Plots
I awake late the next morning, to the sound of Dogwood and Philomel giggling and squealing. For a moment, this is so happy, and so normal, that I think I'm back in the Tree, safe and undiscovered, and this will be an ordinary day in the forest. Then I remember, and a heaviness like stone settles on me.
Moaning silently, I get up, crawling out of the bed. The kids are nowhere to be seen, but I hear their voices coming from the next room. Still in my nightgown, I head into the sitting room, where Birch, Saxifrage and a servant are presiding over what looks like an advanced play session. The remains of breakfast sit on the table, and the rug is scattered with toys, some of which look familiar.
"Look, Mommy!" Philomel comes hurtling up, looking genuinely happy for the first time since we were kidnapped. "Look at these toys Oriana left us!" She holds up a stuffed rabbit that I remember used to belong to Jude, packed up and taken along when Madoc kidnapped us from Ironside. I had no idea Oriana kept it.
I have to swallow a lump as I look over the array of toys: it's painful seeing them, but I'm so touched by Oriana's thoughtfulness in providing them. In realizing that my children would need toys. Then I think about her preparing our prison on Madoc's orders, and feel my heart harden.
The servant, a kitchen brownie, scurries over, bowing low. "Good morning, Lady Taryn," she squeaks. "Shall I bring you breakfast?"
I regard her carefully. Part of my admittedly incomplete strategizing last night involved the servants: I'm going to use them to build a power base for myself. To do that, I both have to dominate them and get them on my side.
Yes, I say, Birch translating. And where are my clothes? I look pointedly at Dogwood and Philomel, still in their nightshirts. Where are my children's clothes?
The brownie looks aside, shiftily. "My apologies, my lady, but the General ordered Tatterfell to take them away and, um, dispose of them. He'll be sending a seamstress later today, though, to make you all new clothes," she adds brightly.
Part of me—and not a small part—wants to back down. There's no point in getting angry now, is there? Our clothes are gone. But the clothes are not the point. If I want to establish myself as a power in this house, I have to do it now.
I fix the brownie with an icy glare, letting her squirm a moment before I begin to sign. The next time Madoc gives you an order like that, I command, Birch raising his crest as he translates, you come to me first. I'll tell you myself whether I want any of my possessions disposed of.
"But, my lady—" The brownie breaks off as I draw myself up, trying to channel Jude. On a moment's inspiration, I summon my unicorn-gift, making my hands glow white. "I—I mean, yes, my lady, of course!" She bows repeatedly as she backs out of the room, scampering off down the corridor to the kitchen, where I sincerely hope she will repeat her story to every other servant.
Saxifrage, leaning in the corner, raises an eyebrow, while the children cheer. "Yay Mommy!" laughs Philomel. "You showed her!"
Birch just looks bemused. That was…unusual, he signs at last. He stares at me strangely. It's like you were a different person, Albia.
I give him a quick grimace. I know. I let the power die back, the light disappearing. I hope the unicorn doesn't mind my using her gift in such a way: to intimidate rather than heal. I give her a quick mental apology, fighting guilt.
I sink down to join the children on the carpet, feeling a bit sick. Confrontation has never been my strong point: I'm trembling inside. But this is the way it has to be; I can't go back to being the helpless, powerless child I was before, the child that Madoc wants me to be. I have to assert myself or we'll never get out of this.
Still, I'm glad to start interacting with the kids, playing stuffed animals with Philomel while Dogwood frowns over a puzzle box, face crumpling with concentration.
"Here, Dogwood." Gently, Birch takes it out of his hands. "Like this."
Watching them, I wonder how on earth I could have missed the fact that they are father and son. It seems so obvious now, both in their shared looks and in the gentle way Birch interacts with Dogwood. I think of Thistleweft and bite my lip. Oh, Thistleweft. I'm so sorry that I failed you, that I didn't keep your son safe.
Perhaps luckily, my melancholy thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of breakfast. Birch and I eat the porridge, the eggs and meat, and the children set to as well, devouring from my tray. I tug gently on Philomel's messy braid. I thought you ate earlier.
Yeah, but we're hungry again. She looks up, beaming, her mouth full, and I have to smile.
Come on, let me brush your hair. I take her back into the bedroom, where I find a brush and begin tidying her hair out.
When we emerge, we have guests: Oriana gives us a swift smile, Tatterfell gives a bow, and the hob accompanying them curtsies. Her three helpers curtsy too.
