Secrets

It's like a holiday.

The house is crowded with my guests, but there's no denying that they make themselves useful. I've suddenly got four pairs of hands helping me with the housework—well, all right, three. Cardan is utterly useless at chores. But he's amazingly good with the kids. He plays with them for hours, far longer and more patiently than I ever would have expected, and even lets Philomel play with his hair.

"Snail shells and thistle seeds in your hair," Jude says as Philomel finishes her latest braid. "Nice work, Melly: he looks fabulous." She smirks at Cardan over Philomel's head.

Philomel beams. "He does, doesn't he?"

"Tell you what, Philomel," says Cardan, a gleam in his eye. "Why don't you braid up your Aunt Jude? She has a lot more hair than I do."

"No!" Jude cries, but she's overruled, everyone else clamoring her down. We all let Philomel at her head, and laugh ourselves sick at the results.

"You people are awful," she says, brushing aside a clacking braid.

"Faeries always get revenge," says Cardan smugly.

My laughter fades at this, as it stirs up old, dark memories. I eye him somberly. I've kept an anxious watch on him with the children—for I have not forgotten his own behavior as a child—but he shows no signs whatsoever of bullying or meanness. Jude really has had an effect on him, I'm forced to admit.

Of course, I'd never let the kids out of my sight with Cardan if it weren't for Birch. He comes by every day, ostensibly to check in on the guests he's guaranteed, but in reality, I think, to keep an eye on them. He never lets Cardan, or anyone else, go off with the children alone, but follows along, beaming at the kids and glaring at the guest.

"What's his problem?" Vivienne asks me on the second morning, watching Birch shadow Cardan and the kids around the clearing. He's already grumpily refused to let Heather photograph him. "It's almost like he wants Cardan to threaten them, just so he can attack him."

I shake my head, even though I secretly agree. Birch doesn't trust Court faeries, I write in the notebook. No one here does.

Heather, having wandered back over, reads over my shoulder. "How'd you get their trust, then? They must've seen you were from a Court."

Before I can answer, a figure appears, limping through the trees. Standing up, I hold out my hands in greeting while Cardan freezes and the kids scamper forward. Jude, emerging from the house, pauses, reaching for her sword.

It's a frog-faerie, hopping painfully on a lame leg. She hesitates, staring at the crowd. "Is this the house of the Unicorn-Blessed?" she says nervously. "I…thought you lived here with only your children."

"They're our guests!" Philomel laughs. "Mommy's family. What's the matter?"

"It's my leg." She holds out a spotted limb as I hurry forward, my guests peering interestedly. "I cut it on a metal pipe, swimming on the Ironside. So much trash there these days…Can you help, Lady Healer?"

Concealing my pleasure at the faerie's deference and my family's obvious astonishment, I nod and lay my hands on the faerie's wound. A flash of unicorn light, and the wound seals closed.

The frog-faerie lets out a long, ribbiting sigh of relief. "Ah, Lady Healer, you're a marvel." She fidgets. "What will you take in repayment? I have very little, but I can do your family's laundry for the next month." She eyes my guests. "Maybe—ah—just you and your children?" she says in a low voice.

I half-grin. Yes, I write in the notebook. How often can you come? We work out the details while the kids wander off and my guests continue to stare.

When we're finished, the frog nods nervously at my well-armed, powerful visitors. "Good day to you."

"Wait a sec!" Heather brandishes her camera. "Can I take a picture of you? I've never seen a faerie like you before. I'll give you this bracelet in exchange." She brandishes a woven-thread bracelet. It turns out she brought dozens of them, as part of a surprisingly far-sighted and prudent preparation for travel in Faerie Land.

"Aunt Heather makes some good bracelets!" Philomel shows her own decorated wrist. "She's been teaching me and Dogwood." Dogwood nods, holding up his own bracelet.

"Um, all right." The frog-faerie takes the bracelet and shyly poses for her portrait. She then hops off, far more energetically this time, and soon disappears in the direction of the river.

Jude lets out a long whistle. "So that's how you've been earning your living," she says. "All the sick and injured faeries come to you, don't they?"

I nod, beaming, and behind Cardan, Birch smirks proudly. "She's our very own Lady Healer. No other valley has anyone like her," he adds boastfully.

I look at him, oddly hurt. Is that all I am? But why should I be unhappy with that? Birch is right: I'm valued for my gift, and rightly so. I try to shake off the weird unhappiness.

"She saves babies, too!" Philomel bounces around. "When they're born sickly and deformed, she can heal them so they live. Like you, Dogwood!"

Dogwood nods solemnly. "I was the first faerie she ever healed."

"That's right." Birch gently shepherds him and Philomel away. "Now, why don't you go make some more bracelets with your Aunt Heather…?"

"I wish you'd stop photographing every faerie you meet," Vivi mutters to Heather as they shepherd the kids away.

"Hey, I'm getting some great footage here. There might be an exhibit in this!"

I glower at her as she goes by, and point at the camera: don't you dare take any pictures of my kids. She holds up her hands innocently, but I glare meaningfully until they shuffle back indoors. I turn away then, only to catch Jude's thoughtful eye.

Cardan clears his throat. "Perhaps you too have other things you need to do, Birch…?"

Birch gives him a glowering smile. "Nothing that can't wait. Connor."

I give him an exasperated look—why is he being like this?—which he returns with a serene gaze.

But aside from the continued annoyance of Birch's behavior and the threat of Heather's camera, the next few days are wonderful. I never realized how much I missed my sisters until I had them back. Now, whether we're gathering fruits or swimming in the river and I'm showing them the secret places of the forest or introducing them to the local faeries, I can't resist my swoops of delight, just seeing them every day, watching their reactions to everything, listening to them talk, playing with the children. Best of all, since I don't have a voice, it's easy to avoid having the several serious conversations I know they're dying to have with me. It's very difficult to hold a heart-to-heart with someone who can consistently rely on silence as an ally.

But not, alas, impossible.

"Taryn," says Vivienne one day as we are all sitting on the platform in the sun. The kids are showing Heather and Cardan how to weave baskets, with much giggling and bossy directions from Philomel. "Taryn, have you thought about what we should do next?"

I give her a blank look. Next?

