This is an extra bonus story told entirely from Cardan's point of view. It's a bit of a rehash, but Cardan seems determined to have his say, so I have decided to let him speak.

Prince Cardan Greenbriar stands in the clearing of berry bushes, the daylight chasing itself in brilliant waves, and looks at the three figures standing before him.

A goblin boy. A girl with white hair and purple eyes, who tugs at Cardan's recognition uncomfortably but indefinably. And Taryn Duarte.

She has changed since he last saw her. No longer clad in the finery of a High Court lady, she wears simple, practical forest clothes. Where before her posture was crushed, her head down, she now stands straight and stares at Cardan and his companions with steady eyes. Her curves are more accentuated, her hair cut short. When he last saw her, she was a miserably unhappy girl; now she is a woman. But what kind, he cannot yet tell.

Cardan, hanging back while Jude and Vivienne leap forward to greet their long-lost sister, marvels at the changes in Taryn. And he marvels, too, at what an enormous impact this one human, this human who has moved through life in silence, who has avoided the public eye as much as possible, has had on the lives of those around her. Not least of all himself.

Cardan stands back, and he remembers.

Seven Years Earlier

"Criminal incompetence!"

Cardan, hiding in an antechamber off the main entryway to Hollow Hall, winced in sympathy at the sound of Balekin's slap. The head of Balekin's knights did not react to the reprimand, even as his head snapped back under the force of Balekin's blow. The prince raged on: "One miserable little mortal girl, and you can't find a single trace? Your incompetence is unbelievable! Why do I even keep you useless parasites around? A mortal is making you look a pack of fools! Unbelievable…"

Neither Cardan nor the knight said anything as Balekin's rant went on, accompanied by liberal slaps. Eventually, however, Balekin ran out of steam. "Get out of my sight!" he snarled at last.

"Yes, my prince." The knight, face splotched with handprints, bowed and exited the entryway. Watching him go, Cardan reflected that all of his brother's long-term knights and guards were male. The female ones never seemed to last that long, most of them mysteriously disappearing, usually in the dead of night. The ones who didn't turn up dead, of course.

Was Taryn Duarte dead?

The mortal's face flashed before Cardan's mind yet again. The last time he had seen her: her muzzy, drunken smile, her blank eyes, as Balekin led her away from the ball, out into the night.

Cardan lounged forward. "I take it the hunt didn't go so well today, brother?" he drawled.

Balekin, who was pacing around slapping his gloves against his hand, came to a halt. "What are you doing here?"

Cardan moistened his lips. His heartbeat sounded unnaturally loud in his ears. This is so stupid. What was he thinking? But still he said, "Why are you so fixated on that girl, Balekin?"

"Fixated?" Balekin's gaze sharpened.

"You've been out looking for her every day since she disappeared," Cardan said. "You've had all your knights and hunters out too. Why's she so important?"

"Like you care about her?" Balekin sneered.

I don't care about her. But the lie dissolved on Cardan's faerie tongue even as he tried to say it. The image flashed before his mental eye yet again: Taryn, stumbling after Balekin. And himself, standing there. Doing nothing.

Cardan thought of Taryn. Then he thought of Jude, the few times he'd seen her since the ball. The frantic fear in her eyes, the hopelessness. And he thought again of himself, standing there, watching Balekin lead Taryn away. The dreadful feeling in his stomach as he watched, useless and unmoving.

"What did you do to her?" It came out soft, a whisper in the dark.

Balekin went very still, with the stillness of a predator in the forest. "What did you say?" he hissed.

"I saw you lead her away, at the New Year ball." Shut up, shut up! Cardan screamed at himself. But his idiot mouth kept running: "You know something about her disappearance, don't you? What happened?"

"I don't have to answer you." Balekin strode past him, heading for the stairs.

Cardan ran after him. "You do know something! What did you do to Taryn Duarte, Balekin? What happened between you? Tell me!"

