Confessions

For a moment, a stunned silence reigns. Then Birch bursts out, voice loud in the soundproofed room:

"Are you MAD?!"

"Ow!" Cardan rubs his ears, looking aggrieved. "Not so loud, Birch, please! Some of us have sensitive ears. And no, I am not mad. Or, if I am, I'm no more mad than Jude. This was all her idea."

I gape at him, too stunned to sign. Jude thought this up?

"Why?" Birch's voice shakes. "Why would you have Albia tell such a lie? So you can be High King?"

"Great Trees, no!" Cardan recoils in genuine horror. "I don't want to get anywhere near that damn throne! No, being the wastrel uncle of a beautiful young Queen strikes me as a fine, fulfilling life. Certainly better than being King. Or the despised brother of an extremely unpopular sovereign."

I look at him sourly. So there is a bit of self-interest here, huh? So how would this go, exactly? I sign.

"Simple." Cardan sits upright, eyes sparkling; he's enjoying this. "We get the following message out to Eldred: that you, Taryn, slept with me seven years ago in a moment of hot-blooded impetuosity, possibly fueled by drink. Then you fled Court, for reasons that would be obvious to anyone who knows Jude Duarte. But, heart-warmingly, Jude followed you, and you sisters made up your differences, just in time for Madoc to scoop you all up and drag you back with the treacherous intention of putting little Philomel on the throne and himself in the Regent's place."

There's a moment's silence. Birch breaks it first. "No one is going to believe that load of squirrel shit."

"Possibly not," Cardan acknowledges. "But you see, it doesn't matter whether Eldred believes it or not. He will pretend to believe it. He'll love it. It gives him exactly the excuse he needs to cut me and my brothers out of the succession."

I give him a bitter look, epithets of childhood flashing past: lying mortal. All mortals are liars. Little liar. Cardan said such things himself more than once. But the moment a mortal's lies become convenient, oh, then it's all okay!

Faeries may not be liars, but they are enormous hypocrites.

I tear my thoughts away and make myself focus. That's an excuse to cut out your brothers, I point out, but what about you? Won't he make you King?

"Oh, come on, my father hates me," Cardan says impatiently. "And I've been a scandalous Court pariah for seven years now. Jude Duarte's toy-boy on the throne? I doubt whether anyone will even raise an eyebrow if he decides to skip over me in favor of a beautiful, innocent young granddaughter with a romantic backstory."

I yank my thoughts away from the surreal absurdity of Prince Cardan describing himself as Jude Duarte's toy-boy and sign, What about a Regent?

"I'm sure we can convince Eldred to stay alive another couple of years, if he's got a viable successor to look forward to," Cardan shrugs breezily. "Push comes to shove, maybe you can heal him, Taryn."

I blink. I never thought of this. A germ of hope grows in me at the idea. If I can drag Eldred back from the brink, as I have so many other faeries, he'd owe me a huge debt. A debt I can use to protect my children. I wouldn't have to worry about Philomel being shoved on the throne for decades, at least. He might even be persuaded to let us go!

But I'd have to get at Eldred first, and he'd have to let me heal him. And there's still the problem of Balekin.

"What about Balekin?" Birch voices my thoughts. "Won't he protest? Won't he…tell the truth?"

"What, and risk the whole story coming out?" Cardan rolls his eyes. "Even my brother's not that stupid." He pauses. "He would have to be removed, though," he says softly. "And quickly. Still, Madoc's vowed revenge, so I think we can rely on him to handle Balekin. And Dain, too."

Birch's tail lashes. "Your own brothers?" he says, just as quietly. "Even Dain?"

Cardan's eyes turn flat, all humor gone. "Let me tell you something, Birch, about my brother Dain." His voice is as flat as his gaze. "When I was a child, he took me aside and challenged me to shoot a walnut off a mortal's head. We exchanged arrows, so, he said, no one could say my arrow had gone awry. I almost shot the man, but didn't in the end. He was helpless, under enchantment. I couldn't play such a game with his life.

