Archive of Our Own

Imagine this, Elain had wanted to say afterward, though there was no one to say it to the night that she had snuck back to her room, the phantom feel of Azriel’s fingertips on her face so real she thought she must have left some small, essential part of her with him, under his hands, longing. But if there had been someone, she would have said, imagine this:

It had only happened because Elain hadn’t had the courage to give Azriel the gift outright. If she had only done the sensible thing and not gotten carried away by the way he looked at her, as open and wanting as she had ever seen him. Then she never would have found herself posed like a lovestruck schoolgirl in his sudden absence, the sting of his rejection striking her to the core. First she felt angry, then pathetic, and finally resigned because there were already so many other pressing problems demanding her attention. In the grand scheme of things, it shouldn’t have mattered.

Imagine this: Elain, unable to sleep, her fingers outstretched to touch the cold, empty side of her bed and hoping. Waiting.

*

Elain slept restlessly, haunted by disjointed, nightmarishly vivid dreams. She woke once to the sound of her own murmuring, a hot-cold sensation stealing across her skin. She woke a second time to the image of falling from a high place, a scream trapped in her throat. The third time, she admitted defeat.

The house was shrouded in darkness; there was an hour yet until sunrise, but Elain pulled on a clean dress and stepped outside, lighting the lantern she found next to the door. Feyre had bought Elain a catalog for her birthday and told her to order anything she desired from it. Prythian’s knowledge of Velaris meant that the city now exported and imported goods for the first time in its history. The catalog had seeds for flowers and herbs with rare properties that Elain was hungry to plant in her garden. She had a hypothesis that by breeding them with one of the medicinal plants native to Velaris, she could develop a long-lasting, perhaps permanent, antidote to faebane.

At some point, Nuala and Cerridwen came to bring her a cup of tea. They didn’t question why she was awake so early. Perhaps they already knew. For whatever reason, Elain was grateful, and she took it with a smile.

Sunrise came slowly. The edges of the horizon reddened, the first rays of sunlight poked over the trees, turning everything molten and golden. Elain sipped her tea and flipped through the catalog, marking every seed that caught her eye.

“You rose early,” a voice said behind her, and Elain turned to see Feyre stepping out of the house, her hair pinned high on her head.

“I did,” she said, about to tell Feyre what she was working on when she caught sight of who followed behind her. “Oh, hello.”

Azriel stood in the shadow of the townhouse, covered head to toe in leathers. Instead of answering, he bowed. It didn’t surprise Elain; they hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of polite words in months.

“The twins say you’ve been working since before dawn.”

I had disturbing dreams, she nearly said, but she knew what reaction she would get if she did. Instead, she said, “I was eager to look through this,” motioning at the catalog.

“We’re sorry to interrupt,” Feyre said, taking a seat across from Elain. Azriel stayed standing. “But I wanted to talk to you about something. Something important.”

Elain became alert. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” she said, then amended, “well, not terribly wrong. Rhys and I have heard rumors that the Queens are scheming. This is nothing new, but there’s quite a bit of chatter circulating among the nobles across the Continent. There is unrest among the people right now, and all of these things combined could snowball into a problem.”

“What are they planning?”

“We don’t know. The Queens picked up quite a few nice tricks during the war.” She pulled a face. “It makes it difficult for us to spy.”

“What about the lords?”

“Same problem. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Queens traded them that information for something in return.”

Neither would Elain. Humans went as far as plating their walls in iron to fend off fae. If the Queens were dangling the fae’s weaknesses as bait, she did not know of anyone who would not pledge their allegiance to the Queens to have it.

Feyre had bruises under her eyes. She hadn’t lost weight, Elain noted, but her fingernails were bitten down to stubs. “Are you worried?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Because I need to ask you to help me.”

“Help you?”

“I know I’m asking for a lot—“

“No,” Elain said, “that’s not a problem. I just—“ What help could Elain possibly be?

“Azriel can’t infiltrate these spaces. Not by his usual methods, anyway, and we can’t afford to stay in the dark about this. We need a spy on the inside.”

Elain stifled an inappropriate urge to laugh when the pieces connected in her mind. “Do you mean me?”

“It is your decision, in the end,” Feyre hastened to say, “and I will not fight it. If you want to go, you can. If you do not, I can send someone else.”

She was serious. She was asking Elain—who not that long ago had nearly lost herself to madness—to re-enter the human lands and act as a spy for the Night Court. When Feyre knew that she detested violence of all sorts. She had refused to touch a blade since that day she plunged Truth Teller into King Hybern’s neck, the hot squirt of his blood coating her hands. Elain was, without a doubt, the absolute worst choice.

“Who would you send,” she heard herself ask, “if I refused?”

“Nesta. She knows the human lands best.” But she was too severe. Like Cassian, she was a warrior and as hard as a military general. People were drawn to it, whether by fear or awe, and though it had always served Nesta well, it attracted too much attention.

I am a part of this Court, Elain said to Feyre once, and I will do what is necessary.

“I can do it.”

“Maybe you should think about it. I cannot guarantee your safety.”

“You will never be able to guarantee my safety,” she said. “I can do it.”

Some of the tension in Feyre’s shoulders eased, but her face remained pinched. Elain reached out and smoothed the wrinkle from her forehead with her thumb. Feyre smiled like the little girl that lived in Elain’s memories, always wanting to wear Elain’s dresses and sleep in her bed. Those things felt so far away, now, as if taken from a previous life. Perhaps they were.

“Trust me,” Elain said.

“With my life.” Feyre took her hand and squeezed it. “Rhys has a human contact on the Continent, but the trouble is that she wouldn’t be able to offer you work outside of bounty hunting.”

“Ah.” No, that wouldn’t do at all. “No need. I think I might have an idea.”

“What?”

“Lord Sisecuto.”

Azriel spoke up. “Who?”

“A wealthy lord. Our father used to do business with him before our mother died.” Feyre turned to her. “Do you think he’ll help you?”

“No. He and Father weren’t close.” That, and Elain didn’t think Lord Sisecuto had ever helped another person in his life. He was an eccentric, unforgiving man from a line of powerful and wealthy lords. She’d only met him once as a girl, and she remembered thinking he was occasionally funny when he wasn’t terrifying her.

“I don’t follow.”

“I can work in his household. Before the war, peasants across the Continent were in an uproar.” There was a demand for higher wages and fairer working hours. After the plague, too many people wound up destitute and weak, children left orphaned or dead, while the Lords remained untouched, drinking imported wine and fine cheese. “He lost many workers. Knowing his character, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still low on people to work in his household. I could go there.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. It’s very likely he’ll recognize you.”

“No, he knew us distantly as children. I don’t think you were even born yet. If I were to alter my appearance before I depart—”

“This plan involves a great deal more luck than I’m comfortable with,” Feyre said. “This is already dangerous enough. I don’t want to throw you into the lion’s den.”

“He won’t recognize me.” It was true—he wouldn’t. Even if he remembered them, Elain was easily the least recognizable of the three. Nesta took after their mother, all the clean, elegant lines of her, and the topography of Feyre’s face was all their father. “I won’t be convincing playing the part of a thief or seller. With Lord Sisecuto, I would be right in the middle of everything. He is a powerful and influential figure and a gossip, besides. If something is happening, he will certainly be involved in it. It is the perfect place to gather information.”

Conflicting impulses warred on her face. Elain thought she might still refuse, but she exchanged a long look with Azriel, who inclined his head. Feyre nodded once. “Alright. Azriel will meet you when he gets back. You two should leave as soon as you can.”

Elain blinked. A rug had been pulled out from under her feet. “Pardon?”

“He will go with you. Obviously, he won’t be able to help outside of emergencies, but you’ll report to him while you’re there.” At Elain’s expression, she asked, “What?”

“Nothing. I just—“ she fumbled. “I thought you said he couldn’t spy on the lords anymore.”

“My normal methods no longer work,” he said, “but I have other means of gathering information that could help you in the field.”

“I see,” Elain said, though she very much did not.

Feyre said something indistinct to Azriel, who nodded and headed inside. Feyre was about to follow when Elain stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Why can’t Cassian accompany me instead?”

“Cassian is a soldier, not a spy.” Feyre rolled her eyes. “He’s as subtle as a bull in a treasure vault.”

“What about the twins?”

“What’s the matter?” She frowned. “Are you and Azriel fighting?”

“Don’t be silly. I just … don’t want to bother him.”

Feyre grinned like she thought Elain was being funny. “Believe me, he won’t be bothered.”

*

This was an unmitigated disaster.

Azriel was completing an assignment and would not be back in Velaris for another few days. In the meantime, Elain was free to carry on with her usual activities, but Nuala and Cerridwen banished her from the kitchen after the third time she cut herself chopping vegetables. She tried tending to her garden and carelessly added too much mulch to her flower beds. Frustrated, Elain marched to her room and locked herself inside.

She didn’t regret saying yes. She would go on this mission and serve her Court. Feyre rarely asked anything of her, and Elain wanted to prove that she was capable. She was not forged by the same fire as her sisters, but Elain was still her mother’s daughter.

Nevertheless, the matter remained that the idea of spending time alone with Azriel for an extended period of time sounded dreadful. She hadn’t lied. She and Azriel were not fighting, per se. No ugly words had been exchanged, and no shouting had transpired. He had gone to kiss her and then hadn’t; she had returned his necklace. It was all very civilized, really. But Elain had once considered Azriel a friend, and now all she felt when she looked at him was shame.

If she were going to do this, she would need to set that all aside. They couldn’t expect to function as a team if Elain could not renounce her grudges. She would be respectful, even friendly, and once it was over, Azriel could return to ignoring her if he wished to. She hoped she returned with nothing but peace in her heart.

With a sigh, Elain pressed her forehead against the door with a soft thump. There were books in the library about human politics. If she were going to stay inside, then she might as well make herself useful.

*

The twins discovered her sitting by the window, her feet tucked against the armrest of her chair, later in the day. The volume in Elain’s lap was dusty and thick, titled, Trade, Money, and Power in Modern Human Lands. She set it aside when she saw the box in Cerridwen’s hands.

“Hello,” she said. “What is that?”

Cerridwen lifted the top. Inside was a variety of wool and linen dresses, all fashioned in the human style.

“We were asked to give these to you,” Nuala said.

The dresses resembled the ones Elain had worn during their years of poverty, so unlike the ones Elain wore now that exposed the hollow of her throat and were sewn using a lighter fabric. She remembered how scratchy the material of her old dresses was, how unbearable during the hottest months of the year, and grimaced. The last few years had spoiled her.

“Ah, yes. Thank you,” she said, setting the box aside. They bowed, but before they could leave, she said, “Wait. Could I ask you two something?”

