Page 43 of The Dead Queen

“Them?” I cross my arms. “So, the moth represents a group of people?”

He turns to face me again, his eyes dark. “Yes.”

“People who some might consider worms.” It’s not a question. That explains why we found the carving in the filthy shop in White’s End. “Commoners.”

He waggles his head noncommittally. “Yes … and no.”

“You’re not really holding up your end of the bargain,” I warn, irritation flaring.

“Aren’t I?”

I dig through my bag and take out a hunk of preserved meat. The Wolf stills. I can practically see his mouth watering.

“If you want this food, then you’d better talk.”

“What happened to the helpful little fox who saved my life?”

“She’s grown tired of your evasive answers,” I snarl.

The Wolf paces in his cell, thinking. He turns to look at me. “Do you trust me, Red?”

“No,” I spit out so quickly it has to be the truth.

“Then why would you come to me, your mortal enemy, for answers about a pretty little bug?”

“Truth for truth?”

He nods.

“Because I have no one else to ask.”

“Hm,” he says. “Like your questions about Áine.” He returns to the bars, staring into my eyes with a ferocity that’s both terrifying and somehow thrilling.

My heart jumps in my chest. I’m not afraid of this man, the shiver running through my veins is something else entirely.

His words hiss like a snake. “The moth is the symbol of the underground. The Llwyn that hides in the shadows.”

I shake my head, confused. “Why must they hide?”

He tuts, mockingly. “Why, from you, Little Fox. And your great Fox King.”

My head is whirling. Why would the people of Llwyn need to hide from the monarchy? My father hardly pays attention to the actions of everyday people. To say he cares what a shopkeeper in White’s End thinks is to compare him to a great bear who interests himself in the affairs of an ant.

I glower at the Wolf. “I don’t believe you.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. But we traded a truth for a truth.” He holds out his hand, expectantly.

For a moment, I consider not giving him the food. But in the end, my guilty conscience wins. I toss the bread and meat through the bars, past his outstretched hand.

“What good are veiled answers from a Wolf in a cage?” I ask.

He stares at me through the bars.

I step closer, our faces only inches apart. He could bite me now, if he tried. “I’d be careful of trying to outwit a fox,” I warn. “The fox always wins, eventually.”

He grins. “Unless she’s devoured by a wolf first.”

The Wolf’s proximity sends a reckless thrill through me, unfamiliar and exhilarating. It’s power, I realize with a shudder. Maybe I’m more like my father than I care to admit.