The blow, coming out of nowhere, was staggering. Cardan stumbled back, his vision blurring, ears ringing like bells. A thorny hand seized his arm and yanked him upright again. Balekin held him still while he rained down slaps. Cardan gasped for breath; every time he tried to straighten, to turn his head, Balekin landed another blow.

"Care to repeat that, little brother?" Balekin demanded at last.

Cardan spat out blood. It formed a tiny crimson puddle on the polished floorboards. He took a breath, then another.

Then he turned to face Balekin. "Tell me," he repeated, voice harsh but unrelenting.

Balekin's grip tightened on his arm, and he yanked Cardan forward. Cardan's stomach dropped: he had no doubt that they were heading for Balekin's office again, with the coiled whip in the desk drawer. But Balekin turned Cardan around. Steps hard and quick, he dragged his little brother to the front door.

The door leaped open, letting in the night. "If you can't keep from my business," Balekin snapped, "then you have no place in my house."

And he shoved Cardan out.

Cardan yelped as he fell down the front steps, his bruised face smacking into the stairs, limbs flailing. Behind him, the door slammed shut.

Cardan lay in the dust at the bottom of the stairs a long, long moment, trying to catch his breath. Everything hurt. A trickle of blood ran down his temple, pooling in the dirt.

"My prince?" said the front door, wooden lips moving.

Slowly, Cardan sat up. He braced himself as his head spun. "My door." He paused, letting the dizziness dissipate. "I don't suppose you'll let me back in?"

"No, my prince," said the door with regret. "The master of the house has forbidden it."

Cardan chuckled, a pained rattle. "Of course he has." Slowly, he climbed to his feet. His head spun only a little. He wiped blood away with his sleeve. "All for one mortal girl," he muttered. "Well, two girls, I suppose."

"My prince?"

"Never mind." Cardan took a few steps. They were steady, which was a relief. "Good night, door. And goodbye."

"Good luck, my prince," the door to Hollow Hall called softly after him as he disappeared into the tree-whispering night.

It soon became clear that the door's good wishes were not to be fulfilled.

Cardan spent the remainder of the night in someone's woodshed, curled up uncomfortably among the stacks of logs. He left early, before the owner could return and find him, hiking across the island and trying to ignore the pain growing in his stomach.

Around him, whispers rose. Sprites buzzed up around him, muttering and pointing. He saw a tree goblin regard him quizzically, crest raised, before turning to run away, with the distinct air of someone ready to spread a rumor. A group of passing courtiers, resplendent in silks and jewels, paused to watch his progress, murmuring.

"Haven't you fools got anything better to do?" Cardan snapped.

To his surprise, they did not cower away or pass on, as they might have done only a day ago. None of them even bowed or curtsied. Instead, a snicker rose, with mocking, vicious grins. Cardan came to a halt, blinking.

"We've heard of your misfortune, Your Highness!" an elf called, voice high with mockery. "How the mighty have fallen!" A lady let out a giggle, raising her fan to hide her smile.

"Not so mighty," she sneered. "He was never more than a pest!"

"Indeed," snapped another lady, glaring at Cardan. "A nasty little pest. I seem to recall that he and his horrible little friends once snuck into my apartment and completely wrecked the place. Then they stole all my jewelry and left it scattered across the island." She took a step toward Cardan, a hungry gleam entering her eyes. "Well, I don't see his friends around now…"

"Don't, Nuala," said the male elf. "He's still a Greenbriar."

"Hardly!" But Nuala stood back, eyes still burning, and Cardan felt the gazes of the other courtiers searing into his back as he went on, heart thudding.

A new and highly uncomfortable line of thought had now opened. Cardan thought back, to all the outrageous things he and his group of friends had done over the years. It had been so much fun at the time, inciting chaos, leaving a wake of impotent rage behind them…but just how many courtiers now held grudges against him? And not just courtiers, but servants, knights, soldiers, commoners—all the people he was now exposed to, without even Balekin's dubious protection.

