Knight

It's done.

In the lamplight, while my children sleep, I hold up my tapestry, complete at last after so long. I've had to work on it so slowly—in secret, intermittently, in great pain—but work on it I did, and now I've set the final stitch.

My children's breathing is soft in the silence as I take in the thing I've made, the story I've told to no one. It's a series of interconnected scenes, a form of storytelling that Oriana taught me. The story of what happened.

Here is Balekin, leading me away from the ball. Here he is again, yanking me back while I struggle to get away. My stitched mouth is open, ready to scream for help, then in the next scene he curses me—represented by waving lines of green chain stitch. The word Silence floating on the waving lines.

And then he's got me on my back, my skirt pulled up, while he has his will with me and my thread-self can only weep.

Another enchantment of waving green lines. Tell no one. Then he's gone, striding away, leaving me crumpled on the ground. And in the next scene, the unicorn comes upon me, prone on the ground. She touches me with her horn.

And in the final scene, I'm on her back, riding away.

The assault, the rape, the rescue. Expressed at last.

I fold it up. I suppose, if I were to do this properly, I would link each scene in a design of vines, flowers or thorns—but I think it's done. I may not have exorcised all the evil—no power in either world will ever do that—but I feel an exhausted satisfaction. At least now I've expressed my pain, told the wrong that Balekin did me, even if it is only to a piece of dumb, unresponsive cloth.

I climb up to the sealed compartment Birch made for me, open it, and tuck it back into the darkest corner, behind the salt, behind the poisons, behind the box containing my Court jewelry. The compartment seals closed.

Then I climb back into bed—where both my children now sleep, having grown too big for cradles long ago—and, tucking them close, fall asleep.

Time goes by.

Philomel gains more control over her powers. They even start being useful: she can fix a shattered plate, for example, and send ripe nuts tumbling down from a tree.

"It's not fair," Dogwood grumbles, folding his arms and watching with glowering jealousy. "How come I can't do even the teeniest spell?"

"'Cause you're an Echo." Philomel tosses up a nut and peels its shell in one swift spell. She smirks into Dogwood's eyes.

I hand them both baskets. Philomel, don't tease Dogwood. And anyway, Dogwood, I can't cast spells.

"Yes you can," he says, taking the basket and getting sullenly to his knees to scoop up nuts. "You heal people."

That's the unicorn's magic, not mine, I say firmly. Anyway, you can use your gift to echo the unicorn's magic onto me, so I can be healed. Philomel can't do that. That's been so useful: I can't use the unicorn's gift on myself, but Dogwood can use his gift to reflect my healing spells back onto me. For the first time, I can be magically healed at will.

He perks up a little at this. "True." He pokes his tongue at Philomel. "I can heal Mommy. And you can't."

"Hey!" She throws a nut at him, and he lunges at her. I step in before it goes any further.

Stop fighting! When we get home, you're having another reading lesson. You both need something to occupy your minds.

Philomel grins while Dogwood groans. "More reading? But that's so boring, Mommy!"

No it's not. Reading is fun and exciting, I say, though, I have to admit, not the way Dogwood does it. The twins bring us such nice books from Ironside. Now come on, gather those nuts and we'll go home.

Still sulking, Dogwood dawdles behind on the treeway, while Philomel skips up to take my hand.

"Can we read more Alice in Wonderland?"

I nod. She smiles, but then sighs and looks away.

I can't sign—my hands are full—but I nudge her and peer at her inquiringly.

"Nothing important," she says, reading my mind. "Just…why do we have only human books?"

"Yeah?" Dogwood scampers up. "Why?"

I drop Philomel's hand and slide my basket onto my elbow in order to sign. Humans have a creativity that faeries don't. They can imagine new stories, but faeries can't.

"Like how you can think of new embroidery designs?" asks Philomel eagerly, while Dogwood scowls.

"That's not fair!"

"Is so!" Philomel counters smartly. "Mortals can do creativity, but faeries can do magic. Right, Mommy?" She glances at me for maternal confirmation, and I nod.

Humans can only use magic given to them by faeries. We reach a bridge, and I press the knot. The vines and branches unfurl, forming the bridge across the gap and illustrating my point. But faeries can't imagine new things like humans can. Each race has its own talents. We cross the bridge, and it retracts behind us.

