from his body into Rags’s, making him want to do crazy, wonderful, heroic deeds?
Master of Five. Yeah, right. Even with a map, it didn’t seem possible.
But with Tal gazing at him and glowing bright as molten gold, holding Rags and gleaming at him, he could believe it. Whatever that map led to, it was up to Rags to make sure it blossomed into its fullest potential.
“Gotta help the rest of those kids, too,” Rags added casually. “Good thing busting prisoners out is one of my many illegal specialties.” Penance for leaving them in the first place. They’d also have to track down Tal’s fragment while they were at it. Once they could. Once they’d recovered and it was safe.
Safer.
Tal smiled like Rags had told a joke. “It is a strange thief who seeks to steal something of little value.”
“Aw, come on.” Rags shoved him. The motion didn’t budge Tal one bit. “Don’t make me say it.”
He didn’t have a silver fragment of his own yet, but he’d begun forming another connection. One that explained how he understood, without either of them speaking, what they both knew: those kids were worth more than anything Rags’s clever fingers had ever snatched.
They were the score of a lifetime.
The scar over his heart throbbed with his pulse. They’d only survived because they’d gotten lucky. When their luck would run out was anyone’s guess.
Good thing for everyone that Rags was damn good at slipping into—and out of—too-tight situations.
He flexed his weary fingers, forcing strength into the trembling bones. The odds were against him, but when weren’t they? He had a fae map to follow, a fae prince for a friend, a fae stronghold to fortify. Give him sixteen days, and he’d make Morien regret the day he brought a thief named Rags to Coward’s Silence.
Pronunciation Guide
Aibhilin: EV-lin
Ailis: EY-lish
Ainle: EN-lyeh
Baeth: Beth
Diancecht: Dee-un-KAY-k
Dyfed: Da-VED
Cabhan: Cah-VAN (Cab is pronounced with a soft vh sound, not a hard b)
Coinneach: Ker-NAH-k
Comhghall: KOW-aal
Crisiant: CRAY-shant
Einan: EYE-nan
Faolan: FWAY-lahn
Guaire: GOO-ruh
Inis Fraoch: IN-ish Free
Laisrean: LASH-rawn
Lochlainn: Lock-lin
Murchadh: MOOR-hah
Saraid: SOR-id
Siomha: SHEE-va
Somhairle: SORE-luh
Uaine: WEN-ya
Acknowledgments
Years back, we planned to dedicate the next book we published—if there ever was a next book published—to everything we’d lost along the way. As the years added up, so did the losses, until we realized this was both too depressing and too unwieldy a way to begin a book. Better, then, to (sort of) end it this way: by acknowledging what was lost, grieving it, and honoring it. As of now, the official Lost List includes three childhood cats (R and S and M); Grandpa Terry; Grandma Wint; Great-Grandma Nain; Ephraim Peretz; Paul Singer; Dani’s two cancer buddies, Carol Peretz and Jon Sholle; the incomparable Ric Menello, gone far too soon; the impossible Richie Shulberg, likewise; Great-Uncle Mickey; Great-Aunt Yudis; Natalia A.; Bob Jones’s left ear; Dani’s right breast.
Goodbye, goodbye. Thank you for everything.
You will not be forgotten. You will always be missed.
As for the rest, we wrote much of this book between chemo visits and radiation appointments, between trips to the oncologist and mastectomy surgery and follow-up. We’re very grateful to Dani’s oncology team and her surgeons, with deep-abiding fondness ever reserved for PJ.
We finished the first draft of this story in the Poconos with our beloved old writing group: Jean-Paul Bass drove us there, Denise Wallner cooked like a pro, Adelle Pica slept much-needed sleep, and all five of us wrote from dawn until dusk. We took breaks only to train a pregnant squirrel, three displeased deer, and one unimpressed groundhog to attack humankind in exchange for snacks. Without Jean, Denise, and Adelle, this book would not exist.
To Jean especially, our first editor on this story, we owe our everything. We love you, Jean!
Huge thanks must also be extended to our friends in the Grief Coven—Tea, Tori, Bridget, Caroline, Caitlyn, Katy, Kaylen, and Hannah. Everyone should have their own Grief Coven. We highly recommend you find or create one. For the insight to institute it, to open that door, and the gift of the room within: Thank you, Tea. You are the realest. (Love you too, Pickett!)
Thanks also to the tattoo artists who helped both of us reclaim our bodies from dysphoria and dysmorphic anxiety—Danielle’s from breast cancer; Jaida’s from gender confusion. Superspecial shout-outs to Anka Lavriv for being both superhero and superfriend, and all the artists at Black Iris Tattoo for providing a home, a space, a place for magic to grow (especially John and Leslie!); to Cate Webb and Meagan Blackwood and Ilwol Hongdam, for their incredible art; to our