"But Dain shot him. He shot that mortal with my arrow, and killed him with it. So then Dain ran tattle to my father about how my arrow had killed the mortal, who, as it turned out, was the beloved of Val Moren, the King's Seneschal. So then I was really in trouble. Eldred didn't even listen to my side of the story. He locked my mother in the Tower and left me to Balekin's tender mercies." Cardan's mouth tightens. "You can imagine what that was like.

"So don't ask me to cry for Dain," the prince finishes softly. "My brothers are both vicious and worthless. No loss to me or Faerie."

The silence that ensues is ringing. I can't imagine what Birch is thinking: he's standing utterly still, a statue of a goblin. I myself stare at Cardan, feeling sick. I remember our childhood again: all those years when it seemed that Prince Cardan Greenbriar had it all, had everything my sisters and I didn't. Rank, magic, power, friends, social acceptance, even reverence. How Jude and I always envied him. We never imagined anything like this.

I force my eyes closed. My head's spinning, but I make myself think. Never mind Cardan's past. What about the future? How would my family and I benefit, if Cardan's plan works?

Philomel wouldn't be forced onto the throne right away, for a start. Maybe Eldred would name her his heir, but she'd be given time to grow up first, especially if I can persuade Eldred to let me heal him. Perhaps we could even escape the throne entirely if I give Eldred a brand-new lease on life. Even better, Madoc wouldn't become Regent—he might even get executed for attempted treason.

This thought troubles me, more than I'd like to admit. Despite everything, I don't want Madoc to die.

But I'd much rather see him dead than Philomel.

And there's another thought, deeper and more piercing: this way, Philomel never needs to learn the truth. She never has to learn that she was born of evil magic and rape. She can grow up thinking herself Cardan's daughter. And while Cardan's never going to be Faerie's greatest father, he's still heaps better than Balekin, or seeing Philomel drag around the true, awful story in its entirety.

And…If I could get a private audience with Eldred…If I could strike a bargain in exchange for healing him…Could freedom be possible? Real freedom?

I think carefully. We can't send such a message to Eldred, I sign. It's much too dangerous. Balekin could intercept it. Cardan should send a message asking for a private audience. You can sneak me in, Cardan, and I'll tell him the story. Birch translates this for me, glaring at me incredulously.

"Good idea, Taryn," says Cardan with pleasure. "Though I can't guarantee my father will listen to me, or grant me an audience."

Tell him you have something very important to say about the Lost Heir. It will catch his attention at least.

"That might just about work." Cardan's eyes gleam. He stands up and stretches. "Well, I'm off back to bed. Unless you have more questions?"

I stare at him a moment. Then I run for paper and a pen. There's something I've been burning to ask Cardan, and it's too private even for Birch's translation. This isn't the time to ask, but I might not get another chance.

Why did you confront Balekin about my disappearance? My palms sweat a little as I write. You never even liked me. Why did you care so much?

Cardan reads my questions, face an unreadable mask of humor. At last he looks up, eyes agleam.

"I saw Balekin go off with you, the night of the ball," he says, voice incongruously light. "I knew he meant you no good, but I did nothing to stop him. I was ashamed of my cowardice. And just because I was jealous of you doesn't mean I wanted you dead, Taryn."

Birch sucks in a breath and I gape at Cardan. You were jealous?

"Why so surprised?" Still Cardan's voice is breezy, humorous, hiding all emotion. "I'd been jealous of you and your sisters for years. You had everything I didn't, or so I thought: a family that loved you, a father who took pride in you, a mother who took an interest in you, siblings who weren't trying to kill you or break you." He smiles briefly. "It wasn't until I actually moved in that I realized it might be a bit more complicated than that."

I glare at him. Well, you don't say.

"And besides," Cardan continues, "I owed it to you. Your twin sister was the closest thing I had to a friend at the time."

I blink. Jude hated you.