They paused, staring at her expectantly. Shadows swirled at their feet.

“Is there any way to teach me how to do … that?” She gestured. “To shadow walk?”

Nuala and Cerridwen shared a glance. “If you have the gift,” Nuala said, “but it involves years of training.”

In other words, there was no possibility of Elain mastering it in the next two afternoons, if she could at all. Feyre said that magic was disabled across the human lands by whatever spell the Queens developed. It was more than likely Lord Sisecuto had the same warding, which meant that Elain wouldn’t be able to winnow, either. Not that she knew how.

“I see. Thank you.” She gave them a self-deprecating smile. “I have never done anything like this before.” As if that were not obvious.

“Every spy has their own style,” Nuala said. “You need not mimic ours. It would be best to utilize your own strengths.”

That was the problem. She wasn’t sure she had any.

She spent the rest of the evening at her desk, brainstorming her strengths (gardening, baking, showing remarkable restraint when Mor spiked the cider without telling anyone) and weaknesses (inexperienced, no knowledge of magic, weak stomach) by the flickering glow of her oil lamp.

There was no guarantee that Elain would need to be able to shadow walk. Perhaps it wouldn’t be difficult to eavesdrop on Lord Sisecuto’s affairs. Perhaps he was careless; many men thought their servants stupid and said all manner of things in front of them.

On the other hand, neither was it guaranteed that Lord Sisecuto was all that the rumors made him out to be. If he was more cunning than people supposed, she would have bigger problems.

Then she had an idea.

She ran to her windows and threw open the shades. The sun was low in the sky, but if she hurried, she might make it in time. Elain flung open her door and pulled on her shoes one-handed as she bounded down the stairs, sprinting down the streets of Velaris. Couples and families heading home jumped out of her way as she passed.

She made it just as the weaver was closing her shop. She paused when she saw Elain, sweaty and panting as she gasped, “Excuse me.”

The weaver looked her up and down. Elain’s shoes were only halfway on. “Yes?”

“Do you remember me?”

“Of course.” The weaver inclined her head. “You are the High Lady’s sister.”

“Oh, yes.” An uncomfortable flush climbed up Elain’s throat. At times, she forgot that her relationship with Feyre made her a significant figure by proxy. A member of the royal family. “Just Elain is fine.”

“Elain,” the weaver said. “How may I help you?”

“Well,” she said, trying to gather her breath. “I have rather a large favor to ask you.”

*

They had a plan. Of sorts.

Lord Sisecuto, like most great men, was seldom home. He was off meeting with other lords across the Continent, garnering alliances, making deals, kissing the boots of royals. (Elain remembered stories of Lord Sisecuto’s ambition, a taste inherited from his father and his father before him.) Instead, Elain would likely be shepherded off to the steward, who was left in charge in the lord’s absence.

“Your name is Olive Alwyn,” Azriel said as she wrapped the wimble around her head. It was her third attempt at doing so. It kept coming loose near the back, and her underarms were already damp with sweat. The heat was a physical weight on her shoulders, and all she wanted to do was tear off all her infernal layers and dive into a nearby stream. “You are from Bournemouth. Do you know it?”

It was one of many well-known coastal villages. Its economy relied on seafood exports to the rest of the Continent. Their ports were some of the most active on the Continent, constantly occupied by travelers and sailors and merchants. Many of the village women worked in their homes or at inns, attending to the men in the community. They were valued for their work and subservience; many peasants traveled to Bournemouth in search of wives. “Yes. My father took me once as a girl.”

“Good. You are unmarried and orphaned. You have been traveling in search of work. One more thing,” he said as Elain finished. He took a step forward and waved his hand slowly over her face. Her skin tingled. “Glamour. To disguise you.”

“Didn’t you say that this would be a dead zone for magic?”

“Glamours are largely cosmetic and have a magical composition closer to zero than one. Think of them as a physical veil.”

“Wouldn’t that still mean they won’t work? If they involve any magic at all.”

“No. The Queens likely warded against any full-body glamour and shapeshifting and didn’t consider adding additional warding that would detect smaller outputs of magic.”

“Why?”

“I’m willing to gamble that they didn’t think we would be senseless enough to send in a fae spy,” he said. She realized a beat too late that he was trying to joke with her.

“Is it senseless?”

“Very.” He took a step back. “Are you ready?”

Now, Elain stood at the door of Lord Sisecuto’s manor gate, her heart beating against her chest like a bird trying to take flight. Before she could lose composure, she wrapped her fingers around one of the iron pickets and called, “Hello?”

There were many servants bustling back and forth, carrying everything from baskets of damp clothes to freshly slaughtered chickens. One of them, hauling a heavy pail of water, came to the gate. Unlatching it, she asked, “Yes?”

“Hello,” Elain repeated idiotically, “I come to see if the lord has any available work.”

“The lord is not home.”

“Oh, I see. Well, is there—?”

“Mrs. Klein!” A voice barked from somewhere beyond them. Both Elain and the servant jumped. They whipped around to look at a fastly approaching figure. “What is the meaning of this?”

Mrs. Klein inclined her head, bowing slightly. “There is someone at the gate, sir.”

She stepped away to reveal an older gentleman. His face was a pinched and unpleasant thing, his mouth set into something permanently displeased. He was stout, not much taller than Elain, though that might’ve been a result of his shoulders, which were hunched as if accustomed to looming.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Quickly, Elain bowed her head. Azriel had drilled her on this the day before. Keep your chin low. Control your expressions, but if you can’t, look away. “I am looking for work, sir.”

“The lord has no need of more chambermaids,” he said. He sent Mrs. Klein a pointed glance as if to say, Get rid of her.

“Good day,” she said to Elain, moving to latch the gate closed, but Elain stepped forward, her hand outstretched before it could snip shut. Mrs. Klein gasped, alarmed, but Elain ignored her. Instead, when the steward—because he must be the steward—turned around, she allowed him to see her face completely. She was breaking Azriel’s rules, she knew, but she couldn’t let them send her away. She couldn’t face them and say she’d failed before she even began.

“Good sir,” Elain said, “a moment of your time. I beg you.”

The steward’s eyes were wide. He coughed. “This is highly inappropriate. I should have you thrown off the grounds. Leave before you embarrass yourself any further.”

“If you have me escorted out, I’ll understand and go without fuss.” She dared a step closer. “I only ask that you hear me.”

He hesitated. Beside her, Mrs. Klein followed this exchange with quick, intent eyes, one hand hovering over Elain’s bicep, ready to shove her forcefully out the door. Elain didn’t doubt that she could. They were the same age, but Mrs. Klein had the body of a working woman, strong arms meant to wrestle cattle and wide, childbearing hips.

Elain said, “Please.”

The steward sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose raw. He turned on his heel and started down the busy courtyard, shaking his head. Mrs. Klein’s hand closed around her forearm and Elain’s heart pounded in her throat.

Before Mrs. Klein could start leading her away, the steward turned on his heel, expectant. “Well?” he snapped. “I won’t wait all day. Come along.”

Elain didn’t know who was more shocked to hear those words: herself, Mrs. Klein, or the steward.

“Yes, sir,” she said, hurrying after him before he changed his mind.

Past the courtyard and inside the manor home, he led her down a series of hallways. Chambermaids scrubbed at the floors, cooks collected fine herbs from the Lord’s private garden, and knights stood stationed by doors. At the end of one hall was a mirror case, and Elain was startled when she caught sight of her own reflection, completely and undeniably human.

“Name?” the steward barked. He hadn’t faltered his step.

“Ms. Olive Alwyn, at your service, sir.”

“Where is your family from?”

“Bournemouth.”

The steward’s voice took on a new quality. “Bournemouth,” he repeated. “Your family remains there?”

“No, sir. They’ve all passed.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Hm.” He stopped, finally, in the middle of the hall. The servants around them didn’t pause, moving swiftly past them like a stream over jagged rocks. The steward looked at her. “Well, Ms. Alwyn, you arrived at an opportune moment. Do you know how to farm?”

This had not been what she was expecting. “Pardon?”

The steward’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t enjoy repeating himself. “You have come begging for work. I can offer you employment as a serf.”

A serf.

She would be working in the fields all day, harvesting crops. It was the season for it. That meant she would have little to no opportunity to be inside the manor itself. Azriel had picked Bournemouth for a reason. It made her the ideal applicant for a chambermaid.

“If I may be so bold,” she said, “I believe I would be more useful to the lord as a maid.”

“I care very little about what you believe,” the steward said.

“Of course. I only mean—”

“It is not too late for me to throw you off the grounds,” he interrupted. “Do you want the job or not?”

This was a catastrophe. The whole point of Elain suggesting Lord Sisecuto’s manor was to spy on any guests as discreetly as possible, eavesdropping on conversations as she polished fine porcelain. If Elain was outside all day, it would be practically impossible for her to do any of those things. As a serf, she would be loaned a house near the crops, which she would have to pay the lord a mortgage for every month. As a maiden, there was no question that Elain would be unable to do it.

She should say no. She should leave and tell Azriel that she had failed.

(I am a part of this Court, and I will do what is necessary.)

The steward was still waiting.

“Yes,” she said.

“You will work with the other women from daybreak until nightfall.” He scrutinized her. “Those clothes will be fine for work, no need to collect any. Rent is collected on every full moon. You will not be exempt from the coming one. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“I do not tolerate nonsense. I would take care in remembering that.” He continued down the hall. “Come. Mrs. Klein will show you to your work.”

*

Mrs. Klein led her to the farthest house from the fields. It was barren and completely charmless. The only furniture was a small table and a naked bed. Elain set her bag, the only thing she packed, by the door and sighed. Charmless or not, Elain wouldn’t be able to afford it even if she had two months salary in her pocket. The next full moon was in two weeks, so as it was, Elain had more hope of learning to fly. By the way she looked at Elain (or, more accurately, didn't), Mrs. Klein thought the same, probably thinking that either Elain would be cast off in less than a fortnite or be manipulated into begging Lord Sisecuto for a loan.

Elain didn't plan to do any such thing, which meant that she would have to complete her mission within the fortnite. Fourteen days to uncover whatever the Queens were scheming and find a way to protect not only her Court but the fragile peace between fae and human.

Simple, Elain thought hysterically.

Mrs. Klein cleared her throat. “The steward wants you to begin work immediately.”

“I understand.”

“You will work with the other women. If you have any questions, ask Mrs. Browne.”

“Mrs. Browne?”

The distance to the fields was half a mile, and Elain spent the first part of the walk mostly silent, nervously glancing at Mrs. Klein every few minutes. Finally, Elain asked her how long she had worked in Lord Sisecuto’s household. She said it had been five years. She spent her first three years working as a groom, but had since been transferred to working as a laundress.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Not particularly. I was the eldest daughter in a family with no brothers, so I spent much of my childhood working with livestock. I have little experience with domestic work,” she admitted.

