(Warning: this chapter contains a rape scene, and a flashback to a murder scene. It also includes a line taken directly from Holly Black's 2018 Kindle short story The Lost Sisters, as well as referencing a scene from that story.)

Ball

When I was nine years old, I killed a faerie.

Jude doesn't know, but I know about that guard who bit off the top digit of her finger. A pixie, hissing with delighted malice, came and told me all about it, pinching and poking me, gloating as it told me the whole story: how the guard had bitten off my sister's finger, crunched it up in front of her, and promised that he would eat up the rest of her if she told anyone. How she promised she wouldn't tell ("Like a coward," the pixie specified). I think it hoped I would cower back in terror, or cry. Instead, I knocked it out of the air, turned around, and went to find Madoc.

He listened, grim-faced, as I told him everything. When I finished, he said, "You did the right thing in telling me, Taryn. Rest assured, he will be punished."

I let out a long sigh of relief. "What about Jude?"

"Leave her alone. She promised she wouldn't tell. We mustn't impugn her honor."

I blinked at this. Even at age nine, I thought this was rather missing the point. But, of course, I couldn't argue. I curtsied and said, "Of course."

He nodded approval. "Come to the back training yard at sunset tonight."

I promised I would, and he dismissed me.

That night, I went to the training yard expecting—what? Perhaps to see the perpetrator whipped and cowering, promising never to do it again, before being tossed out on his ear, his own finger cut off. That would have been justice. When I arrived, I saw the perpetrator, all right: trussed up like a sheep for butchering, breath labored and eyes wide with terror, while Madoc stood over him with a long, wickedly sharp knife.

"Ah, Taryn, just in time," he said. He gave his prisoner a swift kick, and the guard moaned. "I got this scut to confess everything."

"My lord…General…" whispered the guard pathetically. "Please…"

"Do you think begging will spare your life?" Madoc demanded coldly. "You attacked one of my family. You let your personal feelings take precedence over my orders. I have no use for a guard who assaults my daughter. I have no use for a soldier without discipline, who cannot follow my orders. You're worthless, and you'll die for it." And with that, Madoc bent down and stuffed a gag into his prisoner's mouth.

Then he turned to me and held out the knife. "Here," he said. "Cut his throat."

I reeled back. "Me?"

"Of course. It was your sister he assaulted. Normally I'd let Jude do it herself, but she gave her word and we mustn't insult her honor. Now finish him, and get revenge."

Still I shrank back. "Can't I just…cut off his finger?" The very thought made me gag, but it was better than the alternative. "I mean, he didn't kill Jude—"

"Taryn." Madoc surged at me, and I shut up. "It's weakness like that that gets people killed. When you identify an enemy, you don't just slap back and give them a chance to turn it into a vendetta. When you identify an enemy, you eliminate them. You destroy the threat. That's how you become strong. That's how you become powerful. Now kill him, like I've taught you, and get vengeance for your sister, as is your duty."

Slowly, I came forward. I took the knife. It was heavy in my hands, awkward. I knelt down by the prisoner. His red eyes bugged out, and he wriggled away from me, whimpering.

Madoc had taught me how to slice through an animal's throat, so the lifeblood drained in seconds. It turned out to be true for faeries, too. His blood surged out under my blade, a wave of scorching red. I tried not to let it get on my hands or dress, but of course it did. I lurched back, bloody skirt clinging to my knees, bloody hands shaking, and sobbed as the faerie's eyes dimmed and he subsided silently into death.

"Well done." Madoc laid a hand on my shoulder, and I was too numb to shrug it away. "Very good, Taryn. You're better with knives than I thought." He took the knife away from me, wiping it on a rag, then held it out to me. "Would you like to keep it?"

Mutely, I shook my head. No words seemed equal to the occasion.

Madoc shrugged and sheathed it. "Don't look like that, Taryn," he said. "You did the right thing tonight. You avenged your sister—not that you should tell her, of course. We don't want to injure her pride. But you avenged her, and administered discipline, and that is a fine and honorable thing. You were strong, and you should feel proud."