She shifts closer. "Well, now that we've found you," she says, "we need to decide what we're going to do." At my look, she makes an impatient noise. "Come on, Taryn, you can't just stay here!"

Why not? My pencil scratches with indignant defiance. We've been here seven years!

"I know, but…" She sighs. "Taryn, this can't go on forever."

I fold my arms, tossing my hair back, and scowl at her.

"She's right, you know," says Jude. That Madoc-scheming look is back. "We were told of your location by an Unseelie knight. If she told us, you can bet she's found a way to tell her own king. It's only a matter of time before some Court comes for the miraculous Lady Healer."

I feel a chill as the fears that Dulcamara outlined for me come back. I'm mortal. They can't take me against my will.

"They can take your children," says Vivienne sharply. "That law doesn't protect them."

My heart seizes as that terror grabs at me again. My eyes stray to them, sitting in the sun, Dogwood patiently correcting Heather's work while Philomel hums a spell that weaves her fibers together without the help of her hands. I squeeze my eyes shut against the awful vision of them being carried off.

"Yeah," says Jude grimly. "I wouldn't want to see that either."

"You should come with me back Ironside," Vivienne says quietly. "All three of you. You'd be safer there, out of Eldred's kingdom."

I catch Jude's eye, and we both sigh. There was never any use in trying to get Vivienne to understand why we couldn't go back. I can't earn a living there, I say, sticking to practicalities. Dogwood can't go either. He can't pass for human, and he can't cast a glamour to hide himself.

"Oh," Jude gives a cynical chuckle, "you'd be surprised." At my inquiring look, she rolls her eyes. "Mortals are marvelous at making up explanations. You don't have to do a thing. They'd probably tell themselves Dogwood had a skin condition or something."

Vivienne sighs, but nods. "That's probably true. But…he's a Mirror, Jude. No magic."

Jude nods reluctantly. She and Vivienne both know that Ironside is dangerous enough for an ordinary faerie. For an Echo, unable to cast a glamour, or to defend himself with native magic, it's lethal.

"Well, then," says Jude, "maybe you could all come back to the High Court—"

Vehemently, I shake my head. I am never going back there! I underline the word "never" so violently that my pencil rips the page.

"Why not?" Jude's face is honestly confused. "You'd be welcome as a unicorn-blessed healer. And Madoc and Oriana would be so happy to see you again." Her voice softens over this last. "They really have missed you, you know."

My heart squeezes at this, but I still shake my head. I'm not going back to Court. I'm not going back to Madoc. Ever.

"He really loves you, Taryn," she insists.

Now it's Vivienne's eye I catch, and we exchange exasperated looks. Jude was always like this, I remember, always making up excuses for Madoc, always taking his side, always insisting that he loved us really. Vivienne used to speculate that it was because we were so helpless without Madoc, that she instinctively turned to the one person who could protect us. But, really, I think it's much simpler than that: Jude just likes Madoc. She always did. She's always been his favorite, and he's always been her father and mentor, in a way he never was for me, and certainly not for Vivi.

"You don't miss him at all, do you?" Jude says eventually.

I smile. Putting down my notebook, I stretch my arms above my head, raising my face happily to the light, eyes closed, before bringing them down in wide arcs, indicating my blissful, Madoc-free existence. I sigh deeply.

Vivienne giggles, and Jude scowls. "Well, how about Oriana, then? I know you two were close."

I bite my lip at this, but shake my head. Not even for her. After all, Oriana was the one who saw Balekin was after me, and didn't do a thing to protect me. And nothing is worth exposing the children, especially Philomel, to the High Court.

Cardan, having abandoned his basket-weaving efforts, wanders over. "What are you three sisters cackling about?"

"We're trying to convince Taryn to come home," says Jude. "Why don't you put that silver tongue of yours to good use for once and help us?"

"Why would I do that?" He lounges against a tree branch. "I wouldn't recommend Court to anyone right now."

My ears prick, and I look at him inquiringly.

"Haven't you heard?" He glances at me. "King Eldred's dying."

I nod slowly, and look at him thoughtfully. I guess this might represent another, rather more urgent reason why Prince Cardan may have wanted to leave Court at this time. Do you think he might not recover? I write cautiously.

"Who knows?" Cardan says neutrally. "But Eldred's spirit grows old and tired. He longs for the Land of Promise."

I can't help looking around nervously, hoping no one's close enough to hear us speculate on the King's death. But Jude has no such compunctions. "The question," she whispers, eyes agleam, "is who inherits after him?"

I hope my expression is suitably nonchalant and no one notices my sudden cold sweat. I paint on a mildly interested, mildly nervous expression. Oh, no, of course I don't have any personal interest in who inherits the throne, no sir. I'm certainly not dreading the thought of Balekin gaining the crown of Faerie, for example…

Cardan's smile curves like a lynx's. "Certainly not his youngest son," he says sleekly. "Eldred has little regard for his youngest's qualities."

"And he doesn't want to inherit anyway," Jude adds, giving him a pointed look, as though she disapproves of his lack of ambition.

Cardan stretches like a cat, raising his arms toward the sun. "Certainly not," he says peacefully. "That throne is nothing but trouble. The witch's curse, disguised as a blessing. No, most at Court believe he will choose his middle son, Prince Dain, to rule after him."

I sag with relief. Of course, of course. Eldred never cared for Balekin. And no one but me knows any reason why Balekin might be a favored contender…I watch as Philomel holds out her completed basket, Lulu the ragdoll lounging within it, while she begs for Heather's admiration, hair glowing in the sun.

"Oh?" says Vivienne. "And what about the Lost Heir?"

Jude laughs shortly. "I doubt Eldred is going to leave his throne to an unfounded rumor, Vivi."

Sweating, I straighten and clap my hands. Dogwood and the Lost Heir both scramble to their feet, rushing up to me. "Mommy, look at my basket!" Philomel pleads. "Lulu likes it, look!" She holds up her basket, decorated with flowers, her ragdoll inside.

I look down into my daughter's shining, innocent face, and feel my heart squeeze with terror for her. Oh, please, let no one find out who she truly is—especially not the disguised prince nearby, who even now leans in to whisper something to Jude.

