“Not necessarily,” Ariel a said at last, avoiding my gaze. “Nothing is certain, and that is only one possible future. But… yes. If you fail here, there is a real possibility of losing you to the darkness, and you becoming the Winter King.”
“So it wasn’t just a nightmare,” Puck’s voice broke in. I turned to see him standing behind us, hands in his pockets, watching me with serious green eyes. “Sorry, couldn’t help but overhear you guys,” he continued, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “And you know, I was just thinking, that dream you were talking about. It sounds an awful lot like the one I just had.” His mouth twisted into a smirk, and his gaze narrowed. “Only, in this version, I died. Some Winter King bastard stuck me through the chest while we were fighting. Kinda trau-matic, if you know what I mean. And that was after he destroyed most of the Summer Court.”
I held his gaze. Puck didn’t shy away and continued to stare at me, half smile firmly in place. But beyond the smirk, beyond the f lippancy and cheek and cocky self-assurance, I could sense the indecision, the fear he never let anyone see.
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“Do you regret it?” I asked, and he raised a brow at me. “Do you regret our feud is over, not killing me when you had the chance?” Puck shot me a painful smile. “Oh, there’s a part of me that will always miss our little duels, prince,” he said cheerfully. “Nothing like a little attempted murder to feel close to someone, right?” He grinned, then a shadow fell over his face, and he sobered, shaking his head. “Truth is, I’m glad it’s done,” he said quietly, scrubbing the back of his head. “I never wanted it, I hated that I always had to watch my back, and I knew you really didn’t want to go through with it either, prince. Especially toward the end.”
“But?” I prompted.
“But, if I see any signs of you becoming…that.” Puck shivered. “If I suspect you’re about to go postal on Mab and take a shot at the Winter throne, I won’t need a formal duel invitation to make me show up in Tir Na Nog.” He crossed his arms and stared at me with a mix of regret and determination. “If it comes to that, prince, I will stop you.” I stood. A breeze blew across the surface of the river, tossing hair and tugging at clothes. I gripped the railing and stared out over the water, feeling his eyes on my back. “If it comes to that,” I told him quietly,
“I’d want you to.”
The ferry continued through the seemingly endless waters of the River of Dreams. The sun never rose, the night never waned; it was all eternal midnight this far into the Deep Wyld. Farther in, the river became crowded with more dream debris, larger and wilder than before. A huge cherry tree, springing from the middle of the river, shedding pink blossoms like falling snow. A glass coffin with a black-haired princess inside, pale hands folded on her stomach as she slept. A long table f 174/387
loated past, complete with a full tea-party set— pot, plates, teacups.
Puck snatched a large basket of scones as it drifted by.
How long the ferry slid through the River of Dreams, I wasn’t sure. We took turns at guard duty, ate and slept when we could, and talked among ourselves. Puck quickly grew restless, and being trapped in a small area with a bored Robin Goodfel ow and a huge, volatile wolf was a scene from a nightmare. After one hot-tempered explosion that rocked the boat and nearly dumped everyone into the river, I suggested Puck adopt his raven form and “scout ahead,” which he was happy to do, much to everyone’s relief.
After Puck left, things quieted down. Grimalkin slept almost constantly, and the Wolf either paced the deck like a caged tiger or lay curled up at the stern, his burning eyes distant and far away. He rarely spoke to anyone, though there were times, when the Wolf was on guard duty and everyone was supposed to be asleep, that I saw him and Grimalkin talking together, their voices always too low to hear.
Awake, they studiously ignored each other or shot contemptuous glances in each other’s direction, but the night I saw them at the bow of the ferry, gazing over the water side by side, I couldn’t help but wonder if their ancient war was just another game they liked to play.
Ariel a and I talked sparingly, and when we did, it was often of the present, of the Winter and Summer Courts, of the Iron fey that had so recently invaded our world. We avoided talk of the past, the old hunts and long nights in the wyldwood, though the memories kept springing up whenever we spoke. But ever since the dream with Meghan, Ariel a seemed like a different person. She was so quiet, drawn into herself, brooding over a future I could not see. Her smiles seemed rigid and forced, her laughter tinged with melancholy. Once, when I asked if the visions had shown her anything of herself, her eyes glazed over and she stared right through me before she shook herself and waved it off, 175/387