Dogwood hurries up again, looking suddenly anxious. "Is that why humans die?"

"Die?" Philomel stares. "What do you mean?"

"Bettina told me," Dogwood says, staring down at the treeway vines. "That humans all grow old and die. Their hair turns white and their skin wrinkles, they get weak and stupid, and then they just die, for no reason." His eyes are full of anxiety and alarm as he glances at me. "That's not going to happen to you, Mommy…is it?"

"No!" Philomel clutches my arm protectively. "It can't happen."

Gently, I shake her off. I'm afraid it will. That's the natural way of things for mortals.

"No!" Now I've got both children clinging to me and sobbing. "Mommy, you can't die!"

Torn between distress and exasperated amusement, I wondered exactly how a sunny, peaceful afternoon turned into this. I gently push them away so I can sign. Don't worry. It won't happen for years. Decades even.

They both look relieved. "We could all be killed by wargs by then, I guess!" Dogwood says perkily.

I stare at him in bemusement. Both my children are usually so cheerful and innocent that these moments—moments when I'm reminded that, for all their innocence, they are still children of the wild—bewilder me. Well, yes, I say. But let's try not to.

There are no patients waiting for us when we get home. I spend the afternoon on the children's education—Philomel happily reads aloud while Dogwood unenthusiastically mumbles and stammers his way through his book—and then let them play awhile before making them help with dinner.

Philomel and I even sew a little together. I don't need to actually sew most of my own clothing; one mode of payment popular among my female patients is to create new garments for me and the children, in that magical faerie way: a flash of needles, a whipping of cloth, and hey presto the skirt or pants or vest is made. But I still sew my underwear, and cut up menstrual rags from old cloth (honestly, it's easier than trying to get the twins to understand what I mean by tampons, and at least I can wash them. It's not easy disposing of Ironside trash here in the valley). Now that the tapestry is done, I've also moved on to other embroidery projects. I've found my old love has been rekindled: the joy of threading a needle with gorgeous color and working steadily, following a pattern, creating something beautiful.

Even more, I enjoy passing on my skills to Philomel. Her little face is so earnest as she watches what I do, or bends over her sewing frame, tongue poking out in concentration. She's made dozens of outfits for her ragdoll, Lulu, adorable dresses of rose petals and leaves. It's marvelous to watch her stitches take shape, to see her grow in skill, just as Oriana did for me.

Her earlier comment about new embroidery designs has me thinking, too. I always create my own patterns by drawing them on graph paper that the twins steal for me. Why not turn this to my advantage? The faeries can embroider far better than me—they can embroider a living flower into fabric, for example, as Thistleweft did for me in the moonlight dress—but they can't any of them dream up original designs. Why not trade some of my patterns in the village, when I have no patients?

My head is so full of this new scheme that I'm completely taken by surprise by Philomel's question at bedtime. Though, to be honest, I probably would have been poleaxed by it under any circumstances.

"Mommy," she says suddenly in the dimly lit bed nook, "is that why my father kicked us out? Because you're going to die?"

The question is like a blow. For a moment, I can't breathe. I sit upright in bed, Dogwood sleeping silently on my other side, and gasp while Philomel stares up at me, innocent and inquiring.

Who told you about that? I ask at last.

She wriggles a little, shiftily. "Uh—I think it might've been Bettina. But everybody knows." She looks up at me some more. "So? Is that why?"

I don't really know, I say, trying to buy time. My mind races, trying to come up with a story that will minimize the number of lies I have to tell. I didn't really know your father that well. True enough, so far. He kept me under a lot of enchantments. Less true…

"And then he threw you out," Philomel says solemnly. "While you were pregnant with me."

Yes, I say, taking the plunge into the sea of falsehoods. That's the first thing I remember clearly. He stripped off the enchantments before leaving me in the woods. Please, please, let her be buying this….

She seems to, looking up at me with wide, innocent purple eyes, full of sympathy. "And then the unicorn blessed you?"

That's right. I look at her with concern. She's picking at the bedcover, a pensive frown on her face. Philomel…does it make you feel bad? That your father got rid of us?

She screws up her face, thinking hard, clutching Lulu the ragdoll. If this wasn't so serious, I'd laugh at how adorable she is. "No," she says at last. "He sounds really awful. We're better off without him. Uncle Birch says all courtiers are scum, anyway."