Evening finds the house hushed, but Jude and I are still awake.

"They really miss you, you know," she says, keeping her voice down so as not to wake anyone.

The children, worn out from their busy day, are both asleep in the bed. Vivienne and Heather are both sacked out on the floor, and Cardan too sleeps. Only Jude and I have stayed up, sitting on the bench in the dim light of the lamps. I think we both knew we were going to have this conversation.

"Oriana's been miserable since you disappeared," Jude continues softly. "She never laughs, never smiles. I haven't even seen her doing lacework."

I blink at this. Oriana loved lacemaking. I never would have thought she'd give it up. Not for seven years? I write.

"Not as far as I've seen." Jude sits back, letting out her breath. "And then Vivi left." Her mouth tightens.

Are you still angry about that?

"Yes," she says flatly. "She gave up on you."

It's fine. I left too.

It's true, I realize as I write: I left without a glance behind, no thought ever of seeing my sisters or even contacting them again. True, if the thought had ever occurred to me, I would have instantly dismissed it as too dangerous: there was no way I could have gotten them a message without it being intercepted. But—the thought didn't occur to me. Because I just didn't want to contact them.

I don't blame her, I write.

Jude breathes a sigh. "You're more forgiving than I am. You always were."

I look away. I'm not forgiving. I spent seven years not forgiving my sisters. Not wanting them in my life.

"But Madoc," Jude continues, as I knew she would, "he's never given up on finding you. He always had his spies out, was always listening for news." She looks me in the eyes. "I think he's really been afraid for you, Taryn."

Do you think his spies found me? My heart thuds at the thought.

"No. But Taryn…I know what he did, of course I do. I can see why you don't want to go back to him. But he's been honorable to us. He did the best he could."

I give her a narrow-eyed look. She squirms. "He made us strong."

That word again.

For a moment I sit silent, staring down at the half-full page of the notebook. Then, taking up my pencil, I write slowly and deliberately, Do you remember that guard who bit your finger off?

She goes suddenly still. "How do you know about that?" she asks, soft and slow.

One of the servants told me. I told Madoc. Did you really never wonder what happened to him?

"I…" For the first time, she looks taken aback. "I guess I thought Madoc cashiered him."

I nod, unsurprised. Jude's always been good at blocking out things she doesn't like, truths she'd rather not face. I've often wished I had her knack of closing down my feelings.

Madoc made me kill him. The words scratch, spiky and uncompromising.

Her eyes widen. "He did what?"

He trussed that guard like a hog and made me slit his throat. Old anger uncoils in my chest. He said we couldn't insult your honor by letting you know. I feel my lip curl into a sneer at the very word. Honor. What a poisonous concept. So he made me do it instead. It was supposed to make me "strong". I mime quotation marks with my fingers, sneering more than ever.

"But you were—we were only nine years old!" Her voice slips and catches.

Grimly, I nod. That's Madoc's honor. That's his strength. That's his love. It's what got our parents killed. I don't want any of it and I don't want him.

A long, stricken silence follows. Jude stares at me white-faced, as though she's never truly seen me before. She can't stop rubbing her healed finger.

"That's why you healed my hand," she says at last, abruptly. "Isn't it?"

I nod. Jude and I may not always have gotten along, but we are sisters. More than that: twins. Of course she understands why I did it. Why I might not want her carrying that missing finger as a trophy.

Jude bends forward, elbows on her knees, gaze on the floor. Then she says the last words I ever expected to hear from her mouth:

"I'm sorry."

She looks up at me. Her eyes are full of emotion: anguish, guilt, regret. "I'm sorry," she repeats softly. "For what he did to you. For what I did to you. If I'd given it any thought, I would have seen…But I didn't." She takes a deep breath. "I hope you can forgive me, one day."

I look at her: my sister. Her face, so pale and strained. Her hand, healed by my touch, the past erased. And I feel the last of my anger melting away.

Slowly, I reach out and take her hand. I squeeze it, and she squeezes back.

We sit together in the darkness a long time after that, peaceful.

Jude doesn't mention Madoc again. But I think we both feel a lightness: the sense of a burden being shifted off our shoulders. Suddenly, her presence here is far more enjoyable—we sit together for hours as I sew or she tends her weapons, her talking, me listening and occasionally laughing silently at things she says, while the children bounce around us. Philomel tries to show her how to weave a basket, and everyone falls about laughing at her pathetic attempts, which resemble rats' nests more than baskets. Cardan in particular cackles loudly—until we all force him to try, and he fails miserably, yet again.

"Right, right," he says, face crimson while we howl with laughter. "Rub it in. Miserable people."

"Never mind." Jude kisses his cheek. "You have other talents."

"Eww!" Dogwood and Philomel fall about, making disgusted noises at the sappy scene. I just shake my head in bemusement. It's still so strange, watching Jude and Cardan being gentle and tender with one another. I still can't really believe they're lovers now.

Jude straightens. "You may sneer now," she says to the kids, "but wait until you're older. Come on, I'll give you another sword fighting lesson."

"All right!" Dogwood jumps up and down with excitement while Philomel rolls her eyes.

It took me a few days to get onboard, but I have to admit that Jude's fight and self-defense lessons are going well, especially with Dogwood. She spends hours drilling them in attacking lunges and defense blocking. Philomel is only moderate enthusiastic, but Dogwood has taken to Jude's fighting style like a fish to water. Watching him leap, lunge and parry with his aunt, I see that Court fighting style suits him much better than Birch's goblin-style—though I feel disloyal even thinking that. I look around for Birch, but he hasn't appeared yet today.

"Look at them go," says Vivi, watching fondly as they practice in the clearing. "Your kids are so strong, Taryn."

I nod, beaming. Jude pauses the lesson to demonstrate another fighting move. Dogwood watches avidly, but Philomel is looking bored. I think it's only a matter of time before she wanders off. Cardan and Heather, off to the side, both call out encouragement.

Vivi turns to me. "Taryn…are you happy here? In this forest?"

I blink at this odd question. I've been busy here, certainly: sometimes busy enough to be distracted from old pain. I've been accepted by the community, to a degree I never was at Court. I've been a useful member of society. I've found joy in my children.