They trudged down the dirt road until a mill came into view. The fields were not far beyond. There, Mrs. Klein introduced her to Mrs. Browne, a wide-shouldered middle-aged woman, as she piled wheat into a cart.

Mrs. Browne spoke candidly and without ceremony about the work she would be doing on the field. Elain would assist with the harvest and tend to any other crops that required cultivating. If she were needed in the mill or with the animals, she would be called. She would keep all of her own tools and be responsible for taking care of them. Largely, Mrs. Browne said, Elain was to do her work well or at the very least stay out of everyone else’s way.

By sunset, Elain was drained. The walk back to her house was arduous. Dried sweat layered her skin, and she could hardly raise her arms over her head without wincing. She’d scarcely sat down on her bed when she heard Azriel say, “Elain.”

Elain closed her eyes. Muffled into her sheets, she said, “Hello.”

“Are you alright?”

She raised her head. Azriel was standing by her door, leather-clad, his wings tucked close to his body. She had no idea how he could stand it. She was a moment away from heatstroke. “How are you here? I thought you couldn’t winnow.”

“I cannot,” he said, “but you are far enough from the manor that I can shadow walk here.”

Elain huffed a laugh. “Yes. I suspect the steward did that on purpose. I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“You made a bad first impression?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Truthfully, she doubted there was a way to make a good impression on that man. She sighed, trying her best to sit straight on the bed. She had been agonizing over this moment all day. “I have to apologize to you.”

Azriel frowned. “Apologize?”

“Yes.” She wrung her hands. “I don’t know what happened, but they didn’t allow me to work as a maid. But I still want to do this,” she added quickly when he opened his mouth. “I know it has gone terribly pear-shaped, but I think I may have another way to obtain the information we need.”

“I believe you.” Then, when Elain started to explain, he said, “No, save it for another night.” He blew out the oil lamp on her table with his fingers. “You should rest.”

*

The next few days were some of the hardest of Elain’s life. When she wasn’t collecting the harvest, she was bent in half pulling at stubborn weeds or heaving heavy pails of water from the stream. She was stronger than she had been as a human and no stranger to hard labor, but even she crouched in the shadows of her house at the end of the day, dry-heaving and exhausted beyond comparison.

The women, initially prickly and cold-shouldered, slowly thawed. They gave her advice, teaching her how to keep her back from cramping after long hours on all fours and how to handle a scythe. Eventually, the days that Elain found herself hobbling to her room at night on the brink of tears were few and far between. One day, as the sun was beating down on them, they passed a flask between each other. Without pause, Mrs. Neumann passed it to her and Elain’s face went hot. She had never shared a drink like this with anyone but her closest family, and though the heat was blistering, a part of her resisted.

Mrs. Neumann was still holding the flask out. The sunlight made it glint. “Drink it.” When Elain hesitated, she said, “Unless you plan on dying from dehydration.”

Elain did not; she took it. She took it the following day, too, and the day after that. And the day after that.

It struck her, at some point during all this, that these women didn’t expect anything from her—not in any way that Elain was accustomed to. She had never been around people who knew nothing about her. Even Graysen had heard of her before meeting her, things like her appearance, her disposition, and her family’s return to wealth. (Many things had changed since Elain was a girl, but the nobility’s love for gossip never went out of fashion.) These women knew none of that and likely wouldn’t care to know. For the first time in her whole life, Elain was simply Elain.

This, of course, didn’t mean that they didn’t ask her questions.

“The steward said you were from Bournemouth,” Mrs. Louthy said one afternoon, eyeing Elain suspiciously. She wasn’t carved from hard muscle like her sisters, but there was no hiding that Elain was in far better shape than she should have been as a lady of little to no means raised indoors.

“Yes,” Elain said. She wondered, frantically, if there were some lie she could make ring true, but for all that she was a spy right now, she didn’t enjoy lying. Anyway, these women seemed like they could smell it on her if she tried. Married women always could. “I … lied.”

“Lied?” Mrs. Neumann echoed. “To the steward?”

“I needed this job.” That, at least, was unequivocally true.

A flicker of understanding went through them. They all exchanged a glance.

“Well, sometimes that’s how things go.” Mrs. Neumann took one of the sacks of corn from Elain’s hands. “Allow me, dear.”

The only real challenge left was the matter of Lord Sisecuto.

Elain had only been working in the manor for a week, but no word of his impending arrival had reached them. Wherever he was, the members of his household did not expect him back anytime soon. Theoretically, it allowed Elain the freedom to sneak into his home with slightly less trepidation, searching through whatever he might have left behind that would give them an idea of what he was planning with the Queens.

But she hadn’t yet attempted to do it, and Azriel hadn’t pressured her. Tonight, though, when Azriel appeared for her nightly report, she said, “I have an idea.”

“An idea,” he echoed.

“Yes, to sneak into the lord’s chambers.” She had already changed into different clothes, her working dress covered in grass stains and damp with sweat. She reached into the travel bag she’d brought with her and pulled out the cloak.

In the poor light of the singular oil lamp she lit, she knew that she had the cloak in her hands from touch alone. It blended perfectly into the darkness, completely indiscernible from the shadows. The weaver had finished it at astounding speed.

“It will disguise me,” she explained.

Azriel stepped closer. “Shadow walk without shadow walking,” he murmured, running a finger over the edge of the fabric. His fingertip seemed to entirely disappear. His eyes darted up to meet Elain’s. “Brilliant.”

She blushed. “Thank you.”

“What’s your plan?”

She cleared her throat. “Well, find the lord’s chambers. See if he has anything hidden in the solar. Hopefully, not be caught and killed.”

“Memorize the layout of the home if you can. We don’t know how often we might get the chance,” he said. “I’ll meet you back here.”

Sneaking into the lord’s house was easier than Elain was expecting. The most difficult part was the walk. She was careful to not kick up dust, keeping her step light. The road was clear, but there remained numerous lit lamps in the houses she passed, families settling down for the night, and she didn’t want to risk anyone glancing out their window and suspecting anything.

A cook was exiting the manor home when she arrived, carrying a tray of skinned bones and scraps of soft muscle to feed the hounds. Elain caught it before it could snip shut and quickly slid inside. She entered through the kitchens, largely empty, and stumbled out into the hall, which spiderwebbed into several dark corridors.

A single knight stood stationed by the patio doors, looking far more interested in the young servant wiping down the chestnut drawer than watching for intruders. Elain tiptoed past him, toward the spiraling staircase, and took the steps two at a time.

On the first floor, there were two doors on opposite sides, both closed. One would lead to the lord’s private bedchamber, the other to his solar.

Elain hesitated. If the doors were locked, she had no plan for how to proceed. Would she have to go back downstairs and attempt to sneak in through the window? She had no way of flying, but if the home was old enough, she thought, then the stones might be sufficiently dislodged that she could get a foothold and—

Her thoughts halted when she saw a faint light coming from under the door to the left.

She edged closer, putting her hand to the brass knob, and heard the faint impression of voices. She froze, put her ear against the wood, straining to listen. Was it possible that the Lord was home? Who else would be in his solar if he weren’t?

The knob flew out from her grip as the door burst open, casting a flood of light into the hall. There was a knight on the other side, about to walk straight into her.

“Wait!” a voice barked from somewhere inside. The knight turned his face toward it, and Elain scrambled back as quietly as she could. “You fool! Don’t leave without this.”

The steward stepped into view, his glare narrowed on the knight as he passed him two envelopes, both waxed shut. The knight slipped one quickly into his chainmail and rubbed the other between his hands, making its shape.

“This is lighter than the last one,” he remarked.

“Perhaps if I didn’t have to do half of your work for you,” the steward said, “you would be recompensed more handsomely.”

“The men will begin to complain,” the knight said with a shrug.

“They’ll do well to mind their mouths, as should you.”

They stepped out of the doorway. Elain backed farther into the shadows and accidentally slammed her legs against a chest behind her, nearly knocking it over. She caught one of the vases before it could shatter across the floor with trembling hands, but it was too late.

“What was that?” the steward said.

Elain held her breath.

“The servants downstairs, I would say,” the knight said absently, tucking the second envelope away more carefully than the first. “They don’t know the floor from their own feet.”

“I would hope not.” The steward cast a last suspicious glance around. “Come. We should see if they finally ruined the lord’s favorite ceramic bowl.”

Elain waited until the sound of their footsteps receded down the staircase before she straightened out of the shadows. Then she waited ten minutes more before she half-ran down the staircase, back through the kitchens, out the door, and into her house, where she pressed herself tightly against her closed door and took a shuddering breath.

“Elain.” A hand alighted on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

She scrubbed the heel of her hands over her eyes. “Yes. Forgive me. I—I was nearly caught, and I was so concerned about escaping that I forgot to check all the rooms before I came back.”

“It’s of no consequence. We will have other opportunities,” he assured her, even though he’d told her there was a chance they wouldn’t less than two hours ago. Even now, after clumsily jeopardizing their entire operation for the second time, he was unhesitatingly kind to her. The shame in her rose like bile.

She looked up at him. “You don’t have to be gentle with me. I can handle your criticism.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“I mean it,” she pushed. “I am not a child. If you find me lacking, you must tell me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to be criticized? In this moment?”

She braced herself. “Yes.”

“All right.” He scrutinized her. “You need a wash.”

A beat of silence passed where Elain did not react at all, and then she burst out laughing. The insolence of it! Azriel twinkled with amusement.

“You forget yourself, sir,” she said, hoping to sound affronted, but noted—with great despair—that she sounded no such thing.

“You would benefit from a bath.”

“I’m aware.” She was sent to clean the horses that day. It was a soothing task of scrubbing soap and water through its coat, but she reeked of mud and hay.

Mrs. Klein—“Agnes,” she’d insisted—had instructed Elain through it as she scrubbed bed sheets over a rock in the stream. In the privacy behind the trees, secure in the knowledge that no one would come close to listen, she had pulled back her wimble and shown Elain an old scar that ran from her jaw to behind her ear. She told Elain a story about a fight she had with a neighbor in her village as a girl. The boy, unbeknownst to her, was the son of a butcher. The next day, the boy assaulted her with one of his father’s knives. She pointed to the scar as she recounted it to her: Thick in the middle where the boy had plunged the blade deep and swiped so the cut tapered off into a thin end.

Elain asked, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“What do you do if you’re stabbed?”

He regarded her intently. “Do you think someone is planning on stabbing you?”

“No.” She smoothed a hand over her neck. “I just want to know.”

“Why?”