"Lady Taryn," the hob says; she's obviously been coached. "I'm here to make you and your children new clothes."
Oriana surveys me and the children like we're new servants who aren't up to scratch. "Perhaps you should start with the children, Brambleweft."
No one's asked my permission, but I nod regally and step aside, as though giving it. I motion the children forward, and they trail up reluctantly.
"My first mother was a seamstress," Dogwood informs Brambleweft as he holds out his arms to be measured.
"Oh, was she, young man?" Maybe it's just my imagination, but I think I hear a snide tone in Brambleweft's voice: just a seamstress, huh? I step forward, eyes flashing, and she quickly turns back to her work, lowering her eyes.
In a trice, the children both have new suits of clothes, and Brambleweft promises to make three more sets by tomorrow. Dogwood looks at his red jacket and black pants askance, but Philomel runs his hands over her new pink skirt wonderingly: except for yesterday's dress, she's never seen anything so fine. I feel a stab of resentment at how easily she's being seduced, even though I know it's not her fault.
"And now, Lady Taryn…" Brambleweft turns to me with more eagerness. "Let's get started on you."
I let her take my measurements, though I feel strangely self-conscious about it with Birch in the room; I can't help glancing at him when she's measuring my bust, for instance, half-hoping and half-dreading that he's watching. But he's resolutely looking away, playing with Dogwood again.
Oriana, though, catches my look. She raises an eyebrow, and, though a blush rises to my cheeks, I refuse to look away. Instead, I raise my chin, staring back at her until she looks away.
"…There we go," says Brambleweft at last. "We'll run up a nice new white dress for you right now, my lady, and several more within the week. Lady Oriana was most particular that you have something fit for a Court presentation!" She beams, obviously looking forward to building a Court dress.
Oh, joy. A Court presentation dress. I can guess what that's for. But then something else catches my attention.
A white dress? Brambleweft, digging through her sewing basket, doesn't see me sign. I clap my hands sharply, making her jerk up. Why a white dress? I demand, Birch hurrying to translate. Why not some other color?
"Well…" Brambleweft shoots a glance at Oriana. "That was what Lady Oriana specified. You were to have white dresses."
Oriana shrugs as I turn a sharp glance on her. "Madoc was most particular," she says quietly.
Ah. Of course. White, in honor of the unicorn. I wonder why this bothers me so much: after all, Thistleweft made me the moonlight dress in honor of the unicorn, and I happily wore it to all important events. But this is not like the moonlight dress. That dress was a mark of my power, of my special status among the Red Branch. These dresses will demonstrate my powerlessness, my status as a pawn. Madoc's pawn.
I draw myself up, trying once again to channel Jude. I feel like a total fraud, but it seems to work; the hobs, Tatterfell and Oriana all step back, and the children watch, eyes huge. You can make me white dresses, I sign, hands jerky with rage, but I won't wear them. Birch translates, smirking.
"Taryn, please, be reasonable," Oriana says, forehead wrinkled with distress. "It's appropriate for you to wear white, given your status as a unicorn-blessed lady."
"Is that true?" Brambleweft asks, as if she just can't help herself. "Were you truly blessed by the unicorn?"
I nod, and Philomel comes to my side, head held high. "You bet it's true! My Mommy can heal any wound or sickness."
"And make weak babies live," adds Dogwood, coming up on my other side.
"That's right," Birch confirms.
"Really?" Brambleweft looks more interested than ever, and shares a glance with one of her seamstresses. The other hob gives me a surreptitious, hopeful smile, and I nod back.
"A-hem!" Oriana coughs loudly, and we all come to attention. "Taryn, you have to wear something!"
Oriana and I glare at each other, locked in stalemate. I won't wear white, I repeat stubbornly.
She gives an exasperated sigh. "Well, what will you wear, then?"
I think quickly. Green, I say. I want green and brown dresses. Green and brown, in honor of the forest where I lived free, and the Great Tree that was my shelter. Embroidered with tree leaves, I add on inspiration.
I brace myself for an angry outburst, but instead a slight smile tugs Oriana's lips. She knows exactly what statement I want to make here. Her eyes gleam; she's no more immune to the joy of mischief than any other faerie. She turns back to Brambleweft. "You know," she says, "my husband didn't specify how many white dresses you should make for Lady Taryn. Why not make two white dresses and five green-and-brown dresses?"