But happy? I've never given that much thought. Mostly I've been concerned with keeping my head above the emotional waters and making sure the kids were all right.

I shrug. She sighs. "I wish you would consider coming Ironside with me."

I can't, not with the kids. I pause. Do you know when you're going home?

"I don't know." She bites her lip, watching Heather cross the clearing. "It has to be sometime soon, though. The longer Heather stays here, the more out of touch with her own world she'll get. Not to mention the danger…"

I nod. We've mostly stayed out of trouble, but twice already during this visit we've had to flee the sudden advent of the forest: once an angry hart, bellowing and lashing out with his antlers, and then a camouflaged leaf-dragon, striking from the undergrowth. Cardan barely pulled Heather out of the reach of its snapping jaws in time. Luckily, the manticore hasn't shown up.

"I hate to leave you here though," says Vivienne miserably. "With all those predators. And faeries."

I've survived seven years, I point out again. The faeries are my allies.

Her face hardens. "Only because they find your healing ability useful. If it weren't for that, they'd tear you apart."

I shrug. That's probably true. But, really, is that so bad? It's certainly an improvement on Court. It may not be complete acceptance, but I find it's far better to be valued for what I can do rather than grudgingly tolerated for who I'm related to.

Philomel comes scampering up, hair aglow in the mellowing rays of sunshine. "Mommy!" She seizes my hand, towing me forward. "Come show Aunt Jude your knife trick!"

I nod, not at all sorry to leave Vivienne behind for now, and cross the clearing to show Jude how to throw poisoned salt in a faerie's eyes and slash with the knife.

She lets out a low whistle. "Brutal, Taryn," she says approvingly. "But that wouldn't kill most faeries."

"No," says Philomel, miming her own throw-and-slash. "But it gives us time to run away."

"Once we're up in the trees, we're safe," Dogwood nods.

Cardan, wandering up at the latter end of the demonstration, winces in sympathy. "I hope you never feel the urge to do that to me," he says.

"Hopefully not," says Birch, and we all jump. None of us saw him coming: he's just suddenly appeared, out of the forest, sidling silently up behind Cardan. "I'm the one who gets her the poisons, you know, from Ironside."

"Then I certainly don't want you as an enemy," returns Cardan evenly.

"No," says Birch softly, "you don't."

Dogwood glances between his uncles, looking worried. "Enemies? We're not enemies, are we?"

"Certainly not," says Jude, and she kisses Cardan casually on the mouth. He grins, grabbing her around the waist, and she gives a very un-Jude-like giggle.

"Not more kissing!" The kids fall about in disgust, Birch rolls his eyes, and I stare silently, still surprised by such open gestures of love between these two former enemies.

And that's as nothing compared to what I see the next morning.

I wake very early. The children sleep beside me in the bed, and Vivienne and Heather sleep too, wrapped up around each other on the floor, but Jude and Cardan are both gone, their place on the floor empty. Sleepy and slightly alarmed, I slip my shoes on and, grabbing my weapons, head outside to look for them.

It's a beautiful morning. The sun glows through the leaves, green and gold, and a slight mist drifts through the air, golden and prismatic. I hear a noise, a slight shift, and look up to see Jude and Cardan.

At first I'm so relieved that they're alive and well that I don't take in anything else about them. Then I realize what they're up to.

She's got him backed up against a tree. There is no space between them: they stand smothered against one another, their breeches unlaced and opened, bodies moving rhythmically. His mouth is on her neck; her face is tipped back, glazed with euphoric pleasure. Her hands clasp behind his neck, tangled in his hair. His hand travels up her torso, into her opened shirt, to cup a bare breast. She moans.

My face burns, but I can't look away.

I've never given much thought to this sort of thing: love, sex, romance. I wasn't greatly interested even before the assault—suicidal depression has that effect—and then Balekin effectively killed what little there was of my sex drive. I've seen goblin courtship since then, of course, but that's so different. The male chases the female through the canopy in a leaping, swinging dance; and consummation, when the female lets the male catch her, takes less than a minute, quick and businesslike. It's never touched me, never really impinged on my thoughts. It's just something goblins do.

But this…They look so happy. So drenched with pleasure. So wrapped up in one another that the rest of the world doesn't even exist.

I've never had that. And I never will.

Silently, I slip away and head back to the house.

Inside, Vivi's awake, just getting dressed. She takes one look at my burning face and smiles knowingly. "Jude and Cardan?"

I nod, blushing more than ever. She chuckles.

"Those two." She finishes pulling on her shirt. "I never would have thought it of them, you know, the way they fought. But they've been good for each other. They're both a lot happier now." She looks at me, her face sobering. "Taryn…can I talk to you?"

I check a sigh. Oh boy. Another heart-to-heart. Well, I suppose it can't be avoided. I sink down onto the bench, and gesture for her to sit by me.

Vivienne takes a minute to compose her thoughts, sitting with her elbows on her knees, knotting her fingers while staring intently at the floor. "Taryn…I know you're sick of listening to me apologize. For Madoc. For everything."

It seems mean to nod in agreement, but it's true: Vivienne spent years apologizing for being the reason Madoc came after us. The reason our parents were killed. The reason we were kidnapped. But it didn't matter how often she apologized: it didn't change a thing.

"Well," she says, "I'm going to apologize again. This time just to you."

She takes a deep breath, still staring at the floor. "Taryn, when you…when you stopped talking, stopped…interacting, I was…I was pleased. I thought it was funny to watch Madoc get so worked up. I liked that it drove him so crazy. I used to laugh behind my hand while he yelled and fumed and worried himself sick. Then you disappeared, and I realized…" She shakes her head. "I realized that I never really noticed your unhappiness. That Madoc's frustration was more important to me than your misery. I was so wrapped up in my hatred that I didn't bother to see that you…" She looks up at me, her soul in her eyes. "You were close to suicide, weren't you?"

Slowly, I nod. It's true. I'd been dying a long time, bit by bit, withdrawing and fading away. Balekin's attack would have been the end of me for sure: the final blow. I would have thrown myself from the cliffs when I recovered from that swoon, or slit my wrists with one of Jude's knives, or simply turned my face to the wall and waited for Death, humanity's great familiar, to come for me.