“I stabbed someone, once,” she said. She’d meant to say it lightly, almost as if she were joking, but it didn’t come out the way she intended, and Azriel didn’t laugh. “I suppose I wanted to know if I were ever stabbed in the throat, how I would survive it.”

He watched her for a moment. “You do not need to worry about tonight. You did well.”

“I don’t ask solely because of that. I want to be—“ she grappled for a word “—prepared.”

“Prepared?”

“Not that I plan to put myself in harm’s way,” she said because she didn’t, “it’s just … Do you ever have bad dreams?”

Elain had them almost every night. Sometimes they were visions she couldn’t make sense of. She would wake on her feet, scribbling incomprehensible drawings onto the walls with her fingers, black with ink. Other times they were memories of the war but twisted to make Elain wake in gasping breaths. Azriel, her, and Briar falling from the cliff and plunging to their deaths; Feyre, mauled and killed by hounds; Elain, plunging Truth Teller into King Hybern’s throat and realizing too late that it was Nesta.

“I don’t sleep much anymore,” she said.

Azriel said, “Neither do I.”

Neither of them spoke. After much time had passed, he said, “I cannot give you any words of comfort. If you were to be stabbed here,” he grazed her jugular, “you likely wouldn’t survive it. A slit throat is fatal.”

“Always?”

“Nine times out of ten.”

“In the leg, then,” she said. “What would I do?”

“Leave the knife where it is,” he said. “Find a healer.”

“And if I cannot?”

“Then you have bigger problems.”

*

The next night, she told Azriel about what she had seen.

“Unexpected,” he said when she finished. “They were already in the study when you arrived?”

“Yes. I can’t know for how long, but they were very … at ease. As if it were not the first time.” Elain took another bite from the bread she was eating. Mrs. Browne had given it to her, dark and made from rye grain. It tasted better when she dipped it into stew, which she did now. “It was strange.”

“‘Strange?’” he echoed.

“Yes. The steward is left in charge of the workers in the lord’s absence, but it is highly inappropriate for him to be lounging in the lord’s private rooms. For him to have access to the finances of the estate is even more curious.” In fact, the steward seemed to play a suspiciously large role in the functioning of the manor. “Where is the lord now?”

“Lavenham.”

“A town with a strong merchant guild.” It made sense for the lord to be there, chatting to those with strong footholds in government. She took another bite of her bread. “But not far enough away to warrant the steward pushing against the confines of his office.”

Azriel was staring at her.

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re just very,” he said, “informed.”

“When I was a child, I fancied myself a traveler. I thought one day I would replace my father as Prince of the Merchants.”

“Why didn’t you?”

No one had ever asked her that. To everyone else, it immediately sounded like what it had been: a child’s pipedream. “Women are not allowed.”

“That’s a shame.” His mouth twitched. “I daresay you would’ve outshined every other merchant before you.”

Perhaps it was his praise or something else entirely, like the novelty of having someone’s genuine attention or just the sweet expression on his face, so lovely that Elain would talk until she was hoarse to keep it on him, but she admitted, “I used to study the maps in my father’s study, memorizing the names and customs of major cities. I begged my father to take me sailing with him so I would know how to captain my own ship when the time came. Maybe he only thought it was diverting, but he never denied me. He told me I would one day rule the Continent.”

“You would have,” he said, smiling now, and Elain’s chest rearranged itself at the sight.

Fae as a whole might have been prettier if only they were less unsettling. They were beautiful the same way animals were sometimes beautiful. Moon-white rows of tiny teeth, knife-blade ears, eyes that shone even in the dark. They were perfect nearly to the point of grotesqueness. Even now, the sight of her own reflection sometimes frightened her. Her long limbs and cavernous mouth reminded her of the swans that lived near her estate as a child.

Stunning, aren’t they? her father said once, crouching with her in the grass as they watched a family of them march along the stream, their lovely legs whispering through the grass. But never get too close, my dear. Beautiful, they might be, but they’re still wild creatures.

But Azriel wasn’t like that. He reminded her of particularly beautiful boys from her village. When he smiled at her, his mouth did not split his face in two as if preparing to snap her up in one bite.

Elain wasn’t simple. She had already made the mistake of pursuing Azriel before and she wouldn’t do it again. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t take pleasure in his company or be his friend. She had been happy to call him her friend for far longer than she had wanted him in any other way. Their relationship did not have to change. She could stand there and watch him smile at her, listen to his dry jokes, blush at his compliments, and keep any thoughts of how she’d like to apply her mouth to the dip of his chin at bay. Elain could go entire days without thinking about him.

She had hoped they could return from this mission friends once more, but now she hoped that they returned to their old routines. She could shelter her heart for a couple of weeks, but she wasn’t sure if she would survive a lifetime of it.

*

The next day during work, the steward approached their fields and announced, “The lord will be arriving tonight with guests, and we are to serve fish for supper.”

It was midday and the heat was merciless. A single drop of sweat made its way down his increasingly pink cheek. All the women were listening, but his eyes were focused on Elain. “Go to the pond and fetch some.”

Elain blinked. That was a servant’s job, not one for a serf. “Of course, sir, but—”

“But?”

“I’m afraid I’ve never fished.”

“Nonsense. You hail from a coastal city famous for its fishing exports. Surely you have seen it done.”

Bournemouth was a major trade port on the Continent, but the men were who stood on the rocks over rushing streams, hulking heavy nets over their shoulders. As a woman, it would never have been proper for her to roll up her own stockings and wade into the water.

“I’ve seen it done,” she lied. Elain’s village was landlocked and poor. For years, she hadn’t laid eyes on a fish.

"Posthaste, Ms. Alwyn," he suggested. "You wouldn't want to fall behind on your quota." He squinted up at the sky, all innocence, but Elain understood clearly. The full moon was only a few days away now.

With a curt nod, the steward left as swiftly as he arrived. As soon as he was out of earshot, Mrs. Neumann huffed. “You would think that so much time away would have made Lord Sisecuto more agreeable.”

Mrs. Louthy said, “Too particular of his fish to dare buy any from the market, is he? Instead, he has to make our lives more difficult.”

“How dare he ask one of us to go fetch his supper? Next, they’ll be asking us to prepare it, as well.”

“Of course they will. Nearly everyone they hire is a bumbling idiot. At least the lord’s father—”

“You should watch your mouths,” Mrs. Browne cracked in. Her eyes were flickering around them, worried someone overheard, but when she turned to Elain, her expression was pitying. “Well? Don’t dilly-daddle.”

They were angry on her behalf, enough to speak badly of their lord and risk reprimand. Elain would’ve been touched if she wasn’t so terrified.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said.

The pond was located on the far edges of the estate, beyond a vast line of trees that shaded it from view. It was a long walk that allowed Elain to properly panic. She had never fished, not once, and didn’t know how to tell fine fish from mediocre. She made a mental list of all the fish she was familiar with. Eel, bass, minnow, trout, but did the lord have those? Did he have a preference? She couldn’t know, and she wouldn’t be allowed to take too long, either, when the steward was standing guard at the window, counting her time.

When she made it to the pond, she swore under her breath. It was small but deep, and Elain hadn’t even brought a net to carry the spoils back with her. Now she would have to walk all the way back and ask the steward for one, who would dock her a day’s pay for her incompetence or something equally malicious.

“Elain?”

Elain jumped three feet out of her skin. She whipped around to see Azriel stepping out from between two trees.

“My word,” she half-shouted. “What are you doing out here?”

“Scouting,” he said with a wince. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He blinked. “Shouldn’t you be in the fields?”

“The steward ordered me to catch fish for the feast tonight. The lord is on his way here.” She rubbed her arms. “I’ve never fished. I don’t know what I am going to do.”

“It’s all right. Don’t panic.” He glanced around. “Did you bring a net?”

It was polite of him to ask when it was glaringly obvious she hadn’t. She took a deep breath and admitted, “No.”

He peered into the pond. The water was green and murky, but Azriel must have been able to see enough because he said, “These fish are too young. They will not suffice for a feast. Wait here,” before vanishing.

After a few minutes, he reappeared holding a net of big-bellied, full-grown fish in his hand. Elain, from where she sat in the grass, stared up at him.

He frowned. “What?”

“Is there anything you cannot do?”

He considered this. “Sing.”

“Truly?”

He smirked. “No.”

Elain took her time walking back to the manor home, detouring through the garden near the barn to look at the flowers. She missed her own garden in Velaris, and she hoped that Nesta had kept her promise to water her hydrangeas while she was away. If not, she at least trusted the twins to keep her plants from falling into complete ruin.

Once at the home, it took her a while to locate the steward. She eventually found him in the courtyard, scolding a group of servants for something or other. He took his time in acknowledging her presence, and all he offered her once he did was a brief glance and a gruff, “What is that in your hands, Ms. Alwyn?”

She held up the net. “The fish, sir, for the lord’s supper tonight.”

“Well, we won’t be needing that.”

“Pardon?”

“The lord will not be arriving until tomorrow, it seems.” He waved an unsealed envelope between them. “Just received word.”

Elain could hardly believe her ears. “Then what shall I do with—?”

“Give it to the cooks. We might as well cook it tonight.” A beat passed. He looked up from his work to look at her. “Do you have something to say?”

At this point, Elain knew better. She bowed her head. “No, sir.”

*

Elain sat in the chair near her bed with a glass of wine. It was late and she was tired, still in her working clothes and her cloak draped haphazardly over her bed covers. She’d come back from her second venture into the manor home 45 minutes ago and she was in danger of falling asleep where she sat. She occupied her mind massaging the dry, hard calluses on her palms, wondering idly if any servants in the manor might have a salve.

The air near the foot of her bed displaced with a soft hiss. Azriel manifested from the shadows, his head ducked. “Elain. I apologize for the delay.”

“Good evening,” she said, hiding her hands beneath her thighs. It was silly, maybe, but she didn’t want him to see and think she was childish enough to cry over a few small aches. “Thank you for your help this afternoon, but it turns out that the lord will not be arriving tonight, so I’m afraid I have very little to report besides that.”

The women had been furious when Elain told them, spewing acidic diatribes that Mrs. Browne had not stopped. The cooks, apparently, were even angrier. They spent their whole day preparing and they would need to repeat the process tomorrow. Apparently, they had wanted to salt and preserve the fish to avoid wasting them, but the steward had refused.

“You seem well.”

“Yes. I think the women have taken a liking to me.” She smiled. “They share bits of personal gossip with me, now. Quite scandalous things having to do with their cousin’s son two villages over.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Scandalous?”

She dropped her voice as if sharing a secret. “Apparently, the man might’ve bedded his betrothed before proposing, which is why they’re in a rush to marry.”

He stepped close to her. “They are with child?”