Cardan managed to make it across the island without further incident, avoiding any faeries he saw up ahead, sneaking around buildings. It was a hot, exhausting, circuitous route, and he was deeply relieved to find the apple orchard he'd been looking for. Sighing with eagerness, he reached up to pull down a fruit.

There came a giggle. A familiar giggle.

Cardan hurried around the tree, scanning the orchard. A smile took over his face when he saw the other faerie. "Valerian! Valerian, I—" He came to a halt, words dying, as he saw what Valerian was doing.

Valerian squatted at the base of an apple tree, eyes fixed on the ground. A rat lay at his feet, twitching and squealing in pain. Valerian's fingers jerked, and the rat convulsed, letting out another high-pitched squeak. Valerian giggled again.

"Valerian?" Cardan almost didn't recognize the voice coming out of his mouth. "What are you doing to that rat?"

Valerian looked up, motion lazy, face wreathed in a euphoric grin. "Hi, Cardan." He stood up in a graceful movement and gave Cardan a bow. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"

The rat was still twitching. "Valerian?" said Cardan. "The rat?"

"Oh, that." With a single, vicious stomp, Valerian brought his boot down on the animal. It let out a final squeak, blood jetting from its mouth, before falling still. "Thought I'd have some fun before school started," grinned Valerian. "What are you doing out here, Cardan?" He looked at the prince more closely. "And what happened to your face?"

Clearly, Valerian hadn't heard the rumors yet. "Balekin," Cardan said. "He beat me up and kicked me out of the house. I've got nowhere to go."

Valerian's eyes lit. "Really? Nowhere?"

"Yes, so I was wondering…if…you…" Cardan trailed off as he took in the new expression on Valerian's face.

A hush had fallen over the orchard. Even the birds had stopped singing. Valerian took a step forward, eyes filled with a hungry new light. Another broken giggle escaped his lips, high-pitched and mindless.

The hairs on Cardan's neck stood up as he realized something, something he had avoided noticing for years. Valerian wasn't just cruel. He wasn't just mean-spirited. He was mad. There was something broken in his mind. He was a complete and utter lunatic, and now Cardan was alone with him.

Not taking his eyes off Valerian, Cardan took a slow step backward. Valerian took another step forward, a cracked grin growing over his face.

Cardan moved just as Valerian lunged. Cardan's spell hit the wasps' nest as Valerian leaped, bringing the paper ball of angry insects down on Valerian's head.

Valerian's screams and curses of pain followed Cardan as he fled the orchard, drenched in a cold sweat, still clutching the apple he had stolen.

Feeling like a hunted animal, Cardan spent the rest of the day avoiding anyplace Valerian might be. He did not know what revenge his former friend might have in mind for the wasps, and he didn't care to find out.

The apple didn't make much of a meal. Stomach cramping with hunger, Cardan snuck up on a picnic and stole a pie. He did not linger to learn the picnickers' reaction to their princely thief, disappearing into the woods to devour his ill-gotten gains.

The next morning, after another uncomfortable night in the woodshed, he went in search of Nicasia. Valerian may have turned out to be a sadistic madman, but surely Nicasia, of all people, must still have some feelings for him. Surely she would help him.

He came upon her in the clear, bright light of morning, walking to school. He caught his breath at the sight of her, as beautiful as ever, gown pristine, her lunch and satchel carried by a servant. She walked as though she disdained the ground she tread on, which, of course, she did.

Cardan took a deep breath and stepped out from the trees. "Nicasia?" he called.

Nicasia stopped. She stumbled back, eyes going wide, and Cardan realized how he must look to her: his hair unkempt, full of leaves and wood shavings, his clothes already dirty and ragged, his bruises still healing. A look of horror grew on her face as she took him in.

"Nicasia, it's me," Cardan called. He took a step forward, then stopped. She hadn't moved.

Nicasia gathered her long skirts and bent her knees in a quick, perfunctory curtsy. She kept her head down. Then she turned, still not looking at him, and hurried along the path, her servant just behind. She did not look back.