"Exactly." Unexpectedly, Cardan leans in to kiss me on the forehead. "She was precious to me even then. The only one who cared enough to hate me. I will be happy to raise her niece as my daughter, should our plan work." He straightens, suddenly all business again. "I'll get in contact with the goblins," he says. "I have faith that Heartwood can get a message to Eldred if she puts her mind to it. Just let me take back my spell—"

He snaps his fingers, and our ears pop again as the soundproofing spell disappears and the night sounds pour in again. Cardan gives a mocking bow before sauntering the window and climbing out. He's gone in seconds, swinging out along the wall.

Birch immediately crosses to the window and shuts it tight. He stares after Cardan for a moment before turning to me. Complicated man, that prince, he signs.

I nod, still stunned. I had no idea.

"Well, why would you?" Birch says aloud. He sighs. His eyes harden as he starts to sign again. Albia, are you really thinking of going along with this?

I nod. He sucks in his breath.

It will never work, Albia. His hands shake slightly as he signs. Who's going to believe Cardan is Philomel's father? And I don't think we can shut Balekin up. He'll find a way.

Not if Madoc kills him, I sign back.

And can he do it in time? Birch counters. Before Balekin does something drastic? And lying to the High King of Faerie is dangerous, Albia. You could get executed.

My stomach tightens at that. He has a point. But still I sign, If I can get alone with the King, I can ask for anything I want in exchange for healing him. This could be freedom, Birch!

Freedom? He draws back.

I can demand complete protection for us and the children, I sign. I can ask that we be left completely alone and Philomel never be forced onto the throne!

Birch's eyes shine at this, but his signs are cautious. Would he agree to that? What if he just snatches Philomel away?

I'll set out my terms first. I'll demand custody of both children. We really might escape, Birch!

Let's not get ahead of ourselves, he cautions. We don't even know if Cardan will be able to get a message out. Besides…what if Eldred doesn't want to be healed? I hear he wants to die.

Then I'll say Cardan was the father. I'll tell him Cardan's story. Jude's story, rather. I shake my head. I knew Jude was cunning, but never suspected such depths. It makes me a little uneasy: Jude might not like the idea of Madoc as Regent, but I bet she'd be perfectly happy to see her niece as Queen. What would she do to ensure that outcome? Or, rather, what wouldn't she do?

I push this aside. We have enough to think of. Cardan's right, Birch: this could work. If I tell Eldred that Cardan is Philomel's father, it gives him the excuse he needs to cut all his sons out of line for the throne. He'll stay alive longer, or at least set up a proper regency. It's not perfect, Birch, but at least it will give Philomel time to grow up before being forced to be Queen.

He gives a short, helpless laugh, shaking his head. "This is all insane," he says aloud, in a low voice. "Goodnight, Albia. Let's hope this crazy plan of yours has more of a chance than I think it does."

I nod, and resist the urge to kiss him on the cheek. Opening the bedroom door softly, I climb into bed with my children.

Dogwood's soft snores fill the room, but Philomel's strangely quiet. Like she's controlling her breathing. Like she's awake. I put my hand on her shoulder, guided by the light of her softly glowing hair, but she doesn't open her eyes, lying rigid under my touch, clutching Lulu.

Slowly, I withdraw my hand. Cardan said Madoc has a habit of underestimating people. For the first time, I wonder if that fault is mine as well.

The next morning, when I effortfully peel my eyes open and slowly sit up, something falls from my hair to the bedclothes.

"What's this?" Dogwood picks up the gleaming gold acorn curiously. He shakes it. "It's hollow! There's something inside!"

"Lemme see!" Throwing Lulu aside, Philomel takes the acorn and screws off the cap, which acts as a lid. She removes a tiny piece of paper and frowns at it. "It's all gibberish."

I take it from her, and the gibberish scrawl on the paper immediately resolves into intelligible words before my eyes. The writer didn't want anyone but me to read it, and took steps to ensure no one did.

My lady,

You may hate me, but we still need to talk.

—B.

The moment I read the words, the paper dissolves into ash in my fingers. I glare at the gray mess hatefully. Oh, so I'm "my lady" now? Great Trees, Balekin, you are unbelievable.