She gestured. When Azriel bent down, she cupped her hands and spoke into his ear. “No one can say, though everyone expects that she might keep herself locked away to hide the timeline of the pregnancy.”

He put his lips near her ear and murmured, “Shocking, indeed,” in his flat monotone. A shiver kicked up Elain’s spine. She giggled, pulling away, and Azriel grinned.

It was still very warm out. The dark had done little to cool the air. Elain could feel sweat prickling her scalp. Her hem was covered six inches deep in mud, and she desperately needed a bath. Without thinking, she reached out and undid her wimble. It would be unthinkable to do around anyone else, but Azriel wouldn’t care. He’d seen her hair plenty before.

“I didn’t find anything in the study,” she said, patting the sweat on her face with her sleeve. “No letters, no records, nothing.”

“His chambers?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

Azriel hummed. “Someone could have grabbed them. Put them in a more secure location.”

“To what end?”

“To keep someone else from finding them.”

She whipped her head up to look at him. “Do you think they suspect me?”

“They might.” He tapped an uneven beat against the wall with his thumb. “Did you see the steward tonight?”

“No,” she said.

Azriel made a considering noise, quiet. She asked, "What is it?"

"This is all very bizzare. The lord spends much time away from his estate, his home is warded, he lives near the Wall, but he travels to cities like Lavenham, which are rich but of little strategic importance and are severely lacking in military. The steward is hungry for power and wealth, yet he hires an inadequate staff and ensures that it runs as unsmoothly as possible."

“What are you saying?" she asked. "Do you suspect him of being in league with the lord?”

“Do you not?”

“I’m not sure.” The steward was clearly stealing and paying the knights to keep quiet about it, though for what reason was unclear. Avarice? Or something more sinister? It was a conundrum. She trusted Azriel’s judgment, but the puzzle pieces weren’t fitting together in her mind. If the lord was planning to ally himself with the Queens, there was no question that the steward would know about it. Why would he jeopardize his position and power? Why risk the lord’s wrath when he would benefit as much from an alliance as anyone else?

Elain said, “His wrongdoing might just be coincidental to why we are here.”

“After 500 years, I am disinclined to believe there are such things as coincidences.”

*

Elain rose early the next morning. She dressed quickly and hurried to the manor home, which was, predictably, already teeming with activity.

“Good morning, Olive!” Mrs. Klein said, spotting Elain in the hall. She was carrying the day’s basket of laundry.

“Good day,” Elain said, smiling. “How are you, Mrs. Klein?”

“Quite well, though I would be much better if you called me Agnes.” She squeezed Elain’s wrist. “We are friends.”

“Friends,” Elain agreed.

“And how are you?” She pulled a face. “I heard what happened to you yesterday. A plague upon that man!”

Elain laughed. “No, please, it was of no consequence.”

“Of course it is of consequence! That is your time and effort, not that the men think of those things.” She rolled her eyes. “They don’t even have to worry about dressing themselves.”

Elain’s shoulders shook with more laughter. “And how is your husband?” Agnes had told Elain that her husband fell ill a few weeks ago. He was bed-ridden, unable to work, and they had written to a healer from their home village to come treat him.

Agnes’s smile faltered. “The same, I’m afraid.”

“I am so sorry.” Agnes had told her of her children, two young boys that she loved enormously, and Elain knew that she was worried about what she would do if the worst happened. “But please, do not lose faith.”

“It is kind of you to ask after him. No one else has.” She swiped two quick fingers under her eyes and flashed Elain what was probably meant to be a bright smile. It resembled a grimace. “Now, what are you doing over here? Will I finally succeed in stealing you away?”

“I was hoping I could ask for your advice.” She showed Agnes her hands, cracked open and bleeding. “Do you have anything that could help with this?”

Unfortunately, she did not, but she did force Elain to stay while she filled a small basin with water and vinegar, telling her to let them soak for at least ten minutes. All the while, she told Elain about her youngest son, who had jumped from walking to attempting to climb the walls with alarming speed. Elain was so entertained by her mimicking her son’s antics that she lost track of time and nearly didn’t meet the rest of the serfs for the day’s activities.

“You careless girl,” Mrs. Browne admonished when she arrived, shoving the materials into Elain’s chest.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” Elain started, but Mrs. Browne cut her off, saying, “Lord Sisecuto and the other men will be watching us work today. We cannot make a single mistake, you hear me? Unless you plan on being whipped.”

There were a thousand things she wanted to say. The lord was arriving before dusk? When had they said? Who was he arriving with? How long would he stay? But what came out of her mouth was, “Whipped?”

“Do you have water in your ears, girl?” She gave Elain a small shove. “Move along.”

No more than an hour later, Elain caught sight of a group of men touring the estate. It was easy to pinpoint which of them was Lord Sisecuto. Dressed in fine breeches and coats, none of the men appeared distinctly different from the other, but while most of them were serious-faced and restrained, Lord Sisecuto talked loudly and extravagantly, his hands always spread wide.

There was going to be no better opportunity to eavesdrop, Elain knew, but there was no way for her to drift away from her work without the other women noticing, especially today. She was going to have to settle for sneaking out of her chambers with her cloak and playing fly on the wall at tonight’s dinner.

Near the end of the day, one of the chambermaids came running from the manor toward Elain and the others, making the chickens squawk and beat their wings in distress. Mrs. Louthy had just told them all a crass joke, which everyone was laughing at other than Mrs. Browne, who was mid-tirade when the maid panted, “Ms. Alwyn?”

They all quieted. Elain said, “Yes?”

“The lord requests your presence,” she said. When Elain failed to immediately act, she added, “Now.”

Elain bunched up her skirts and sprinted toward the manor home, her heart beating fast and shallow. She wanted to ask why the lord wanted to see her. She had two more nights before her rent was due. Had the steward told him she was unmarried with no hope of paying and it would be best to fire her? Had the lord seen her on the field and recognized her? Had they searched her home and found her cloak? If they had, Elain was walking into her own demise. They would kill her and serve her blood in chalices at supper. She would fail her Court and her friends and her people.

Before her mind could catch up with the rest of her, the chambermaid was leading her into the lounge, where the steward was speaking quietly and intently with Lord Sisecuto, their backs turned to the door. The chambermaid curtsied and announced, “Ms. Alwyn, my lord.”

Lost for what else to do, Elain followed her lead. When she straightened, the lord was a mere few steps in front of her. He was taller than she remembered, his beard grayer, but his eyes were the same: light and piercing. She had never liked making eye contact with him. As a girl, she never knew if he was silently mocking her or thinking of ways to skin her alive.

The steward stood to his right, looking even more displeased than usual. Behind Elain, the chambermaid closed the doors. She was trapped.

Surprisingly, Lord Sisecuto did not put a knife through her chest or call in his knights to slice off her head. He said, “The steward tells me you are the prettiest woman on the grounds.” He said it matter-of-factly. He would never degrade himself enough to look at a peasant, much less compliment one.

Elain said, “It is kind of you to say so, my lord.”

“Where are you from?”

“Bournemouth.”

Lord Sisecuto turned meaningfully to the steward. “You failed to mention this.”

“It must have slipped my mind.” Lie.

“Your age is getting the better of you, it seems. An elephant’s memory never deteriorates, did you know?”

“No, sir,” the steward said. “If I may, my lord, I would like to re-emphasize my strong objection to this idea.”

“Noted.” He gave Elain a cursory once-over. “You’re passable,” he said. Eyeing the rinds of black under her fingernails, he added, “Go to the other servants. They will tell you what to do.”

Dismissed, Elain curtsied. “With your leave.”

*

The servants ordered her into the bath as soon as they laid eyes on her, filling her arms with soaps and ushering her into a room of wooden tubs with tent-like cloths over the tops. There was a steaming pot of water waiting near the foot of one farthest from the door. Their fuss, Elain felt, was a bit excessive, though she could admit that it felt indecently good to properly bathe and dress in clean clothes for the first time in nearly a fortnight.

When she was finished, the servants told her that she would be attending to the lord and his guests during the evening, waiting in the corner with a pitcher to top their glasses as they ate. She was not to speak or make any sound. If she were asked to do something, she would do it quickly and silently and never look any of them in the eye.

It was … not ideal. Elain had enough practice sneaking around the manor with her cloak, but she’d never received training to work through a situation like this. She’d nearly compromised the entire mission five minutes after stepping past the threshold and many more times since.

Don’t panic, she reminded herself. She hadn’t been discovered. She was alive. Everything else was manageable.

In the dining room, as they set the table, one of the servants burst in, arms full of freshly polished silverware. “Someone go down to the cellar and bring back more wine.”

“Absolutely not,” the woman across from her said. She was taller than Elain and as thin and pointy as a needle. Elain had watched her fold and unfold the same cloth napkin six times in the last five minutes. “I can never find anything down there.”

“I can go,” another offered.

“No, you’ll just drop it and the steward will take it from all of our salaries.”

“You, serf.” The servant was staring directly at Elain. “You have steady hands.”

“Are you certain she isn’t daft?” the one across from her asked as if Elain didn’t speak the same language as the rest of them.

“I’m not,” Elain assured them.

“It’s either her or you,” the woman with the silverware said.

She raised a long, bony finger at Elain. “Drop it and I will whip you myself.”

Elain had never been to the cellar, and it took her quite a while to find it. She cut through the hall and the kitchen and from there to the store, where she opened a door behind shelves of salted meat and pickled beets that led down to a dim, cool room. She was on the last step of the staircase when she heard voices.

Ahead of her was the steward and a knight she recognized from the first night she snuck into the home. They were hunched close together between the rows of bottled wine and became abruptly silent as she came into sight.

“Apologies.” She bowed her head. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“There is nothing to interrupt,” the steward said irritably. “What are you doing down here, Ms. Alwyn?”

“I was sent to fetch more wine, sir.”

The steward pulled three out at random and shoved them in her direction. The knight kept his back to Elain, hands clasped behind him. “There. Now leave at once.”

Elain took them, glancing at the knight’s flushed face. He wouldn’t look at her, and the steward looked similarly flustered. She couldn’t decipher whether she had interrupted them in medias or broken up a particularly heated discussion. Her mind whirred as she stumbled up the stairs, careful to keep the bottles hugged close to her chest.

“What took you so long?” the servant demanded when Elain came back, yanking the bottles out of her arms. “You’re late.”

“I—”

“Oh, never mind that.”

She gave Elain a pitcher of wine and manhandled her into the corner of the room, next to a statue, to stand for the duration of the night. She didn’t raise her head when the lords were announced, walking one by one to their appropriate seats. Lord Sisecutowas announced last, and as host, he took the head of the table. He raised his glass and commenced with a long, rambling speech that Elain was relatively certain was initially intended to be welcoming and devolved into a lecture on the art of gluing broken pots. Beside him, a young lord was staring off into the middle distance.

