She wouldn’t leave, I knew that, but I had to get away from her. So I was standing in Ruby’s tiny guest room, staring blankly at my reflection in the large ornate mirror when Chevelle came in.
“You were right,” I said numbly, unable to look at him as he approached to stand behind me.
He didn’t speak.
“I was about to cause a war. A war we couldn’t win.” I looked down at my hands, feeling helpless at my lack of control. “I nearly set into motion a conflict that would all but hand our world to the fey.”
His fingers slipped against my waist and the simple touch brought, if not relief, then reassurance. I turned to him, sliding my own hand up his arm, but when I finally looked up into the deep sapphire of his eyes, all I could think was, what now?
“Freya,” he started, but I cut him off.
“What is it?”
He held up a scroll with his other hand. “A messenger was here.”
I took two sideways steps to sit on the bed, not positive I could remain standing when he told me who’d been lost. “Who?”
“Two watchmen, a sentry, and a keep. The sentry was of Camber, the second messenger is with his family now.”
They had killed four. Masquerading as trackers, they had snuck onto the grounds, taking down anyone who’d seen them. Archer had attempted to steal the castings from the vault while the rest lay in wait. To burn and raze the castle.
I was abruptly standing again. Chevelle saw my fury, but he didn’t attempt to calm it. This would have to be answered for, if not now, then soon. The realization eased my temper enough that I could at least consider our options.
I began pacing. Asher had never allowed me to pace. It was a weakness, he’d said. But he was dead.
“I should see the family,” I said, a plan forming. It wasn’t a solid plan. It was based purely on faith, but it was a plan. And it was the only one I had.
Chevelle nodded. “As will I. Burne has a grown son. His wife is Camren. She’s known for her talent with wind.”
I came to a standstill, straightening my scabbard before gripping the hilt of my sword. “Yes, we will see her first.” My eyes met Chevelle’s but before I could decide whether to tell him, there was a crash from the front room.
I bit down a growl, muttering, “I hate fairies,” for what was almost certainly not the last time as I opened the door to the living area.
The pale blue fairy was perched on the arm of the sofa by the tips of her toes. Her hands were behind her back and she wore an all-too-innocent smile as she greeted me in singsong. “Frey-a.”
I grimaced at her as I asked Rider, “What did she break?”
He nodded toward the corner, where a gooey mess oozed from broken chunks of what I assumed was once a clay pot. “Not sure exactly, but it smells like the back end of a goat.”
Myst grinned wider, as if her perfect teeth could charm me into friendship.
“Clean it up and I will let you live.”
She started to laugh but caught herself, suddenly unsure if I’d been joking. Her wings flicked, shaking silvery dust onto the couch, and then she moved to pick up the mess.
I headed to Ruby’s room to locate a scroll and then stood frozen in the doorway. The entire room was covered in a thick white powder. “What happened?” I managed, choking on fumes even though the dust had long since settled.
“Oh,” Rider said, “that was Ruby.”
I turned to stare at him.
“One of the traps she’d laid before leaving.”
I pointed a thumb over my shoulder, face blank as his words sunk in.
“Yep, that’s the one that got Steed.”
The laugh that escaped morphed into a cough from the vapor and I closed the door without having stepped a foot inside. My eyes were tearing up. No wonder he’d been so angry. “Any chance either of you have a scroll and a quill?”
“Here,” Myst called from the corner, “there are some in this side table.”
I glanced at Chevelle, who had the same irritated expression I imagined I was wearing, and headed toward the table.
Myst stood. “And a jar of ink there.” She pointed toward a row of shelves built into the south wall, where it appeared she had been meddling when she’d knocked down the clay pot. “It’s the blue one.” Nose scrunched, she bent back to her task.
When I pulled a scroll from the drawer, she glanced up at me, eyebrows dancing up and down. “Whatcha writing?”