But that didn't happen. The unicorn saved me.

"For a long time," she says quietly, "I thought that was what had happened. That you'd killed yourself and no one found the body. That you were dead. And I blamed Madoc, but it was my fault too, for not caring enough, for not noticing…" Her eyes glitter with tears. "All those years, I despised the faeries for being cruel and vicious and selfish and unfeeling…and all the while I was just as bad. That's the real reason I left, you see. I couldn't face my guilt. I couldn't live where you'd died." She gives a small, unhappy laugh. "Jude's right when she says I ran away. When she says I was a coward."

For a long time I sit, watching her while she cries. She sits stiff and unyielding, expecting nothing from me, not comfort, not forgiveness. Everything she says is true and yet…what's the point in blaming her? What's the point in hatred? In guilt?

I get up, go to the shelf, retrieve my notebook and pencil. Sitting down again, I think carefully before I begin to write.

There's a human saying: "Suffering builds character". But that's not true. Real suffering doesn't do anything to improve anyone, mortal or faerie. It just makes them cruel and selfish and greedy and violent. Look at Cardan, when his brother was tormenting him. I can't bring myself to write Balekin's name. You couldn't help me. You were in too much pain. We all were. But now we can stop accepting pain, and stop giving it. I reach over to grasp her hand.

She gives a hiccupping giggle, wiping away tears, as she reads my message. "God, Taryn," she whispers, the human phrase so strange here in Faerie, "how do you do it? Be so forgiving?"

I shrug. I love you. That makes it easy. Just promise me one thing.

"Anything," she says readily.

A smile tugs my lips. Please stop apologizing all the time.

She gives a real laugh then, and we sit together, smiling, in the golden light of morning, while outside, Jude and Cardan come back to the house, voices soft and entwined.

Ten days into my family's visit, Birch takes me aside.

Albia, he signs, when are your guests leaving?

I blink at him, fighting the strong, irrational surge of hurt. They're my family. I can't just tell them to leave.

We're all back at the village. It's market day: the square is filled with booths and vendors, trading the goods of the forest and imports from elsewhere, from copper pots to hob-woven cloth. Heather's having a blast photographing everything and everyone (the twins have posed for her at least a dozen times so far). I'm in my usual corner near the Knot, waiting for anyone who wants healing or embroidery patterns. Meanwhile, my kids scamper and play and my guests circulate the market, attracting more than a few stares and whispers. Birch glances at them too, jaw clenching.

What's your problem with them? I demand, my irritation bubbling up. You've been hostile to them since the start!

They're courtiers, he signs, not quite meeting my eyes.

So was I! You said that didn't matter to you.

"It doesn't matter, not with you," he says aloud. "It's just…"

Just what? I demand, scowling.

He doesn't answer me. Albia, they can't stay forever, he signs instead. Have you talked to them about it?

I shift. A bit…But these are my sisters. I can't just make them leave.

Not all of them are your sisters. He lets out a little growl, crest twitching. That Connor has things he's hiding. I don't trust him.

Of course you don't, I say, annoyed. I sigh. Why do you dislike courtiers so much, Birch?

We all dislike courtiers out here, he says, avoiding my eyes again.

It's more than that, with you, I insist. What happened to make you hate them so much?

He doesn't respond for a long moment, watching the happy, swirling crowd. Heartwood is posing for Heather, pipe in her mouth. A Court stole something precious from me, he signs at last. Long ago.

I want to ask what it was they stole, but I can tell, from his shuttered face, that I won't get any answers. Well, my family hasn't stolen anything from you, I say instead.

"No, but they will steal—" he begins aloud, angrily, and cuts himself off.

I wait. When the silence grows too long, I say, Steal what?

"Something else precious," he mutters, not looking at me.

I stare at him. The noise of the market seems very dim and far away. Something flickers to life inside me, some yearning desire. But I can't think what it is—and I don't dare ask—

"Hey, Albia!" We both jump and jerk around as Heather swings by. "We're all heading back to the house, okay? Vivi and Connor and Jude and me. Should we take the kids?"

"I'll stay with the kids," Birch says. His voice is clipped and businesslike. He straightens, turning away from me. "Be careful on your way back."

"We will. See you later!"

We stand and watch Heather go charging off, following my other guests back along the treeway. I only hope they stay in the house when they get there.

"I'll go see to the children." Birch still sounds so clipped. He still doesn't look at me. "Later, Albia."

I nod, and watch him move off, trying not to feel abandoned.

I treat a few marketgoers, for wounds and iron poisoning, but I can't shake that feeling of hollow restlessness. I want my family. I want Birch. But Birch is on the other side of the square, conjuring tiny fireworks for my kids and their squealing friends, and I can't bring myself to interrupt them. Plus, I have patients.

They soon thin out, though. When I realize I've been standing idle for half an hour, I decide to head home.

I go across the square to where the children are playing. I clap my hands sharply. Time to go, I sign.

"Oh, Mommy!" Philomel looks up from the glowing grid she's magicked up on the platform boards. "We're teaching everyone to play hopscotch!"

"Aunt Heather showed us," Dogwood nods in confirmation.

"Yeah, let 'em stay!" the other village children chime in.

I hesitate, wanting to take my kids home but not wanting to ruin their afternoon, or endure the tantrums that will inevitably ensue should I do so. Birch, perched on the railing nearby, singing a piece of wood into a knife hilt, looks up.

"Go ahead, Albia. I'll look after them. They'll come to no harm."

I nod gratefully, and with an admonition to the children to behave themselves and stay out of trouble, start heading home along the treeway.

Around me, the trees are in their golden season. I smile, feeling the wind fresh and brisk in my face, its rattle through the blazing leaves. It feels good to be alone for once. I sigh, a touch of melancholy darkening my pleasure. Birch may be irrationally hostile to my family, but that doesn't mean he isn't right. They can't stay here forever. But Jude and Vivienne have made it clear that they don't want to leave without me or the kids. And my sisters, when they really want something, are forces of nature. I've never stood a chance against them.

Musing on the problem, I climb down the ladder.

And the world crashes around me.

"Taryn?" Vivienne says in a thin, faint voice.