"Who's it from? What's it say?" Philomel cranes over my arm.

I dust away the ash. Nothing, sweetie. Just a message from the prince. No need to specify which prince. Let's get dressed.

"What is this thing, though?" Dogwood asks, picking up the golden acorn in fascination.

I all but snatch it away from him. Sorry, Dogwood, I sign to his hurt, surprised face. It's a gold-oak acorn. They only grow on Eldred's island. If you tell the acorn where to go and then throw it, it will always get there within an hour, whatever the obstacles. People hollow them out and use them to send little messages. Thank the Trees that gold-oak acorns are impervious to major enchantments: Balekin can't use one to cast a spell on me. Just send me obnoxious little notes.

I dress the children, careful to hide my rage from them. Just who does Balekin think he is? I wonder furiously. Does he really think we're going to sit down together and have a nice, civilized conversation about the situation, and that he's going to somehow win me over to his side? Is he really that dumb?

Then I think of how he raped me practically in public, how easily Madoc manipulated him, how he tried storming into Madoc's house completely unprepared. And I realize that there is every possibility that, yes, Balekin really is that dumb. And that reckless.

Fear chills through me, because being stupid and reckless does not make Balekin less dangerous. It makes him more dangerous. Because what's to stop him putting into motion some plan of violent idiocy, that could take me and my children down?

Dogwood gets dressed without drama, though he insists on holding the golden acorn so he can examine it, but when I turn to Philomel, she's resistant.

"I don't want these stupid dresses!" She flings the offending dress across the room and folds her arms over her chest, glaring.

You haven't got anything else to wear! I scold. Just put it on!

"No!" Angry tears appear in her eyes as her hair begins to glow.

"What's going on in here?" Birch opens the door and pokes his head around. "Philomel! Why aren't you dressed?"

"I don't want these clothes!" The last word is a protracted wail as she falls to the floor, screaming out sobs.

"Melly!" Dogwood cries, looking close to tears himself. "Stop it! There's nothing you can do!" This only makes her wail louder.

"What's happening?" Saxifrage looks around the door and scowls at Philomel. "Just what are you screaming about, girl?"

Birch rounds on her, crest stiff with rage. "Get. Out!"

Looking affronted, Saxifrage snaps the door shut. Philomel continues sobbing, and Dogwood's shaking now, tears spilling over his fur.

I sink to the floor, gathering Philomel into my lap. She shakes, but doesn't resist, and I draw Dogwood down as well. He cuddles in. Birch crouches nearby, not touching, but close.

"I hate this!" screams Philomel, tears flowing down her face. She shakes in my arms. "I hate all of it! I want to go home. I want to go home!"

"Me too!" Dogwood wails. "I want to go home. Nobody tells lies there," he adds miserably.

Birch and I exchange glances. "Dogwood," says Birch carefully, "what do you mean? Most of the people here are not even capable of lying."

"No." Dogwood shakes his head repeatedly. "But they tell lies. All the time."

Birch frowns in confusion, but I think I know what Dogwood means. I stroke his soft fur. He's right: a person doesn't have to be actually lying to tell a lie. To weave a web of half-truths and deceptions, to keep an innocent child imprisoned.

"Everyone hides things from us here." Philomel looks up, face tearstained and miserable. "Everybody, all the time. Even you, Mommy. You won't even tell me who my father is!" she suddenly flings into my face.

"Yeah!" Dogwood chimes in. "Who's Philomel's father? And what's Madoc going to do with us?"

In the corner, Balekin's golden acorn gleams from where Dogwood threw it. I'm sorry, I sign. I'd tell you if I could.

"Why can't you?" Philomel demands passionately.

"She's under a spell, Melly," says Birch shortly. "That's really all we can say right now."

"But why?" I've never seen Philomel look so desperate. "Why is it a secret? Why's Mommy under a spell? Who cast the spell? Who was my father?"

I look at Birch pleadingly. Gently, he reaches out and gathers Philomel and Dogwood near, holding them close.

