“Three days’ time,” Bogdana says. “No longer.”
“Or?” Cardan asks, voice light. A dare.
“Enough,” Wren hisses under her breath. She cannot quite call the storm hag to account in front of everyone, and Bogdana knows it, but past a certain point, she will have to do something.
The storm hag places both hands on Wren’s shoulders. “Prince?”
They all look at him, all weighing his loyalty. And while he would marry Wren right then if it were only up to him, he can’t help thinking that anything Bogdana is this eager for can’t be good. Maybe she’s guessed that Wren doesn’t intend to ever go through with it.
“It would pain me to wait even three days,” Oak says, lightly, deflecting. “But if we must, for the sake of propriety, better the thing is done right ”
“There are rituals to complete,” Jude says. “And your family to gather.” She is certainly stalling, as Wren hoped she would.
Cardan watches the interaction. Most particularly, he watches Oak. He suspects the prince of something. Oak has to get him alone. Has to explain.
“We have rooms ready at the palace—” Jude begins.
Wren shakes her head. “There is no need to trouble yourself for my sake. I can keep and quarter my own people.” From a pocket in her shimmering gray dress, she takes out the white walnut.
Jude frowns.
Oak can well believe Wren doesn’t want to be at the palace, to have them observe her every weakness. Still, to refuse the hospitality of the rulers of Elfhame makes a statement about her loyalties.
Cardan seems distracted by the walnut itself. “Oh, very well, I will be the one to ask the obvious question—what have you there?”
“If you will allow us a patch of grass, this is where myself and my people will stay,” Wren says.
Jude glances toward Oak, and he shrugs.
“By all means,” says the High Queen, gesturing toward the guard. “Clear a space.”
A few of her knights disperse the crowd until there is an expanse of grass near the edge of the black rocks overlooking the water.
“Is this enough room?” Jude asks.
“Enough and more than enough,” says Bogdana.
“We can be generous,” says Cardan, clearly choosing his words to irritate the storm hag.
Wren takes a few steps away from them, then tosses the walnut against a patch of mossy earth, reciting the little verse under her breath. Cries of astonishment ring out around them as a pavilion the white of swan feathers, with golden feet like those of a crow, rises from the dirt.
It reminds him of one of the tents in the encampment of the Court of Teeth. He recalls seeing something very like it when he came to cut through the ropes that tied Wren to a post. Recalls listening for Madoc’s voice among those of the other soldiers, half in longing and half in fear. He’d missed his father. He’d also been afraid of him.
The prince wonders if Wren is reminded of the encampment, too, not far from where they currently stand. Wonders if she hates being back here.
Mother Marrow was the one who gave her the magic walnut. Mother Marrow, who keeps a place at Mandrake Market. Who gave Oak the advice that sent him off to the Thistlewitch, who sent him straight to Bogdana, in turn. Passed him from hag to hag, perhaps with a specific plan in mind. A specific version of a shared future.
All his thoughts are disturbing.
“What a clever nut,” says Cardan with a smile. “If you will not stay in the palace, then we have no recourse but to send you refreshments and hope to see you tomorrow.” He gestures toward Oak. “I trust that you don’t also have a cottage in your pocket. Your family is eager to spend some time with you.”
“A moment,” the prince says, turning to Wren.
It’s almost impossible to say anything meaningful to her here, with many eyes on them both, but he can’t leave without promising that he will see her. He needs her to know he’s not abandoning her.
“Tomorrow afternoon?” he says. “I will come and find you.”
She nods once, but her face seems braced for betrayal. He understands that. Here, he has power. If he was going to hurt her, this would be the time to do it. “I really do want to show you the isles. We could go to Mandrake Market. Swim in the Lake of Masks. Picnic on Insear, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Perhaps,” she says, and lets him take her hand. Even lets him press a kiss to her wrist.
He isn’t sure what to make of the tremble in her fingers as he releases them.