“I find it tedious to have my every conversation remarked on,” he says. “I want you to know your sister isn’t here tonight. I made sure of it.”
“So what does Locke have planned?” I ask, unwilling to be grateful and refusing to compliment him on his sleight of hand. “He’s certainly staked his reputation on this evening.”
Cardan makes a face. “I don’t worry my pretty head about that kind of thing. You’re the ones who are supposed to be doing the work. Like the ant in the fable who labors in the dirt while the grasshopper sings the summer away.”
“And has nothing left for winter,” I say.
“I need for nothing,” he says, shaking his head, mock-mournful. “I am the Corn King, after all, to be sacrificed so little Oak can take my place in the spring.”
Overhead, orbs have been lit and glow with warm, magical light as they drift through the night air, but his words send a shiver of dread through me.
I look into his eyes. His hand slides to my hip, as though he might pull me closer. For a dizzy, stupid moment, something seems to shimmer in the air between us.
Kiss me until I am sick of it.
He doesn’t try to kiss me, of course. He hasn’t been shot at, isn’t delirious with drink, isn’t filled with enough self-loathing.
“You ought not to be here tonight, little ant,” he says, letting go of me. “Go back to the palace.” Then he is cutting back through the crowd. Courtiers bow as he passes. A few, the most brazen, catch hold of his coat, flirt, try to pull him into the dance.
And he, who once ripped a boy’s wing from his back because he wouldn’t bow, now allows all this familiarity with a laugh.
What has changed? Is he different because I have forced him to be? Is it because he is away from Balekin? Or is he no different at all and I am only seeing what I want to see?
I still feel the warm pressure of his fingers against my skin. Something is really wrong with me, to want what I hate, to want someone who despises me, even if he wants me, too. My only comfort is that he doesn’t know what I feel.
Whatever debauchery Locke has planned, I must stay to find the representative from the Court of Termites. The sooner my favor to their Lord Roiben is dismissed, the sooner I have one less debt hanging over my head. Besides, they can hardly offend me more than they have.
Cardan makes it back to the throne as Nicasia arrives with Grimsen, a moth pin holding his cloak.
Grimsen begins a speech that doubtlessly is flattering and produces something from a pocket. It looks like an earring—a single drop, which Cardan lifts to the light and admires. I guess he has made his first magical object in Elfhame’s service.
In the tree to the left of them, I see the hob-faced owl, Snapdragon, blinking down. Although I can’t spot them, the Ghost and several more spies are nearby, watching the revel from enough distance that if a move is made, they will be there.
A centaur-like musician with the body of a deer has come forward—one carrying a lyre carved in the shape of a pixie, her wings forming the top curve of the instrument. It is strung with what appears to be thread of many colors. The musician begins to play, the carving to sing.
Nicasia saunters over to where the smith is sitting. She wears a dress of purple that is peacock blue when it catches the light. Her hair is woven into a braid that circles her head, and at her brow is a chain from which dangle dozens upon dozens of beads in sparkling purples and blues and amber.
When Grimsen turns toward her, his expression lightens. I frown.
Jugglers begin tossing a series of objects—from live rats to shiny swords—into the air. Wine and honeyed cakes are passed around.
Finally, I spot Dulcamara from the Court of Termites, her red-as-poppies hair bound up into coils and a two-handed blade strapped across her back, a silver dress blowing around her. I walk over, trying not to seem intimidated.
“Welcome,” I say. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit? Has your king found something I could do—”
She cuts me off with a glance toward Cardan. “Lord Roiben wants you to know that even in the low Courts, we hear things.”
For a moment, my mind goes through an anxious inventory of all the things Dulcamara might have heard, then I remember that the Folk have been whispering that Cardan shot one of his lovers for his own amusement. The Court of Termites is one of the few Courts to have both Seelie and Unseelie members; I’m not sure if they’d mind about the hurt courtier or just the possibility of an unstable High King.
“Even without liars, there can still be lies,” I say carefully. “Whatever rumors you heard, I can explain what really happened.”