I had never felt weaker. I had never felt more sunk with shame and degradation. I kept seeing that faerie's final moments, how the life drained out of his eyes. I couldn't stop seeing it.

Madoc hugged me gently. "It gets easier with time. I promise." He pushed me away. "Now go get cleaned up. You mustn't wander the house like that."

Somehow, I curtsied. Somehow, I made it out of that courtyard. Then, the moment I was out of Madoc's sight, I crashed to my knees and vomited all over the ground.

Madoc made no official announcement of the execution, but word must have gotten around. No one in Madoc's household, servant or soldier, ever tormented me or my sister again. For a long time after the incident, retainers avoided my gaze, edging around me. It didn't make me feel any better.

Jude's finger healed. I never told her or anyone else what happened. I watched her dully after that night: how she walked with her head upright, a faint smile on her lips, carrying the bandage on her finger like it was a prize she'd won in a game. She didn't know or care about the dead faerie. She was proud, I realized at last: proud of how she bore the pain and horror all on her own, how she didn't tell anyone. And Madoc was proud of her, too, just as he was proud of me for killing a helpless, trussed up prisoner. They both thought that bearing pain and delivering death proved their power, their strength, their worthiness.

But killing that whimpering faerie didn't make me powerful or worthy. All it did was prove just how powerless I was.

After Oriana's little talk, I'm not exactly in the mood for a ball, especially not at the royal palace. But, as ever, I have no choice.

"What's going on in here?" Oriana pops her head into my room, where I am delaying getting dressed. "Taryn, why aren't you ready?"

I can't meet her eyes. I shrug.

"She's refusing to get dressed," Tatterfell says, sounding harassed.

"Taryn." Oriana's voice takes on a dangerous timber. "Stop being ridiculous. You have to attend the ball. Get dressed."

"What's going on?" Jude wanders down the hall, resplendent in her sunlight-on-leaves dress. She peers in at me. "What's the matter with you?"

I can't look at her, either. "I don't want to go," I mumble.

"Oh, don't be such a weakling. You want the Court of Grackles to learn that you're afraid of one ball? Here, I'll help." She and Oriana both descend on me, and, with Tatterfell's assistance, I'm tricked out for the royal ball in no time.

I do look good. In the mirror, I see a dark-eyed girl with elaborately worked dark hair, arrayed in silver-embroidered twilight cloth, silver and sapphires gleaming in my ears, at my wrists and neck, and in my hair. The only thing missing is a smile, and maybe a bit more sparkle in my eyes. I'm going to a ball. I should be excited, happy.

But I'm sick of pretending.

Oriana starts hustling us down to the waiting carriage. Tatterfell kisses me on the forehead, lips like rough bark. "Have a good time, Miss Taryn," she says. "Remember to enjoy yourself."

I manage a small smile for her, and follow Oriana out.

Down by the front entrance, the carriage is already waiting. Madoc and Vivienne are waiting too. Madoc gives me an irate (nice word) look, while Vivi sneaks a small smirk. She likes it when any of us makes trouble for Madoc.

"Well, at least you're here," Madoc growls. "In you get."

All throughout the carriage ride, I keep my head down, looking out the window through the corner of my eye. The lights of the fey flash through the trees, and there are squeals of laughter, and sudden, excited scurries through the underbrush. A royal ball brings out everyone, even the common faeries. I see a figure standing by the roadside, and turn my head to look at it fully. It's a tree goblin, one of the wild fey, decked out with feathers and strings of beads. His crest of stiff, spiky hairs stands high, and his prehensile tail weaves lazily around his ankles. He gives me a salute as we go by, and I look away again.

And there's the royal palace, shining brighter than any mortal building, with the moonlit ocean beyond, and the lights of the mortal world beyond that. I find myself staring at those lights as we get out of the coach; what, really, do I remember of the seven years I spent there? On those occasions Vivi takes us to Earth, exploring or shopping in human malls, it all seems so unreal.

