The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

“Sing a song of sixpence,” I sang as softly as I could. “Pocket full of snakes. If they take my head off, that’ ll cure my aches.”

Oak laughed as though my song was actually funny and not just some weird, grim doggerel. But however poorly done, my debt was paid, which meant I had another chance to win my freedom.

I grabbed up the foxes to play again before he could change the stakes.

Mine landed with one standing, two on their sides. Five measly, stupid, useless points. Nearly impossible to win with. I wanted to kick the figurines into the dirt, to throw them at Oak. I would owe him twice over and still have nothing. I could feel the old burn of tears behind my eyes, the taste of salt in my mouth. I was an unlucky child, ill-fated and—

On Oak’s toss, the foxes all landed on their sides for zero points.

I caught my breath and stared at him. I won. I won.

He didn’t seem disappointed to have to pay the forfeit. He got up with a grin and took out a knife from a sheath I hadn’t noticed, hidden in the sleeve of his shirt. The blade was small and leaf-shaped, its handle chased in gold, its edge sharp.

It barely parted the strands of the heavy rope, though, each one taking minutes of sawing to slice through. I had tried my own teeth on them before, with little success, but I hadn’t realized how tough they really were.

“There’s some kind of enchantment on this,” he said, frustrated.

“Cut faster,” I said, and received an annoyed look.

My fingers vibrated with the tension of waiting. Before he was a quarter of the way through, the thunder of horses and the rattle of a carriage made me realize that my win had come too late. Lady Nore and Lord Jarel were returning to camp. And they would check to make certain I was where they’d left me. Oak began to hack at the rope frantically, but I knew escape was impossible.

“Go,” I told him, disappointment bitter in my mouth.

He caught hold of my hand, pressing one of the silver foxes into my palm. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “I promise.”

I sucked in my breath at that casually given vow. Faeries couldn’t break their promises, so I had no choice but to believe him.



The next night the entire Court of Teeth was preparing for what Lord Jarel had announced with great smugness was to be a celebratory feast. The mortal High Queen had agreed to accept the bridle, along with their offer of a truce. I had been given a dress and told not to get it dirty, so I stood rather than sat on the ground.

I worried that Oak wouldn’t get there in time to keep me from being carted off to the feast. I was dreaming up ways to beseech him at the castle when he emerged from the woods. He dragged a sword behind him, too long to wear at his side. It made me recall that he’d jumped in front of his mother when the serpent king darted toward her, a prince from a fairy tale facing down a dragon. He might have been soft and cherished, but he could be brave.

Oak winked at me, and I wondered if he was brave because he didn’t understand the danger he was in.

I glanced at the camp, then at him, widening my eyes in warning. But he came to my side anyway, drew the sword, and started to saw away at my bindings.

“The sword’s name is Nightfell,” he whispered. “It belongs to Jude.”

His sister. The High Queen. It was such a different way to be royal, to have a family that you would consider by their relationship to you before their title. Whose weapon you wouldn’t be afraid to steal.

The blade was sharp and must have been well made, since it sliced through the enchanted rope much faster than the little knife.

“Her human father was a blacksmith,” he went on. “He forged the sword before she was born.”

“Where is he now?” I wondered if she had her own unfamily somewhere.

“Madoc killed him.” Oak’s tone made it sound as though he was aware that was bad, but not so bad that his sister would bear a grudge. I don’t know what I ought to have expected; Oak might make an exception for his sisters, might have enjoyed the pizza, but that didn’t mean he thought much of mortal lives.

My gaze went in the direction of the main camp, where Madoc’s tent would be. Inside, he’d be preparing for the banquet. Preparing to trick Jude, his foster daughter, whose sword this was and whose father he’d slain. Oak seemed to be laboring under the illusion that Madoc cared about him enough that Oak would be safe if he got caught, but I doubted that was the case.

The last strand of rope parted, and I was free, although it still braceleted my leg.

“They’ll be traveling to the banquet,” I whispered. “They might spot us.”

He took my hand and pulled me toward the woods. “Then we better go fast. Come on, we can hide in my room.”

Together, we ran through the mossy forest, past white trees with red leaves and streams holding pale-eyed nixies that watched us as we went by.

This felt a little bit like one of Lady Nore and Lord Jarel’s games. Sometimes they would act in a way that suggested affection, then behave as though they had never felt anything but disgust. Leave out something I desperately desired—food, a key to a room in the Citadel where I might hide, a storybook to hide with—and then punish me for taking it.

But I ran anyway. And clutched his fingers as though he could drag me into a world where other kinds of games were possible. Hope lit my heart.