Starting with green-and-brown, to wear today, I add.
"Sounds good to me," Tatterfell chimes in, grinning. "Lady Taryn will look excellent in green and brown."
A sly smile grows on Brambleweft's face, and her seamstresses giggle. They can't resist this opportunity to put one over on a powerful courtier. "All right, then."
We all grin at each other conspiratorially—at least, we women do. The children are already back playing with the toys, and Birch just looks confused.
The hobs sew up my first forest dress right then and there. I stand over them, directing operations, Birch translating with an increasingly bemused expression. And unicorn horns on the sleeves, I add, in another burst of inspiration.
"Unicorn horns?" Brambleweft blinks.
I pull over a sheet of paper from a nearby desk and quickly draw up a spiraling horn design. High on the sleeves, just below my shoulders, embroidered in silver-white. I may reject Madoc's stamp of ownership, but I still need to somehow display the badge of my unicorn-blessed status.
"Good idea," says Oriana. We gleam at each other in mutual understanding. I'm starting to think she's enjoying defying Madoc even more than I am.
At last, my dress is ready. Gently refusing Tatterfell's offer to help, I step into the bedroom to put it on; at my instruction, it's not so fancy that I can't get it on myself. I lace up the brown bodice and admire the pattern of leaves embroidered, brown-on-green, on the skirt. Their loamy scent breathes out: the hobs used real leaves. I buckle on the belt, burdened with my knife and salt-pouch. The unicorn horns gleam on my green sleeves, proclaiming to all that I am the Unicorn-Blessed, that I alone have the right to wear this badge.
I sigh, stabbed by a sudden melancholia. This dress is a small victory, but it's a victory in a war that I don't want to fight. I sag, exhausted just by a morning of asserting myself in this unnatural way: how can I keep on doing this? I draw myself up, mouth tightening. I can do this because my children need me to. If this is what I have to do to protect them, then so be it.
I step out again, head held high, and everyone blinks and gapes in a most gratifying way. Philomel claps her hands and even Dogwood says, "You look good, Mommy!"
I nod, smiling at him, and accept Oriana and Tatterfell's grinning congratulations. But I can't stop watching Birch, aching to know his opinion.
He stares at me, face still but his eyes bright. "Albia," he says at last, "you look…" He breaks off. "Nice," he finishes.
I nod, trying to hide a strange sense of hurt and disappointment. Is that all he thinks? I turn away, skirts swaying around me.
One of the seamstresses, on her way out the door, hesitates. She sidles up to me. "Unicorn-Blessed," she murmurs, using my old title, "I have a sister who recently gave birth to a sickly child. She's not like to live. If you could…?"
I nod, and gesture Birch over. Tell her to bring the child to the servants' entrance later today, I say. I'll heal her. I give the seamstress a warm smile, and she smiles back, giving me that old, old look: the obsequious, hopeful look of a faerie who desperately wants something only you can give her. I accept her expression for what it is: it may cover contempt, but it's still better than open viciousness. And, for my purposes, it will do very well indeed.
"You're generous, Unicorn-Blessed." The seamstress dares a glance at my frowning stepmother. "I mean, Lady Taryn." She curtsies her way out.
Oriana turns her frown on me. I return it with my blandest smile. I doubt that my using my gift to heal seamstress's weak children figured in hers or Madoc's plans, but too bad. I clasp my hands, radiating innocence.
But all Oriana says is, "It's good you're ready. Your father wants to speak to you today."
A low, angry growl sounds. Everyone, even the children, turns to Birch in surprise and alarm. His crest is raised, blue spots flashing, and his eyes are narrowed. His stiff fur-spikes stand up, even on his arms and his tail.
"He's not her father!" Birch snarls.
Oh, dear. Giving a reassuring smile to the children, who are looking nervous, I draw Birch aside, my new skirts rustling like leaves. Birch, I sign, staring urgently into his eyes, please don't do anything foolish. Don't confront Madoc. Promise me!
How can you say that? His hands jerk with rage as he signs, his face incredulous. I'm supposed to just stand aside and let that monster pretend he's your father? After what he did?
Yes! I nod vigorously. That's exactly what you have to do! Madoc's already threatened to punish you if we don't do what we're told. It's us he needs, not you. So don't confront him, don't be rude to him, don't give him any reason to hurt you. I give him a grim smile. I did it for ten years. If I can, you can.