Lord Sisecuto sat down, and the servants jumped from their stupor to begin serving the first course. Lord Hughes, an older gentleman from the south, said, “What a fine discourse.”

Across the table, the other men grinned, but Lord Sisecuto, either willing to take the jab in good spirit or oblivious to it, said, “Thank you, sir. I knew a well-traveled gentleman like yourself would appreciate it.”

“Pray, where did you learn of it?”

“Lavenham.”

A hush took over the room. It was a physical effort to keep her eyes downcast as she poured wine into their glasses.

To her right, a man wearing a beautifully expensive Tyrian purple scarf spoke up. “So you spoke to the Baron, then?”

“Of course.”

“And what did he say?”

“I daresay he agreed with me,” he said. “The Queens retain symbolic power, certainly, but we swore our oaths of homage and lealty to the late Kings. We never agreed to kneel to their crowns.”

The men exchanged nervous glances. Elain thought, What?

“Did Lord Haynes accompany you?”

“Yes.”

“And why hasn’t he come tonight?”

“I cannot say,” Lord Sisecuto said, picking delicately at his meal, “though the last time I saw him, he and the Baron were not very pleased with each other. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t traveled.”

“So,” Lord Hughes deduced, “he stayed with the Baron to cry his mercy?”

Lord Sisecuto shrugged. “Uncle has never liked his decisions being challenged.”

Displeasure filled the room. The Baron was Lord Sisecuto’s uncle, which was why he had such a surprisingly far reach across the continent and why he was so despised by the other lords under his uncle’s charge. No wonder the others were so afraid of him, erratic as he may be.

The last Elain had heard, the Baron of these lands was an older gentleman unrelated to the Sisecuto family. He was well-respected and fairly admired by his people. Upon his death, his title would have fallen to his son. Elain wondered how the lord’s uncle had secured it, if by ethical or unethical means. Based on what she knew of his nephew, Elain decided definitely by unethical ones.

The servants cleared the table for the second course. Suddenly, Lord Ead, a notoriously pigheaded man whose manor lay in the valley between two hills, blurted, “What objections do you have toward the Queens?”

“Kazamir,” Lord Hughes said.

“No,” Lord Ead insisted, “we have the right to know, is that not right? All of us here are equal in rank.”

Lord Sisecuto smiled. “Now, now, Kazamir. What makes you believe I hold any grudges for the Queens?”

“Why are you against accepting their allyship? Their knowledge and power only grow by the day. Look at how they have transformed our lands!” He gestured around them. “Magical warding to protect us from the animals over that wall! Have you no gratitude?”

“Did you know,” Lord Sisecuto asked, “that there are scaled beasts in wetlands that can eat a man whole? Their teeth are sharp and their bites nigh unbreakable. Once they have caught you, there is no power in the world that can save you. Great beasts! Mighty beasts! And yet,” he added, eyes bright as a child’s, “they allow small birds inside their mouths—birds you could hold in your hands—to pick meat from their teeth.”

“Aldous,” Lord Hughes said, as if to say, Please, do not be a trial.

“Very enlightening,” Lord Ead said, “as ever, but I tire of your riddles.”

“It’s not a riddle at all, my good friend.” Lord Sisecuto leaned forward. “It is an analogy. A great parallel from nature herself!”

Lord Ead scoffed, but before he could respond, Lord Hughes cut in. “How, Aldous?”

“Believe me when I say that the Queens did not ward our lands out of the goodness of their hearts. They benefit much more from warding all of the Continent than we do.” He grinned. “We must ask ourselves: Are we the beast or the bird? The beast could close its jaws at any time. How can we not know it's biding its time?”

“This seems to be borne of paranoia,” Lord Hughes said.

“You remember the Queens,” Lord Sisecuto continued. “They were young and fair, now one is haggard and old while another is dead. And so soon after a war they involved us in. Paid for with our gold. What did we gain from it?”

“Security,” Lord Ead said.

Lord Sisecuto eyed the iron rings on his hands. “Is that right?”

Lord Hughes steered them back to the matter at hand. “What are you suggesting?”

“There are rumors that they attempted to make themselves fae and were willing to sell their people out to do it.”

Disgust twisted the lords’ faces. Even the servants shifted uneasily on their feet.

“This is not the time for jokes,” Lord Ead said.

“It is not a joke.” He extended his arms. “You see now why I am hesitant, yes? They have done nothing to earn my trust. Nor yours.”

Lord Ead stood up. “Excuse me. I need some air.”

“Accompany him,” Lord Sisecuto said to the room at large. The servants looked wildly around, all uncertain whether to move, but Lord Ead was already walking through the doors into the hall. Elain, as the closest to them, handed the pitcher in her hands to the servant beside her and followed in his wake.

He either had a brisk step, was quite furious, or was trying his best to keep Elain from following him. Perhaps all three. When she finally caught up to him, he swiveled and snapped, “I do not require an escort,” teeth bared.

Elain did not value her job enough to fight it. She curtsied and hurried away without fuss.

On her way back to the dining hall, she felt a sharp tug on her arm. The floor under her feet went formless. She struggled, but a gloved hand slapped down over her mouth as she was dragged somewhere dark and claustrophobic.

“Be still,” Azriel said in her ear.

She twisted away from him. It was too dark to see his face. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“We really must engulf the weaver in riches when we return home,” he said. “I intercepted a rider carrying a letter addressed to the Queens.” There was the sound of parchment unfolding. “It is written in code, but I gather that it is an invitation, of sorts.”

“An invitation from who?”

“The steward, pledging his loyalty to the crown in exchange for a price.”

“What price?”

“The death of Lord Sisecuto.”

So the Lord hadn’t been in cohort with the Queens, after all. He had been a pawn. That explained the scene she stumbled into in the cellar—though only superficially. She didn’t care to investigate it further.

"I suppose you are entitled to reprimand me," she said. "You were right. Where is the steward now?”

“It does not matter. We ought to leave and await further orders from Feyre.”

“What? No,” she said. “By then, it might be impossible for us to get back inside. We need to stay.”

“Elain—”

“This is our mission,” she said, “and we have to move forward now or everything could fall apart. I have an idea, but we must act quickly.”

“Is it a good idea?”

“Um,” she said, “it’s an idea.” Silence. “Trust me.”

Azriel said, “With my life.” He sighed. She could feel his breath on her shoulder. “Is it truly a terrible idea?”

“Well,” she admitted, “you are not going to like it.”

*

Things go pear-shaped almost immediately.

The plan was simple: They would wait until the lords had departed for the night and were too far away to hear any commotion coming from the manor. Most of the servants would be out of the way by then, having retired to their chambers for the night. The lord would be in his private rooms doing the same, hopefully without any guards or only one stationed by his door. Azriel would cause a scene by the manor gate, where he would distract the knights while Elain, using the cloak, went upstairs and waited for him.

She didn’t know what he did to attract their attention, if he flew around the grounds with his siphons flaring or merely knocked on the gate until someone noticed him, but whatever it was, it worked tremendously well. On the other side of the door, she heard the sounds of footsteps, a heavy staccato making their way to the front doors fast. She lingered a beat longer before she slipped out of the closet and into mayhem.

The passageway was empty, but there was screaming coming indistinctly from outside followed by sounds of bodies hitting ground, flesh meeting flesh. She could hear the urgent, terrified voices of the servants hiding in their chambers. Her heart panged; she hadn’t wanted to scare them. A part of her wanted to run to them, tell them they had no reason for fear, but she didn’t have time and they wouldn’t be comforted by the sight of her.

She ran down the corridor, past the empty lounge and the messily abandoned foyer. Where this corridor ended led straight into the hall. Elain’s feet were moving so quickly that it was difficult for the rest of her body to keep up.

Just as she rounded the corner, she collided hard with another body. She staggered back, heart in her throat as her hood fell back to reveal her face. She prepared herself to face a knight, but instead, she came face to face with—

“Olive,” Agnes breathed, eyes wide, cataloging Elain’s face. Because she didn’t have the glamour anymore, she realized distantly. Azriel had removed it before leaving. Her ears were still covered, but that was of no consequence. Seeing her face, there would be no mistaking that Elain wasn’t human.

It took her a moment to notice the jewels and precious bowls in Agnes’s arms.

“Agnes,” Elain said, “what are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” She stepped away as if she expected Elain to hurt her. “You are—you’re—”

“I know,” she said, and she did know, wished she had the words to communicate to Agnes just how well she knew. Knew how scared Agnes must be at this moment, coming face to face with a fae, and how Elain hadn’t wanted her last memory of Elain to be this way, tainted with lies. She wanted Agnes to understand that Elain was not judging her at this moment. Maybe an Elain of a different life would be appalled by the idea of stealing, an Elain that grew up with a mother and with money, but this Elain couldn’t bring herself to feel anything. How bad was it to steal from a man like the lord, who lived in luxury and never wanted for anything? A man who would be happy to spit on Agnes’s husband’s grave when the time came.

Agnes would be hanged for this, her beautiful sons orphaned and destitute.

“You must leave tonight,” Elain told her, unlatching the cloak from around her shoulders and securing it around Agnes’s neck. She looked like a floating head. “Take this, it will hide you. My friend outside will not hurt you. Go to your husband and your children—“

Something heavy knocked Elain off her feet and sent her crashing to the floor. Agnes screamed.

She landed on her shoulder hard. Her attacker followed, their weight knocking the air from her chest. A hand gripped her by the shoulder and pinned her, face up. It was a knight. Elain could feel the hilted sword at his waist knocking into her knee, but he didn’t reach for it. Instead, he pulled a knife from his boot and brought it over his head, ready to drive it, with killing precision, into her chest. On instinct, Elain kicked with her legs, her knee catching him between the legs.

He shouted, toppling off of her. She squirmed away, trying desperately to get to her feet, when she felt a sharp pain go through her thigh, the knight’s blade slashing deep. She cried out as something white-hot kicked up her spine, the taste of sulfur thick at the back of her throat. Faebane. The knife was coated in faebane.

The knight grabbed her by the throat this time, shoving her hard against the floor one, two, three times. Elain’s vision blurred. She thought she might puke.

“Please,” she gasped, shoving uselessly at his wrist. She could feel her blood pooling under her, drenching her skirts. He placed the knife’s edge against her throat.

A slit throat is fatal, nine times out of ten, Azriel said in her memory. You likely wouldn’t survive it.

The sound of clay shattering filled the room. The knight collapsed on top of her, unconscious. Above her was Agnes holding the splintered remains of one of the lord’s treasured ceramic bowls, gifted to him from a royal family overseas. She threw it aside as if it burned her.