Cardan gaped after her, feeling like the breath had been punched out of him. Rage warred with disbelief in his heart. "You coward!" he shouted, voice shaking. Nicasia flinched but didn't stop, continuing on her way, head determinedly down, back rigid.

Cardan watched her go, until she had completely disappeared. It was a long time before he could make himself move.

It was the same story everywhere he went.

Cardan tried Locke's house next, but when he arrived, it was shut up, locked and abandoned. Eavesdropping on a conversation between two korrigan fieldworkers, Cardan learned that Locke's mother had already taken him away from Court, for an indefinite period of time. Of course, the prince thought bitterly: Liriope had always hated Cardan, always disapproved of her son's friendship with him. She hadn't said anything while Cardan had been a prince in his brother's favor, friends with the princess of the Undersea; but now that he had fallen from grace, she had seized her chance and spirited her son away.

Cardan saw Nicasia a few more times over the next few days, but she did not acknowledge him. Always she turned away, making determined conversation with whatever well-heeled courtier she was socializing with. Anytime Cardan tried to get close to any group, he was met with blank, hostile stares and hateful whispers. No one tried to attack him—yet—but they stood and glowered until he finally crept away.

And of course they did, Cardan realized. Why shouldn't they? What reason had Cardan Greenbriar ever given to make anyone like him, or sympathize with him in his plight? On the contrary, Cardan had gone out of his way to be as nasty as possible to everyone, to be horrible and clever and cruel. And now he was reaping the reward.

He regretted every practical joke he'd played, every cutting comment he'd ever made. They had felt like power at the time: but now Cardan realized that being horrible had not given him power, but only the illusion of it. Just like the illusion of friendship he'd had with Nicasia, Locke and Valerian. And, like all illusions, it couldn't last.

He wished he could curse Taryn Duarte for getting him into this. But even Cardan had to admit that Taryn had had nothing to do with this. He'd done it entirely on his own.

On the fourth morning—or possibly the fifth—the owner of the woodshed found Cardan curled up in the dust and spiderwebs. Firing yellow sparks from her fingertips, she chased him out, with instructions never to return. Cardan trailed off, head spinning from hunger and misery.

He heard the sound of shouting: a rhythmic chant. Head too foggy to form a clear thought, he approached the sound mindlessly.

He came upon a training field, grass a verdant green in the morning light. It was covered with knights in light exercise clothes, doing morning warmups: waving their arms and legs in precisely timed exercises, to their instructor's shouted commands.

Among them was Jude Duarte.

She stood in the ranks of her fellow knights, hair bound back in a tight knot, dressed in a light shirt and loose trousers like the rest, her every movement vigorous and graceful as she ran through the exercise routine. Cardan stood in the shadows unnoticed, watching. Madoc must have allowed her to start full-time training, he thought. She did look good: muscles moving smooth and strong, completely at ease with her colleagues, a grin on her face as she worked through morning exercises.

She is a mortal girl, a nasty little voice said within. The Grand General's bastard ward. The girl you spent years tormenting. And look at her now. And look at you.

Look at him indeed. Clothes ripped and stained. Hair full of debris. His bruises were healing, but the flesh had already shrunk a little on his bones. He had been sleeping rough and not eating regularly, and it showed.

She is a hundred times better off than you, the voice went on. You may be a Prince of Faerie, but that doesn't really mean anything at all, does it? If she saw you, she wouldn't want you. No one wants you.

And Cardan had no response to this.

Eventually, he went away.

The courtiers were growing bolder in their contempt, now that it was becoming clear just how unprotected and out of favor Prince Cardan really was. Cardan could no longer sneak up on feasts or picnics for food: he was spotted and run off, courtiers throwing spells and even clods of dirt after him, accompanied by mocking hoots and sneering insults. He kept waiting for them to actively attack him, but they never did. At first Cardan thought this was due to some lingering respect for his royal position; but at the days passed, he realized that it was a strange indifference, below their annoyance and their grudges. No one cared enough to attack him. They just wanted him gone.

