Tiernan brings over the towels, picking one up as though he intends to wash the prince’s wound. Before he can, Oak takes and presses it to his own shoulder, closing his eyes against the pain. The water trickles down his back to stain the sheets pink.
“We’re within a few days’ ride of the Court of Moths, but we’re down to one horse,” Tiernan says.
“I’ll bargain for another,” Oak tells us distractedly. I am not sure he realizes that in the mortal world, horses are not something you can just pick up at a local farmers’ market.
When the prince begins to bind up his wound, Tiernan nods in my direction. “Come,” he says, ushering me out of the room. “Let’s leave him to dream of all the things he will do tomorrow.”
“Like issue a royal decree that you won’t mock me when I’ve been poisoned,” says Oak.
“Keep dreaming,” Tiernan tells him.
I glance back at Hyacinthe, since it doesn’t seem to me that the knight is wrapped around the prince’s finger. If anything, they seem like friends who’ve known each other a long time. But the former falcon is picking his fingernails with a dagger and ignoring all of us.
Tiernan uses his second key to open the way to a nearly identical space. Two beds, one television. Rust stains where the bolts have sat in contact with the rug. A polyester coverlet that looks as though spilled water might bead up on top of it.
There, the knight loops rope around my ankle, tying me to the bed with enough slack that I can lie down, even roll over. I hiss at him as he does it, pulling against the bonds.
“He might trust you,” says Tiernan. “But I trust no one from the Court of Teeth.”
Then he speaks a few words over the knot, a bit of enchantment that I am almost certain I can break, what with all the practice I’ve had at unraveling the glaistig’s spells.
“Sleep tight,” he tells me, and goes out, closing the door hard after him. He’s left his pack behind, and I bet he’s planning on returning and sleeping here, where he can keep an eye on me. And where he can avoid whatever he’s feeling about Hyacinthe.
Spitefully, I get up and throw the bolt lock, letting the rope pull taut.
Dawn has lengthened into day, and all around the motel, the mortal world is coming awake. A car engine fires to life. Two people argue near a vending machine. A slammed door sounds from the room next to mine. I peer out the window, imagining slipping away into the morning and disappearing. Imagining the look on Tiernan’s face when he returns to find me gone.
But I would be foolish to try to face the storm hag or Lady Nore on my own. I would have been felled by the same poison that struck the prince, except without armor, the bolt would have sunk deeper into my flesh. And no one would have been there to give me an antidote or carry me on a horse.
Still, I don’t want to be dragged along like an animal, worrying about being put on a leash.
If I cannot have respect, if I cannot be treated as their equal, then at least I want Oak to see that I have as much right as he does to this quest, more reasons to hate Lady Nore, and the power to stop her.
But it’s hard to think of how I will manage to convince them of that when my ankle is tied to the leg of the bed, and my thoughts are woolly with exhaustion. Taking one of the blankets from my bag, I scrabble into the dusty space between mattress and floor, curling up there. The awareness of the slats over me and the familiar, forest smell of my blanket is comforting.
Pillowing my head on my arms, I try to settle in. It ought to be hard to fall asleep in this unfamiliar place, filled with strange sounds. My thighs hurt from the ride, and my feet are sore from walking. But as warm, buttery sunlight flows into the room like yolk from a cracked egg, my eyes drift closed. I do not even dream.
When I wake, the sky is dark. I crawl out from underneath the bed, hunger gnawing my belly.
Tiernan must have been in and then gone without my noticing, because the bolt lock is undone, his pack missing. I make quick work of his stupid enchanted knot, then go into the bathroom and fill the plastic cup I find there with water. I guzzle it, refill it, and drink again.
As I look up, I catch sight of my own reflection and take an automatic step back. Unglamoured, my skin is the pale blue-gray of hydrangea blooms, smeared with dirt along one cheek and across my nose. My hair is so woven with leaves and twigs and mud that it would be almost impossible to know that underneath it is an even darker blue. I have the same pointy chin I had when I thought I was mortal. A thin face, with large eyes, and an expression of startlement, as though I expect someone else when I look in the mirror.
At least my eyes could pass for human. They’re green, deep and dark.
I smile a little to see the awfulness of my sharp teeth. A mouth full of knives. They make even the Folk flinch.
My gaze goes to the tub, thinking about what I must seem like to Oak, now that we’re both grown. Turn the faucet and let the hot water run over my hand. As dirt washes off, I see that the skin underneath is a warmer, lighter blue.
But I am no Court lady with lips of carmine and butterflies in my hair. I am scrawny, like a stick bug.
I put the stopper in the tub and let it fill. Then slowly I lower myself in. The heat is almost more than I can bear. Still, I scrub at my skin with my jagged nails. In minutes the water is so filthy that I have to let it drain out. Then I do it again. Sinking my fingers into my hair, I try to pick apart the tangles. It’s painful, and slathering it with the contents of the tiny bottle of conditioner does little to help. I am still not totally clean when I get out of the water, despite the fine layer of grit remaining behind in the tub.
Now that I’ve washed, my dress looks dirtier than ever, worn as thin as tissue in places, and discolored by both sun and mud. There’s nothing else, so I pick it up and run it under the tap of the sink, scrubbing at it gently with soap and hoping it doesn’t tear. Then I drape it over the shower-curtain rod and aim the hair dryer onto it. It’s still damp when I take it down.
I start stepping into it when I see a shadow move outside the window.
I drop to the floor, but not before I recognize the long fingers. As I crawl naked underneath the bed, I hear the sound of nails scratching against glass. I brace for Bogdana to shatter the window or kick in the door.
Nothing happens.
I draw in a breath. Then another.
Minutes later, there’s a knock. I don’t move.
Oak’s insistent voice comes from the other side. “Wren, open up.”
“No,” I shout, crawling out from underneath the bed and scrambling into my clothes.
I hear shuffling and a thud, and then something metal slides down the gap between door and jamb. It opens.
“I thought you were . . .” I start to explain, but I am not sure he’s paying attention. He’s put away what he was using to jimmy the door and is gathering back up a cardboard drink holder of coffees and a large paper bag.
When he looks up, he freezes for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he averts his gaze, turning it toward something just over my shoulder.
I glance down, at the way the damp cloth of my dress has stuck to my body, and flinch. My breasts are visible, even my nipples. Could he think I did this for his attention? Shame heats my cheeks, crawls down my neck.
Walking past me, he sets down the sack on the bed. His golden curls are only slightly mussed, his fresh linen shirt white and unwrinkled, as though he’d never been poisoned, or shot, or fallen off a horse. He certainly hadn’t cleaned his clothes in the sink. And his mouth is twisted in an expression of insufferable amusement.