A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses #1) by Sarah J. Maas

I was almost shaking by the time I reached the dining room. Lucien, mercifully, appeared like Lucien. I didn’t ask whether that was because Tamlin had informed him to put up a better glamour or because he didn’t bother trying to be something he wasn’t.

Tamlin lounged in his usual chair but straightened as I lingered in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

“There are … a lot of people—faeries—around. When did they arrive?”

I’d almost yelped when I looked out my bedroom window and spotted all the faeries in the garden. Many of them—all with insect masks—pruned the hedges and tended the flowers. Those faeries had been the strangest of all, with their iridescent, buzzing wings sprouting from their backs. And, of course, then there was the green-and-brown skin, and their unnaturally long limbs, and—

Tamlin bit his lip as if to keep from smiling. “They’ve been here all along.”

“But … but I didn’t hear anything.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Lucien drawled, and twirled one of his daggers between his hands. “We made sure you couldn’t see or hear anyone but those who were necessary.”

I adjusted the lapels of my tunic. “So you mean that … that when I ran after the puca that night—”

“You had an audience,” Lucien finished for me. I thought I’d been so stealthy. Meanwhile, I’d been tiptoeing past faeries who had probably laughed their heads off at the blind human following an illusion.

Fighting against my rising mortification, I turned to Tamlin. His lips twitched and he clamped them tightly together, but the amusement still danced in his eyes as he nodded. “It was a valiant effort.”

“But I could see the naga—and the puca, and the Suriel. And—and that faerie whose wings were … ripped off,” I said, wincing inwardly. “Why didn’t the glamour apply to them?”

His eyes darkened. “They’re not members of my court,” Tamlin said, “so my glamour didn’t keep a hold on them. The puca belongs to the wind and weather and everything that changes. And the naga … they belong to someone else.”

“I see,” I lied, not quite seeing at all. Lucien chuckled, sensing it, and I glared sidelong at him. “You’ve been noticeably absent again.”

He used the dagger to clean his nails. “I’ve been busy. So have you, I take it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

“If I offer you the moon on a string, will you give me a kiss, too?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Tamlin said to him with a soft snarl, but Lucien continued laughing, and was still laughing when he left the room.

Alone with Tamlin, I shifted on my feet. “So if I were to encounter the Attor again,” I said, mostly to avoid the heavy silence, “would I actually see it?”

“Yes, and it wouldn’t be pleasant.”

“You said it didn’t see me that time, and it certainly doesn’t seem like a member of your court,” I ventured. “Why?”

“Because I threw a glamour over you when we entered the garden,” he said simply. “The Attor couldn’t see, hear, or smell you.” His gaze went to the window beyond me, and he ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve done all I can to keep you invisible to creatures like the Attor—and worse. The blight is acting up again—and more of these creatures are being freed from their tethers.”

My stomach turned over. “If you spot one,” Tamlin continued, “even if it looks harmless but makes you feel uncomfortable, pretend you don’t see it. Don’t talk to it. If it hurts you, I … the results wouldn’t be pleasant for it, or for me. You remember what happened with the naga.”

This was for my own safety, not his amusement. He didn’t want me hurt—he didn’t want to punish them for hurting me. Even if the naga hadn’t been part of his court, had it hurt him to kill them?

Realizing he waited for my answer, I nodded. “The … the blight is growing again?”

“So far, only in other territories. You’re safe here.”

“It’s not my safety I’m worried about.”

Tamlin’s eyes softened, but his lips became a thin line as he said, “It’ll be fine.”

“Is it possible that the surge will be temporary?” A fool’s hope.

Tamlin didn’t reply, which was answer enough. If the blight was becoming active again … I didn’t bother to offer my aid. I already knew he wouldn’t allow me to help with whatever this conflict was.

But I thought of that painting I’d given him, and what he’d said about it … and wished he would let me in anyway.



The next morning, I found a head in the garden.

A bleeding male High Fae head—spiked atop a fountain statue of a great heron flapping its wings. The stone was soaked in enough blood to suggest that the head had been fresh when someone had impaled it on the heron’s upraised bill.

I had been hauling my paints and easel out to the garden to paint one of the beds of irises when I stumbled across it. My tins and brushes had clattered to the gravel.

I didn’t know where I went as I stared at that still-screaming head, the brown eyes bulging, the teeth broken and bloody. No mask—so he wasn’t a part of the Spring Court. Anything else about him, I couldn’t discern.