Cardan Greenbriar wandered his father's island, avoiding everyone, steps slowing as hunger gnawed at him. After the third day with no food, Cardan realized the time had come for drastic steps. Faeries could starve to death. He bared his teeth in a snarling grin at the thought. My father's courtiers would just love that!

Well, he wouldn't give them that satisfaction. Cardan awaited his moment, haunting the edge of a commoners' village near the south of the island, waiting impatiently as the villagers all slowly went to bed, one by one. Only when all was quiet did he make his move.

Sliding through the shadows, he climbed up to a window that, he could tell, was unprotected by magic. It was still locked, however. Cursing under his breath, Cardan began to scrabble at the latch. By the Great Trees of Faerie, he was going to eat tonight!

So distracted was he—and so weak with hunger—that he did not notice his companion until a chill blade of cold steel was pressed against his throat.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" demanded a voice that sent a stone plummeting into Cardan's stomach.

Slowly, he turned to face almost the very last person he wanted to see. "Well?" he said, assaying his most charming smile. "Going to kill me, Jude Duarte?"

Life in General Madoc's house was strange, to say the least.

In many ways, of course, it was an improvement. Following the unpleasant interview in Madoc's study, Oriana assigned him a comfortable bedroom, washroom adjacent, in the family residential wing, just a few doors down from Jude. He was eating three meals a day again, and washing regularly, with new clothes. Also, no one was hitting or beating him, another plus.

But none of that changed the fact that Cardan now had to be on his absolute best behavior, at all times, in a house full of people who despised him. Cardan was not sorry to have left Balekin's pathetic zombie human slaves behind, but he had to admit that alert, full-functioning servants had their drawbacks. Madoc's servants formed an incredibly efficient spy network, one that was now watching his every move and salivating for the chance to run to Oriana with tales of any misdemeanor. For, as Cardan quickly learned, his previous behavior toward Jude and Taryn had done nothing to endear him to the household.

The first threat came from Commander Foxfire. The very first day, after dinner, the commander of Madoc's knights pulled Cardan aside, almost throttling him. "I hope, Your Highness," said the other faerie very softly, eyes like steel knives, "that you're not planning to torment Miss Jude, or play out some idiotic 'revenge'."

Cardan sneered. "Why would I do that?"

"Because, from what I have seen, you are a spiteful royal imbecile with no redeeming characteristics whatsoever," said Foxfire. "I have no idea why Jude saved you. But I promise you this: if you do anything to make Jude unhappy, now or in the future, I will break all the bones in your legs until they resemble pebbles in skin bags. Is this in any way unclear, Your Highness?"

"No," Cardan gritted out.

And so it went, from just about every faerie who worked for the General and his wife. Everywhere Cardan went, he was met with a barrage of cold eyes and whispered threats and deadly promises. The disgraced prince soon realized that if he so much as looked at Jude funny, the entire household would pounce. Perhaps they would kill him, or simply throw him out, but either way, it would be Cardan's end. If he managed to get himself kicked out of a courtier's house yet again, any remaining respect for his position would evaporate, and it really would be open season on Cardan Greenbriar. He wouldn't last a month.

He had to laugh at the situation, quietly and to himself. Here he'd spent years despising Jude Duarte, taking out all his anger and frustration on her and her sister, taking joy in sneering at the pathetic mortals, and now here he was—at her mercy. Jude had been right: Life always had something new up its sleeve.

Even worse was Jude's attitude toward him. Cardan had braced himself, ready for her to take full advantage of his powerless state to wreak revenge on him: for he had no doubt she'd stored each and every insult he'd delivered over the years. Cardan remembered laughing at the impotent hurt and rage he'd seen in her eyes as he and his friends tormented her. It didn't seem so funny now.

