The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

“It’s supposed to be very beautiful, the Citadel,” Oak says. “Is it beautiful, Wren?”

When the light went through the ice of the castle, it made rainbows that danced along its cold halls. You could almost see through the walls, as though the whole place was one large, cloudy window. When I was brought to it for the first time, I thought it was like living inside a sparkling diamond.

“It’s not,” I say. “It’s an ugly place.”

Tiernan looks surprised. I am sure he is, since, if he stole Hyacinthe from Lady Nore, he knows exactly what the Citadel looks like.

But when I think of it, what I recall is grotesque. Making people betray themselves was Lady Nore’s favorite sport, and one in which she was very skilled. Tricking her supplicants and prisoners into sacrificing that which they cared most about. Breaking their own instruments. Their own fingers. The necks of those they loved best.

Everything died in the Ice Citadel, but hope died first.

Laugh, child, Lady Nore commanded, not long before our trip to Elfhame. I do not remember what she wanted me to laugh at, although I am sure it was something awful.

But by then I had retreated so far inside myself that I don’t think she was certain I’d even heard her. She slapped me and I bit her, ripping open the skin of her hand. That was the first moment I thought I saw a flicker of fear in her face.

That is the place I need to return to, that cold place where nothing can reach me. Where I can do anything.

“For now,” Oak says, “let’s concern ourselves with getting to Undry Market. I don’t think we can risk ragwort again, even if we could find another patch. We’re going to have to go on foot.”

“I’ll leave first,” the knight says. “And start arranging for the boat. You take a different route to confuse our trail.”

Somewhere on Tiernan’s person—or in his pack—are strands of my hair. But even if I found them, can I be sure they don’t have more? Can I be certain there isn’t one stuck on the cloak Oak draped over my shoulders? Can I be sure Oak didn’t pilfer another when he was brushing my hair?

My gaze goes to the prince’s bag. I wouldn’t need to care about the strands of hair if there was nothing that could be done with them.

If I snatched the bridle and ran, when I got to Lady Nore, I could be the one to make her wear it.

Oak sits by the fire, singing a song to himself that I catch only snatches of. Something about a pendulum and fabric that’s starting to fray. The firelight limns his hair, turning the gold dark, the shadows making his features sharp and harsh.

He’s the kind of beautiful that makes people want to smash things.

Tonight, while they sleep, I will steal the bridle. Hadn’t Oak talked about a bus station, one that appeared to be open, no matter the hour? I will go there and begin my journey as a mortal might. I have Gwen’s phone. I can use it to warn my unfamily of what’s coming.

While I am thinking through this plan, Oak is telling Tiernan about a mermaid he knows, with hair the silver of the shine on waves. He thinks that if he could speak to her, she might be able to tell him more about what’s going on in the Undersea.

Eventually, I curl up in my blanket, watching Tiernan cover the lean-to with Oak’s burgled tarps. Then he climbs a tree, settling himself in its branches like a cradle.

“I’ll take first watch,” he volunteers gruffly.

“Titch can guard us for a few hours,” says Oak, nodding to the owl-faced hob in the tree. It nods, its head rotating uncannily. “We could all use the rest.”

I try to tamp down my rising panic. Surely Titch will be easier to get past than Tiernan would have been. But I had not counted on anyone standing watch. An oversight that makes me wonder what other obvious thing I have overlooked. What other foolish mistake is there to make?

Oak rolls himself up in his damp cloak. He looks at me as though he wants to say something, but when I refuse to meet his gaze, he settles down to sleep. I am glad. I am not as skilled at hiding my feelings as I would like.

At first, I count the stars, starting in the east and then moving west. It isn’t easy, because I can’t tell if I’ve counted some already and keep going back and starting again. But it does while away time.

At last, I close my eyes, counting again, this time to a thousand.

When I get to 999, I sit up. The others appear asleep, the gentle susurrations of their breaths even and deep. Above me, Titch’s golden eyes blink, staring into the dark.

I creep over to Oak’s bag, lying beside his sword. The fire has burned down to embers. Starlight shines on his features, smoothed out in slumber.

Kneeling, I slide my finger into the sack, past a paperback book, granola bars, candles, a scroll, and several more knives, until I feel the smooth strap. My fingers tremble at the touch of the leather. The enchantment on it seems to spark.

I tug the bridle out as gently and slowly as I am able.

Nearby, a fox calls. Frogs bellow at one another from the ferns.

I risk a look at the owl-faced hob, but it is still watching for danger outside the camp. There is no reason, I tell myself, for it to believe that I am doing anything more than rooting for a snack. I am no threat.

I don’t have a bag like Oak’s to hide the bridle in, but I do have a scarf, and I wind it up in that and then tie it around my waist like a belt. My heart is beating so fast that it seems as though it’s skipping, like stones across a pond.