The royal ballroom of the High Court is a marvelous, ever-changing place. Tonight, it's a tropical rainforest, with spices floating on the air, liana vines hanging from bright green trees, heavy flowers breathing dizzying perfume. A warm stream provides a venue for the water fey, who coo and hold up clawed hands for cups of wine. Courtiers drift in their incomparable gowns and suits, talking and eating elegant snacks, before the dancing starts. King Eldred sits on a living throne blooming with flowers, talking to one of his senior courtiers; led by Madoc, we all march up to make our bows and curtsies.

"Ah, General," the King says. He runs a flat, uninterested glance over us. "And your lovely daughters, I see."

Straightening from my curtsy, I look around apprehensively for Balekin. But he's not here right now: just the middle prince, Dain, hovering around the King as always. "They're growing up," Dain says to Madoc. "I expect you'll be wanting to get them married soon." He hands his father a glass of wine.

Eldred takes it with a gesture of that speaks of utter ennui. He looks both very bored and very tired. "Yes, I expect you will, General."

"Naturally, Your Majesty." Madoc's eyes flick between Dain and Vivienne, who utterly ignore one another.

"And then I expect they'll make you a grandfather," Eldred says, a note of malice entering his voice. He gives Dain a sidelong, vicious look. "Not like my sons—barren as iron sticks, the lot of them. Not a single child off any of them, and it's not for their lack of trying."

The courtiers titter as Dain goes white with mortification. Eldred's been doing this more and more: making nasty digs about his three sons' lack of offspring. You can hear his anger and disappointment in every syllable, and he has reason: if one of the Greenbriar princes doesn't produce an heir soon, the line stands in danger of losing the throne. Faerie can't risk having a High King without an heir. But the possibility seems remote: none of the princes, in six hundred years, has fathered a child, and, as Eldred said, it's not for their lack of trying.

Part of me feels sorry for Dain. But mostly I'm too busy watching for Balekin to care about Dain's troubles.

We make our goodbyes and step away. Madoc immediately starts a conversation with another redcap. Oriana stops to talk to another court lady. Vivi nibbles nuts, looking bored. Jude glances around. She'd never admit it, but I know she's looking for Cardan. She hates his guts, and with reason, but I sometimes think she enjoys sparring with him. She certainly seems to seek out their confrontations.

But it's the palace schoolteacher, Noggle, who finds Jude, wandering up with an amiable smile. "Hello, Miss Jude," he says warmly. Jude's one of his favorite students. "Care to look at the stars with me later?"

"Certainly, Master Noggle," she says politely, as she's bound to. He's one of the greatest teachers in Faerie, while she's a human girl; she has to say yes. Besides, she likes him. "Seen anything interesting in the sky lately?"

"Oh, yes. Just last night." He takes a drink from his glass. "There was a falling star across the constellation of the fruiting tree, and the fruits turned bright red."

This captures even Vivienne's attention. "But that means—"

"Yes." Noggle's black eyes gleam. "The birth of a royal heir." He shrugs, face carefully blank. He knows too much of the stars to disbelieve them, but he doesn't need to say how unlikely this seems.

Still, miracles can happen. For a moment I smile, thinking how nice it would be for there to be a new prince or princess at Court: a new little baby. Then I remember Oriana's little talk and turn away, mouth twisting.

Anxiously, I scan the crowd, but still I don't see Balekin. Unfortunately, I'm so busy watching for Balekin that I fail to notice the arrival of his little brother.

"Well, well, well." That familiar, loathed sneer sounds. "If it isn't the Duarte sisters, gracing us with their presence. How do you find time to attend our little celebrations? Isn't your time rather…limited?"

