Page 65 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Oh dear.

This did not bode well, at all.

Even if the way he called her his wife made her want to blush like a schoolgirl and also made her spine straighten.

The candle flames turned to ice and shattered. Frigid air clung to nostrils and lungs and scratched at the backs of delicate throats. Thorns stabbed through slippers and velvets and silks.

“Sabotage is strictly forbidden during the Revels,” Lachlan continued. “Isn’t that right, Kerne?”

The atmosphere in the hall was not improved by the arrival of the Wild Hunt.

Mists swirled into hounds with red ears and red eyes, into stags with antlers capped in silver, into horses with iron hooves. Into Kerne, the Hunter, and his Host. The Redcap goblin began to struggle again, pale and clammy with fear. When he opened his mouth to speak or wail or weep—Pippa could not tell which—Kerne only shook his head. Mists curled around the goblin and he choked.

“He can pay as an oathbreaker against a Tithe, or as the goblin who tried to hurt my wife,” Lachlan said.

The goblin’s eyes were frantic. Pippa did not know the punishment for either, but it was clear he did. And it was not a comfortable choice.

“If he can outrun the Hunt for thirteen years, he can go free. Otherwise…” The space around Kerne widened as guests scrambled backward, not wanting to be noticed. They wanted to watch the entertainment, not be a part of it. The Hunt was too powerful; it was better to be invisible.

Pippa understood that compulsion. But she was no longer invisible. She was a Tithe, was married to Lachlan Thorn. She was surrounded by owls. In a novel, this would be the moment where the intrepid heroine broke the tension with a quip or a clever comment, but Pippa had neither at the ready. She did not know Fae politics nearly well enough to attempt a blind interruption or a diversion. But she could hardly let someone be…hunted? Murdered? She still was not clear on the options.

Could she?

Even if he had tried to have her ripped apart by the Wild Hunt—after murdering her to paint his cap with her blood.

Why was she contemplating how to help him, exactly?

Sorcha would have punched him herself. Pippa could suggest a nice poem and a cup of tea. Perhaps a biscuit. An alphabetizing system for an untidy library.

Very helpful indeed.

“He owes Lady Thorn a debt,” Kerne agreed, his voice the kind of voice that woke you in the dark hours, sweating from nightmares. “One that shan’t be forgotten.”

Lady Thorn? She certainly did not know how to feel about that, so she elected not to think about it. Back to the rather more urgent matter at hand. The Redcap was sobbing now, stark with terror. It was unsettling. “Is this really necessary?” Pippa whispered to Lachlan.

“The other option is to hang him upside down in a thorn thicket until he bleeds to death. That’s Redcap justice.”

Pippa swallowed. “Oh.”

“Happy to oblige, wisp.”

“No, thank you.”

“Just as well. Harder to get the name of who hired him if his blood is smeared on a hundred goblin caps,” Lachlan murmured before raising his voice. “A warning, then,” he declared. “As a gift to my new wife, who is feeling benevolent.”

“A gift for me?” Pippa murmured. “Next time, you should know that I prefer chocolates and books.”

“The gift is that I did not outright murder him when I had the chance,” Lachlan replied.

“Oh.”

“But I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Um. Thank you?”

An owl screeched. Ice slicked the floor and bristled over the walls like needles. Lachlan’s voice was cold and no less terrifying than Kerne’s had been. Mist clung to his boots.

“Don’t mistake it for mercy should anyone ever move against her again. I am not so benevolent.”