The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

Bogdana goes on. “Tell them that the prince is with you, but sustained an injury. You will send him back to Elfhame once he is rested and ready.”

Hyacinthe gives me a quick look, as though checking to see that I am the same person who so despised captivity as to help him escape from it.

I am not sure I am the same.

“Do not presume to give me orders,” I tell the storm hag. “I may owe you my life, but I also owe you my death.”

She steps back, chastened.

I will not make the same mistakes as Mellith.

“As soon as Tiernan and Madoc reach Elfhame, they will inform the High Court that we’re keeping Oak prisoner,” Hyacinthe says. “No matter what boon the High King and Queen have granted you, they’ll demand his release.”

“Perhaps a storm will delay their progress,” I suggest, with a nod toward Bogdana. “Perhaps Madoc’s injuries will require treatment. Many things can happen.”

All around the hall, birds still perch. Soldiers doomed to feed on kindness. To kill nothing or be forever winged. I close my eyes. I can see the magic binding them. It is tightly coiled and weaves through their little feathered forms, tugging at their tiny hearts. It takes me a moment to find the knots, but when I do, the curses dissipate like cobwebs.

With ecstatic sighs and gasps, these falcons discover they are in their own faerie bodies once more.

“My queen,” one says, over and over. “My queen.”

Surely, I am easier to follow than Lady Nore.

I nod but cannot smile. Somehow as satisfied as I find myself with what I have done, it does not touch me. It is as though my heart is still locked away in a box, still buried underground.



I find myself inextricably drawn to the prisons. There, in his iron cage, I see Oak lying atop the furs I had sent down. He looks up at the ceiling, cloak pillowed beneath his head, and whistles a tune.

I recognize it as one of those we danced to back at Queen Annet’s Court.

I do not shift from the shadows, but perhaps some small movement exposes me, because the prince turns toward where I am.

He squints, as though trying to make out my shape. “Wren?” he says. “Talk to me.”

I don’t reply. What would be the point? I know he will twist me around his finger with words. I know that if I give him half the chance, love-starved creature that I am, I will be under his spell again. With him, I am forever a night-blooming flower, attracted and repelled by the heat of the sun.

“Let me explain,” he calls to me. “Let me atone.”

I bite the tip of my tongue to keep myself from snapping at him. He meant to keep me ignorant. He tricked me. He lied with every smile. With every kiss. With the warmth in his eyes that should have been impossible to fake.

I’d known what he was capable of. Over and over, he’d shown me. And over and over, I believed there would be no more tricks. No more secrets.

Not anymore.

“You have good cause to be furious. But you couldn’t have lied, had you known the truth. I was afraid you’d have to lie.” He waits, and when I say nothing, rolls into a sitting position. “Wren?”

I can see the leather straps running across his cheeks. If he wears the bridle long enough, he’ll have scars.

“Talk to me!” he shouts, standing and coming to the bars. I see the gold of his hair, the sharp line of his cheekbones, the glint of his fox eyes. “Wren! Wren! ”

Coward that I am, I flee. My heart thundering, my hands shaking. But I can’t pretend that I don’t like the sound of him screaming my name.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



I am lucky to have had a bevy of encouragement and advice on this book.

I am grateful to all those who helped me along on the journey to the novel you have in your hands, particularly Dhonielle Clayton, Zoraida Córdova, Marie Rutkoski, and Kiersten White, who helped me kick around the outline of this book as we swam in a pool in the autumn. Even more so, I am grateful to Kelly Link, Cassandra Clare, Joshua Lewis, and Steve Berman, who helped me rip the manuscript apart and stitch it back together in winter (and several other times). And to Leigh Bardugo, Sarah Rees Brennan, Robin Wasserman, and Roshani Chokshi, who helped me rip it apart again in the summer.

Thank you also to the many people who gave me a kind word or a bit of necessary advice, and who I am going to kick myself for not including right here.

A massive thank-you to everyone at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers for returning to Elfhame with me. Thanks especially to my amazing editor, Alvina Ling, and to Ruqayyah Daud, who provided invaluable insight. Thank you to Nina Montoya, who gave me a different perspective. Thank you as well to Marisa Finkelstein, Virginia Lawther, Emilie Polster, Savannah Kennelly, Bill Grace, Karina Granda, Cassie Malmo, Megan Tingley, Jackie Engel, Shawn Foster, Danielle Cantarella, and Victoria Stapleton, among others. And in the UK, thank you to Hot Key Books, particularly Jane Harris and Emma Matthewson.

Thank you to Joanna Volpe, Jordan Hill, Emily Berge-Thielmann, Pouya Shahbazian, Hilary Pecheone, and everyone at New Leaf Literary for making hard things easier. And to Joanna, Jordan, and Emily for going way above and beyond, reading through this book and giving me a bevy of critical (in both senses of the word) notes.

Thank you to Kathleen Jennings, for the wonderful and evocative illustrations.

And thank you, always and forever, to Theo and Sebastian Black, for keeping my heart safe.