and dryads had taken up their dancing again, and delight brimmed in every flower-cup.
The fount of this joy swayed between two rows of apple trees, white silk fluttering in a playful perfumed breeze. Decked with long indigo velvet ribbons, her hair pulled back in an elaborate cable-braid, it pleased Summer to appear a simple nymph. The Jewel on her forehead flashed, sonorously, and as she reached up to a low-hanging branch, her quick white fingers found a red fruit nestled among the creamy blossoms.
A shadow lengthened on the other side of the tree, and yellowgreen eyes peered at her. “Oh, lovely one, take care. These trees belong to Summer.”
Her soft laugh rustled every leaf. Some few paces behind her, two ladies-in-waiting halted, their heads bent together as they gossiped. The taller, black-haired lovely was Brenna Highgate, and the chestnut-haired other was the fair lady of Dunhill, both in sky-blue and simple holly crowns, since it was still, technically, not spring yet. A little further afield, two fair-haired Seelie knights in gold-chased armor stood, no doubt alert.
Puck’s fingers caressed the hilt at his side, but he stayed well in the shadow. Pixies flitted among the leaves, chiming, and soon there would be a drift of blossom in every corner of the orchard, flushing to heartsblood and sending up a heavy reek of spice and copper.
Once the Gates were open.
“They do,” the Queen murmured, examining the red fruit. No blemish, no stain, marred the perfect rind. “What news, Goodfellow?”
“Unwinter quakes, my lady. Wights and knights have issued forth, and all to catch one small bird. No doubt she is hopping through the brambles as we speak.”
“No doubt.” White teeth peeped between crimson lips. “What else?”
“Oh, gossip flies on the wind. There are some who say the Ragged has a mighty protector, but who it may be, none knows.”
A small, satisfied smile played over Summer’s face like sunrise. “Ah. And our pet, the mortal of science?”
“Very fine.” Puck’s own smile was no less satisfied. “He asked of you, lovely one.”
A fractional shake of her golden head. “He has little of value left to give.”
Puck’s expression did not alter, though he could have noted that in point of fact, the mortal had nothing left to give, not even his life. But that would spoil the game. “There is other news.”
“Oh?”
“Haahrhne.” The name sent a chill through the orchard. Both the ladies-in-waiting shivered and cast glances over their shoulders. A few paces away, the knights stiffened, scanning for danger.
The Jewel on Summer’s brow darkened, and she frowned, just a little. “You would speak that here.”
“I hear the sickness has breached his halls, Majesty. And that he himself may ride forth ere long, to seek its source.”
Summer’s smile broadened. Her teeth flashed, and she bit, with a satisfying crunch, into the fruit. She sucked at it, a slight flush rising up her cheeks as it withered, and each tree in the orchard stirred uneasily again.
The rind crumbled, turning black and paper-thin. Her suckling did not cease until the fruit was no more than a smear of ash, flakes lifting from her white hand as she flicked the remains away. Full-glowing now, her lips were a sweet curve, redder than any red. “As planned,” she murmured. “My thanks, Goodfellow.”
“And mine, my lady.” He drew back into dappled leafshade as she turned away, and her laughter as she joined her ladies was a silver bell. “As planned indeed,” Puck whispered, and faded from sight into a deeper pool of dimness. Only the smears of his glowing irises remained, painted on the air for a few moments before winking out, and his own merry laughter was a faraway cackle that startled the swarming pixies.
No few of them dropped, their tiny hummingbird hearts halted between one moment and the next, and the tinkling of their deaths was lost under Summer’s gaiety.
HEART OF THE RIDDLE
27
Lies. All of it. Gallow’s teeth ground together, hard enough to crack one or two of them. He dragged the stumbling girl along, cursing himself for a fool. Summer’s laughter died as he strode down the flour-pale road, small curls of white vapor rising from his footsteps.
Was the girl glamoured to look like Daisy? Poison in a sweet sidhe wrapper, russet hair and a blue dress a bait he’d swallowed whole.
Except for the picture, he would think all of this a game, even the rotting Unwinter knight. The picture he’d found after the memorial service—a very young Daisy on the steps of a trailer, a yellowing Polaroid.