The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

He frowns. “There was an incident. This punishment was better than the others.”

This is the most Tiernan has ever spoken to me, and even now, I suspect he is mostly talking to himself.

Still, if he expects me to believe he bridled Hyacinthe for Hyacinthe’s own sake, I will find that hard to do. In the Court of Teeth, everything terrible that happened to me was supposed to be for my benefit. They probably could have found a way to slit my throat and call it a gift.

We pause at the edge of the great hall.

“Allow me to escort you in?” Oak asks me, offering his arm.

Lupine sighs.

Awkwardly, I place my hand over his, as I see others doing. The pressure of his skin against my palm feels shockingly intimate. I note the three gold rings on his fingers. I note that his nails are clean. Mine are jagged in places or bitten.

I am unfamiliar with Faerie Courts in times of peace, and yet I do not think it is just that which makes me sense the pull toward violence that is in the air. Faeries spin in intersecting circle dances. Some are in garments of silk and velvet, leaping along with those in gowns of stitched leaves or bark, others in bare skin. Among the petals, grasses, silks, and embroidered fabrics are human clothes—t-shirts, leather jackets, tulle skirts. One of the ogres wears a silver-sequined gown over their leather trousers.

Giants move slowly enough for the crowd to part around them, a few goblins dance, a troll sinks her teeth into what appears to be a stag’s liver, a redcap adjusts his gore-soaked hat, pixies flit up into the tangled roots of the domed ceiling, and nixies toss their still-wet hair as they cavort. I note a trio of hobs playing a game of chestnuts in a corner, perhaps to decide what will happen to a sprite that one of them is holding in a birdcage, her feet stuck in honey.

As we enter, Folk turn toward us. They do not look at me in horror, as they did in the Court of Teeth, where I was often paraded before them while I tried to bite my captors and pulled at my chains. I see curiosity in the gazes that follow me, not entirely unmixed with admiration—though that part is doubtless either for the gown or the prince on my arm.

The air is thick with the sweetness of flowers and overripe fruit, making me feel dizzy when it fills my lungs. Small faeries buzz through it like living dust motes.

Long, low tables are heaped with food—grapes as black as ink rest beside golden apples, cakes dusted with sugar and rose petals rise in towers, and pomegranates spill their red seeds onto the tablecloth—pale silk that trails its fringe onto the packed dirt of the floor. Silver goblets stand near carafes of wines—one as green as grass, another the purple of violets, and a third the pale yellow of buttercups.

Fiddlers and pipers spread out across the brugh play songs that ought to have been discordant, but instead the notes come together in a wild and delirious noise. It makes my blood sing.

There are performers nearby, jugglers who toss golden balls into the air that turn silver before being caught. A horned acrobat steps into a flower-covered hoop and arches her back while twisting her body, making it spin. A few Folk gasp in delight. The Gentry flash their haughty, superior smiles.

For me, who has been so much alone, it feels like drowning in a deluge of sights and sounds and smells.

I make a fist of the hand that is not touching Oak, sinking my ragged nails into the pad of my thumb to keep my expression neutral. The pain works, clearing my head.

Do not scream, I tell myself. Do not bite anyone. Do not cry.

The guide indicates a slightly raised dais, where the Unseelie queen sits on a throne of mangrove, roots of it spread out so that they seem like the tentacles of some enormous octopus. Queen Annet wears a gown that is half leather armor and half dramatic extravagance, making her look ready to rise and fight upon a stage. Her hair falls loose in a cascade of black curls, caught in a crown of magenta bougainvillea. Her stomach is round and heavy with child. One of her clawed hands spreads across her belly protectively.

I have learned many things in the woods. I could tell you the flight patterns of crows, how to collect water droplets off leaves after a storm. I could tell you how to unravel the spells of the half dozen Folk who seek to bind mortals into unfair bargains. But I have learned nothing of politics. And yet, I have an awful feeling that every move Queen Annet has made since we arrived was pure calculation.

At Oak’s approach, Queen Annet rises and sinks into a curtsy.

“Please do not trouble yourself,” he says too late. He makes a bow of his own, clearly much surprised to find her pregnant. Faeries do not reproduce easily or often, and rumor was that Queen Annet had spent decades longing in vain for a child.

I make a curtsy, too, lowering my head. I am not sure the exact etiquette relative to our stations, but I hope that if I go low enough and stay there long enough, it will serve.

“Your kindness in giving us rest and refreshment is more than we would have asked,” Oak says, a phrase that could have come only from someone who has been tutored in courtesy, since he sounds polite, but underneath that, a lot is left unsaid.

“And how may we accommodate you further?” asks Queen Annet while settling herself back in her throne with the help of a goblin attendant.

“I have heard that the Thistlewitch makes her home deep in a cypress swamp in your lands. We know that those who seek her there do so at their peril. We ask for a clear path to her, if you can grant us one.”

“And for what purpose do you seek her?” The queen’s gaze brooks little in the way of evasion.