He sighs. In that moment, he looks as tired as I feel. All right. I'll be polite to Madoc. His eyes flash. For now.
Not perfect, but I think that's the best I'm going to get. Patting him gratefully on the arm, I turn back to the room.
The children stare at us with huge eyes. Oriana raises an eyebrow. "Just what did Taryn tell you about Madoc, Birch?" she asks abruptly.
"She told me enough," he says, glowering at her.
She returns the look steadily. "I see," she says in a clipped tone.
"What?" Philomel looks between me and Birch. "What'd you say, Mommy? What about Madoc?"
"Never mind for now, Melly," says Birch, coming over to lay a hand on her shoulder and on Dogwood's. "Why don't we head out and explore the house?" He gives Saxifrage a sour look. "If our hosts will let us, of course."
"You can move around the house." This is the first time I've actually heard Saxifrage speak, cold and abrupt. "As long as I or another knight accompanies you. You're not to go outside."
"What!" cries Dogwood in dismay. "Why not?"
"The General's orders," Saxifrage says in a steely tone.
I check a sigh: being locked up in here is already like being shut in a granite coffin. Now we can't even go out for a breath of air. Come on, I say, going over to the children. Let's see the house at least. Maybe we can find your aunts.
We head for the door, Saxifrage leading the way, Oriana coming behind us. I hear Tatterfell already moving around, cleaning up the children's mess.
"I'm sorry," my stepmother whispers to me. "I'll see what I can do about getting Madoc to let you outside, to the garden at least. Further than that is…probably not safe." Her eyes flicker to Philomel, trotting obliviously ahead.
I give her a grim smile. I suppose she has a point.
Once outside the apartment, the children go abruptly quiet. Dogwood slips a hand into mine and Philomel clings to my skirt. I lay my hand reassuringly on her shoulder, even as my stomach tightens. Walking around this house is a strange and wrenching experience. So familiar—and yet, so different. My new dress swishes imperiously around my feet, my children stay close, my knife and salt hang at my side, and the servants step out of my way, regarding me with a new wariness. They've heard of my experiences, and they can tell I've come back changed. I hold my head high, holding their gazes until they look away. I'm not General Madoc's helpless, scandalous mortal ward anymore, however much I may feel like it on the inside. I'm Lady Taryn now, the Unicorn-Blessed, mother of two beautiful children, and I survived seven years on my own in the wilds of Faerie, which is more than most of them can say. They can treat me with respect. In fact, it's vital that they do.
Dogwood steps even closer. "It's so big," he whispers. "Where are Aunt Vivi and Aunt Jude? How will we find them?"
Oriana looks up, ready to summon a servant to ask, but I beat her to it. I clap my hands sharply, startling a passing footman. I beckon him over, and he comes hesitantly, glancing at Oriana.
I clap my hands again, regaining his attention. Where are my sisters and Prince Cardan? Birch translates for me.
"Downstairs, I believe," he says cautiously. "The General said they could roam the house as they wished, as long as they didn't go outside. My lady."
Where is the General?
"He's gone to tell King Eldred of his successful mission," Oriana says now. A small frown of annoyance mars her forehead; she may enjoy defying Madoc to some degree, but she's not liking my new, high-handed attitude. I make a mental note to tread more cautiously; it won't do to turn Oriana against me. "He'll be back later today."
Birch growls angrily. "'Successful mission' indeed…"
I give him a warning glance and turn back to the nervously waiting footman. You will come and inform me the moment he comes home, I instruct. Also, there may be a hob with a sick baby coming to the servants' entrance later today. As soon as she arrives, I wish her to be escorted to me. Please tell the other servants.
"Y-yes, my lady," he stammers. He blinks his two-toned eyes at me: green and gold. "Are you…going to use the unicorn's gift on the baby? You're going to heal it with your touch?"
I note with pleasure his tone of excitement and curiosity. I nod. Do you have any injuries yourself?
He shifts a little. "Well, now that you mention it…" He holds up a hand, where a cut is slowly healing. "I cut myself on iron," he explains shamefacedly. "A healer saved it from poisoning, but it's healing very slowly. If you would…?"
I nod magnanimously and lay my hands on his. A moment's concentration, a flash of white light, and the flesh knits back together, leaving his hand whole and healthy.
"Amazing!" He studies his healed hand with delight. "How can I repay you, Lady Taryn?"