I blink a bit at this—I knew Birch wasn't a fan of the Courts, but I didn't know his contempt ran this deep—as she snuggles in, tucking Lulu in next to her as she always does. "It's nice here, with just us," she says contentedly. "You, me and Dogwood. A father would just get in the way."

I'm glad you think that. I exhale with relief.

"So can I have another story before bed?" She gives me a dulcet look through her lashes. "Because I don't have a father?"

Nice try, Philomel. Good night. I reach up to extinguish the hanging lamp.

"Good night, Mommy!"

She's asleep in seconds, but I stay awake, staring into the darkness. I feel so awful, lying to my daughter about something so important. But how can I tell her the truth? I'm literally incapable of it, and even if I wasn't, how would that particular bedtime story go?

Well, Philomel dear, I was kidnapped when I was just about your age by General Madoc, who killed my parents before my eyes before spiriting me and my sisters away to be raised at the High Court, where Prince Balekin Greenbriar—yes, that Prince Balekin—tore away my voice before raping me and impregnating me with you. Good night, sweetie!

No, I can't tell her the truth. But I still hate this. And it reminds me uncomfortably of my own mother. She, too, had no choice except to lie to her daughters. And look how that turned out. Have I set myself and my family on the same path?

I shake my head, tossing on the pillow. It's not at all the same. I didn't break any vows to Balekin, or to Madoc either for that matter. Balekin never gave a damn about me—I doubt I was even a real person to him—and he never even knew about Philomel. He's hardly going to come looking for us now. As for Madoc, I daresay that if he was going to find us, he would have done it by now. Anyway, we're under the protection of a Great Tree of Faerie, not to mention the goblin tribe and the forest itself. We're safe.

I bite my lip, there in the dark. "Safe" is never safe enough.

With such thoughts as these, it's no wonder I don't sleep very well. I wake repeatedly from indefinite nightmares, doze feverishly, and, at the first hint of dawn, wearily get up and start preparing for the day, leaving the children to sleep. If I can't sleep, I might as well get started on my new embroidery pattern scheme.

I take up a pad of graph paper and a pencil and head outside—not before buckling on my knife and salt, though. I'm not repeating that mistake.

Outside, the dawn is gray, misty and ephemeral. Fog floats among the trees, obscuring distances, blurring the canopy. I sit on the root-bench. Nothing can hurt me while I'm touching the Tree and the light, dim though it is, is still better than indoors.

My pencil arcs, and the first lines of my new embroidery pattern emerge. This is a good idea, but only if I do it right. All the goblin women in town have admired my designs; like all faeries, they are awed and fascinated by human artistry. But will they buy embroidery patterns? Everyone has at least one embroidered outfit for festivals, but it's not like these women have a lot of time to sit around doing fancywork. Maybe if I market it as new patterns for festival garb…

There comes the sound of hoofbeats, slow, unsteady. I stiffen, and freeze as a dark shape—two shapes—come staggering out of the mist.

It's a faerie woman, of a kind I haven't seen in a long time. The kind who looks almost human, save for her long, twitching wings. A Court faerie.

I gape at her, heart pounding. Fear dries my mouth. Court faeries hardly ever come to this remote valley, and when they do, it's never for a good purpose. I'm measuring the distance to the front door, wondering if I can make a run for it, when I see the arrow sticking out of her arm, and how her horse limps behind her, head held low.

They're both wounded. She's tied a bandage around her arm, but can't remove the arrow—that would rip out half her arm—and blood trickles stickily down her horse's flank, seeping from a gash. They both limp wearily into the clearing and come to a halt.

"Are you the Lady Healer?" Her voice is rough and cracked with pain and exhaustion.

Warily, I nod. I take in more of her: her sleek hair, her skeletal wings, her muscled frame. The sword at her side, and the tabard—

My blood turns to ice. This is a knight of the Court of Termites. Roiben's Unseelie Court.

Frantically, I wonder again if I can run—it's only a few steps to the door, and she's wounded. I might have a chance. But then her horse moans in pain and staggers, and my selfish fear melts a little.

"Don't be afraid," the knight says. "I mean you no harm today, I swear it. My mount and I are both wounded. We need your help." She pauses. "I'll repay you, of course."

Slowly, I stand up. I hate seeing them in such pain, especially the innocent horse, but this is going to be a trickier negotiation than usual. I scribble on my paper. What should I call you? I write, holding it so she can read it.

