“Tea?” she offers.
Oak nods, to be polite, although he feels as though he’s been swimming in tea since his homecoming.
Mother Marrow tops off a pot from the kettle hanging over the fire and pours him a cup. It’s a blend of some kind, carrying the scent of kelp in it, and anise.
“This is very kind,” he says, because the Folk do not like to have their efforts dismissed with mere thanks and take hospitality very seriously.
She grins, and he notes a cracked tooth. She picks up her own cup, which she has freshened, using it to warm her hands. “I see the advice I gave you was useful. Your father has returned. And you have won yourself a prize.”
He nods, feeling as though he’s on unsteady ground. If she’s referring to Wren, it seems dismissive to call her a prize, as though she were an object, but he can’t think what else she could be talking about. Perhaps Mother Marrow has a reason to appear not to care too much for Wren. “Leaving me to seek your guidance again.”
She raises her eyebrows. “On what subject, prince?”
“I saw you in the Ice Citadel,” he says.
She stiffens. “What of it?”
He sighs. “I want to know why Bogdana brought you there. What she hoped you were going to do.”
Silence stretches out for a long moment between them. In it, he hears the boiling of the water and the clack of the nuts as they move in her cabinet.
“Did you know I have a daughter?” she asks finally.
Oak shakes his head, although now that she mentions it, he does remember something about her having a child. Perhaps someone referred to the daughter before, although the context eludes him.
“I tried to trick the High King into marrying her.”
Oh, right. That was the context. Mother Marrow gave Cardan a cape that, when worn, makes him immune to most blows. It’s said to be woven of spider silk and nightmares, and although Oak has no idea how that could be done, he doesn’t doubt the truth of it. “So you have some interest in your line ruling.”
“I have some interest in my kind ruling,” she corrects him. “I would have liked to see my daughter with a crown on her head. She’s very beautiful and quite clever with her fingers. But I will be glad to see any hag daughter on the throne.”
“I don’t intend to be High King,” he informs her.
At that, she smiles, takes a sip of her tea, and says nothing.
“Wren?” he prompts. “The Citadel? Bogdana’s request?”
Her smile widens. “We hags were the first of the Folk, before those of the air alighted and claimed dominion, before those of the Undersea first surfaced from the deep. We, like the trolls and the giants, come from the earth’s bones. And we have the old magic. But we do not rule. Perhaps our power makes other Folk nervous. Little wonder that the storm hag was tempted by Mab’s offer, though in the end the cost was high.”
“And now she bears a grudge against my family,” he says.
Mother Marrow snorts, as though at the delicacy of his phrasing. “So she does.”
“Do you?” he asks.
“Have I not been a loyal subject?” she asks him. “Have I not served the High King and his mortal queen well? Have I not served you, prince, to the best of my poor abilities?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Have you?”
She stands—acting offended to cover that she does not—and perhaps dares not—answer. “I think it’s time you go. I am sure you are wanted at the palace.”
He sets down his untouched cup of tea and rises from the chair. She’s intimidating, but he’s taller than her and royal. He hopes he seems more formidable than he feels. “If Bogdana has a plan to move against Jude and Cardan, and you’re a part of it, the punishment will not be worth whatever reward you’ve been promised.”
“Is that so? Rumors abound about your loyalties, prince, and the company you keep.”
“I am loyal to the throne,” he says. “And to my sister, the queen.”
“What about the king?” asks Mother Marrow, her eyes like flint.
Oak’s gaze doesn’t waver. “So long as he doesn’t cross Jude, I am his to command.”
She scowls. “What about the girl? What loyalties do you owe her? Would you give her your heart?”
An ominous question, given what he knows of Mellith’s history.
He hesitates, wanting to give a real answer. He is drawn to Wren. He is consumed by thoughts of her. The rough silk of her voice. Her shy smile. Her unflinching gaze. The memory of fine, wispy strands of her hair under his hands, the nearness of her skin, her indrawn breath. Memory of the way she sparred with him across that long table in the Citadel—the familiarity of it, so like many of his own family meals. But the sting of his confession and her rejection is fresh. “I would give her whatever she wanted of me.”