We'll discuss that later, I sign. I have no desire to negotiate in front of Oriana, and it will be helpful to have a servant in my debt. I'm glad I was able to help.
He looks a bit uncomfortable at this—unspecified bargains seldom bode well in Faerie—but bows and heads off, giving me a marveling glance over his shoulder. Down the hall, I hear him beginning to whisper with another servant.
Oriana waits until we're a respectable distance away, heading for the staircase, before pulling me aside. "What do you think you're playing at, Taryn?" she demands, leaning over me, voice low. "Playing healer to the servants! What will your father say?"
"It's her gift!" Philomel pipes up, frowning, hair glowing. "She can use it as she likes. And Madoc's not her father!"
"That's right," says Birch, and Dogwood nods in agreement.
I jerk my arm back from Oriana's grip and draw myself up. I meet her gaze unflinching. Oriana, I say, Birch glaring as he translates, I'm sorry if I'm interfering in your household, but this is my gift, given to me by the unicorn, and I will use it as I see fit. Neither you nor Madoc have the right to tell me what I should do with it.
Guilt and shame crowd into Oriana's eyes as she remembers why I have this gift in the first place. "You're right," she says quietly. "I apologize."
Gently, I reach out to touch her hand, and she looks back at me. I smile into her eyes. Apology accepted, I sign.
She gives me her own tentative smile back, and we stand still together a moment before breaking away and heading downstairs.
Birch hurries to walk beside me, glancing over his shoulder at Oriana. What was that all about? he signs out of her sight.
Yeah, agrees Dogwood, looking up at me. What was that?
I shake my head. I can't really explain. It's just important that we don't anger Oriana, all right? I stare hard at the kids until they both nod. Now let's go find your aunts.
We hear them before we find them—or, rather, hear Cardan. "Great Trees," his voice echoes from the lesser parlor, "who knew being a prisoner was so dull?"
Philomel giggles and I have to fight down a grin as we head in.
Once the door opens, however, all humor vanishes. I freeze, struck by memory. The lesser parlor. The very same room where Balekin visited us, seven years ago, and paid me his predatory attentions. I stare at the chair where he sat, and I can almost swear I see him there.
I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.
A tug on my hand brings me back. "Mommy?" Philomel looks up at me worriedly.
I squeeze her hand back, make myself smile. I will my heartbeat to slow. Balekin is not here. Taking a deep breath, I step all the way into the parlor.
"Taryn!" Vivienne jumps up, hurrying over. "Are you okay?" She blinks at my attire. "You look…different."
I smile and swish my skirts. Jude, Heather and Cardan are all blinking at me too, and even the guards in the corners are staring. Whatever they were expecting when they saw me again, it wasn't this.
"That horrible redcap wanted Mommy to wear only white dresses," says Philomel confidingly. "But Mommy made the seamstress make something different." She holds out her skirt. "Look at my new dress!"
"Very nice, Melly," manages Heather. "You're looking good. You too, Dogwood."
He looks away, mumbling something. He stands very close to me.
"They are looking good," Cardan says. He turns to the guards. "Too good to stay stuck inside. Why not let us out, while the General's away?"
"Orders," grinds out Saxifrage.
"Yes, yes, we have to stay in the house." Cardan pauses in thought. "But what is the house precisely?"
"The building," says Saxifrage, looking wary.
"Well, what's the building?" Cardan nods at the terrace, golden and sunny outside. "Look at the terrace. A structure attached to the main building. Surely that counts!"
"Cardan—" Jude mutters, eyeing the guards.
"Oh, don't be such a stick, Jude." Cardan's already grandly throwing open the door, letting in a gust of flower-scented air. "Come on, kids, let's go out on the terrace!"
"Yes, let's!" Heather follows, and the children scamper forward like kittens.
A guard steps in, holding out an arm before Cardan's progress. Cardan draws back; then gives him a bright, dangerous smile. "Are you offering violence to a Greenbriar prince?" he asks oh so softly. The guard hesitates, visibly weakening. "Didn't think so," Cardan nods in victory. "Come, Jude, I feel like a walk."
"You are completely crazy," I hear Jude hiss to Cardan under her breath.
"Well, perhaps, but I got us outside, didn't I?"
I roll my eyes, but can't resist the surge of pleasure at the gust of warm wind, the sunlight. Oh, this feels better. I'm out of the coffin, away from the parlor, and my kids are skipping about the tiled terrace, squeaking with glee. It's good, so good, to see them run around happily—even as the guards take up positions around the perimeter, clearly willing to use force to stop us leaving the terrace.