"So you really are mute, eh?" A brief grin flashes across her face. "That's what I heard. Call me Dulcamara."

I step back a little. I've heard of Dulcamara, back at Court; next to Lord Roiben himself, she's the most feared faerie in the Court of Termites. What's she doing here? And how did she hear about me?

"Please don't be afraid," she repeats, and coughs. "I'm not here to do any violence to you or yours. I was riding through this area on my king's business when a group of wild fey attacked me." She grimaces. "The locals here don't like Court faeries much, it seems. I got away, but I need help before I return home. I've heard rumors of a healer here, a mortal girl blessed by the unicorn. Will you help me, Unicorn-Blessed?"

The scent of blood is thick and coppery. It will draw predators before long. Still I hesitate. I will, I write, but under certain conditions.

"Of course." Dulcamara looks like she's just barely refraining from rolling her eyes.

I think carefully. In exchange for my healing you and your horse, I write, I want your oath of secrecy. You will not tell anyone about me or my children. You will do nothing, either in words or actions, to reveal our location, or that of our Tree, to anyone or anything, either in Faerie or Ironside or anywhere in between. You will not lead anyone or anything, in your Court or out of it, to our home. You will not discuss anything about me or my children, or even hint of our existence, to a single entity or object in either world or in between. You will swear all of this by the most binding oath.

Dulcamara reads all this silently, one eyebrow raised. "Not eager to be found, are you?"

I fold my arms and tap my fingers at my side, waiting.

She sighs. "All right. I can swear to this." She recites the whole oath and swears to it, binding herself by the strictest terms.

Only when she's finished do I reach out to heal the horse first, summoning the unicorn's power in a flash of white. The horse tosses its head in agreeable surprise, shivering with relief at the abrupt end to pain as its flesh knits back together. Dulcamara makes a slight, awed noise, hastily cut off, as if to hide her moment of weakness. It gives me a nasty flashback to the Court, where every emotion, no matter what it was, was weakness and had to repressed before it could be exploited.

I shake off the moment and approach her. Carefully, I peel off the bandage, stiff with blood. The wound's stopped bleeding, but the arrow has to come out. I gesture that I have to yank it out, and she holds still and unflinching while I carefully extract it.

More blood flows from the reopened wound, a lot of blood. I put my hands to the wound, and the flesh melds back together, flawlessly, leaving only a trail of disconnected blood.

Dulcamara looks at it, reluctantly impressed. "Fine work, Lady Healer."

I incline my head in acknowledgement. Taking out a cloth, she wipes away the blood before looking back at me.

"So—do you want anything in return besides my oath?"

I shake my head. Your oath is enough. I bow, hoping she'll take the hint and leave.

She takes her horse's bridle, but makes no move to mount and ride away. Instead, she looks at me with a thoughtful, calculating expression that I don't like at all.

"You know, Lady Healer," she says, "you have a most rare gift."

I step back. My heart thuds.

"Most rare." She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, like a falcon. "Such a gift would be very welcome at our Court."

Ice shoots through me. I back away some more, and shake my head vehemently.

"Are you sure? You have two young children, I understand. It can't be easy, raising them alone, out here in the wild. Think of the education we could give them at our Court." She gives me what I'm sure she thinks is a friendly, reassuring smile. "Are you worried that you'd be mistreated, as a mortal in a faerie Court? You needn't be. We are accustomed to mortals at the Court of Termites. Our King's consort was something very close to mortal, once. She would give you welcome."

I hesitate. Her comment about my children's education hits home. There's no doubt that they would get a better education at her Court…but no. The risk is just too great. Again, I shake my head.

"Well, if you're sure…" She shrugs. "Just remember, Lady Healer, Unicorn-Blessed: rumors about you are spreading, among more than just the Wild Fey. Eventually, they're going to reach ears more powerful and unscrupulous than mine. And then you should consider: is it better to join a Court of your own free will, and gain its protection, or be snatched like a mouse in the talons of a hawk, and drafted into some stranger's service?"

I keep my face stiff. There's no way I'm going to let her see that her words have affected me. But of course they have: this is something I never considered. And, though I don't want to admit it, she sounds all too plausible.

They can't snatch me against my will, I argue, holding up the paper pad. I'm a mortal. It's Eldred's law.