It's Prince Cardan. Of course it is. Pale and beautiful and sneering, surrounded by his Court of Fawning Sycophants (officially they're called the Court of Grackles, but, frankly, I think the Court of Fawning Sycophants suits them much better—though, to be fair, this could describe most courtiers).

Looking at them, a memory pops into my head. It was just before I left school for good. I was reading a book while waiting for Jude to finish up tournament practice (I could still concentrate long enough to read, back then). One of the Fawning Sycophants—I don't remember which one—sidled up and asked me, "How does it feel? To be stuck in a fairy tale?"

I didn't reply. Of course, I'd pretty much stopped talking to anyone outside the family by that time, but I don't think I would have answered him even if I'd been Faerie's most outgoing, extraverted chatterbox. "How does it feel to be stuck in a fairy tale?" Honestly. What an idiotic question. What a stupid gambit.

I think he was probably the one who put that note in my rucksack, the last day I ever went to school, but I threw it away without reading it. I'm really not interested in anything a Fawning Sycophant would put in a note.

Now Vivi's eyes blaze. Noggle looks uncomfortable. But Jude turns as though she's only just seen Cardan.

"There you are, Your Highness. Slow as usual." Any other Greenbriar, and Jude could have expected severe punishment for such insolence. But Cardan's been out of favor basically since he was born, and she can get away with it. "Still idling? Tsk, tsk."

He flushes under her implication. "At least I have time to idle. I'm not going to die." He sneers at me and Jude over his glass, and the Fawning Sycophants snigger.

Jude flushes angrily, but I don't. I remember the exact moment that digs about my mortality ceased to deliver any sting.

It was when a human guest lecturer came to class, to teach us about probability and statistics (he was enchanted to believe himself lecturing at a different school than usual, which was, of course, true). Most of it went over my head, but it got me thinking about faerie lifespans.

Most faeries would be quick to say that they have no lifespans; they're going to live forever. And this is, technically, possible. Faeries don't age, and don't die naturally. But, as I learned firsthand, there are more ways than simple ageing to die, and Faerie has its share of them. Even if you factor out the faerie infant mortality rate—which is quite high, for many faeries are born weak and sickly—there's still warfare and murder, malefic curses and the curious magical diseases that can lay waste to faerie populations. There are the many carnivorous predators of Faerie; for faeries who venture to the human world, there's iron and salt poisoning. There's the brutal justice of Faerie, such as Madoc forced me to deliver. There's even suicide, and simple fatal accident. Just because these dangers are relatively few and far between doesn't mean they don't exist; and every year a faerie lives, the higher the chances become that they will meet with one. When a faerie lives forever, it becomes inevitable that they will eventually encounter one lethal danger too many.

Ironic, that the very thing they boast of so much—their immortality—is what leads to each faerie's inevitable demise.

So every time Cardan or his Sycophants say, You're going to die, I just think, So are you.

Which is not to say that he's not hurtful or infuriating. His cold eyes turn on me, and I clench. "This one here," he says. "Silent as the grave already."

"Would that you were so silent," Jude sneers. "You'd spare everyone a lot of grief, including yourself, Your Highness." She smiles sweetly. "For it must be so dreadful, having to listen to yourself, all day long, every day. And it will go on and on and on, forever. How can you bear such an awful sentence?" She widens her eyes in faux sympathy, clutching her hands. "Poor, poor Cardan."

He draws in a furious breath, and now Noggle, of all people, comes to the rescue. "Your Highness," he says, bowing, "forgive me, but I must take Miss Jude away. She has said she will inspect the stars with me."

Cardan has to visibly get himself under control. He can insist that Jude stay, of course, but Noggle can report him to Eldred, who will take Noggle's side. "Of course," he says with a good approximation of magnanimity. "Go look at the stars—while you still can."

Jude looks sulky at being denied her sparring match, but follows Noggle off with one last curtsy and venomous glare. Vivienne takes the opportunity to give her own curtsy, holding my arm so I curtsy with her, and drags me off.

