The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

I must have made some impulsive, jerky movement, because the prince’s gaze goes to me. One of the ogres turns in my direction and chuckles.

“Well, well,” he says. “She looks delicious. Is she yours? Since you defended a thief, perhaps we ought to show you what it feels like to be stolen from.”

Oak’s voice hardens. “You’re witless enough not to know the difference between eating a rock and a sweetmeat until your teeth crack, but know this—she is not to be touched.”

“What did you say?” asks his companion with a grunt.

Oak’s eyebrows go up. “Banter isn’t your strong suit, is it? I was attempting to indicate that your friend here was a fool, a muttonhead, a clodpate, an asshat, an oaf—”

The ogre punches him, massive fist connecting with Oak’s cheekbone hard enough to make him stagger. The ogre hits him again, blood spattering from his mouth.

An odd gleam comes into the prince’s eye.

Another blow lands.

Why doesn’t he hit back? Even if Oak wanted them to strike first, they’ve done it. He would be well within his rights to fight. “Queen Annet will punish you for attacking the Crown Prince!” I shout, hoping the ogre will come to his senses before Oak gets hurt worse.

At my words, the other ogre clamps down on his friend’s shoulder, restraining him from a third blow. “The boy’s had enough.”

“Have I?” Oak asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His smile grows, showing red teeth.

I turn to him in utter disbelief.

Oak stands up straighter, ignoring the bruise blooming beneath one eye, pushing away the hair hanging in his face. He looks a little dazed.

“Hit me again,” the prince says, daring them.

The two ogres share a look. The companion seems nervous. The other makes a fist.

“Come on.” Oak’s smile does not seem to belong to him. It’s not the one he turned on the dancers. Not the one he turned on me. It’s full of menace, his eyes shining like a blade. “Hit me.”

“Stop it!” I scream, so loud that several more people turn toward me. “Stop!”

Oak appears chagrined, as though he were the only one I was yelling at. “Your pardon,” he says.

They allow him to stumble over to me. Whether he’s punch-drunk or just plain drunk, I cannot tell.

“You’re hurt,” I say, foolishly.

“I lost you in the crowd,” Oak says. There’s a bruise purpling at the corner of his mouth, and a few specks of blood mixed with his freckles.

The same mouth that I kissed.

I nod, too stunned to do more. My heart is still racing.

“Shall we put our dance practice to some purpose?” he asks.

“Dance?” I ask, my voice coming out a little high.

His gaze goes to the circles of leaping and cavorting Folk. I wonder if he is in shock.

I have just come from betraying him. I feel rather shocked myself.

I put my hand in his as if mesmerized. There is only the warmth of his fingers against my chilly skin. His amber fox eyes, pupils wide and dark. His teeth catch his lip, as though he’s nervous. I reach up and touch his cheek. Blood and freckles.

He’s shaking a little. I guess if I’d done what he did, I’d still be shaking, too.

“Your Highness,” comes a voice.

I drop his hand. The rose-haired knight has pushed her way through the crowd, three more heavily armored soldiers behind her. Their expressions are grim.

My stomach drops.

The knight bows. “Your Highness, I am Revindra, part of Queen Annet’s guard. And I bring news that your—that one of your companions broke into our prison and released Lady Nore’s spy as well as one of Queen Annet’s mortals and a merrow from the Undersea.”

I say nothing. There’s nothing for me to say.

“What evidence do you have?” Oak asks with a quick glance in my direction.

“A confession from a kelpie that he gave her aid. She paid him with this.” Revindra opens her palm to show the silver fox with the peridot eyes.

His jaw tightens. “Wren?”

I don’t know how to answer for what I did.

Oak takes the playing piece, an abstracted expression coming over his face. “I thought never to see this again.”

“We’re here to take Suren,” Revindra goes on. “And we will take it ill if you attempt to prevent us.”

The gaze that Oak slants toward me is as cold as the one he bestowed on the ogres.

“Oh,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”





CHAPTER

8

A

t fourteen, I learned to make tea out of crushed spruce needles along with bee balm flowers, boiled over a fire.

“Would you like a cup, Mr. Fox?” I asked my stuffed animal solicitously, as though we were very fancy.

He didn’t want any. Since stealing Mr. Fox back from my unparents’ boxes, I’d cuddled up with him every night, and his fur had become dingy from sleeping on moss and dirt.

Worse, there were a few times I’d left him behind when I went to sit underneath windows at Bex’s school or the local community college, repeating probably useless poems and snatches of history to myself, or doing sums by tracing the numbers in the earth. One night when I returned, I found he’d been attacked by a squirrel looking for material to nest in and most of his insides had been pulled out.