I ignore them as best I can, playing games with the children, until a familiar noise wafts in: the thin, plaintive cry of a miserable, sickly faerie baby.
I turn to see the footman in the doorway, leading an anxious-looking hob woman. In her arms writhes a tiny, wizened homunculus: a faerie baby who's not long for this world, unless someone intervenes.
"What are you doing?" Saxifrage storms in, looking furious.
"Miss—Lady Taryn said this hob was coming, and I should bring her and her baby to the lady when she arrives." The footman looks both nervous and defiant.
I sweep up, Birch in my wake. She's welcome as my patient, I sign, Birch translating. Smiling kindly, I gesture the hob forward.
Looking more nervous than ever, she steps forward. "Please, Unicorn-Blessed," she says. "If there's anything…"
I nod and lay my hands on the child. A flash of white unicorn-light, and strength visibly flows into the baby, her skin turning a healthier color, brightness entering her eyes. I feel the magic course through the tiny body, breathing on the flame of life within. I grin at the now-familiar pause: that moment when the baby is so surprised at being healthy that they fall silent, blinking. Then—the happy coo, the arms and legs waving in joy.
The mother smiles incredulously, tears in her eyes. "Oh, Lady Healer."
At that precise moment, Madoc appears in the doorway.
He freezes at the tableau before him: his prisoners sporting outdoors on the terrace, the children paused in a game with Heather and Cardan, myself in a dress proclaiming my allegiances, my hands on a baby whose life I have just saved with my unicorn-gift.
I smile innocently into Madoc's eyes. Really, I couldn't have asked for better timing.
Madoc and I are torn from our staring match by Birch's growl. He's glaring at Madoc, crest rising, flashing red spots and blue tips. His tail lashes in rage.
I place a hand on his tense forearm. Looking into his eyes, I shake my head. He snarls silently, but slowly relaxes, tension draining away.
Madoc raises an eyebrow, but lets it pass. His eyes travel over the scene. "What," he grinds out, "is happening here?"
"We just brought the kids out for some exercise," says Cardan innocently. Philomel and Dogwood both cling close to their Aunt Vivi, staring at Madoc fearfully, but Cardan's completely relaxed. "Nothing wrong with that, surely? If you keep them cooped up inside, they're going to start breaking things at the very least."
Madoc glares a minute before turning to Saxifrage. "I told you they were to stay indoors."
"Oh, don't blame Saxifrage," says Cardan breezily. "It was entirely my fault. Now, perhaps we'd both better step aside, General. We're making that poor hob nervous, and she's got a newborn baby. Didn't Taryn do a marvelous job healing it?"
Smiling serenely, I turn back to the mother and child. In exchange for healing your child, Birch translates for me, I'd like your sworn word that you will make good, well-made clothes for myself and my children, whenever we ask, for the next five years. Is that acceptable to you?
"Y-yes," she stammers, eyes darting to Madoc. "Would you like something now?"
Not now. Have a good day!
"Good day," she murmurs faintly, and all but flees. Heather, watching her go, lets out a bemused sigh, shaking her head.
I smooth down my skirt before turning unhurriedly to Madoc. What was it you wanted to say? Birch translates, smirking.
I think Madoc is just barely refraining from snapping his own teeth off. It's marvelous. "I came to check on you and the children."
The children are quite well, as you can see. I gesture over at them, still watching like little hawk chicks. It hurts me that they don't run to me as their mother, but instead hang back, clinging to their aunts. Where's Oriana?
"Oriana?" He blinks at this unexpected volte-face. "In the kitchens, I believe. Why?"
I want to discuss the children's education. This is only partially to discomfit Madoc: we may have been dragged back to Court kicking and screaming, but now that we're here, we may as well take advantage of what opportunities it provides. I wanted to ask if she knew of any good tutors.
Birch gives me a hard look as he translates for me: what are you up to? I grimace quickly: go along with it.
"Master Noggle's free these days." Jude, unnoticed, has snuck up, and now stands between me and Madoc. "The palace school is out of session at the moment, because there are no students."
Excellent! I smile at my sister. Could you talk to him for me?
"Happy to," she says, grinning at Madoc.
