“And did you get it?” Her brows draw together.
“I am not what I pretend to be here at Court. I would have thought you knew that.”
“Don’t be such a fool,” she snaps. “It doesn’t matter what I believe, only that . . .”
“Yes?” He waits for her to finish the statement.
But she only shakes her head, smothering a cough. Bogdana glances back at them.
For a long moment, they ride in silence.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that argument was enough,” Oak says finally. There’s definitely something strange about this conversation. “Jack could spread around a few details, given his penchant for gossip.”
The kelpie makes a horselike whinny and tosses his mane, objecting.
“And I suppose you’re also going to tell me that last night means nothing,” Oak goes on.
Wren stiffens. “What does it matter? Despite your declaration of love, can you really say you want to marry me?”
“And if I do?” he asks.
“That doesn’t matter, either,” she says, her voice the snap of a lash.
He takes a breath. “Tonight—”
“Tonight is too late,” she says, anguished. “It may already be too late.” With that, she pulls at the lead on her twig-and-branch steed, wheeling away from him.
He watches after her, certain that someone is manipulating or threatening her. Obviously, she can’t tell him directly or she would have done so. But how can anyone constrain her, as powerful as she is?
He sees Taryn steer her horse to Wren’s side, hears his sister tell her how well she likes what Wren is wearing. Watches Bogdana guide her bramble steed toward Randalin. He doesn’t have the wit to be afraid of her and begins merrily chatting away.
Some of the courtiers have ridden fast, in search of game, but many more have ambled along on their mounts, deep in conversation. A few have parasols of flowers or feathers or even cobwebs.
Oak rides alongside them, deep in thought, until a horn blares, signaling the beginning of the picnic.
He swings down from Jack’s back and follows the others to the campsite. Servants have set up an array of differently patterned blankets and baskets, along with parasols and even musicians. If the presence of mortals or the lot of them trooping around hasn’t frightened off the silver stag, a few sets of murder ballads surely will.
There are duck hand pies, stoppered carafes of wine, blackberry tarts beside piles of roasted chestnuts, and bread so light and airy that cold butter spread across it would tear it like tissue.
Oriana walks to Oak, holding out a cup of red clover tea. “I barely spoke with you last night,” she says.
“We sat at the same table, Mother,” the prince reminds Oriana.
She puts her arm through his. She is so much smaller that it seems impossible she ever tossed him in her arms. “Have you come up with your question for the girl?”
He shakes his head.
“Ask her your fondest memory,” she urges slyly. “Or perhaps your deepest secret.”
“They’re clever questions,” Oak says. “They seem difficult, but she might well be able to guess both. Not a bad suggestion.”
His mother frowns, and he takes perverse delight in having turned her words against her. But at least he’s certain that if she’s so obvious in urging him to walk away, she isn’t engaged in a secret manipulation of Wren. “Hoping I will seek Nicasia’s hand instead?” he asks, thinking of Tatterfell’s theory.
Oriana’s eyes go wide. “Of course not. That would be madness.”
“You don’t think my sister wants—”
“No,” his mother says. “She wouldn’t. You would never survive down there.”
If Jude does plan on his marrying Nicasia, she hasn’t started the process of suborning Oriana. And while, being the High Queen, she could do whatever she wants, you’d think she’d have brought it up once, at least.
He reminds himself that he can’t be sure, though. Right now, he can’t be sure of anything.
Taryn has stuck by Wren. They are speaking together, standing beside the Ghost’s horse. For a moment, he thinks of going over there and dumping his red clover tea over his sister’s head.
Hyacinthe walks toward Oak, signaling with raised brows.
The prince kisses his mother’s cheek. “See? After considering the Undersea, nothing seems so bad.” Then he leaves her and goes to where Hyacinthe is scowling at him.
“I heard you last night,” Hyacinthe says, low-voiced.
That could mean a lot of things. “And?”
“With your nephew,” he says.
Oak winces. He should have realized that if he could eavesdrop on Tiernan and Hyacinthe, it was equally possible for him to be eaves-dropped upon.
“Were you going to deliver what I asked of you?” Hyacinthe asks. “Or are you the coward who lets your mother’s murderer walk free?”
Oak has been asking himself about the closer betrayals, but eventually he would have to answer that question. “I thought you’d had enough of revenge.”
“I am not speaking of myself,” Hyacinthe reminds him. “And I told you that I did not release you from your vow.”
Choosing the worst possible moment, the Ghost moves toward them, a skin of wine and two carved wooden cups in his hand. Right, because he was going to give Oak an update on whatever it was he was seeking to find out the night before.
“Send him away,” Hyacinthe says.
“He knows something,” Oak objects.
“Send him away or I will stab him through,” hisses Hyacinthe under his breath.
“A cup of mead, prince?” offers the Ghost, pouring one for Oak and then one for himself. He glances at Hyacinthe. “I am afraid I only brought the two, but if you bring yours, I will pour.”
Oak’s cheeks feel hot, and there is a roaring in his ears the way there is when he gives in to instinct and fights without mercy. He takes the cup of honey wine and drinks it. It’s too sweet and cloying in his mouth.
The Ghost takes his in a gulp, then winces. “Not good wine, but wine nonetheless. Now, if you will walk with me.”
“I am afraid I can’t talk right now,” the prince tells Garrett.
The Ghost must hear something in his voice. Looking puzzled, he says, “Come find me when you’re ready, but it must be soon. I will ride a little ways north so that we will be alone. When we’re done, we will speak with your sister.”
“You’re gripping your sword,” Hyacinthe tells Oak in a low voice as the spy departs.
Oak glances down at his hand, surprised to find it curled around the hilt of his blade. Surprised to find it shaking a little.
“I have to go after him,” the prince says. “Someone’s manipulating Wren.”
“Manipulating? Who? How?” Hyacinthe asks. “I don’t know.”
Hyacinthe glances in the direction that the Ghost went. Courtiers are still sitting on blankets, so there’s no chance of the hunt starting up again immediately. Oak needs to find out what information the spy has.
Garrett already disappeared into the Milkwood, somehow slipping between the white trunks.
With a glance toward Wren and a reminder that he needs to keep his temper, Oak remounts the kelpie and heads in the direction the Ghost went. His head is swimming. He’s got to keep himself under control. Surely whatever it is that the spy knows will help Oak understand the constraints on Wren and who put them there.
He rides a little farther and looks down at his hand, which has started to tremble. He still has the sensation of being underwater. And with it, he feels a rush of something entirely too familiar.
Blusher mushroom. He’s been poisoned.
He thinks of the honey wine, sweet enough to hide the flavor. Honey wine, given into his hand by the Ghost.
The prince laughs out loud. Of all the things the Ghost knows about murder, apparently he doesn’t know that this is the one poison to which Oak is immune. If the spy hadn’t decided to go with the symmetry of finishing the job the way he’d begun it, Oak might really be dead.
The prince draws his sword.