"Children," he says, more gently than I've ever heard him, "I know it's asking a lot to trust people who are hiding things from you. Because we are hiding things from you. Big, important things. But we have to ask you to trust us when we say you're not ready to learn these things. Not yet. But you will be when you're older. I promise. And we'll tell you then, all right? Because we all love you and care for you and want what's best for you."

"Not Madoc," says Dogwood bitterly. "He doesn't care about us."

Birch pauses. "I think the General does, in his way," he says at last. "He wants what he thinks would be best for you. He really thinks of you as his grandchildren."

That's true, I add, because, despite everything, it is.

Both children are silent a minute, huddled on Birch's lap. Then Philomel speaks.

"He's not my father, though…right?"

She looks to us for reassurance. My heart wrings that she was still so worried about this. I avoid looking at Birch's expression.

"No," Birch says at last. "No, he isn't. Your father was…someone else."

Philomel looks at me, and I am suddenly, utterly certain that she is going to ask if Balekin is her father. I can see the question in her eyes. Of course, of course, I think, my heart skittering: Philomel may be young, but she's not stupid. She knows Balekin helped Madoc kidnap us; she knows he's been trying to get at us. She's seen the way Balekin looks at her.

Of course she suspects. Maybe she even, deep down, knows the truth already.

"My lady." We all jump at the sudden knock on the door. It's Tatterfell. "I brought breakfast, Lady Taryn!" she calls.

"Coming!" Birch calls back, and looks appealingly at me.

I sigh and stand, pulling the children up. Get dressed, I sign. And then let's eat, at least. The food's good at least, right?

This wins a tired giggle from Dogwood, and even Philomel gives a weak smile. "Yeah," she says. "At least the food's good." But in her lovely eyes is a deep fear that I know no amount of food is going to ease.

As we head out into the sitting room, Birch hands me the acorn. "It's enchanted," he says in a low voice. "So it will only return to the one who sent it." He pauses. "Who did send it?"

Balekin, I sign after a moment. Thankfully, the children have both charged out to gobble down breakfast, and aren't looking back at me.

Birch lets out a muted curse. "What did he want?"

I slide the acorn into my pocket. To talk to me. I give Birch a quick, grim smile. He thinks we can work it all out.

Birch gives a noise that is half-snarl, half-laugh. "Is the man an idiot?"

Yes, I reply. I think he is, actually. Or at least that arrogant.

"Great Trees." Birch shakes his head, slowly and disgustedly as we follow the kids to breakfast. "The High Court gets worse all the time."

The children both cheer up over breakfast, though they raise loud groans when I tell them it's time for lessons with Master Noggle. Birch and I accompany them to the schoolroom Noggle has set up, and we sit with them as he gives them their first lesson. I don't think Dogwood or Philomel should be left alone just yet, and anyway it's better if I'm there to prevent Philomel playing any resentful little tricks on Noggle.

In any case, the lesson goes smoothly enough. Noggle seems pleased to be teaching again, and Philomel even halfway relaxes, showing interest in the subject (High Court history). We avoid Madoc by eating lunch in the schoolroom, and then I say it's time for sword lessons with Foxfire.

Dogwood, who's been nodding off, brightens at this, while Philomel groans. "Sword lessons!"

"Don't be like that, Miss Philomel," Noggle says kindly. "Exercise is good for you, and swordplay is always a useful skill. Maybe your aunt will be there. She is a great knight."

I smile at him—it warms my heart to hear Jude praised by an impartial witness—as I herd the kids to the bedroom to change clothes and then out onto the terrace, Saxifrage in tow.

Foxfire is there, trying out different blades, and, to my surprise, Jude is there too. I slow to a halt, staring at my sister as she discusses weapons and lessons with Foxfire, voice low and grave. No one would ever think she was plotting anything.

