I had never seen a fair one of the winter court. They didn’t visit Whimsy. Sometimes I wondered what they looked like without any use of human Craft, not even clothes. Now I had my answer.
The being was extraordinarily tall, taller than Rook, and wore no glamour. Its bone-white skin was stretched tight across a thin, angular face surrounded by a weightless corona of equally white hair. I formed only this vague impression of its features, for its eyes drew my attention and kept it. They were jade green in color, like polished stones, and at once inscrutable and magnetic, animated with the cruel, luminous interest of a house cat watching an injured mouse die. I knew at once that I looked upon a creature so distanced from anything human it wouldn’t be able to imitate our ways even if it wanted to.
From toe to collar it was clad in black bark armor that appeared to have simply grown over its body, whorled and ridged with age, leaving its head alone exposed. It made a stilted, courtly gesture, drawing attention to its yellowed, inches-long claws as it swept a hand before its chest. Rook jerked his nose down in what I supposed passed for a bad-tempered bow.
“Oh, Rook!” it exclaimed in a high voice not unlike the hounds’ unearthly howling. “I didn’t know you had company! This is interesting, isn’t it? What do you suppose we should do?”
Those terrible eyes fixed on me and the fair one smiled, but though its mouth moved, the rest of its face remained exactly the same.
Rook pawed at the ground, then reared up halfway, taking me by surprise. His head snapped back and I managed to keep my seat by wrapping my arms around his neck. His pulse pounded against my arms and sweat dampened his silky fur.
“Don’t worry, I shan’t do anything now.” My paralyzed brain noted belatedly that it—she—was female, or at least sounded that way. “The game’s changed, after all. We simply must come up with a new set of rules. It wouldn’t be sporting to fight to the death here in this clearing, not after you’ve been held up by a mortal. Hello there,” she added, leaning to the side for a better look at me. The gracious smile still hung in place unchanged, as forgotten as a hat tossed onto a coatrack.
“Good evening,” I returned, aware that aside from Rook, fine manners were my only protection.
“I am Hemlock, of the house of winter.” Quieter than an owl’s flight, hounds rushed inward from every corner of the clearing. They milled around her legs and pressed their narrow heads against her hands. “Since before the oldest tree in the forest put forth its first root, I have been master of the Wild Hunt.”
Was it just my imagination? Or did I really hear the hounds whispering among themselves—a gentle murmur that sounded like women speaking in hushed, anxious tones behind a closed door?
I swallowed, trying not to think about what was inside them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Isobel. I’m, um, a portrait artist.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what that means,” Hemlock replied, smiling. “Now, Rook—”
Rook danced sideways and gave her a bloodcurdling equine scream.
“Oh, don’t be rude! We mustn’t carry on just because we’re at war with each other. As I was going to say, before you interrupted me, I think we should even out the odds by giving you a head start. If my hounds catch up with you again, then I can have a proper go at ripping you to shreds. How does that sound?”
He snaked his head forward and snapped at the air between them. I realized with dread that he wanted to stand his ground. I turned my face into his mane so Hemlock wouldn’t see me speaking to him.
“Please go,” I breathed. “You might be able to survive this, but I wouldn’t make it through, and without me you’ll never mend your reputation.”
The skin twitched on his shoulders as though dislodging a fly.
“Are your court feuds truly worth it?”
His head turned. One of his eyes fixed on me, and it was awful seeing the intelligence in it, an intelligence that didn’t belong anywhere near the animal’s shape he wore.
“Please,” I whispered.
Rook jerked as if I’d taken a crop to him, and veered around Hemlock and her hounds to gallop into the waiting darkness.
“Do hurry, Rook!” Hemlock cried behind us, a shrill, almost desperate call. “I’ll be after you soon! Run as fast as you can!”
I wrapped Rook’s long mane around my wrists and risked a glance over my shoulder. Hemlock’s armor blended so well with the forest I saw only her ghastly pale face receding until the branches and leaves obscured even that. The Wild Hunt’s horn sounded again. It occurred to me I’d gotten quite a good look at Hemlock, and she hadn’t been carrying one.