There's something held in Jude's hands, I see through the sick haze of shock: a large piece of black cloth, colorfully embroidered. Everyone's gathered around it: Jude, Cardan, Vivienne and Heather. Like one being, they turn to me, slowly, eyes wide, faces like sickly pale flowers.

The sealed compartment gapes open, like an uncovered eye.

I stand at the base of the ladder, room spinning around me, looking at them. And they look at me, still holding my tapestry.

"Taryn." I've never heard Jude sound like this, so disconnected, wavery. Or maybe it's my ears that aren't working properly, through the fog that's descended on my senses. "Taryn, I…that sealed cabinet opened for me. I didn't mean to pry, truly. It just opened at my touch. And I found this." She holds out the tapestry.

Of course. Birch spelled the compartment to open at my touch—or, unintentionally, my identical twin sister's. I have a wild, hysterical urge to laugh.

I lunge forward, to snatch the tapestry away from Jude and crumple it against my chest. I face them: Jude, Heather, Vivi, Cardan. They all stand in my cottage, staring at me, eyes like holes in their sick-looking faces.

"Taryn," Heather says at last, "Taryn, what that tapestry showed…did all that happen? Is that what happened, the night you disappeared?"

I can't nod, can't do anything. But the room blurs and sways around me.

It's Vivienne who catches me. She grabs me as I fall, guides me gently to the bench, where she sits me down, still clutching the tapestry. She sits beside me, arm around my shaking shoulders.

"It is, isn't it?" Heather's voice is surprisingly gentle. "It's what happened the night you disappeared. That man…got you on your own."

I'm falling, I'm falling, and I'm frozen in place, ice in my veins.

"It was rape, wasn't it?" Jude says, voice blank and flat. "Prince Balekin raped you."

The curse binds me tight. But they must all see the answer in my eyes.

"No, no." Vivienne takes me in her shaking arms. "No, no," she says, holding me tight. "Oh, Taryn…"

Jude's face is like a mask. She stands there, unmoving. Then, with a single, savage gesture, she whips out a dagger and sends it spinning across the room, to land, vibrating, in the wall.

"I'll kill him." Her voice is the single most terrifying sound I've ever heard. "I swear by the Great Trees of Faerie, I will kill that swine. He will pay for dishonoring you, Taryn."

From the shelter of Vivienne's arms, I stare at her helplessly. My thoughts are whirling too much for me to make sense of her words.

"Taryn," Vivienne says gently, "what happened?"

"You saw what happened." Cardan speaks with a clipped voice. "It's in the tapestry," he says, nodding at it in my hands. "Balekin got Taryn on her own. Then he silenced you, didn't he, Taryn? He cast the spell that robbed your voice."

"So she couldn't scream for help," says Heather. "Then…"

Cardan gives a harsh, angry caw of laughter. "It's all there, isn't it? He forced himself on her. And cast another curse, to prevent her ever revealing, to anyone, what happened."

There's a terrible silence. Vivienne rocks me in her arms. I huddle close, taking strength from her warmth, her strength, even as my insides crumble. They know. My family knows my deepest secret, my worst shame.

Jude crosses the room, to pull her dagger out of the wall. Still staring at the wall, one fist propped up, she says, "And Philomel?"

"Balekin's daughter," Cardan says with that ugly, furious laugh.

Jude turns, glaring at him. "And just what are you giggling about, Prince Cardan Greenbriar?" she demands icily.

"You mistake me." Cardan's mouth is a grim slash of a smile. "I laugh because I'm angry—as much at myself as my dear brother. I saw Balekin leading Taryn off that night. I suspected he would hurt her. I should have stopped him."

Jude's eyes blaze, dagger in her hand. She half-lunges at him, blade glinting high. "Why didn't you, then?"

Cardan faces his demon-eyed lover, face a mask of bitter humor. "Because I was a coward," he says softly. "As you were a coward, and Vivienne too, and Madoc and Oriana. We all saw that Balekin was stalking Taryn. And we did nothing. And it was Taryn who suffered for it."

Slowly, Jude lowers her dagger. A long, dismal silence falls.

Jude finally turns to me, fire banking in her eyes. "Does anyone else know?" she asks in a clipped voice. "Any of the goblins?"

I shake my head. Birch and Heartwood might suspect, but I'm not going to mention that—not when Jude has that expression on her face, that all but shouts that she'll gut anyone who even guesses at my shame.

"Why did he do it?" Everyone turns to look at Heather. She looks back, still shaky, but calm. "Why did Balekin silence you like this, Taryn?"

Vivi, still holding me, lets out an incredulous laugh. "What, it's not obvious?"

"Yeah, but…just how likely is he to actually get punished for this? I mean, he's a prince. And Taryn's a mortal. Was it even illegal for him to…?"

Cardan speaks slowly. "Taryn was the foster daughter of another faerie, under that faerie's protection. A powerful, high-ranking faerie. Violating her was a massive insult to Madoc as well as Taryn. And rape, true rape…it goes against Faerie's deepest laws. Balekin took from Taryn, dishonored her in the crudest possible way, without repaying her anything. That violates Faerie's ancient laws of recompense, in the most abominable manner." His eyes flicker to me. "That's why the unicorn manifested, isn't it? That's why she gave you your gift. Because Faerie itself owed you."

I nod. Vivienne draws a shaking breath.

"So Balekin can expect punishment, if this gets out," Heather says musingly. "Or, at the very least, a huge scandal. Yeah, I can see why he shut you up, Taryn."

Vivienne gives her a rather unnerved look. "You're being very…calm about this, Heather."

"This sort of thing happens all the time, back on Earth," Heather says in a clipped voice. "Only there the perpetrators aren't always afraid of punishment." She smiles grimly. "In fact, quite often, it's the victim who gets the blame."

We all blink at this, surprised. "That makes no sense whatsoever," says Cardan at last.

"Of course it doesn't," Heather says. She gives an angry laugh. "But human society shames women who are assaulted like Taryn was. People say the victim deserved it. That she…lured her attacker or something. Or they just don't believe her. Or even if they do, she's been 'shamed' and violently punished while her attacker gets off with a slap on the wrist, if that."

