The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air #1)(40)

That doesn’t sound like Cardan, whom I despise. But I am not sure I find her answer reassuring, either.

What does it mean, I would like him? Does that mean we’ve never met? What does it mean that he doesn’t love the way we do?

“I am happy for you. Honest,” I say, although I am more worried than anything. “This is exciting. When Oriana’s dressmaker comes, you’re going to have to make sure you get an extra-pretty gown.”

Taryn relaxes. “I just want everything to be better. For both of us.”

I reach over to my bedside table to retrieve the book I stole from Hollow Hall. “Remember this?” I ask, lifting up the collected Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland book. When I do, a folded piece of paper slips out and flutters to the floor.

“We used to read that when we were little,” she says, grabbing for the book. “Where did you get it?”

“I found it,” I say, not able to explain whose bookshelf it had come from or why I had been in Hollow Hall in the first place. To test the geas, I try to say the words: Spying for Prince Dain. My mouth will not move. My tongue stays still. A wave of panic washes over me, but I push it back. This is a small price for what he’s given me.

Taryn doesn’t press for more information. She’s too busy flipping through the pages and reading bits of it aloud. While I can’t quite remember the cadence of my mother’s voice, I think I hear an echo of it in Taryn’s.

“Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place,” she reads. “If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!”

I reach down surreptitiously and shove the fallen paper under my pillow. I plan to unfold it once she returns to her room, but instead I fall asleep, long before the story is over.



I wake in the early morning, alone, needing to pee. I pad into my bath area, lift my skirts, and do my business in the copper basin left there for this purpose, shame heating my face even though I am alone. It is one of the most humbling aspects of being human. I know that faeries are not gods—maybe I know that better than any mortal alive—but neither have I ever seen one hunched over a bedpan.

Back in bed, I push aside the curtain and let the sunlight spill in, brighter than any lamp. I take the folded-up paper from behind my pillow.

Smoothing it out, I see Cardan’s furious, arrogant handwriting scrawled over the page, taking up all available space. In some places he pressed the nib so angrily that the paper tore.

Jude, it reads, each hateful rendering of my name like a punch to the gut.





The dressmaker comes early the next afternoon, a long-fingered faerie called Brambleweft. Her feet are turned backward, giving her an odd gait. Her eyes are like those of a goat, brown with a horizontal line of black just at the center. She is wearing an example of her work, a woven dress with embroidered lines of thorns making a striped pattern down the length of it.

She has brought with her bolts of fabric, some of it stiff gold, one that changes color like iridescent beetle wings. Beside that, she tells us, is a spider silk so fine that it could have fit through the eye of a needle three times over and yet strong enough to have to be cut with silver scissors magicked to never lose their edge. The purple fabric shot through with gold and silver is so bright that it seems like moonlight itself puddling over the cushions.

All the fabrics are draped onto the couch in Oriana’s parlor for us to inspect. Even Vivi is drawn to run her fingers over the cloth, an absent smile on her face. There is nothing like this in the mortal world, and she knows it.

Oriana’s current maid, a hairy, wizened creature named Toadfloss, brings tea and cakes, meat and jam, all piled on a massive silver tray. I pour myself tea and drink it without cream, hoping it will settle my stomach. The terror of the last few days is at my heels, making me shudder without warning. The memory of the faerie fruit keeps rising unbidden to my tongue, along with the cracked lips of the servants in Balekin’s palace and the sound of the leather as it struck Prince Cardan’s bare back.

And my own name, written over and over and over. I thought I knew how much Cardan hated me, but looking at that paper, I realized I had no idea. And he’d hate me even more still if he knew I had seen him on his knees, beaten by a human servant. A mortal, for an extra bit of humiliation, an extra dose of rage.

“Jude?” Oriana says, and I realize that I’ve been staring off toward the window and the fading light.

“Yes?” I put on a bright, false smile.

Taryn and Vivienne begin to laugh.

“And just who are you thinking about with a dreamy expression like that on your face?” Oriana asks, which makes Vivi laugh again. Taryn doesn’t, probably because she thinks I am an idiot.

I shake my head, hoping I have not gone red-faced. “No, it wasn’t anything like that. I was just—I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. What were we talking about?”

“The seamstress wishes to measure you first,” Oriana says. “Since you’re the youngest.”

I look over at Brambleweft, who holds a string between her hands. I hop up onto the box she has set before her, holding out my arms. I am a good daughter today. I am going to get a pretty gown. I will dance at Prince Dain’s coronation until my feet bleed.

“Don’t scowl,” the seamstress says. Before I can stammer apologies, she continues, voice pitched low. “I was told to sew this dress with pockets that can conceal weapons and poisons and other little necessities. We’ll make sure that’s done while still showing you to great advantage.”