Taryn makes a sharp sound. The Roach lets out a breath, awe in his eyes. Oak feels it, too.
Bark wraps around Garrett and branches unfold, budding with leaves and fragrant blossoms the lilac of Taryn’s clothing. A tree, unlike all that grow in the Milkwood, rises from the ground, shrouding the Ghost’s body. Its limbs reach toward the sky, petals raining down around them.
Where Garrett stood, there is only the tree.
The High King opens his eyes, letting out a ragged breath. The courtiers that remained have taken several steps back. They are slackjawed in surprise, perhaps having forgotten his command of the land beneath their feet.
“Will that—” Jude begins, her eyes shining.
“I thought that if the poison makes every part of him slow, then I could turn him into something that could live like that,” says Cardan with a shudder. “But I don’t know that it will save him.”
“Will he be like this forever?” Taryn asks, her voice cracking a little. “Alive but imprisoned? Dying but not dead?”
“I don’t know,” Cardan says again, in a raw way that makes Oak think of being trapped in the royal bedchamber and overhearing him and Jude together. It’s Cardan’s real voice, the one he uses when he’s not performing.
Taryn runs her hand over the rough bark, her tears coming on a sob. “He is still lost to me. He is still gone. And who knows if he’s suffering?”
Oak feels Wren’s hand in his, her fingers cool. “Come,” she says, and at her tug, he finally rises. He’s a little unsteady on his hooves, and she narrows her eyes at him. She’s seen him poisoned before.
“We will discover who did this,” Jude is telling her twin, voice firm. “We will punish them, I promise you that.”
“Don’t we know already?” Taryn says through tears, her voice breaking on the words. Her gaze goes to Wren. “I saw her by his horse.”
“Wren had nothing to do with this,” Oak snaps, squeezing Wren’s fingers. “What possible motive could she have?”
“Queen Suren wants to destroy Elfhame,” one of the remaining courtiers interjects. “Just as her mother did.”
Jude does not speak, but Oak can tell she isn’t unmoved by the argument that Wren may have had a hand in this. And to make it worse, Wren denies none of it. She says nothing. She just listens to their accusations.
Deny it, he wants to tell her. But what if she can’t?
Just then, a cry fills the air. A vulture circles once to land heavily on Wren’s shoulder. The storm hag.
“Prince?” Tiernan asks Oak, eyeing the vulture with misgiving.
“We should quit this place,” says Randalin. “Our milling about cannot do anything in the way of helping.”
The Bomb glares at everyone. “What did he eat or drink? We should isolate the poison.”
“It was in the mead,” Oak says.
The Bomb turns toward him, white hair a nimbus around her heart-shaped face. “How do you know that?”
The prince doesn’t want to say this part out loud, not in front of even a small crowd, but he can’t see a way out, either. “I drank some.”
There is a ripple of shock through the remaining courtiers.
“Your Highness!” Randalin protests.
“And yet you’re standing,” says a pixie. “How is it that you’re standing?”
“He must only have had the barest sip,” Jude lies. “Brother, perhaps it’s time to come away and rest.”
Perhaps it would be better if they got out of the Milkwood. He’s feeling somewhat unsteady on his feet. He’s feeling somewhat unsteady, period.
“Do you think I’m responsible?” Wren whispers, her hand still in his.
No, of course not, Oak wants to say, but he isn’t sure he can make his mouth spit out those words.
Did she poison the Ghost? Would she have done it for Hyacinthe’s sake, if he asked her to help? Had he found out a secret so great she would protect it, even if it cost a life?
“I will believe whatever you tell me,” Oak says. “Nor will I look for deceit in your words.”
She watches the shifts of his expression, almost certainly looking for deceit in his words.
The vulture shifts, watching him with bead-black eyes. Bogdana’s eyes, filled with rage.
“I’m sorry,” Wren says. He sees the hag’s talons sink into her shoulder hard enough to pierce flesh. A trickle of blood runs down her dress. But Wren’s expression doesn’t change.