"But Heather," says Vivi, eyes wide, "surely…Mortals don't…They wouldn't…"

"Vivienne. For God's sake." I've never heard Heather sound so exasperated. "You have got to stop thinking of all humans as entirely good and all faeries as entirely bad. Because that is just not true. Humans do all kinds of awful things, all the time. Human men rape human women and get away with it scot-free. Human parents sell their own kids into slavery. People are oppressed and discriminated against just for their skin color. Fathers murder daughters who dare to have sex before marriage. Armies recruit children as soldiers after killing their entire families—"

"All right, all right," says Jude hastily. "You've made your point. Mortals do all kinds of terrible things and none of this is a surprise to you. The question now is…"

But we never learn what the question is. Jude trails off, going very still. Her mouth opens and closes. "Oh," she whispers. "Oh."

We all look at her. "Oh, what?" Cardan asks. His eyes narrow. "Just what are you concocting in that devious brain of yours, Jude?"

"Don't you see?" A strange excitement is taking hold of Jude: she paces in agitation, and her eyes gleam in a way that reminds me, very unpleasantly, of Madoc in one of his king-of-everything moods. "Philomel…she's the Lost Heir. She's the hidden claimant to the high throne of Faerie!"

I gape at her, aghast. Jumping to my feet, I gesture frantically for her to hush. But it's too late: the realization is spreading among everyone else too, like wildfire.

"Great Trees," Cardan says slowly, "she is, isn't she?" He shakes his head. "That certainly explains a few things."

"Taryn's daughter," Vivienne says dazedly. "The Lost Heir." Her eyes widen. "What are we going to do?"

"We need to think." Jude paces feverishly, eyes gleaming like a wild animal's. "We can't do anything hastily."

"Do what?" Heather folds her arms and snorts. "Like, what, we're going to take Taryn's kid and march her back to this High Court of yours as the next heir to the throne of Faerie?"

A thoughtful silence greets this question. Heather's skeptical smile slips. "Oh, Christ. You're actually considering it, aren't you?"

A chasm of horror opens in me at the very thought. Racing up to Jude, I wave my hands frantically, signing, No! I forbid it!

"Why not?" She can't understand the signs entirely, but she can read my meaning well enough.

I gape at her incredulously before racing to grab my notebook and pencil. Are you crazy? My hand slips and trembles as I write. They'd tear her apart! She's only six!

"Taryn." Gently, she takes my wrists. Her hands are trembling too, with excitement. "You want to protect her. I understand that. But Taryn…this isn't going to stay a secret. It's amazing you've kept it hidden this long, really. Sooner or later, it'll get out. Remember what I said, about some lesser Court snatching you and your children for your abilities? Well, how long will it take for them to figure out who Philomel really is, once that happens?"

My exact fears, spoken aloud. All I can do is shake my head.

"They'll make a bid for the throne," Cardan says slowly. "Especially if they can somehow bind Philomel into their own royal family. Wait a few years and marry her off to one of their own princes." His eyes flick to me. "Or some king might even marry you, Taryn, and then he can claim Philomel as his stepdaughter."

"And then it'll be civil war," Jude finishes grimly. "A bloodbath, tearing Faerie apart. Philomel would be right in the middle of it all. And you wouldn't be able to do a thing to protect her, Taryn. Do you really want to see that?"

I shudder at the thought. There must be some way, I write miserably.

"There is." Vivienne's standing over my shoulder, reading. "Come back Ironside with me and Heather. No one would think to look for the Lost Heir there."

"Are you mad?" Jude demands. "They'd be completely unprotected! No, Taryn, what you should do is come back to Court. I understand why you don't want to, but…Madoc would take your side. He'd be a powerful ally, whatever you think of him."

I stare at her. Isn't Madoc friends with Balekin?

Her mouth tightens. "He won't be friends with him after this."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." Cardan prowls close. "A chance to see his granddaughter on the throne…A prize like that might make him ally with Balekin anyway, no matter what he's done. He might even hand Taryn and Philomel right over to my brother."

My blood turns to ice. A part of me—a stupid, pathetic part—cries out, No! My father wouldn't do that! But then I remember the way his eyes gleamed when he noticed Balekin's attentions to me. The way he stood back for the prince, let him at me. And that was just in the hopes of some more wealth and influence. What would he do for the chance of the throne?

"We can't let that happen." Jude's pacing feverishly again. "Balekin needs to be punished. He needs to die."

Overhead, we hear tromping, and happy chattering. Birch is bringing the children back. Hastily, I shove the tapestry at Vivienne, gesturing frantically to hide it. She dives to stuff it into her bedroll while Jude steps up to me again.

"This is not going to go away just because you want it to, Taryn." Her hiss is like that of a snake. "Sooner or later, it's going to get out. You can seize control of that revelation, or you can be its victim. But it's going to happen, no matter what you or any of us do."

I glare at her helplessly while overhead Dogwood and Philomel chirp, "Bye, Uncle Birch!" and head down the ladder. Dogwood reaches the floor first and bounds over to me. "Hi, Mommy!" He gives me a hug.

"Hey, Mommy!" Philomel's right behind him, skipping along.

My guests all turn to stare at my daughter, half-horrified, half-fascinated. She falters, frowning nervously. "What? What is it?"

Nothing, darling. I kneel down to hug Dogwood and hold my other arm out for her. She skips over, and I hug my precious daughter, my beloved son, both my treasured children, while I glare at everyone else over their heads.

No one quite meets my eyes. But they can't look away from Philomel either, with horror and wonder.

Somehow, we all get through the evening, all the guests sneaking horrified peeks at Philomel and watching me as though I'm suddenly made of cut glass and will fall apart if they're not careful. Vivienne and Heather both volunteer to make dinner, and Jude washes the dishes, as though I suddenly can't do my own chores. Even Cardan is quieter and more circumspect around me.

They mean well, but I can't suppress a twinge of irritation. Honestly, I managed this horror all on my own for seven years, raising two kids while I was at it. I'm hardly going to break down now.

The kids alone act normal, chattering away about their day. Philomel asks Heather to braid another bracelet with her, sitting on the floor with the threads tied to their toes. Philomel enchants her bracelet so it glitters as it streaks through the dark air, shining in everyone's eyes, before it lands on my own wrist.

