off his mirror while Inis opened the balcony doors.
Laisrean threw the red blanket around them like a cloak and pushed them outside, Three circling above their heads.
“Lais—” Somhairle began.
“Sorry.” Laisrean snapped the doors shut between them. The snick of a lock followed. “Looks like I won’t have time to introduce you to my friends.”
Inis pounded the glass with her palm. Laisrean held a finger to his lips, touching the door on the other side.
Then he turned away, drawing the velvet curtains and hiding them from the room and the room from them.
Inside echoed a mighty splintering crash. Inis reached for Somhairle’s hand. The glass wasn’t so thick that they couldn’t hear everything happening beyond. Footsteps—a group of Queensguard—and a voice that Inis knew well.
“Prince Laisrean Ever-Bright. I regret having to interrupt your dinner.”
“Morien the Last,” Laisrean said. “Didn’t the swamp hags who raised you teach you any manners?”
Inis was aware of Somhairle trembling where they stood shoulder to shoulder, of Three wheeling furiously overhead. Two’s silence chilled her. A bare sliver of light between the curtains, not enough to see much by.
Laisrean let out a strangled yell and fell to his knees. Inis caught sight of movement, Morien lifting his hand. The mirror Laisrean had uncovered glowed.
“I’m afraid there won’t be any concern for etiquette where you’re going, Prince Laisrean.” Silver armor flashed past the crack in the curtains: Queensguard, surrounding Laisrean. “You’re under arrest for consorting with enemies of the Crown.”
No clever comebacks from Laisrean this time. Somhairle clutched the red fabric tight and Inis peered forward despite herself. Laisrean lay on the ground, curled up and twitching like a dying insect. He cried out once, growled a curse. Then he was silent.
Rage coursed through Inis’s veins, a siren song that would dash her on the rocks. She couldn’t rush to Laisrean’s side no matter how much she wanted to.
This was like hiding with Ivy in the closet while—
“Search his rooms.” Morien said. “I want to know how this treason was able to fester.”
Somhairle covered his face with his weak hand. Inis risked a glance over her shoulder, calculating how high up they were. They couldn’t jump and they couldn’t overpower Morien and his Queensguard. Not with Somhairle’s condition. Not with the shard in Inis’s heart.
The crashes continued as the Queensguard searched Laisrean’s room, overturning furniture, tearing pillows open with their swords.
The beat of wings above made Inis look up. Three was swelling in shape, rearranging her metal components, stretching from a normal-sized owl to a bird the size of a small horse. Somhairle sucked in a breath, his gaze suddenly glassy. A flash of silver in his eyes.
“Yes,” Somhairle said. The frailty in his voice was almost unbearable. “Do it.”
Three hovered low and picked them up in her claws. Together they rose along the outside of the castle, heading back to Somhairle’s wing.
80
Rags
Rags was drawing a map of the castle with a sooty finger on the floor when shit literally hit his window.
The only thing Rags could think as Inis, Somhairle, and Three crashed onto the balcony, shattering the glass to burst into the room, was how lucky he was that he still had the sorcerer’s cloth over his heart.
Rags tried to calm said heart. It hadn’t reacted well to the surprise, his first thought being, Fuck, they’ve found us plotting crazy treason; his second, If Morien’s mirrorcraft isn’t what kills me, a surprise like this is gonna do the trick.
Inis was the first to her feet, Two bounding to her side from the other room. Flash of silver in her eyes, and she nodded.
“We have to get out of here,” she said.
“Right, except there’s Morien to consider—” Rags began.
Inis shook her head. “This fabric—it can keep us hidden.” Something caught her attention and she cursed, a gutter phrase she’d definitely picked up from Rags. Couldn’t have learned that one with her fine upbringing.
Rags would’ve mentioned it if she hadn’t lost her mind and started breaking all the turned-around mirrors in the room. One hanging over the fireplace instead of artwork, a second, small one on a tea table. When she was done with the ones in that room, she went storming into the next, and the sound of shattering glass continued.
Meanwhile, Somhairle was still dragging himself to his feet, Three at his shoulder to help.
“Want to explain why she’s gone mad?” Rags asked. Paused. “Madder than usual, and not at me, I mean.”
“She’s blowing off steam.” Somhairle gasped for air, cheeks flushed in red spots, wincing as