He snaps out of his surprise somewhat. "Any tutors for the children," he informs me icily, "will be chosen by me. Now come, Taryn, I wish to talk to you."
"About the children, I suppose?" says Cardan.
Madoc glances at the kids. "Yes."
"Then I'll come too."
Madoc glares. "No, you won't."
"Excuse me." Cardan steps closer, lowering his voice. "But Philomel is my niece, you know."
Jude, Birch and I all blink at Cardan in surprise. He's right, I realize, marveling: she is his niece. It's a measure of how thoroughly I managed to divorce Philomel from the Greenbriars in my mind that I never once, in seven years, thought of her as Cardan or Dain's niece, or Eldred's granddaughter. I barely even thought of her as Balekin's daughter. Her Greenbriar legacy was an evil secret, a curse I must protect her from—not family.
But now Madoc's smiling craftily. "Yes, but the King has appointed me your guardian for the time being, Your Highness. You're to do what I say."
"After your abject failure in keeping me secure?" Cardan raises an eyebrow. "Very trusting of my father, I must say."
"Be grateful he's not throwing you back to Balekin," Madoc growls, smile gone. "He did consider it. Now, come, Taryn, I need to speak to you." He glances at Birch. "Alone."
"Without me?" Birch's crest rises in surprise and consternation.
"Taryn can write down her answers. Come away." Madoc tries to usher me indoors.
"No!" Now Philomel and Dogwood come scurrying over, clinging to me hard. "Don't go!"
I free my hands to sign, Don't worry. I'll be back soon. Madoc, meanwhile, has folded his arms and is tapping his fingers impatiently, glancing meaningfully at Birch: whipping boy. Birch will stay with you. And I'll come back, I promise.
More easily than I expected—far more easily than I like—they let themselves be dissuaded. It breaks my heart, seeing how spiritless and cowed they look, hanging back and letting me be led away. How can just a few days make such a horrible difference?
I feel a leaden pulse of rage, and break away from Madoc, shoulders rigid with hostility. He sighs, but says nothing, leading me through the house to the study.
Back in the study again. I glare at the room hatefully, memories of seven years ago crowding in, and sit down in the extra chair. Damned if I'm going to stand before Madoc's desk like an errant schoolgirl, and damned if I'm going to wait for an invitation. I sit in the chair, ramrod-straight, and look at him unblinking.
He hands me a blank notebook and a pen, and pulls his chair around to sit opposite me. I guess this is going to be a meeting of equals, or at least insofar as Madoc's capable of such a thing. I hold the notebook, fiddle with the pen, and wait.
"Oriana may have told you," he begins abruptly, "that I went to see Eldred this morning. I did not tell him about Philomel," he adds to my sharp, interrogative look. "Nor did I tell him about Balekin. But let us say I dropped some hints."
He leans forward, suddenly earnest. "Taryn, you know who your daughter really is. You know the destiny that awaits her. I want to help her achieve that destiny. Why are you fighting me?"
One good thing about writing down one's answers: it gives one time to think. I didn't raise her to be Queen. Why dance around the point? She's only six. She has no experience or education for it. The Court would tear her to pieces, at the very least. She might even be killed.
"She'll be protected." Still so earnest. "I will protect her. You have my word."
You could still protect her without making her Queen. Sudden hope flares in my chest. Swear to me that you'll protect Philomel without making her Queen, and I'll stop fighting you. I'll never run away again. I'll raise the children to respect and obey you as their grandfather. I swallow, steeling myself. You can send Birch away too, if you want. I won't argue with you. I'll obey you in everything. Just don't tell the children about Balekin, and don't put Philomel on the throne!
"Oh, Taryn." Now he's shaking his head, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Don't you understand that this is Philomel's destiny? The Greenbriar princes are all unfit for the throne. Faerie's future is in peril in their hands. And why would the unicorn have caused Philomel's birth, if not for her to become Queen?"
I have to admit, this argument does have weight. But I shake my head, mouth a grim line. I'm not throwing my daughter into mortal peril on the basis of my stepfather's questionable insight into the unicorn's motives—and I'm definitely not doing it on the basis of some self-serving argument.
"What choice do you have, Taryn?" His voice hardens. "Such a birthright cannot be ignored. Faerie itself takes notice of children such as Philomel. If I don't put her on the throne, someone else will. And at least I have some personal interest in her safety and wellbeing." He turns soft, seductive. "And think what it could mean for you, Taryn. You'd be My Lady the Queen's Mother."