"For you, Mommy!" Philomel beams.

I smile at her and go over to stroke her hair. What a good daughter. I glare at my guests over her head until they look away. Dogwood glances between me and then, wide-eyed. Maybe he's not as oblivious as I thought.

Finally we go to bed. But I don't sleep well. In the dark of the cottage, I feel Philomel's breath next to me, her hair glowing faintly in the dark. I hold her close, and without waking she snuggles in, cuddling Lulu and murmuring unintelligibly. Tears prick my eyes as I feel how dear she is, how much I love her. Nothing must happen to this, my precious daughter, who I have loved, despite everything, from the moment of her birth. A miracle of life, a miracle of love. I'd do anything to protect her.

If only I knew what that "anything" was. I wonder if my own mother felt this way: like there was nothing but bad choices, no matter which way she turned. This sense of every road leading to disaster.

At the first hint of dawn, filtering through the rose leaves around the window, I get out of bed, maneuvering gently around the sleeping Philomel, and pick my way among the sleeping bodies to the ground-level door, pausing only to pick up my knife and salt. I head out, into the brightening dawn, and sit down on the tree root bench.

I rake my fingers through my unbrushed hair. What am I going to do? I try to think, but my mind just whirls.

The door opens softly, and Jude comes out, hair also unbrushed, still in her sleeping clothes. "May I sit with you?" she asks quietly.

I nod, and make room for her. She sits beside me, and we watch the forest slowly come to life.

"How did you manage to even sew that tapestry?" she asks at last, abruptly. "I thought the second curse stopped you from revealing anything about…about what happened."

I look around in vain for something to write with. She hands me the notebook and pencil. I guess she knew we were going to have this discussion.

I didn't intend for anyone to see that tapestry, I write. So the curse let me make it.

"Yes, but…why did you make it, then? What good would it do you?"

I shrug. I had to get it out of me somehow. It would have eaten me alive otherwise.

She frowns in confusion. I sigh: there's no use in trying to make Jude understand the necessity of expressing emotions. I look away, and another silence passes.

"I'm sorry," she says suddenly. "For yesterday. I…I got carried away. You want to keep Philomel safe. I understand."

I glare at her. How can she understand? She's not a mother. And, more than that, she's the true heir to Madoc's ambition. Her mind leaped straight to the throne, to Philomel's birthright, with barely a pause.

"Think, though." She turns to me, eyes hard and blazing. "Think: how else are you going to get justice? How else will you get revenge on…on that monster? Don't you want to see him punished for what he did? Don't you want to see him dead?"

I squeeze my eyes shut under the sudden throb of emotion. Of course I'd like to see Balekin dead! I've wished him dead a thousand times these last seven years—ten thousand. Never before was vengeance a possibility, but it is now.

So why aren't I leaping at the chance? Why aren't I plotting murder with my sisters? Why aren't I happy that, at last, someone knows, and believes me, and has taken my side?

I take a moment to compose my thoughts before writing. Yes, I'd like to see him dead. But that's not so important.

"Not so…What do you mean?" Jude's eyes are enormous with incredulity and confusion. "What could be more important?"

The children's safety. I give her a dry look.

"Oh. Right." Jude looks a bit abashed. She glances at me sidelong. "Taryn…how do you do it? Never get angry like this?"

I get angry. But even as I write, I know that's not quite the point. Jude's right: I might feel anger, but it's never moved me the way it moves her and Vivienne. Its passion has never blazed through me as it blazes through them, scouring out all else, driving me onward to deeds of violence and vengeance. For that, my family and the Court thought me weak and a coward, and for a long time I agreed with them.

But maybe it's much simpler than that. Maybe I'm just not a vengeful or angry person. And really, what's wrong with that? Maybe my lack of rage disabled me from fighting back, maybe I lack the power or the drive to pursue justice against my enemy—but that same lack was what allowed me to love Philomel, born of rape as she was. It gave me seven happy years with my children—years I wouldn't have had if I'd chosen vengeance instead of love.

Jude would have chosen vengeance. So would Vivienne. They would have stopped at nothing, forces of nature that they are, until they delivered just punishment to their enemy, and damn whatever got in their way. No matter how much blood was spilled, no matter who suffered, they would have fought on, their rage burning like wildfires, blazing away all obstacles in their path.

I can't do that. I can't burn that way. And because I cannot burn, I can love.

I love Philomel more than I hate Balekin, I write. I'll choose her safety and happiness over his destruction.

"How?" Slowly, Jude shakes her head, tears in her eyes. "How can you love her? When she's born of…that?"

She's my daughter. She was blessed by the unicorn like me. And it's not her fault. Anxiety seizes me, and I clutch Jude's arm. Don't treat her any differently, now that you know the truth. Please.

"Of course not." She takes a deep breath, lets it out again. "But this can't go on, Taryn. Sooner or later, someone's going to figure it out. Someone who doesn't care about your wishes, or Philomel's happiness."

Like Madoc? I ask, sharp and angry.

"Like Madoc," she says unhesitatingly, "only worse. Madoc's probably still your best option: at least he does actually care about you, Taryn. He'd care about Philomel, too."

She's probably right. But, however much Madoc cares about me, or potentially about my daughter, he'd care a lot more about taking power, and getting Philomel on the throne, no matter what he had to do to accomplish it.

But how am I going to stop him finding out? Eventually, Jude and Cardan will return to Court. And while Jude will do her best to keep the secret, I don't trust Cardan to do the same. Oh, he might not mean to do us any harm—he might even try to keep the secret too—but knowledge such as this is the sort of currency courtiers commit murder to obtain. Unless I can somehow bind him to such a deep promise that he can't find a way around it—which I doubt—Cardan is eventually going to be in a position where he needs to spend that currency, especially with the High King dying. And then…

My thoughts fragment. My head hurts. I take a deep breath, counting to ten. We'll talk some more tomorrow, I write. I just can't face it today. I can't think.

Jude looks like she wants to argue, but finally nods. "Fine. Tomorrow. I'll tell the others."

I nod, breathing a sigh of relief. Maybe by tomorrow I'll be more clearheaded. Maybe tomorrow I can face this, sit down, think through a strategy. Tomorrow is soon enough.

But it isn't.