The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air #1)(46)

Blusher mushroom. I think of the letter I found in Balekin’s house from Queen Orlagh. I try to convince myself that the note could not have referred to the poisoning of Locke’s mother, that Balekin had no motive when Dain was already the High King’s chosen heir. But no matter how I try to convince myself, I cannot stop thinking about the possibility, of the horror, of Nicasia’s mother having had a hand in Locke’s mother’s death. “I shouldn’t have asked—that was rude of me.”

“We are children of tragedy.” He shakes his head and then smiles. “This is not how I meant to begin. I meant to give you wine and fruit and cheese. I meant to tell you how your hair is as beautiful as curling woodsmoke, your eyes the exact color of walnuts. I thought I could compose an ode about it, but I am not very good at odes.”

I laugh, and he covers his heart as though stung by cruelty. “Before I show you the maze, let me show you something else.”

“What’s that?” I ask, curious.

He takes my hand. “Come,” he says, prankish, leading me through the house. We come to spiraling stairs. Up we go, up and up and up.

I feel dizzy. There are no doors and no landings. Just stone and steps and my heart beating loud in my chest. Just his slanted smiles and amber eyes. I try not to stumble or slip as I climb. I try not to slow down, no matter how light-headed I feel.

I think of Valerian. Jump from the tower.

I keep climbing, taking shallow breaths.

You are nothing. You barely exist at all.

When we get to the top, there’s a small door—half our height. I lean against the wall, waiting for my balance to return, and watch Locke turn the elaborate silver knob. He ducks as he goes in. I steel myself, push off the wall, and follow.

And gasp. We’re on a balcony at the very top of the tallest tower, one higher than the tree line. From here, lit by starlight, I can see the maze below and the folly in the center. I can see the aboveground parts of the Palace of Elfhame and Madoc’s estate and Balekin’s Hollow Hall. I can see the sea that encircles the island and beyond it, the bright lights of human cities and towns through the ever-present mist. I have never looked directly from our world into theirs.

Locke puts his hand against my back, between my shoulder blades. “At night, the human world looks as though it’s full of fallen stars.”

I lean into his touch, pushing away the awfulness of the climb, trying not to stand too close to the edge. “Have you ever been there?”

He nods. “My mother took me when I was a child. She said our world would grow stagnant without yours.”

I want to tell him that it’s not mine, that I barely understand it, but I get what he’s trying to say, and the correction would make it seem as though I didn’t. His mother’s sentiment is kind, certainly kinder than most views of the mortal world. She must have been kind herself.

He turns me toward him and then slowly brings his lips to mine. They’re soft, and his breath is warm. I feel as distant from my body as the lights of the faraway city. My hand reaches for the railing. I grip it hard as his arm goes around my waist, to ground myself in what’s happening, to convince myself that I am here and that this moment, high above everything, is real.

He draws back. “You really are beautiful,” he says.

I am never so glad to know they cannot lie.

“This is incredible,” I say, looking down. “Everything looks so small, like on a strategy board.”

He laughs, as though I cannot possibly be serious. “I take it you spend a lot of time in your father’s study?”

“Enough,” I say. “Enough to know what my odds are against Cardan. Against Valerian and Nicasia. Against you.”

He takes my hand. “Cardan is a fool. The rest of us don’t matter.” His smile turns slanted. “But maybe this is part of your plan—persuade me to take you to the very heart of my stronghold. Maybe you’re about to reveal your evil scheme and bend me to your will. Just so you know, I don’t think it will be very hard to bend me to your will.”

I laugh despite myself. “You’re nothing like them.”

“Aren’t I?” he asks.

I give him a long look. “I don’t know. Are you going to order me off this balcony?”

His eyebrows go up. “Of course not.”

“Well then, you’re not like them,” I say, poking him hard in the center of his chest. My hand flattens, almost unconsciously, letting the warmth of him seep up through my palm. I hadn’t realized how cold I’d become, standing in the wind.

“You’re not the way they said you would be,” he says, bending toward me. He kisses me again.

I don’t want to think about the things they must have said, not now. I want his mouth on mine, blotting out everything else.

It takes us a long time to wend our way back down the stairs. My hands are in his hair. His mouth is on my neck. My back is against the ancient stone wall. Everything is slow and perfect and makes no sense at all. This can’t be my life. This feels nothing like my life.

We sit at the long, empty banquet table and eat cheese and bread. We drink pale green wine that tastes of herbs out of massive goblets that Locke finds in the back of a cabinet. They’re so thick with dust he has to wash them twice before we can use them.

When we’re done, he presses me back against the table, lifting me so that I am seated on it, so that our bodies are pressed together. It’s exhilarating and terrifying, like so much of Faerie.