his chest, thought about how pissed Morien was going to be, and quietly said, “Fuck it.”
Then he followed Shining Talon, climbing out the window into the dark, horse-dung-smelling street.
25
Somhairle
Somhairle’s favorite spot in Ever-Land was a copse of birch trees near the lake at the edge of the grounds. Surrounded by purple hopswitch, flowering smokebranch, and ancient cat’s-a-roses, this was where he slipped into other worlds countless times, huddled over a book or a fresh play from the city, another of Laisrean’s occasional presents.
Thinking of you. Laughed when the princess turned into a donkey. Missed your laughter joining mine.
There hadn’t been one of those for some time. Laisrean had never replied to Somhairle’s letter about the birds. Had it not been delivered?
The silver glimmer of his carousel across the water beckoned, or mocked, daring Somhairle to return to a more dangerous realm of fantasy: the nostalgic past.
How could he do otherwise, after he’d learned this terrible news about House Ever-Loyal?
How delayed the news had been. He was mourning nearly a full year too late.
This terrible answer to the terrible questions he’d purposefully ignored since Faolan and Morien turned up on his doorstep.
When had House Ever-Learning grown so beloved by the queen?
When had House Ever-Loyal turned against the Silver Court?
When had his mother determined he should receive no news of past friends, of the city’s shifts and struggles?
Somhairle once counted the House’s eldest daughter, Inis Ever-Loyal, as his truest friend among the Ever-Families. Had she been an active agent in their betrayal or a victim of her parents’ scheming? The friends of Somhairle’s childhood, the brightest memories he treasured of weightless laughter and acceptance—which of them were buried deep in traitor’s earth, never again to feel the warmth of the sun?
It frightened him to think such hatred for the Queen lurked even in the hearts he’d thought he knew best, had certainly loved most.
No word of it from home. No warning. If the Queen had thought such news would distress her weakest son, of course she would prevent it from reaching him.
Her total power and keen gaze, once a little boy’s great comfort, suddenly reminded him of the worst of his fevers, a chill gnawing him ragged from within.
If only Somhairle could have flown off with the few surviving birds who’d escaped Ever-Land. They hadn’t returned yet, though Morien had been absent two days.
Somhairle approached the house more determined now to don the courtly gear of gossip and learn all he could from Lord Faolan. What had happened to House Ever-Loyal, every painful detail. He’d swallow every bitter draft to the last.
Only Morien’s horse was back in the stables, all haunch and trembling bone.
Red fabric shrouded the windows.
Storm clouds knit direly above the nearby trees, growling closer.
Black leaves blanketed the front steps. They shattered, rather than scattered, when Somhairle tried to brush them aside with his silver crutch.
Inside, Faolan lingered before a locked door, gaze fixed intently upon the empty keyhole. Somhairle, perhaps too kindly, let his lame foot knock against the wall in warning.
Faolan whirled with a tinkle of ornamental gold. Several chains of varying lengths hung around his neck, one bearing a medallion imprinted with the quill seal of House Ever-Learning. In a thigh-length tunic and fitted breeches in complementary shades of muted sage, his thin shirt a whisper of cool lilac beneath, he looked like a summer hillside.
How many outfits had he packed for this purportedly brief visit?
“For all there is to recommend him,” Faolan said quickly and with brittle cheer, “Morien the Last is a uniquely difficult houseguest.”
“That sounded nearly apologetic.”
“On my honor, I would never apologize.”
Believable. On the Hill, kindness was misinterpreted as weakness, an unwelcome reminder of frailty in Catriona’s Silver Court, where the Queen was forever young. An apology was capitulation.
Catriona did not capitulate.
“I wondered if you might dine with me tonight.” Somhairle’s lines came out as smoothly as if he’d rehearsed them with more than a statue troupe in the glen. “I’d welcome the chance to hear more of your exploits on the Hill.”
“Your hospitality overwhelms this servant of your mother’s crown.” Faolan affected a bow, though it didn’t appear to mock. A dappled pattern of shadow dogs hunting ghost deer cavorted across the back of his jacket. “I hope Your Highness isn’t offended by my transparency, but after an hour with Morien the Last, I’d kill for a real conversation.”
Somhairle’s laugh drowned out the imagined jeering of his brothers, some of whom must have warned Faolan against expecting too much from the youngest