Near the lake, a row of wooden docks floated above the ink-black water. A weathered tavern crouched at the shoreline like a bloated toad. A goblin staggered out holding a tankard, puked all over the sidewalk, and collapsed in it with his face to the sky. Ash stepped over the groaning body and ducked through the swinging doors. Wrinkling my nose at the trashed goblin, I followed.
The interior was smoky and dim. Battered wooden tables were scattered about the room, hosting a variety of unsavory-looking fey, from the redcap gang in the corner to the single, goat-headed phouka who watched me with glowing yellow eyes.
Ash glided through the room, weaving his way to the bar, where a dwarf with a tangled black beard glared at him and spit into a glass. “You shouldn’t be here, Prince,” he growled in an undertone, wiping the tankard with a dirty rag. “Rowan’s got half the city lookin’ for you. Sooner or later, the Thornguards will show up an’ tear the place apart if they think we’re hidin’ you.”
“I’m looking for Sweetfinger,” Ash said in an equally low voice, as I pulled myself onto a bar stool. “I need to get out of Tir Na Nog, tonight. Do you know where he is?”
The dwarf shot me a sidelong glance, his thick face pulled into a scowl. “If I didn’t know you better, Prince,” he muttered, polishing the glass again, “I would accuse you of goin’ soft. Word is you’re a traitor to the Winter Court, but I don’t care about that.” He plunked the tankard down and leaned across the counter. “Just answer me this. Is she worth it?”
Ash’s face went blank and cold, like a door slamming shut. “Would this be considered payment for finding Sweetfinger?” he replied in a voice dead of emotion.
The dwarf snorted. “Yeah. Sure, whatever. But, I want a serious answer, Prince.”
Ash was still for a moment. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice so low I barely caught it. “She’s worth it.”
“You know Mab will tear you apart for this.”
“I know.”
The dwarf shook his head, giving Ash a look of pity. “You an’ your lady problems,” he sighed, putting the glass under the counter. “Worse than the satyrs, I tell you. At least they’re smart enough not to get attached.”
Ash’s tone was icy. “Can you find me Sweetfinger or not?”
“Yeah, I know where he is.” The dwarf scratched his nose, then flicked something away. “I’ll send someone out to find him. You and the Summer whelp can stay upstairs until he shows up.”
Ash pushed away from the counter. His face was still locked into that expressionless mask as he turned to me. “Let’s go.”
I hopped off the bar stool. “Who’s Sweetfinger?” I ventured as we made our way across the room. No one stopped us. The other patrons either ignored us or gave us a very wide berth. Which wasn’t surprising; the cold radiating from the Winter prince was palpable.
“He’s a smuggler,” Ash replied, motioning me up a set of stairs in the corner. “A goblin, to be specific. Instead of smuggling goods, he smuggles living creatures. He might be the only one who can get us out of the city. If we can pay his price.”
Goblins. I shuddered. My own experience with goblins hadn’t been pleasant. A pack of them tried to eat me once, when I first came to the Nevernever.
Upstairs, Ash led me down a creaky hallway, past several wooden doors with strange noises coming from beyond them, until we came to the last one. Inside, a tiny room greeted us, with two simple beds along opposite walls and a flickering lamp in the far corner. I noticed the lamp was actually a round cage atop a gilded stand, and the light made desperate squeaking noises as it flitted from side to side. Ash shut the door, and I heard the click of a lock before he leaned back against it, looking utterly exhausted.
I longed to hold him. I wanted to melt into him and feel his arms around me, but his last words hung between us like a barbed-wire fence. “Are you all right?” I whispered. He nodded and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Get some sleep,” he murmured. “I don’t know if we’ll get another chance to stop after this. You should rest while you can.”
“I’m not tired.”
He didn’t press the issue, but stood there watching me with a weary, sorrowful expression. I gazed back, wishing I could bridge the distance between us, not knowing how to reach him.
An awkward silence filled the room. Words hovered on the tip of my tongue, wanting to burst out, but I knew Ash didn’t want to hear them. I teetered between silence and confession, knowing I would be spurned, still wanting to try. Ash stood quietly, his gaze wandering about the room. A couple times he, too, seemed about to say something, only to fall silent, stabbing his fingers through his hair. When words finally did come, we both spoke at the same time.
“Ash—”
“Meghan, I—”
Someone pounded on the door, making us both jump. “Prince Ash!” a squeaky voice shouted from the other side. “Are you there? Sweetfinger is downstairs, waiting for you.”