"Ah." A sly look crosses her face. "But your children aren't, are they? That law doesn't protect them. Tell me, if some monarch sent their knights to snatch your kids away, would you really let them go? Or would you follow them into captivity?"

I gulp. I know the answer to this, as must she: I would follow them in an instant. I would have no choice. A horrible vision rises, of my screaming, weeping children being grabbed by faceless knights and hauled away in chains. My stomach clenches, sweat breaking out on my forehead.

Dulcamara takes something from her pocket and places it on the ground. "Use this to contact me if you change your mind," she says. "Just snap it in half, and I shall come, and escort you and your children to my King."

Still I don't move. I don't look at the object she's placed on the ground. I stand there, arms crossed, face frozen, and wait for her to leave.

She climbs gracefully into the saddle, swinging one leg over her horse's back. "Till next we meet, Lady Healer!" Her voice rings merrily on the air as she gallops off.

I wait until the last hoofbeats die away before I collapse. I fall to my knees, paper dropping to the ground, and gasp for breath. I feel like I can breathe again, now that the smothering power of the Unseelie knight is gone.

I allow myself to look at the object she's left on the ground. It's a stick, a thin little twig carved in intricate runes. I glare at it hatefully. I know—just as Dulcamara knew when she left it for me—that I'm going to have to take it. I can't destroy it, and I can't leave it lying around. And besides—and this is the part I hate most—her words have wormed in. Is it better to join a Court of your own free will, or be snatched like a mouse in the talons of a hawk?...That law doesn't protect your children…

Gingerly, using the very tips of my fingers, I pick up the twig. I hurry inside, the roses parting for me, and, quickly, I hide it in the sealed compartment.

Climbing down again, I know I should cook breakfast. But I can't. I can only watch my children's sleeping faces, fear and worry gnawing at my heart.

"You seem distracted," Birch says a few days later. "Something on your mind?"

He's come over to give Dogwood a self-defense lesson. It took me a while to get onboard, but Birch argued that an Echo needs to know how to defend himself physically, not being able to cast defensive spells. And Birch is actually rather a good fighter, and a good teacher, and Dogwood's certainly enjoying his lessons. He's standing on our platform right now, breathing heavily, but grinning, and he looks ready to keep going.

Birch, however, has paused and is looking at me in some curiosity. I guess I must have been staring into the distance again, frowning. I've been doing that a lot lately, wondering about Dulcamara's words.

No, I say hastily. Even more than the manticore, I am not going to tell anyone about Dulcamara, not even Birch. I gesture at Dogwood and Philomel, who is happily using her magic to animate Lulu and make her dance in the shifting sunlight and shadows, light glinting on the new dress of iris petals Philomel sewed for her. Just a bit tired.

"Ah, kids." He shrugs. "Enough to tire anyone out. Nothing but trouble."

Philomel looks up indignantly at this, Lulu slumping down. "Hey!"

He nudges her gently with one foot. "You know it's true, Melly."

"Yeah, Melly," Dogwood smirks. "You tire everyone out."

Her eyes narrow. "What, and you don't?"

Children, please, I say wearily. No fighting.

"Yes," says Birch. "Let's keep on with the lesson."

He recommences teaching Dogwood blocking moves. They're both trying hard, but it's awkward going. Goblin-style fighting depends heavily on the fighter having rotating ankles and a prehensile tail, neither of which Dogwood possesses. This limits the repertoire Birch can teach him. Still, Dogwood seems to be enjoying himself, watching Birch and listening to his instructions with the utmost seriousness, before trying them out himself with great enthusiasm. Birch is being so patient with him. It almost makes up for my worry, and the other thought buzzing around my head like a persistent mosquito.

"Uncle Birch says all courtiers are scum, anyway." Why can't I get those words out of my head? And in the aftermath of Dulcamara's alarming visit, why do I care so much? I knew Birch didn't like courtiers, so why does this piece of tittle-tattle bother me so much? Why do I have a sinking feeling when I look at him, like I'm worried about what he thinks of me?

Because I am worried. I was a courtier myself, and Birch knows it. Does he include me in the category of "scum"?

"Oh, oh…" Birch comes to a halt, grinning and panting. "Let's have a break, Dogwood." He drops down beside me with a happy huff of air. "Your son has some energy, Albia!"

