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She lay down beside the fire, wrapping herself in the blanket and drawing it over her mangled hair. I almost rolled my eyes—this sort of melodrama was clearly a family trait. But in truth, I was a little sorry for her. Not because of what she had suffered in the Veil—she had well deserved that—but because I could not imagine existence as a halfblood in Faerie to have been easy, and I sensed a litany of slights and injuries behind her refusal to identify with either of her parents’ bloodlines. It must be wearying to exist in such a state of permanent self-denial. This did not justify what she had done, but it made her company marginally easier to bear.

“You are welcome to share our tent,” I told her, for the wind was picking up, greedily snatching at what little warmth the fire gave off. After all, even singular beings are not immune to cold.

She made no response, only shivered and drew the blanket tighter to her. I sighed and went to bed, grateful for Shadow, who curled up against me—the dog is like a furnace with legs.

Sometime later, however, I started awake at the sound of rustling from the other side of the tent. The former queen spent a moment muttering curses at the pillows, which I had piled up on that side simply to have them out of the way, before she finally arranged her pallet to her satisfaction, and seemed to fall asleep. I regretted my kindness then, as her proximity made it easier to second-guess whether she might think twice about her newfound high-mindedness and strangle me in my sleep, but I had Shadow at my side, and as always, this gave me courage. I slept.

Skip Notes

* Though uncommon, a handful of stories feature faerie monarchs installing a chosen heir in their place. The Russian tale “The Snow-Wanderer,” for instance, tells of a queen who wishes to live among mortals, whom she imagines as having simple, carefree lives. This queen gives the throne to her daughter, who rules until longing for her mother sends her on a quest in search of her, which ends in bloodshed when she finds the queen slain by mortal hands. In the northeast region of Ardamia, a place particularly prone to avalanches, many locals believe that a specific cave in the alpine is occupied by a very peculiar hermit—a queen of the courtly fae who abandoned her war-torn realm to her squabbling children partly to punish them, and is presently occupied in building herself a private castle by tunnelling into the mountains, which is supposedly to blame for the unstable nature of the terrain.

12th February—late

I woke before Arna this morning to fine weather, the sky clear and the winter’s chill dulled at the edge, hinting at the coming spring. Ideal for camping, I suppose, but I was eager to reach the end of my arduous trek across three worlds and back, and woke Arna shortly after I finished jotting down the previous journal entry. I doubt I need describe the storm of feeling that greeted my return to the cottage, not to mention the arrival of the woman who had murdered Wendell’s family, ravaged his kingdom, and brought about his death. Still, I’d explained the necessity of this circumstance, and never has there been a greater sign of Lilja and Margret’s trust in me than their acceptance—grudging and antipathetic, it’s true—of Wendell’s stepmother as their guest.

Lilja was blunt. “Do we need to bind her?” she said, examining the forlorn figure before her, still dressed in a bathrobe. I could see from her face that she had no complicated feelings about this particular faerie, that Arna perfectly accorded with her opinion of the courtly fae. “We could send for metal wire from the local shop.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, guiding the old queen towards one of the kitchen chairs.

“I respect the old laws of hospitality,” Arna said. “Unlike some.” Here she gave me a cutting look that I found too absurd to be galling, which isn’t to say she was not getting on my nerves by this point. I occupied myself with fussing over Shadow, helping him settle himself by the fire upon his familiar blankets.

“Would you like to take tea?” Margret said with more warmth. Margret, I have noted, appreciates having novel company to test her baking on—even, it seems, if they are murderous relations. She puts me in mind of Poe in that respect.

Arna shrugged. She looked around the cottage, seeming amused by what she saw, or simply by her situation. “Why not?”

“Oh good!” Margret said. “I made local fare this time—apple cake. I had the recipe from one of the shopkeepers. I thought the queen might appreciate it more than our foreign baking.”

“I am no queen, my dear,” Arna said, looking pleased to have the opportunity to display her humility, as a child would a new toy. Unfortunately, she seemed inspired to take this even further, and rose to help Margret prepare our tea. Margret seemed to wish to stop her, but the former queen has an innate imperiousness that I doubt will ever fade. The results were as one would expect from someone who has drunk a lot of tea but never made it: the former queen added so many leaves to the pot that it took on the colour and taste of tar. I had been looking forward to hot tea more than any other thing after such a gruelling quest and found myself so unreasonably piqued that one would think tea represented the greatest of the old queen’s misdeeds.

Leaving the three of them to make small talk, I ventured outside and turned the stepping-stones back over. I knew we should return at once, to spare Wendell any additional fretting, though a part of me wished to tarry. I could not fathom his precise reaction to what I had done, but it was difficult to imagine it being positive.

When I returned, I found that Arna had cast some form of glamour upon one of the paintings on the wall. What had been a portrait of a woman in an antiquated dress smiling faintly at the artist was now an intricate pattern of wildflowers and seashells, with a naked couple cavorting in the centre.

“Already there is a difference,” Arna was saying, gazing appraisingly about the cottage. “Mortals give so little attention to the beauty of their environments. The effect upon one’s well-being is significant, which they would realize if only they opened their eyes.”

I could see from Lilja’s face that she did not appreciate the change one bit—I believe the painting had some sentimental value. I gave her a look of silent appeal, and she let out her breath and said nothing.

“We must go,” I said.

“Yes,” Arna said, pushing her chair back. “I must face my son sometime. I would prefer not to lengthen the anticipation.”

I realized she was trembling lightly, which quelled a great deal of my annoyance. I had not expected her to be frightened.

We took our leave of Lilja and Margret, who for once did not seem sorry to say goodbye, though both folded me into a tight embrace at the door.

We ventured across the garden and down the stepping-stone path. I expected to emerge in the forest of Wendell’s realm—that was where the door had led most recently. Instead, I found myself in the castle, where the door used to lead. Specifically, Wendell’s and my apartments.

I blinked, staring at the now-familiar hallway. Shadow gave a huff and kept walking, glancing over his shoulder in puzzlement when I did not follow.

“He put it back,” I said blankly.

Arna looked about. “This is unexpected. Why would he put a door to the mortal realm here? It’s dreadfully unsafe to have a door opening onto one’s private chambers. What if assassins learn of it?”

Good Lord. “Let us find Wendell,” I said through my teeth.

“One moment.” Arna pressed a hand to the bathrobe, and a glamour unfolded over it. Now she was dressed in a midnight gown as loose and silky as the robe had been, but embellished with pearls and a silver-embroidered pattern of songbirds and vines. She did not alter the tangle of her hair, but it had silvered vines in it now to match those on her dress. Her feet she left bare. Perhaps she thought the overall picture was one of humility, because she was nowhere near as elaborately clothed as she once had been, though she had sacrificed neither taste nor elegance at this altar.

Two servants appeared at the threshold of the corridor, perhaps having heard our voices. There they froze as if struck by some enchantment.