The troll smiles a little despite herself, at the silliness of his words. “And your companions?”
“Sir Tiernan,” says the knight, pointing to himself. “Jack of the Lakes. Lady Wren. Our prisoner, Hyacinthe.”
The troll’s gaze glides over Hyacinthe and Jack to rest on me for an uncomfortably long moment. My lip curls in automatic response, to reveal the points of my teeth.
Far from looking discomfited, the troll woman gives me a nod, as though appreciative of their sharpness and my mistrust.
“Queen Annet will wish to greet you personally,” the troll says, kicking the wall behind her three times. “She is fain to fete you in her hall and all that sort of thing. I’ve summoned a servant to bring you to some rooms. There, you may refresh yourselves and dress for the evening’s revel. We will even lock up your prisoner for the night.”
“There’s no need for that,” Oak says.
The troll grins. “And yet we will do it.”
Hyacinthe glances in Tiernan’s direction, perhaps looking to his former lover to speak in his behalf. I feel all around me the closing of a trap, and yet I do not think I am the one who is meant to be caught.
“We would be delighted to enjoy the hospitality of the Court of Moths,” Oak says. If he hopes to get what he came for, it would be impossible for him to say anything else.
The troll guard’s smile grows impossibly wide. “Good. You may follow Dvort.”
I note her gaze and turn, startled to see that one of the Folk has crept in behind us. His skin and beard are the same color as the roots winding down from the ceiling, his eyes a bloodshot pink. His ears are long, like those of a rabbit, and his clothes appear to be covered in a layer of moss, heavier on his shoulders. He does not speak, only bows, then turns and shuffles down the passageway.
Hyacinthe bumps my shoulder with his. “Before they take me, let me prove what I’ve said and give you at least this much information. The prince’s mother was a gancanagh. A love-talker. Honey-mouths, we used to call them back at Court.”
I give a quick shake of my head, dreading what he will say next.
“You’ve not heard of them? A love-talker is able to quicken such desire in mortals that they die of it. The Folk might not find the passion lethal, but we still feel it. Oak’s first mother charmed the High King Eldred and his son Dain into her bed. Oak’s half brother is said to have made both Jude and her twin, Taryn, his lovers and stolen Cardan’s former betrothed from his side. What do you suppose the prince is able—”
Hyacinthe bites off his last words because we have stopped in front of four doors, all of them of stone with spiraling metal hinges.
But I can’t help finishing the sentence for him, the way I fear it would have gone. What do you suppose the prince is able to do to someone like you? A shudder goes through me, a recognition of a desire that I would have preferred to deny.
Was that how he made everyone feel? No wonder there was always a girl. No wonder Hyacinthe believes Tiernan is wrapped around his finger.
Dvort bows again, gesturing toward the rooms, then gives Hyacinthe a shove to keep moving into one of three branching passageways.
“He stays with us,” Oak says.
“You heard His Majesty.” Despite the sneer in his voice when he speaks of Oak, Hyacinthe obviously doesn’t want to be taken. He attempts to move around the page, toward the prince. But the silent page blocks his way.
Oak’s hand goes to the hilt of a blade.
“Enough,” Tiernan says, grabbing the prince’s arm. “They want you to break hospitality. Stop it. It shouldn’t hurt Hyacinthe to cool his heels in the queen’s prison for one night. I’ll accompany him and make sure he’s comfortable enough.”
“Unseelie is as Unseelie does,” says Jack of the Lakes with some relish.
I watch them go, panic rising as our party is cleft in two. When I am ushered into my room, I only feel worse.
It is a grim chamber, its walls carved of stone and earth. There is a rough bed in one corner, heaped with blankets and opulent cushions, and hung with tapestries. Each curtain depicts hunted creatures bleeding out in forests of colorful foliage, their bodies full of arrows.
There’s a jug of water and a washbasin on a stand, and a few hooks on the wall. I take a turn about the room, looking for spy holes, secret passageways, and hidden dangers.
The place makes my skin itch. Though it is warm here, and nothing is ice, it reminds me entirely too much of the Court of Teeth. I want to be away.
I sit on the bed, counting to one hundred, hoping that the panicky feeling will pass.
Just as I get to number eighty-eight, Oak opens the door. “I’ve arranged for you to see the royal seamstress.”
My gaze alights on the hollow of his throat just above his collar. I try to avoid his eyes.
Love-talker.
“I don’t want to go.” All I want is to curl up in a corner until we can leave.
He looks incredulous. “You can hardly attend the revel like that.”
Shame heats my cheeks, looking at him in all his finery.
It’s not fair. I am cleaner than I’ve been in weeks. It’s true that there are holes in my dress, the hem is ragged, and there are places where the fabric has worn thin enough to tear. Still, it’s mine.
“If you think I will embarrass you, leave me to this room,” I growl, hoping he agrees.
“If you go as you are, it will appear as though Elfhame does not value you, and that’s perilous in the Court of Moths,” he says.
I scowl, unwilling to be reasonable.
The prince sighs, pushing hair out of his fox eyes. “If you remain in this room, Tiernan must stay to watch over you, and he has a hankering to drink the sweet wines and hear the songs of the Court of Moths. Now, up. You can put your old dress back on tomorrow.”
Humiliated, I rise and follow him.
Someone sings an eerie little song on the other side of the seamstress’s door, and I feel the pull of magic, thick clots of it. Whatever is inside has power.
I shoot Oak a look of warning, but he knocks anyway.
The song stops.
“Who calls at Habetrot’s chamber?” comes a whispery voice.
Oak raises his eyebrows at me, as though he intends me to answer.
Fine, if that’s what he wants. “Suren, whose garb has been deemed inadequate by an obnoxious prince, despite the fact I’ve seen people go naked to revels.”
Rather than be insulted, Oak laughs delightedly.
The door opens to reveal a woman with frog-green skin, a wide lower lip, and wild eyebrows. Dressed in a black garment large enough to swallow up her body, she’s bent so far over that her fingers nearly touch the ground.
She looks at me and blinks wet black eyes. “Come, come,” she calls.
“I’ll leave you to it,” says Oak with a departing bow.
I bite my lip against snarling and follow the faerie into a tunnel that’s so low-ceilinged that I have to stoop.
When we emerge, it is into a chamber filled with bolts of cloth resting on shelves that go up high enough to be shrouded in darkness. What light there is comes from candles set in sconces around the room, covered in globes of cloudy glass.
“You know what they say about me?” Habetrot whispers. “That instead of sewing garments, I pluck them out of dreams. Raiments such as I create have never been seen before, or since. So, what do you dream of?”