I duck my head in acknowledgement, and hold out the water bucket, along with two cups. Dogwood drinks his thirstily and drops to his stomach, flicking leaves and bits of twigs at Philomel's animated doll.

"He'll be a good fighter, one day," says Birch thoughtfully. He sips his water. "Even without a tail or proper ankles." He frowns suddenly. We'll have to be careful, though, or some monarch will recruit him for the next war, he signs out of sight of the children, who are now engaged in their own war, of thrown twigs and bark.

Do you think there will be war?

He shrugs. There always is, isn't there?

I feel a clench of anxiety. It seems like everyone's worried about war all the time now. It's darkening the horizon like a storm. But my next question takes me entirely by surprise, leaping from my hands.

Birch, do you dislike me?

Birch, midway through sipping more water, chokes. "What?"

Nothing. My face is burning. Never mind, it was a stupid question…

No, tell me, he signs.

I hesitate. But his face is open and honest, waiting.

You don't like Court faeries, I say. And I came from a Court. So, I guess I was worried that you…didn't like me. I shake my head. I'm sorry. This is stupid.

"Albia," he says, very low and serious, "that is indeed a stupid question. Of course I like you. We've been friends for years. I've helped raise your children. It's not your fault you were at a Court; you were kidnapped and enchanted."

If only he knew.

"And you learned courtiers' perfidy for yourself," he finishes. "Just like Thistleweft and…" He breaks off.

After a moment, I say, What?

He doesn't answer. He looks away and sighs. "We need to stay away from Courts and kings and the Gentry," he says in a low, flat voice. "You, me, the kids…everyone in the valley. That's the best thing for people like us. Stay far away from them."

I nod, but my insides are clenched with apprehension. He's absolutely right—but what are we supposed to do when the Gentry come bothering us?

Again, Dulcamara's words come back. What if she's right? What if my family's being kidnapped and forced into a Court is inevitable?

The thought makes my blood run cold. Not only for myself, but for my kids. What would a Court do to Dogwood, with his low lineage and his unseemly gift? He'd be ridiculed into misery before being drafted as someone's military pet. Meanwhile, I'd be enslaved and forced to heal our captors' every wound.

But it's the thought of Philomel that makes me truly shake. Once the Court figured out who she really was—and there is virtually no chance that they would not eventuallyfigure it out—the consequences would be catastrophic. The most benign outcome I can think of is their holding her for ransom to the Greenbriars. The worst outcomes are things I can't even contemplate.

But by far the likeliest result is that whichever Court grabbed us would make a bid for the Greenbriar throne, igniting a bloody free-for-all of epic proportions. They'd throw my little girl headfirst into a vicious civil war. They wouldn't give a damn for her, herself: all they'd care about is her birthright. They'd turn her into a puppet queen if they could, or condemn her to slaughter. I look at my children, innocently playing, and the thought of them facing such horrors is enough to make my vision blur.

So is Dulcamara right? Should I accept her offer?

But, really, what difference would it make?

Do I seriously believe any of her assurances? Faeries can't lie, but there are many ways to hide the truth, and courtiers like Dulcamara know them all. And she never said that her Court wouldn't exploit me and my family. If we join the Court of Termites, all of my forebodings will come to pass—just maybe a little more politely. Maybe. They are Unseelie, after all.

And they're a Court. A sullen wave of resentment rises at this, and my jaw clenches. I already spent a decade locked in the hell of a faerie Court. And I did not endure those years of abuse and debasement—I did not flee the High Court on the unicorn's back—I did not cut myself off from my own family—I did not raise two children alone—only to scurry back into that same trap at the first sign of danger. Maybe Dulcamara's right and we will get snatched; but I will not go back of my own free will. I will not knowingly condemn my children or myself to a life of servitude and misery, just out of fear of what might happen.

Love is worth more than that. Freedom is worth more than that.

"Dogwood!" Philomel's shriek of rage rouses me from my steely musings. Eyes and hair glowing, she starts pummeling him with a spell, which he immediately turns back on her. She gestures, and Dogwood yelps as his feet go shooting out from underneath him. Philomel snickers.

"Kids! Stop!" Birch yells, wading into the fray. As I join him, separating the children and signing furiously, I wonder wryly if Dulcamara would still be quite so keen for us to join her Court if she knew just how unruly my kids could be.