmed. If I were wise, I would’ve made my first stop at the queen’s armory and then begun my search for the portal. No—if I were wise, I’d have made Bakken tell me how to go directly to the Unseelie Court. If I don’t figure out this portal quickly, I’ll have to hide in this castle a full day before it opens again.
I’m running out of time.
“Did you follow me?” I demand.
“A fascinating human comes to Prince Ronan’s ball and somehow sneaks around the palace undetected—of course I’m following you.”
Not completely undetected, apparently. Not if he followed me here.
“I’m wholly intrigued,” he says, but he doesn’t sound intrigued. He sounds irritated.
I freeze, waiting for him to call the sentries, to lunge for me and drag me to the dungeon—something. But he doesn’t make a move, and I realize belatedly that this male with his silver eyes and dark hair isn’t one of the golden fae nobility. Don’t make bargains or ties with the silver eyes. He’s from the Court of the Moon. “Who are you?”
He chuckles. “I’d ask you the same thing.”
I lift my chin. If he’s not one of the queen’s court, he won’t know that I don’t belong here. “I’m a handmaiden for Queen Arya, sent down here to retrieve something for her.”
Folding his arms, he cocks his head. “You don’t look like any of Queen Arya’s girls.”
“And you’ve met them all?”
“I suppose not.” He looks me over. “But I consider myself familiar with the humans in her court.”
“Perhaps you’re not as knowledgeable as you think.” I know better than to talk back to a faerie. I should run, not speak. And yet I’m drawn to him—something about him calls me to move closer, not run away. Power purrs in my blood, a trace of the same high I felt when we danced.
Why did no one tell me that humans have powers in Faerie?
He smirks, stepping forward, and with just that step I’m too aware of how large he is. He’s dressed in fine black pants and a matching tunic that looks like it’s made of velvet, but his shoulders are broad like a warrior’s. And here I am without any defenses.
You can walk through walls, Brie. You’re not stuck.
And with that mental reassurance, I take a deep breath and let him study me. As if I have nothing to hide.
“If you wanted to pose as one of Arya’s handmaids, you should’ve at least bothered to learn what colors she dresses them in.” I can only interpret the shaking of his chest as a silent chuckle. “Or to know that she’d never take on a handmaiden more beautiful than she is.”
My cheeks heat at that, and I have to fight the urge to look down at myself. I’d half convinced myself that I’d imagined him saying those words when we danced. This gorgeous male thinks I am beautiful? Of course, with Pretha’s magical cosmetics, anyone would look lovelier, but if he wants me to believe he thinks I’m more beautiful than the queen, he must be trying to flatter me. “What do you want?”
“I’d love to know who you are.”
“I’ve just told you.”
“You’re no handmaiden, and I’ve lived long enough to know a thief when I see one.” He shakes his head. “But I can’t figure out what it is you’re trying to steal. What do you think she’s hiding in that wardrobe?”
I fold my arms, not bothering to answer.
“Maybe you’re looking for something we both want,” he says. “Maybe we can help each other. Tell me what you need, beautiful thief.”
My story nearly leaps off my tongue—there’s something charming about this male that would make it easy to tell him whatever he wants to know—but I bite it back. Of course he’s charming. He’s fae. Worse, Unseelie. They’re born with charm and deadly cruelty.
He’s probably powerful enough to compel me to talk, and I can’t risk that. My chest goes tight, my breathing shallow. I feel trapped—pinned under that scrutinizing gaze that seems to miss nothing.