The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

“Daughter of the sun,” I read. “Yet made for night, fire causes her to weep, and if she dies before her time, cut off her head and she may be reborn.”

“A riddle,” Hyacinthe groans.

I nod, thinking of the Folk’s love of games. Of how Habetrot had called Oak the Prince of Sunlight. Of the word puzzles my unfamily would play—Scrabble, Bananagrams. Of the poems I memorized from Bex’s schoolbooks and recited to squirrels.

I try to clear my head. “The moon?” Nothing happens. As I look down, I notice there’s a circle etched into the floor, just a little beyond where I stand. I step into it and speak again. “Moon.”

This time, the jaws creak, but instead of opening, the cell shrinks, as though biting down on its prisoner.

Hyacinthe bangs on the toothlike stone bars, panicked. “How is the moon beheaded?”

“It thins to a sliver,” I say, horrified at what I’d nearly done. “But it comes back. And it could be seen as the daughter of the sun—I mean, reflected light and all that.”

No number of explanations for why I thought my answer was right can change that it almost got him crushed. Even now that the movement ceased, I am still left afraid that it will snap closed, grinding him to pieces.

“Be careful!” he hisses.

“Give me your answer, then,” I growl.

He is silent at that.

I think more. Perhaps a rose? I have a vague recollection of being with my unmother at one of her friends’ houses, playing in the backyard while the friend trimmed her rosebushes. There had been something about cutting off the flower heads so there would be more blooms the following year. And daughter of the sun—well, plants liked sun, right? And they didn’t like fire. And, well, people thought of roses as romantic, so maybe they were made for night because people romance one another mostly at night?

That last seems like a stretch, but I can think of nothing better.

“I have something,” I say, my lack of confidence clear in my voice.

He gives me a wary look, then heaves a sigh. “Go ahead,” he tells me.

I move to the spot and take a deep breath. “A rose.”

The teeth grind lower, the ceiling dropping so fast that Hyacinthe sprawls on the floor to avoid getting hit. I hear a sound that might be laughter from the merrow’s cell, but the winged soldier is deathly silent.

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

“Not yet,” he says carefully. “But I don’t think there’s room for the cell to close farther without cracking me like a nut.”

It was different to lie in wait for the glaistig and rip apart her spells, knowing I was the one in danger. To sneak through mortal houses or even run from hags. But to think that because of a mistake of mine, a life could be snuffed out like a—

Daughter of the sun. Made for night. Cut off her head and she’s reborn.

“Candle,” I blurt out.

The stone cavern shifts with a groaning sound, and the bars spring apart like a mouth, like some enormous carnivorous flower. We stare at each other, Hyacinthe moving from terror to laughter. He springs to his feet and spins me around in one arm, then presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You delightful, amazing girl! You did it.”

“We still have to get past the guards,” I remind him, uncomfortable with the praise.

“You freed me from the prison. I will free us from the hill,” he says with an intensity that I think might be pride.

“But first,” I say, “tell what you know about Oak. All of it, this time.”

He makes a face. “On the way.”

I shake my head. “Now.”

“What is it he’s supposed to tell you?” the human girl asks from her cell, and Hyacinthe gives me an exasperated look.

“Not here,” he says, widening his eyes to suggest the reason should be obvious: The girl can hear us. So can the merrow.

“We’re going to get them out, too, so it doesn’t matter,” I say. After all, it wasn’t as though I could be in more trouble if I were discovered.

He stares at me, wide-eyed. “That would be unwise.”

“My name is Gwen,” the girl calls. “Please. I promise I won’t tell anyone what I overheard. I’ll do whatever you want if you take me with you.”

I look up at the writing over the door to her cell. Another riddle. It gorges, yet lacks a maw. Well-fed, it grows swift and strong. Give it a draught, though, and you give it death.

No mouth, but eats . . .

“Wren, did you hear me?” Hyacinthe demands.

“They’re witnesses,” I tell him. “Leaving witnesses behind would also be unwise.”

“Then give me your knife,” he says, frowning. “I’ll take care of them.”

Gwen has come to the edge of the stalagmites. “Wait,” she says, her voice edged with desperation. “I can help you. There’s lots of stuff I can do.”

Like navigate the human world. I don’t want to hurt his pride to say it, but she might be able to hide him in places the Folk are unlikely to look. Together, they can escape more easily than either of them could alone.

“The knife,” Hyacinthe says, putting out his hand as though he really expects me to give him one and let him do it.

I turn, frowning. “You still haven’t told me anything useful about the prince.”