The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air #3)(42)

“I wanted your hair to suggest a crown,” she says. “But then I suppose you’ll have a real coronation at some point.”

The thought makes my head swim, a sense of unreality creeping in. I do not understand Cardan’s game, and that worries me.

I think of how Tatterfell once urged me to marry. The memory of that, and my certainty that I wouldn’t, makes it even stranger that she is here, doing my hair as she did then. “You made me look regal anyway,” I say, and her beetle-black eyes meet mine in the mirror. She smiles.

“Jude?” I hear a soft voice. Taryn.

She’s come in from the other room, in a gown of spun gold. She looks magnificent—roses in her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes.

“Hey,” I say.

“You’re awake!” she says, rushing into the room. “Vivi, she’s awake.”

Vivi walks in, wearing a suit of bottle-green velvet. “You nearly died, you know? You nearly died again.”

Heather follows in a pale blue gown with edges of the same pink that sits in her tight curls. She gives me a sympathetic grin, which I appreciate. It’s good to have one person who doesn’t know me well enough to be angry.

“Yes,” I say. “I know.”

“You keep rushing into danger,” Vivi informs me. “You’ve got to stop acting as though Court politics is some kind of extreme sport and stop chasing the adrenaline high.”

“I couldn’t help that Madoc kidnapped me,” I point out.

Vivi goes on, ignoring me. “Yeah, and the next thing we know, the High King is on our doorstep looking ready to tear down the whole apartment complex to find you. And when we finally hear from you through Oriana, it’s not like we could trust anyone. So we had to hire a cannibal redcap to come with us, just in case. And it’s a good thing we did—”

“Seeing you lie in the snow—you were so pale, Jude,” Taryn interrupts. “And when things started budding and blooming around you, I didn’t know what to think. Flowers and vines pushed right up through the ice. Then color came back into your skin, and you got up. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I was fairly surprised myself.”

“Does this mean you’re magical?” Heather asks, which is a fair question. Mortals are not supposed to be magical.

“I don’t know,” I tell her.

“I still can’t believe you married Prince Cardan,” Taryn says.

I feel an obscure need to justify myself. I want to deny that desire came into it, want to claim that I was entirely practical when I agreed. Who wouldn’t want to be the Queen of Faerie? Who wouldn’t make the bargain I made?

“It’s just—you hated him,” Taryn says. “And then I found out he was under your control the whole time. So I thought maybe you still hated him. I mean—I guess it’s possible that you hate him now and that he hates you, too, but it’s confusing.”

A knock on the door interrupts her. Oak runs over to open it. As though summoned by our discussion, the High King is there, surrounded by his guard.





Cardan is wearing a high jeweled collar of jet on a stiff black doublet. Over the tops of his pointed ears are knifelike caps of gold, matching the gold along his cheekbones. His expression is remote.

“Walk with me,” he says, leaving little room for refusal.

“Of course.” My heart speeds, despite myself. I hate that he saw me when I was at my most vulnerable, that he let me bleed all over his spider-silk sheets.

Vivi catches my hand. “You’re not well enough.”

Cardan raises his black brows. “The Living Council is eager to speak with her.”

“No doubt,” I say, then look at my sisters, Heather and Oak behind them. “And Vivi should be happy, because the only danger anyone has ever been in at a Council meeting is of being bored to death.”

I let go of my sister. The guards fall in behind us. Cardan gives me his arm, causing me to walk at his side, instead of behind him the way I would have as his seneschal. We make our way through the halls, and when we pass courtiers, they bow. It’s extremely unnerving.

“Is the Roach okay?” I ask, low enough not to be overheard.

“The Bomb has not yet discovered how to wake him,” Cardan says. “But there is hope that she yet will.”

At least he’s not dead, I remind myself. But if he sleeps for a hundred years, I will be in my grave before he opens his eyes again.

“Your father sent a message,” Cardan says, glancing at me sideways. “It was very unfriendly. He seems to blame me for the death of his daughter.”

“Ah,” I say.

“And he has sent soldiers to the low Courts with promises of a new regime. He urges them to not hesitate, but to come to Elfhame and hear his challenge to the crown.” Cardan says all this neutrally. “The Living Council waits to hear all you know about the sword and his maps. They found my descriptions of the camp to be sadly inadequate.”

“They can wait a little longer,” I say, forcing out the words. “I need to talk to you.”

He looks surprised and a little uncertain.

“It won’t take long.” The last thing I want is to have this conversation, but the longer I put it off, the larger it will loom in my mind. He ended my exile—and while I extracted a promise from him to do that, he had no reason to declare me queen. “Whatever your scheme is, whatever you are planning to hold over me, you might as well tell me now, before we’re in front of the whole Council. Make your threats. Do your worst.”