Ivy came out with breakfast. Cab wouldn’t take food from an Ever-Loyal’s mouth; there was enough left in his pack to satisfy him. He ate outside by the horses to avoid more discomfort under the Ever-Loyals’ roof.
Your attitude might be misinterpreted as sulking, One told him. Or worse, cowardice.
Cab shrugged that aside. Went to bathe off the night’s dirt, sweat, and blood in a nearby stream. He stripped out of his shirt and plunged into the cold water, shocking everything but shivers from his thoughts.
He stayed under the surface until the pain in his lungs sliced through the numbness everywhere else. Then he rose. Water in his eyes and ears, his nose and mouth. Not to mention every cut and scrape he’d earned while repairing the cottage. He waited for them to sting so he could feel again. Feel anything he was supposed to.
He’d fled from House Ever-Loyal and unswerving loyalty to the Queen. Somehow, he’d wound up back where he’d started.
But with a new purpose. He couldn’t let the Queen get her hands on One and the rest of her kind.
The bruises on his jaw and the back of his head were both thanks to Inis Ever-Loyal. Cab deserved them. Deserved more.
And Inis deserved better.
He couldn’t put things right; he could only do right from now on. One knew best—he should stop worrying.
Cab swiped the water out of his eyes with his hand.
He heard the rush of air behind him and understood what it was—large object, about to connect with my head—too late to do anything but let it hit him.
And the world went black.
42
Rags
Rags managed to hang on until just after breakfast before he knew: He had to get out of that house. Had to get away from everything, everyone, in it.
Including Two, locked up with Inis in her room since breakfast.
Including the woman sitting motionless by the fireplace in a rocking chair, her face younger than her gray hair suggested, who hadn’t spoken a word to anyone or looked once at her unexpected guests since they’d arrived. Hadn’t glanced at the missing wall or acknowledged the loud, sweaty efforts to fix it.
And the little girl hiding under the table, staring at Shining Talon from beneath the tablecloth.
And the manservant who kept aggressively asking Rags and Shining Talon if they wanted more tea, as though he believed the next cup could pour life back to normal.
And Shining Talon, refusing to leave Rags’s side, even after Rags made it clear that he wanted to be alone.
The instant Rags stepped out the front door, Shining Talon was there at his side like a late-afternoon shadow, if a shadow could glow more golden than the thief who cast it. “You will have to learn how to work in unison with others when you command the Great Paragon. Is it not better to begin practice now?”
Way too much to argue with there.
“I work fine with others,” Rags told him. “You want something stolen, you let me know. But sitting around and chatting? Making friends? It doesn’t work out. I’ve already told you I’m not your guy. I’m not going to waste time with your fae mind exercises, or whatever you want from me.”
Perfect. It was rude enough that Rags prepared himself for the blissful distraction of an argument.
He wasn’t prepared for Shining Talon shoving him to the ground, palm against his chest, and crouching over him like an alleycat guarding its first meal in days.
“Ow,” Rags began pointedly, only to find his mouth covered by the same hand that had pushed him down. It smelled of green grass and precious metal.
Shining Talon’s silver eyes flashed with sudden danger, scanned the tree line.
“Something is amiss,” the fae prince hissed.
Then a black arrow sprouted from his shoulder. Too quick for Rags to think, to react, to process what was happening, Shining Talon snatched the next one out of the air. Shouts rose from the trees. To Rags, they sounded like a charge.
“Get back inside,” Shining Talon commanded. “It will be easier to defend from within.”
“Mmph!” Rags yelled. For once he was glad his mouth was covered. He didn’t know what would’ve come out otherwise.
The arrow remained fully planted in Shining Talon’s shoulder. Silver blood had blossomed around the buried tip. Didn’t it hurt? Or did fae not feel pain?
All living things feel pain.
Fae blood dripped onto Rags’s shirt. Figures melted toward them from between the trees, faces bulging and colorful. They were wearing masks.