Cardan's there too. He straightens from lounging against the railing and saunters over to Jude, wind whipping through his black hair. She turns to greet him with a smile, then laughs at something he says. He reaches out to caress her shoulder, and she places her hand on his. Looking at them, I shake my head. Birch is right: Eldred's going to see through the lie, and so will everyone else. Who, seeing the sexual chemistry between Jude and Cardan, would ever believe that he slept with me?

But Cardan's right: it might not matter whether anyone actually believes it. It would just provide a convenient excuse to cut all the dissolute and unpopular princes out of the succession. I sigh in disgust. Like I said, faeries are hypocrites.

I shake off the thought. Behind the children's backs, I wave at Jude and Cardan. They straighten and come over, Foxfire accompanying them. "Hello, children," says Jude. "Ready for a swordplay lesson?"

"I thought he was supposed to be teaching us." Dogwood points at Foxfire.

"I am," says Foxfire. "But Jude insisted on helping."

"They're my niece and nephew, Commander," Jude says serenely. "And I need some exercise. You ready, children?"

"Yes," says Dogwood eagerly, standing straighter. Philomel scowls and kicks the pavement, making Cardan laugh.

"I know how you feel, Melly." He grins at Jude. "Must you spoil such a lovely day by teaching the kids how to whack things apart with big metal sticks, Jude? Perhaps we could simply enjoy the weather."

"Never mind him, children," Jude says loudly. "Cardan's so terrible at swordplay that he doesn't want a couple of little kids to learn and show him up. Come on, let's show him how it's done!"

"Yeah! Show him how it's done!" It's the goblin twins. They've swung themselves up onto the terrace railing and are now watching, laughing their heads off.

"Yes." And now Heartwood's shown up, too, regally ascending the stairs. She puffs smoke from her pipe. "Always good to learn new things, kids." She nods at me and Birch, and we nod back.

"Ah, Chieftainess." Cardan heads over, hands casually in his pockets. "Lovely afternoon, isn't it? Tell me, how are you enjoying your stay at Court?"

Birch and I exchange glances as Cardan's conversation with Heartwood deepens. We both know what he's doing. My heart tightens. Please let this plan work. Please let Eldred grant Cardan an audience.

There's movement behind me and Birch, and the doors open to let out Heather, Vivienne and Oriana. Heather brightens at the sight of the goblin twins, now perched on the railing and heckling Foxfire. "Excellent. I need to talk to those two." She immediately trots over. "Hi, boys!"

"Heather…!" Vivi runs after her, looking alarmed.

Birch watches her go, eyes narrowed. What are they up to?

I shrug, and look at Oriana. She looks grim but determined, mouth a thin line. She stands straight and stares at me so intensely that I feel like her eyes are burning holes through me.

I turn back to Birch. Birch, would you mind moving off a little? I need to speak to Oriana.

He hesitates, but moves off to watch the children's lesson. Saxifrage, with one threatening look at me, trails after him. I guess she figures he's the bigger threat.

"Come, Taryn." Oriana tugs my hand gently, and leads me to an arbor, a bench sheltered by flowering vines in the corner of the terrace. We can still supervise the lesson, and see Heather talking earnestly to the twins while Cardan converses with Heartwood, but we can't be overheard.

Oriana settles herself beside me, and hands me a notebook and pen. I guess this is going to be an involved conversation. I sit straighter, attentive to her grave expression and serious air.

"Balekin's tried to get at you and Philomel," she begins abruptly. "Again, this morning. This time he brought a few troops. Madoc and I have managed to fend them off, but it won't work forever, Taryn."

I nod. I know, I write.

She looks down at her lap, where her hands fiddle nervously with her skirt. "Taryn, I…" She licks her lips and tries again. "I would like to apologize. For handing you over to Balekin when you were just a girl. For letting him at you like that. I—I truly thought it would be for the best."

I nod levelly. There's a dull flash of anger at the memory, but it's soon gone. She really did think it was the best opportunity I would ever have. She couldn't have known what he would do. Who would ever have thought he would do that?

"Taryn." Oriana's voice brings me back. In the background, Jude lectures the children on a stance, and demonstrates a swing. "Taryn, you can say it to me, you know."