I stare at him. I've been Mommy for seven years, and he thinks he's going to buy me off with a hollow title like that?
Madoc changes tack. "All right, if personal power holds no allure for you, what about Faerie's welfare? Do you really want Balekin on the throne?" He sees my frozen expression and smiles. "No, I wouldn't either. Any one of the princes would make a terrible King. Think of how your friends in the forest would suffer, beneath their rule."
I bite my lip. I think of Birch. I think of Heartwood, of Alder and Elder, of Bettina: of all the wild fey who have been patients and neighbors and allies and friends. They do deserve a better King than any of the Greenbriar brothers would make. For sure, they deserve far better than Balekin.
"You must see that the Greenbriar line has gone weak and rotten." Madoc snaps his fingers, claws glinting in the sunlight. "A dose of human blood might be just what's needed to revive it." His gaze turns distant, almost dreamy. "Eva and Justin's granddaughter," he murmurs.
Oh, joy. It's not just Madoc's ambition I'm up against here: it's his ever-present guilt as well. His never-ending quest to somehow, somehow, make it up to my parents for murdering them. He'll make their grandchild High Queen and tell himself that obviously it was all meant to be, all along, and that Eva and Justin, wherever they are, understand and forgive him.
I almost feel sorry for him—or I would if I wasn't aware that a lot of Madoc's plan is based on self-interest and personal ambition. What about Dain and Cardan? I demand, pen scratching.
"Cardan can live." His answer comes too promptly; he's thought this through. "We'll need a living Greenbriar to crown Philomel, after all. He can live, if he promises to support her reign and not plot against her. As for Dain…" Madoc spreads his hands, the gesture saying, more clearly than any words could: what do you think happens to inconvenient extra royals?
And this is the world he wants to thrust my daughter into. What about a regent? I write.
This is, of course, the main point. Who is going to be regent for Philomel in her minority, according to Madoc's grand plan? It's sure not going to be me, or even Cardan.
"Me, of course," Madoc says calmly.
I feel my lips curling back from my teeth. How convenient! My pen almost snaps with rage. You put your granddaughter on the throne and get to rule Faerie for the next twelve years!
"You'd share in that power too, you know," he says, not turning a hair. "All our family would."
I don't want power! I want to be free. I want the children to be safe!
"Taryn." His voice gentles again. "You can't be blind to this. This is the way to ensure Philomel's safety. In this game, it's either reign or die—and you and Philomel have no choice but to play this game. Do you think Balekin is doing nothing right now? Do you think he's not looking for a way to claim you and Philomel? To claim her as his child, without spilling the truth? If we do this right, we get it all: Philomel as Queen, Balekin dead and all of Faerie at our feet."
I glare at him hatefully. It's your fault Philomel is in danger. You led Balekin to our hiding place. You forced us out. And now you want me to just go along with your nasty little power-grab!
"If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else," he says without a trace of regret or shame. "Someone who does not care for Philomel's safety, or yours, or Dogwood's. Now, Taryn: this would be much easier with your cooperation. However, I do not need it. If you will not cooperate, you will simply have to stay locked up until the time is right. What do you say?" When I don't move, he just nods, as though he was expecting this. "Very well."
His hand darts out, and I flinch, but he merely yanks out a couple of my hairs. They curl in his fingers. "I'm putting a spell on you," he says calmly. "So you won't be able to leave the house without me." He gives a sigh at my expression. "It's for your protection, Taryn. Balekin won't be able to snatch you with this spell. If I could cast this spell on your faerie children too, I would." He stands up. "Speaking of which, you'd better get back to Dogwood and Philomel now. I expect they're missing you."
Slowly, I stand. For an absurd moment, I wobble on the verge of a curtsy as old habits reassert themselves. But no. I will not curtsy to this man, now or ever. After all, if he's going to make me My Lady the Queen's Mother, he can get used to a lack of deference.
I smile grimly and tear the page out of the notebook. Balling it up, I throw it into the fire. No need to leave incriminating evidence lying around.
"Good thinking," says Madoc approvingly. "Don't tell anyone about our conversation, Taryn, not even your sisters." His tone turns cold. "If you do, I'll beat the goblin bloody while you watch. See you at dinner."
I throw him one last furious look over my shoulder before I saunter slowly out, leaving the door open behind me. His growl of frustration is some consolation, but not nearly enough.