“Um,” I said. “I’ve never . . . that is to say . . .” I completely lost my nerve. “Are your teeth still sharp, technically? Because they don’t feel sharp at all. I don’t understand how that works.”
He was breathing heavily, eyes unfocused. He frowned a little, coming back to himself as he processed my anxious carrying on. “I’ve never made a study of glamour’s properties. All I know is that it isn’t the same as shapeshifting, but it’s more than a mere illusion. I won’t harm you.” My reluctance dawned on him. His shoulders stiffened. “If you’d rather not—”
I swooped in and silenced him with another kiss. I moved too fast and our noses bumped together, which hurt a bit, but he didn’t seem to mind. My heart still hammered like a frightened rabbit’s. By reflex I tightened my fingers in his hair, and again he made that noise—the one that pulled me taut as a bowstring inside. I flexed against him without meaning to, and both heard and felt his braced palm slide down the bark next to my ear.
Fascinated, I studied him. He met my eyes. I gave his hair a second, experimental tug. He let his head fall a little to the side, in the direction of my hand. Somehow I knew what that meant: he’d give me complete control if I wanted it. A rush of pure unadulterated want knocked the air out of my lungs and, ironically, knocked some sense into my brain.
“We can’t do this!” I exclaimed. “We’re stopping. Now. Oh, god.”
I loosened my legs and gripped his shoulders to let myself down. He got the hint before I took an ignoble drop, and lowered me to the ground. His face had gone a bit gray, and his expression was stricken.
I demanded of him, “Have we broken the Good Law? Did that count?”
“No,” he replied hoarsely. “Not unless—” He halted and shook his head. “No,” he repeated, in a surer voice. He cleared his throat. “If fair folk and mortals broke the Good Law every time we—ah—kissed each other, suffice it to say there’d be few of us left.”
“Sex really does turn people into imbeciles,” I said, amazed at having committed yet another base human error to which I’d somehow thought myself immune. “Rook, we can’t do that again. I’m really using the iron next time. That isn’t a bluff.”
White-lipped, he went over and claimed his coat from the ground. “Good,” he said. And he seemed to mean it.
I tugged my dress straight, tightened my bootlaces, and yanked a bunched-up stocking back over my knee, wishing I had more to do to keep my hands busy so I didn’t have to look at him. What I’d just done was so unlike me I could hardly believe it. The autumnlands’ magic wasn’t affecting me in some way, was it? I couldn’t shake the feeling that something dark lurked at the periphery of my recent memories—an unsettling experience I’d forgotten somehow, like a bad dream. And as soon as I thought that, one of the shadows that had been haunting me all morning sharpened into focus.
“Hemlock!” I blurted out.
Rook whipped around with his sword drawn.
“No, not here. Not right now, at least. I think I saw her last night, or maybe I just dreamed about her.” Already I’d begun doubting myself. The image of Hemlock perched in the branches was intangible, slipping away the harder I held on. “I’m not sure. If it had been real, I wouldn’t have just rolled over and gone back to sleep.”
He examined my face carefully. Part of his shirt had come loose from his trousers, and I bit back the urge to snap at him to tuck it back in.
“You are not prone to flights of fancy,” he said. At least he knew that much about me. “Fair folk can deepen a mortal’s sleep, if we wish, to move about unnoticed nearby. It is common for mortals to interpret such visits as dreams. But that would mean—”
“She’s already found us,” I finished slowly, apprehension weighing down the words.
In one clean arc he swept his sword through a stand of mushrooms, sending their caps flying. Then he stood with his back turned, leaning on the hilt, struggling not to project his defeat. Now I understood why Hemlock’s actions exacted such a personal toll. He was already insecure about his suitability as prince, and the ease with which she tracked him through his own domain was yet another mark against him.
But I had witnessed Rook’s power firsthand, and couldn’t believe it was as simple as that.
“She tried to tell you something,” I said, dredging up the details, frustrated that I could recall so little of use. “I think she was delivering a warning. She said it’s only you now, and that she no longer answers to the horn of winter. Do either of those mean anything to you?”
“No, but there’s an ill sound to both.” He sheathed his sword. “Isobel, I . . .” The pause spun out into an agonizing silence. When he resumed, I could tell every admission cost him. “I was not lying, of course, when I told you I haven’t yet fully recovered. I relied upon losing the Wild Hunt for several days at least. If we are attacked on the return journey—when we’re attacked—I fear I may not be able to protect you.”
I bit my lip and looked down. The heat between us had dissolved, a smoldering fire reduced to soggy ashes. “There must be another option.”
“Revisiting the summerlands would be futile, if not perilous. The winterlands are out of the question, as is”—he hesitated—“my own court, given recent events. But Hemlock wouldn’t dare accost us if we went straight to the spring court. We could stay several nights, and return to Whimsy along a safer route.”
No human had ever visited a fairy court and lived. Or at least, none had ever done so and remained human. I was a master of the Craft, escorted by a prince, but I had to wonder whether I truly was a special case, or if every mortal deluded themselves into thinking they were an exception to the rule.
I took a deep, shaky breath. “I do have many patrons in the spring court.”
Rook bowed his head in agreement. “If anything were to happen to me, Gadfly would honor your desire to return home. Of this I am certain.”
“And once I’m back in Whimsy . . .”
“We shall never see each other again,” he said, “for one reason or another.”
A pain that had nothing to do with anything physical twisted in my chest. What would happen to Rook after we parted? I imagined him returning to the autumn court, walking down a long, dim hall, and taking a seat on a throne with a thousand eyes upon him—all searching for a sign of the human wrongness on his face, the wrongness my portrait had exposed. How long before he tripped, and his people bared their teeth and sprang upon him like wolves on an injured stag? How long would he last against them? I knew he wouldn’t go easily. Or quickly.
But I was powerless to help him. I’d do well to remember that the only fate I had any control over was my own. Cold on the outside, aching on the inside, I nodded.
“Then let us go,” he said, sweeping past me with his face turned away.