"Never mind that jackass," she says, although I, of course, haven't said anything and I don't think my face shows anything either. "Here, have some honey cakes."

I take one and eat it distractedly. That conversation has turned my thoughts in a most unexpected direction. Death. It should evoke fear and horror, but it doesn't. Instead, there's something almost pleasing about the idea.

Death. Being dead. No more misery. No more pain. No Madoc, no Balekin, no Cardan, no memories of my murdered parents or that faerie I killed. Not a single faerie at all, in fact. Just…nothing. It sounds like paradise.

I imagine sloughing off my body, dissolving into nothingness. All hurt falling away, all thought and emotion evaporating, as I sink into the endless sleep—

"May I have this dance, Miss Taryn?"

My fantasy shatters as my insides freeze. It's Balekin.

The dancing has begun: the tropical rainforest has retreated to the margins of the room, leaving a wide open expanse for dancing. Balekin stands resplendent in his stars-on-a-night-sky jacket, holding out a hand for me. I look around frantically, but there's no one to rescue me: Jude's off with Noggle, Vivienne is trapped talking to a senior courtier, and Madoc and Oriana are both hands-linked in the dance set. Oriana glances over and gives me a minute nod. Go on. Accept his hand. You know you have to.

And so, with a curtsy, I do. His hand is hard and callused in mine. I let him lead me to the top of the dance.

Murmurs trail behind us like currents of water, a buzz of speculation. That's the girl…Madoc's daughter…Is the prince…? My face flames, and I stare at the floor. Please, let this be over quickly.

Of course, it isn't. The dance goes on forever, in that faerie way, with the music intoxicating everyone's minds and their feet, going on and on in what seems like an eternity of glorious sound and ecstatic movement. If I was dancing with anyone else—even Cardan—I might enjoy this very much. But it's Balekin I'm dancing with, Balekin who circles around me like a shark, his eyes gleaming like a wolf's, and I am certainly not enjoying it. I just feel like prey.

"Are you enjoying your evening, Miss Taryn?" he asks above the music.

I nod. Seldom have I been more grateful for my human ability to lie.

"I am certainly enjoying it." Balekin's a faerie; he can't lie. So yes, he is having fun. Not that I thought otherwise, seeing his shining eyes and smiling mouth. "I haven't enjoyed a ball so much in years."

I stare at him. This is the most fun he's had in years? Dancing with a clumsy, mute, unsmiling human girl? Nearby, I see Cardan frowning at us uneasily, as though he, too, thinks this is strange. But why would he care?

Balekin's hand flickers, and a goblet of red faerie wine appears under my nose. "Have a drink." His grin is all teeth and no joy.

I can't refuse; that would give the worst possible offense. I manufacture a faint smile and drink.

It tastes amazing: liquid gold singing down my throat. Around us, the ball is getting more raucous: winged faeries are shooting through the air, courtiers are whirling like stars, and someone's been turned into a rabbit, hopping across the floor in startled, panicked bewilderment. I giggle a little, watching its progress, and notice that the goblet is empty. When did I drink the whole thing?

Balekin gently takes my arm, and I stumble a little as we leave the dance floor. I must be drunker than I realized. I smile muzzily at Cardan, the only one watching us leave. I can't think why he looks so worried.

Grass bends beneath our feet. We are far from the ball, out in the royal gardens. Alone. And I realize that I'm more than a little worried myself.

I stiffen, but Balekin draws me on, beneath the blazing stars of Faerie, through the shadows of the midnight garden. It's so hard to think through the haze of that wine; I can't imagine how I'm supposed to get away.

"Taryn." My name is a hiss in his mouth. His eyes on my face are greedy, devouring. "I don't know what it is about you, Taryn. You're not beautiful. You're a mortal. But it's you I think about at night…" He leans closer; his breath comes in hisses. "Maybe it's your silence," he whispers. "Yes, I think that's it. That silence…so intoxicating…"

His lips are parted; his face comes down at mine. I react instinctively, without thought for the consequences: I wrench my head violently aside, trying to yank my wrists away. But his grip on them tightens.