I blink at her. Say what?

"Say what Balekin did," she says quietly. "I think you need to say it."

I can't say anything, I protest. The curse— I break off writing, realizing what I've just done.

I've referred to the curse. I wasn't able to do even that, before.

"There, you see?" Oriana smiles slightly. "You can talk about it to me. You have talked about it to the others. Because we already know."

She's right, I realize with a racing heart. I've freely referred to the events of that night to Birch, and my family, and the curse didn't try to stop me. Because the curse prevented me from letting anyone know. Balekin didn't say anything about not talking about it to people who already did.

I stare at the blank space on the page. I take a deep breath. And I write.

Balekin raped me. I show it to Oriana. It's that simple. I write, and she reads what I've written.

She looks up at me and nods. And I feel a weight lift off and fly away, into the windy blue sky.

"I know he did." She takes a deep breath, a new apprehension entering her eyes. "And now there is something I must confess."

I look at her in startled wariness. What now?

Oriana shifts, seeming to nerve herself up. "It was my fault," she whispers. "It was all my fault."

For throwing me at him? I write coldly.

"That and…" She takes a deep breath and raises her hands.

Between two of her fingers, a thread of white light gleams. My eyes widen. I know that light. That's the light of the unicorn's magic. That's the light that flashes every time I use my gift. But here it's not flashing: it's a shining, quivering thread held between Oriana's fingers.

"Yes," Oriana says quietly. "I too was blessed by the unicorn, many years ago."

I gape at her, completely stunned. Why? I ask when I can write.

"That's a long story, Taryn." She sighs, putting down her hands, and the light vanishes. "The unicorn gives different gifts to those she blesses. You were given the power to heal. I was given the power to weave fate as I wished it. To a limited extent." She gives me a quick smile. "That's what my lace is, really. My weaving fate, into the pattern that I want."

My mind reels, remembering the hours Oriana spent making lace. The curious gleam of white light as she did so…Does Madoc know?

"No. I never told anyone, before you." She gives another sigh, avoiding my gaze. "And I wouldn't have told you either, if I didn't owe you the truth. But I do."

She looks back up, a world of pain in her eyes. "It was me, Taryn. Right from the start. I made Balekin interested in you. I wove your fate. I wove your fate so that…so that you would find someone to love you. That was my intention, anyway."

I stare at her, too stunned to feel or think.

"You were so miserable, Taryn," she continues pleadingly. "More than miserable: you were dying before my eyes. I wanted to save you. I wanted to interest you in life again. I thought a handsome, powerful lover would do that for you. So that was what I wove." She gives a laugh that's also a sob. "I thought Balekin would be that lover. I truly did. That he would give you a life worth living, so you would turn back from the shadow. I had no idea what he would do. What my spell would do. I'm sorry, Taryn. I am truly sorry."

Of course, of course, I think through the haze. It all makes sense. Her spell did work. After all, if Balekin had never raped me, the unicorn would never have blessed me or taken me away, and I would never have met Thistleweft or Dogwood or Birch or the other goblins, or had Philomel. Oriana's unicorn-spell did give me a life worth living: just in the most twisted, evil way imaginable.

I stare at my stepmother, at her utter wretchedness. How is it that I don't hate her? I wonder. Even now, I cannot hate her. Instead, I just feel a limitless sorrow, and an awful urge to laugh. Faerie gifts so often bite their givers as well as their receivers.

"I'll do whatever you want me to do, Taryn." Oriana sits straight, facing her crime. "I swear it. I will kill myself in recompense for what I did, if that's what you demand. It's only what I deserve."

I look at her a long, long moment. Oriana, who, unlike Balekin, never intended to hurt me. Who, unlike Madoc, has no wish to manipulate or use me and my children. Who is truly sorry for what she did.

And I think I have other uses for Oriana's unicorn gift.

Do you truly want to make recompense? The words emerge sharp and spiky on the page.

"Yes." She nods, face set.

I lean forward, making sure only she can see the page. Then use your gift, and help me destroy Balekin.