“Agnes,” she said. “I—what—?”

“Are you going to lay there like a fish out of water,” Agnes said, extending a hand to heave Elain to her feet, “or are you going to run?”

Distantly, Elain realized that the noise coming from outside had stopped. It was only a matter of time before Azriel rounded the corner and saw her. He wouldn’t hurt Agnes, but she couldn’t predict how Agnes would react to him. She had to go. She had to go right now.

“Meeting you has been one of the greatest privileges of my life,” Elain said. “I wish you every happiness.” She pulled the hood over Agnes’s face. “Now, go.”

She couldn’t know if Agnes did as Elain said or not, the cloak hiding her from sight, but Elain hoped she made it past the grounds, into the woods, where she could make her way back to her husband and children and take them somewhere with proper healers. She hoped her husband lived and that they never had to worry about money again in their lives.

*

Azriel was already in the lord’s study when Elain walked in. Unconscious bodies littered the room. She had to step over one to make it past the threshold.

“Ah! My honored guest finally arrived!” Lord Sisecuto said from where he sat behind his desk. His voice was bright, and the sound of it made Elain’s already pulsing head throb. Azriel stood behind him, his hand on the lord’s shoulder. “May I ask for your name? I asked your dog, you see, but I’m afraid he doesn’t speak.”

Elain curtsied. “My name is Elain Archeron, my lord.”

“Elain Archeron,” He laughed. “Not the Elain Archeron, surely? The second daughter of the Prince of Merchants? Mustn’t be! Couldn’t be!”

She smiled. “I’m afraid so. It is good to see you again.”

“Oh, yes. Perfectly wretched to see you again, my dear. Last I saw you, you were still hiding behind your mother’s skirts, but then I hear that you’ve broken off an engagement and slain kings.”

“You flatter me, sir. It was only the one king.”

“How modest. May I ask why you’ve infiltrated my home? Like a serpent to a bird’s nest.” He peered at her, then at Azriel. “Are you expanding your kingdom?”

“I have no kingdom. I’ve come here to help you.”

“Help?” He examined his fallen knights. “I feel very safe, thank you.”

There would be no point in obfuscating. He would only take the opportunity to spout absurdities, hoping to stall them until someone came to his aid. Elain said, “May I speak freely?”

“Please do.”

“Your men are feeding information to the Queens.”

“What men?” he asked. “You mean these unconscious ones?” He toed one with his heeled shoe. “Or are they dead?”

“Men like the steward.”

“My, you have been quite a good spy, haven’t you?” He leaned back in his chair, looking for all the world like he was expecting a servant to come by and pour him a glass of wine. “Who else?”

“The steward, the knights, and I don’t know who else,” she said, “but based on tonight’s dinner, I would guess some of the lords, as well.”

“Hm.” He crossed his legs. “And what makes you believe that poses any problem to me? I have no affection for Prythian, and I am safe from any war the Queens are brewing.”

“I’m afraid not. May I?” She motioned to a toppled chair. He extended his hand in a parody of politeness. Striding forward, Elain righted it and sat down. Her vision stopped spinning, but the taste of bile crawled up her throat. She swallowed it down and cleared her throat. “These men are keeping secrets from you for a reason. It cannot be lost on you that your estate falls very conveniently near the Wall. You’re an intelligent man, my lord, but your steward and his cohorts are ambitious. They have been robbing you and planning your death behind closed doors to secure the Queens’ favors.”

“Do you have any proof of this?”

Azriel tossed the letter into Lord Sisecuto’s lap.

“My friend and I caught a rider tonight sent to deliver this letter to the Queens. As you can see, it was signed by the steward.” She paused to let him read through it. When he finished, she said, “Your finances have been altered, as well. I would recommend going through them to see for yourself.”

“Impressive,” he said, tossing the letter aside. “And what do you suggest I do?”

“I suggest you secure alliances of your own.”

Lord Sisecuto twinkled with amusement. “Elain, Elain, Elain,” he sing-songed. “Tell me, what are you planning?

“Pardon?”

He extended his hands grandly. “Why are you standing here with your bird of prey and advising me? I hope you do not expect me to believe you have no scheme of your own. These are not the words of a little girl raised by nannies and tutors, or of one sentenced to poverty, for that matter. Who pulls the strings of the Kingslayer, I wonder?”

Elain tensed. “I am no doll to be guided by someone else’s hand.”

He huffed a laugh, as condescending as a doting grandfather to a dimwit child. He was slouched where he sat, all casualness, but Elain could feel her command of the conversation slipping from her hands.

“And I am no fool,” he said. “Come now. Someone must have sent you, hm?”

“Yes,” she conceded, “but—”

“Then you are not the one in charge.” His gaze swept over her, slow and unimpressed. He flicked his fingers, apparently unsatisfied, and despite herself, Elain flushed. “You are in no position to give me assurances. Take your lap dog and get out of my sight.”

Azriel seemed on the brink of slitting his throat. Lord Sisecuto was still pointedly not looking at her, Elain so far below his notice that she didn’t even merit his attention. She was no stranger to this treatment. Years of poverty taught her quickly that she could be well-read and beautiful but still common, common as dirt. Once—only once—Nesta had done something similar during a particularly nasty argument, and Elain had thought she would never forgive her for it.

Elain had never seen red, but right then, she saw blistering white.

“As you wish,” she said, “but if I walk out that door, you will be the little bird caught in the beast’s mouth, and we will not come to answer your calls for help.”

“Oh? Is that a threat?”

“It is—what did you call it?—an assurance,” she said. “My lord.”

He grinned.

“Make no mistake,” she said, “the Queens have sensed your blood in the water. How long do you think your men will last? How long until they turn on you? The steward has worked very hard to turn your household against you, and he’s done a very, very good job. The seeds of your demise have already been planted. Of this, I can assure you.”

“The bird in the beast’s teeth,” he repeated. “If what you say is true, then I may as well impale myself on your bird’s sword.”

She could say that fighting back would inspire admiration among his people, even other lords and Barons in nearby villages, that his alliance with them could turn the tide and save thousands of human lives in the incoming conflict, but Lord Sisecuto would not be moved by such things. He cared little for the opinions of those who could not benefit him and cared less for their lives. He was self-serving, certainly, but in the face of war, she wondered just how willing he would be to turn his sword on himself.

“But then you would miss the excitement,” she said.

For the first time, Elain watched as he laughed, loud and genuine. “Indeed.”

“My lord, do we have an agreement?”

“May I?” he said to Azriel, who looked to Elain. She shrugged. She appreciated his trust in her to lead, but this was not her area of expertise.

Azriel let go and the Lord rose, rummaging for something in his top drawer. He found it and tossed it to Elain, who caught it with one hand.

“My family ring, a sign of our alliance,” he explained. “I would be honored if you wore it.”

It was bulky and gold with a large ‘S’ on it. Elain would not be wearing it under any circumstances.

“Thank you,” she said, bowing. Azriel circled around the desk and took his spot beside her, taking her gently by the arm. Time to leave.

“I look forward to speaking to you again,” Lord Sisecuto said, “perhaps once you’ve slain more monarchs.”

“Long live the Kingslayer,” Azriel said.

*

Azriel carried her the mile and a half it took before he could winnow. The gash in her thigh had stopped bleeding, but he’d refused to let her put any weight on it. Her head pain returned full force as soon as they left the manor, a terrible bruise stretching from the nape of her neck to the crown of her head, but Azriel's shadows clung to her, warm and soothing.

“Don’t sleep,” someone said. Azriel, probably. He was jostling her a lot. She wished he would stop; she was so tired.

“Why?” she asked. The leathers he was wearing were rough against her cheek, but he was warm. Elain plastered herself against him.

“I want to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

Elain was set down somewhere soft. Sudden bright lights gleamed off marble floors and made a small part of her head close in, a focal point for the pain to gather around and formulate. Elain squinted, blinded, and smelled clean sheets and something velvety and woody she couldn’t quite describe.

“Where are we?” she asked, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. She felt like she was watching a dream from underwater.

“Rosehall.” Azriel materialized from nowhere, holding a kit of tools in his hands, and Elain realized she was sitting on a cushioned chair in an unfamiliar chamber, though she couldn’t for the life of her remember how they had gotten there.

It was then that Azriel kneeled beside her, his shoulders pushing her legs apart. She was so convinced that she was hallucinating that it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her.

“What?” she said.

“Is this okay?” he asked. “I know it is more than a bit suggestive.”

She should say no.

“It’s fine,” she said.

In any other situation, Elain would have been mortified to have any man between her legs, but despite the position, Azriel was clinical as he worked, fashioning a long strip of leather into a tourniquet over her upper thigh. Moreover, Elain was still half-convinced that none of this was real.

He pressed a bottle full of clear liquid into her hands. “Drink this.”

She did. It was a strong spirit, the kind that stripped a layer of her throat as it went down. It was horrendous. Elain gagged, but Azriel gently tilted her head back, silently telling her to keep going. She swallowed down one, two, three mouthfuls before Azriel took it back.

She expected him to lean back and set the bottle down, but instead, he lingered, his hand landing on her cheek. There was something wrong, she knew by the way he flattened his mouth into a tight line, but the pain and alcohol were making Elain too dizzy to figure out what.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll make it quick.”

“What—” Elain said, but that was as far as she got before Azriel soaked the gash with the leftover spirit. The shock of it slammed her back into awareness. She gasped, every nerve in her body alert. Reflexively, she tried to twist away, but Azriel caught her with a hand to her thigh, holding her in place, and pressed a towel against the wound.

“Press down hard,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”

Elain couldn’t say how long he was gone. All she could focus on was her breathing: controlled breaths in and slow breaths out. Distantly, she heard the soft sound of running water, and there was Azriel again, back between her legs. In one hand he had a needle and string. In the other he had a cup of green liquid.

“Drink this,” he said. “It will help with the pain.”

It smelled vile, but she took it gratefully and drank it without complaint. It tasted worse than it smelled, but Elain felt its effects immediately. A thick, warm sensation stole throughout her whole body, like her insides being coated in honey.

A sweet sort of heaviness overtook her, so strong that she didn’t feel the needle as Azriel started stitching. It was fascinating, watching the needle go into her skin and be so detached from it that it seemed to be happening to someone else.

“What was that?” she asked.

“An old Illyrian recipe,” he said. His head was bowed over her leg, kneeling on the ground to keep her thigh at eye level. “A blend of different plants native to the mountains of Illyria. I’m sure you would understand the properties much better than I.”

“How come we’ve never used them before?”

“They’re only found during certain seasons, and while they are fast-acting, their effects are ephemeral. Luckily, I keep stores here.” Azriel cut the string and tied it into a knot. He disappeared again, off to collect something from a drawer.