"Taryn," he growls. "Don't fight me, Taryn."

And then I know true fear: a howling terror that tears at my insides, horror ripping through my soul. My slippered feet scrabble at the earth. I yank even harder, throwing my whole body away from him. I open my mouth, taking a breath to scream.

"No!" he cries, and makes a stabbing gesture at my throat. "Silence."

I feel the spell leap on me, take hold. Silence. And now, though my mouth is open and I'm screaming as hard as I can, nothing comes out. My vocal cords are frozen. My voice imprisoned.

I can't make a single sound.

"Yes." Balekin's face is livid now, monstrous. I've never seen such naked lust, such soulless hunger. "Yes, silence. Don't make a sound, Taryn. Don't ruin it."

Please, someone come—anyone, even Cardan! But no one comes, and now Balekin is dragging me to the ground, so strong, so large, his clawed hands everywhere, tearing my dress, oh, the dress Madoc paid so much for, it's ruined now, and I'm on my back and he's kneeing my legs apart while pulling up my skirt—

I scream, but no sound comes out. Balekin's spell is a vise, tight around my throat. I claw at his face, and he laughs, eyes gleaming like a beast's in the moonlight. I look around frantically for a weapon—a rock even—but there's nothing to hand, and then—

I choke on the pain as he stabs into me. Over and over, my head knocking against the ground, my back scraped raw, he stabs into me, moaning and whispering my name. I stop trying to scream. I stop trying to fight. I lie, brain an utter blank, while he thrusts into me and I can do nothing. Nothing.

At last, he withdraws, pulling out of me. It hurts almost as much as the penetration. Gasping, he rolls over, panting hard. I roll away from him, drawing my knees up to my chest. That brings another flash of pain, and I let out another soundless cry.

This can't have happened. This can't be happening. Please, let this not be happening.

"Taryn." I convulse, trying desperately to break away, as his hand takes the bare flesh of my arm, but he holds tight. He rolls me over, forcing me to face him. His eyes are golden, heartless and shining. "I lay this geas on you, Taryn," he says, low and hard. "That, by neither word nor deed, will you let anyone, in either world, know of what has passed between us tonight. Ever."

And the second curse takes hold, settling in my bones like an ice-cold fever. I sob, silently, and barely notice as he stands and walks away, back to the party.

I try to sit up, but agony flashes through my abdomen. I fall back, crying out—but no sound comes. My stomach roils, hot chaos, and I roll over to vomit, vomit like I've never vomited before, even when I killed that faerie, vomit until only a nasty thin bile comes forth and the finest food of Faerie lies splattered on the ground, reduced to slime and foul lumps and vile-smelling fluid.

My eyes are blurred with tears, but I can't make a single noise. I try to call out—Jude! Oriana! Vivienne!—but their names don't emerge. Only voiceless air passes my moving lips. The tears roll down my face. Mommy. Daddy.

Above me, the moon glows glorious in a field of dagger-bright stars. I hate it. I hate the moon, and the stars, and the night sky, and the gardens, and the velvet shadows. How dare they be so lovely, when this has happened?

I have to get away from that moon. I can't stand, but have to drag myself along the ground. I crawl beneath a large moonflower bush, its blossoms softly glowing, and curl up into a ball in the dark hollow underneath, tears soaking my skirt. I hurt. Inside and out, I hurt.

The night whirls around me. Again I see Balekin's beautiful, bestial face; again I feel his savage thrusts. The stabs of a knife, laying me bare, tearing open my body, stabbing into my soul. I feel so dirty. How is it possible to feel so filthy?

I should get up—I have to get up. But now nothingness is welling up, like black water rising, and I welcome the rising of the water, erasing my thoughts, erasing my being, and Oriana will be so angry about the dress but now the darkness is rising and if this is death then let me die.