“That’s wise,” she said, peering down at the stitches. They were very well done. Azriel did everything well.

“Thank you.” He carefully smeared ointment over the stitches before untying the tourniquet, and as he began winding a soft strip of cloth around her thigh, he said, “I recall you said the plan was for you to stay out of harm's way.”

“Yes,” she said, “but I also warned you that it was not a good plan.”

He stared at her for a moment before dropping his gaze back to her leg. “You did well.”

He said it carefully, his voice perfectly neutral, and she knew that he was thinking exactly what she was, remembering their conversation from a fortnight ago when she asked how she would survive being stabbed in the throat. You likely wouldn’t. A slit throat is fatal, nine times out of ten. With the knight standing over her, knife in his fist, that had been the only thought running through her head. How she’d tempted fate.

“That is kind of you to say.”

He rose to his feet, tilting her face as he did. His face was much closer to hers than she had expected. They shared the same pocket of air. He was staring intently into her eyes.

“You didn’t puke,” he said, pulling away, “which is a good sign. You don’t have a concussion, though you might experience some tenderness for the next few days.”

“Is this your room?”

“Yes,” he said, disinfecting his tools. “There is a guest room in a separate wing not far from here. You would have the space to yourself.”

Gingerly, Elain stood. The anesthetic blocked the pain, but she was sore all over. The last thing she wanted to do was aimlessly wander Azriel’s home to find an unoccupied bed, but she was intruding as it was. The anesthetic would wear off soon. She would prefer to be asleep before that happened.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Wait,” he said before she could leave. His voice was nearly as hesitant as his expression, flickering between uncertainty and a strange, boyish shyness that was captivating on him. He reached into his leathers—where, she couldn’t know—and pulled out a small container.

“Here,” he said, placing it in her hands.

She opened it. Inside was a smelly, yellow ointment.

“A salve,” he explained, “for your hands.”

An unnameable feeling seized her. She hadn’t thought he noticed, never dared mention it out of fear of what he’d think, and this whole time he’d been carrying this salve with him. A salve for her hands.

It was a terrible idea. She knew it as soon as it came to her, but she grabbed Azriel by the ears anyway, drew him down to her height, and kissed his cheek. She felt his skin go warm, and she imagined how surprised he must look, how shy.

When she pulled back, she saw that his face was indeed dark with color, avoiding her gaze. Simultaneously pleased at her reaction and embarrassed by it. He was magical, she thought, and she loved him dearly. Loved him so much that it broke her heart.

“Thank you,” she said. “This will be invaluable.”

Finally, a smile from him. Unable to resist it, she brushed the back of her hand over his cheek, fond, and said, “I’ll leave you to rest.”

*

Elain found the room Azriel told her about without issue. She was cleaner than she had been in days, but she knew she couldn’t risk dirtying the sheets with her clothes and shoes, no matter how impossible the idea of undressing currently seemed to her. In the end, she only made it to her shift before she collapsed onto the bed, letting sleep take her.

Elain woke a few hours later, blinking away images of her father’s grave. Instead of trying to fall back asleep, she slinked, soft-footed, out of her chambers and toward the kitchen.

She thought she might not find enough ingredients—she didn’t know how often Azriel stayed here—but it was well-stocked. Soon enough, she was rolling dough between her hands, her arms caked in flour. That was when Azriel walked in.

He was wearing loose pants and a wrinkled undershirt, his wings exposed and relaxed. She had never seen him so dressed down. It made him look soft and young.

“Good morning,” she said.

He said, “I thought the point of a vacation was to rest.”

“I see. Where did you learn that, I wonder, given I have never seen you do such a thing.”

“Mor hosted a self-care lecture around a century ago.”

She grinned. “Is that what we are on?”

“What?”

“A vacation.”

“I wrote to Feyre and told her not to expect us for a few more days,” he said, “on account of you needing uninterrupted rest. How’s your leg?”

She showed it to him. “Remarkably well. So I suppose uninterrupted bed rest is not much in order.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Her grin widened. “Do you have a garden?”

*

Rosehall, it turned out, had a tremendous garden.

And Azriel, it turned out, was a superlative worrier.

“You shouldn’t put so much pressure on your leg,” he repeated for the third time.

“These rosebeds are uncommonly healthy,” Elain said from where she was bent over the dirt, pulling at a thin clump of knotted grass. “You do not want these weeds here.”

“Allow me,” he offered. Again, not for the first time.

“I almost have it,” she insisted. Another tug and it pulled free from the dirt. A short cheer sprang from her chest. “There! You see?”

“I do.” He fidgeted. “Elain, please sit down.”

She leaned over the bushes, ignoring him. “Do you see any more?”

Eventually, he did manage to usher her away toward the shade of a large, old tree. Azriel sat with his back against the trunk, its thick, arching roots acting as a makeshift chair. Elain laid down at his feet, grass tickling her cheek as she counted the rays of sunlight that poked through the leaves, swaying in the wind.

She must have dozed at some point because she woke to Azriel’s socked foot nudging her in the stomach. He smiled at her. “Are you hungry?”

Elain hadn’t abandoned her capacity for self-assessment on the Continent. The tide did not sneak up on her. The undertow did not drag her under the waves without warning. She had known from the beginning that if she allowed herself to continue wading into unknown and treacherous waters, at some point, the sea would envelop her in its embrace and swallow her whole.

She knew herself the same way she knew her sisters. No matter the fact that she was the middle child, she was the slowest learner out of the three of them. Even as a child, she never completely absorbed the idea that all animals weren’t her friends. Time and time again, a stray kitten would scratch her hands or a mother rabbit would chase her around the grounds, and Elain would cry. Never learning her lesson, always hoping the day would finally arrive that the things she loved would suddenly love her back.

It was the same now. Azriel prepared her a stew made from the vegetables growing in his garden. Chopped potatoes, carrots, radishes, and rice in a creamy tomato broth, sprinkled with oregano. They ate and cleaned up in companionable silence, fingers brushing as they dried the bowls and stored the herbs. Elain stole a glance at him and redirected her attention when he turned. A minute passed and she did it again only to see that he was already staring at her.

She held his gaze. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and Elain wanted so badly to touch him there, follow the movement with her fingers. He reached out and brushed the back of his hand over the apple of her cheek, a mimic of what she had done last night, and his touch was so gentle that she nearly burst into tears.

Elain shook her head. “Please, don’t toy with me. I do not have the means to—to defend against this.”

Azriel flinched. “I would never toy with you.”

“That night,” she said, “felt like toying.”

“If I could go the rest of my existence without discussing that night, I would.” He stepped back, away from her. “I … regret it. I never should have touched you.”

That nearly killed her. That sentence—Elain swore to the Mother, to the Cauldron, to everything good and divine in this world—nearly killed her.

“I think I’ve heard enough.” She moved to leave, but Azriel caught her by the wrist.

“No, please. That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to. Forgive me. You—” he hesitated. “You make me nervous.”

“I make you nervous,” she choked out hysterically. She made him nervous. As if that could compare to the way her chest constricted at the sight of him, how merely being in his presence felt like slowly suffocating to death.

“That night,” he said, “was out of my control. If it had been up to me, I would never have stopped. I would have kissed you until daybreak if you had let me.”

“Please,” she said, “don’t lie to me.”

“I have never lied to you,” he said. “You are the only person I have never lied to in my life.”

His hand was still wrapped around her wrist, begging her to stay. She bit her mouth. This had all happened already. She had made this mistake before, had experienced this burgeoning hope, and felt it stomped out. She should learn from the past and leave. Heartbreak was an old and painful friend.

“Why did you stop?” she whispered.

“Rhys believed Lucien would start a war if I courted you, and we would risk losing the support of the Autumn Court.”

“Rhys is not entitled to make decisions on my behalf.” She yanked her wrist from Azriel’s grasp. “Neither is Lucien, and neither are you.”

“I know,” he said.

She shook her head. “You should have told me.”

“Yes.”

“All this time, I have despaired over you,” she said, and now she was crying. “Months upon months I thought perhaps you had been imagining Mor in my place, that you wished I was—”

Azriel made a wounded sound. “I thought of you every moment.” He closed his eyes and leaned forward until their foreheads touched, hands cupping her wet face. He sighed. “I gnawed on the memory of you for days on end. It drove me mad, wishing for so many things. I missed you so much I thought it would kill me.”

One of his hands slid off her face, and she opened her eyes in time to see him touch the ends of her hair. She’d spent weeks covering it, and now, to have Azriel stare at her open-mouthed like this made her whole body sing, even as she balanced on the razor edge between fury and a bone-deep, knee-dropping gladness.

“I missed your company and your friendship, and I missed this." More quietly, he said, "You're lovely."

The gladness won out, and Elain laughed weakly. It was the furthest thing from the truth, her face blotchy and tear-streaked. “People usually tell me that upon introduction.”

“I hadn’t realized I never said it before.” His fingers drifted to a spot just below her left eye. “I like you here. You have a birthmark.”

He kissed her there, close-mouthed. The singing in her body chorused. She went on her tiptoes, wanting him closer.

He touched her nose next, applying his lips soon after. “And here,” he murmured, “and here,” kissing the space between her neck and shoulder. He repeated it as he nosed the spot just below her jaw, and again when he kissed her temple. Again and again and again. Elain was practically dough in his hands, malleable and boneless.

“I like you especially here,” he murmured against her palm. The salve he’d gifted her had helped heal the lacerations, but the callouses had stayed. He kissed each one. “Elain, I love you here.”

A well had been building in her, and at that, it broke, flooded her until she was brimming with something heady. She reached out to him, hands insistent on his collarbone, and kissed him because she could. Because she wanted to. She’d grieved for him so long, felt alone in her wanting, and now she saw how he flourished under her attention. It was a miracle. His mouth was soft and warm and lovely.

Oh, you, she thought.

“Azriel,” she murmured against his mouth. She’d never let it take shape in her mouth before. First out of ignorance, then out of shyness, and finally out of the fear that just saying it exposed all the secrets she locked away in her chest.

He shivered. “Say it again.”

“Azriel.” He licked into her mouth, slow and lavish. Elain traced the shudder of his spine when she said it again, helpless. “Azriel.”

“Mother above,” he said tightly.

She took his hand in hers, sweeping her thumb over his scars, and put it over her chest. “Mine own heart’s root, I love you. You have enchanted me in both body and soul—”

He kissed her.

“Elain,” he said, the one word holding the entire world.

*

Imagine this, she wanted to say afterward. Elain under the covers, her fingers outstretched and reaching in her sleep. And Azriel, already there, letting her pull him in close. Both of them, finally able to rest.