But no. Jude Duarte made no move to hurt him. On the contrary, she seemed to take joy in being magnanimous to him, a smirk on her lips and a gleam in her eye as she called off a fellow knight or ordered a servant to attend him. Don't be rude to the prince, she said more than once, voice silken. At first Cardan had been mystified by her attitude, but then he realized: this was Jude's revenge. She was taking a triumphant, gloating joy in being generous to her old enemy, enjoying the fact that she now could be so, and that Cardan could not refuse her generosity.

Of course, Jude had no compunctions about being rude to him herself. "Hey, faerie-boy," she said at the end of the first week, yanking aside the curtains of the window seat where he'd taken refuge.

"You know, that really is a stupid nickname," said Cardan, not looking up from the book he was reading.

"Well, it's no worse than 'dirty mortal', is it?" She craned at his book. "What are you reading?"

"Medea. It's a play written by a mortal named Euripides." Cardan didn't mention that he'd found the book in Taryn's bedroom. When he'd first arrived in Madoc's house, Cardan had been taken aback by the lack of good reading material. The General's library was full of the most stultifying volumes imaginable: The Use of Mirrors in Seelie Military Campaigns was a typical mind-numbing example. Madoc and Oriana might have more interesting books in their private rooms—Cardan sort of hoped so, for their sakes—but he was not stupid enough to try and break in. Nor did he dare Jude's bedroom.

But fortunately, it seemed both Taryn and Vivienne had been avid readers of human literature, and neither had taken their books with them when they left. Cardan had thus conducted small, clandestine raids on the missing sisters' personal libraries, leaving behind illusory volumes and secreting his finds in his bedroom. Somehow, he didn't think Jude or her parents would take it well if they found he was stealing from Taryn and Vivienne's possessions. Neither bedroom had been touched, or changed in any way, since the two had left home.

Cardan had been rather surprised by what he'd found in the missing sisters' libraries, particularly Taryn's. Vivienne had favored adventure stories with sassy, clever-tongued heroines who led revolts against their oppressors, but Taryn's tastes had been decidedly darker. Her collection featured tragic plays and brooding horror stories. All her books had an odd, dusty look about them, however, as though she hadn't touched them for a long time even before she disappeared. It gave Cardan a strange, uncomfortable feeling; but it still didn't stop him raiding her library.

Jude was frowning now, as though about to ask where he'd gotten the book. "It's quite good," Cardan said to forestall her. "Poor Medea's been betrayed by the husband for whom she gave up everything. I think she's going to end up killing her own sons in revenge."

"Charming." Jude was still frowning, eyeing him sidelong. "Do you often read mortal books, faerie-boy?"

"All the time," Cardan startled himself by saying. "They're far more interesting than faerie books. Was there something you wanted, Jude?"

"Yes, actually. I need you to sneak me out of the house tonight."

Cardan raised an eyebrow. "What for?"

Jude gave what, in anyone else, would have been a guilty squirm. "Vivi's been sending me messages every week since she left," she said at last. "It was easy sneaking out of the barracks to get them, but now…I need your help."

"I see." Cardan was careful to show no sign of how intrigued he was. "And if I refuse?"

Jude gave him a smirk. "Then I go to Madoc and Oriana and tell them you insulted me and said nasty things about Taryn too," she said in the sweetest tones imaginable. "And they'll kick you back out on your bony royal ass. Again."

"You lying mortal bitch," Cardan said tonelessly.

"Quite so. Midnight tonight, faerie-boy." Jude started to withdraw.

"Wait." Cardan wasn't sure what made him speak out, but he was suddenly desperate to know. "Vivienne sends you messages every week?"

"That's right." Jude eyed him warily.

"What does she say in them?"

"She tells me she's well," Jude said, still slow, still wary. "And she asks me to join her on the Ironside."

"And…will you?" In his chest, Cardan's heart thudded: if Jude left, there was little chance of Madoc and Oriana letting him stay.

Jude smirked again, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. "Don't worry, faerie-boy. I want to stay here and find Taryn again."

Cardan felt a stab of envy, as sharp as a dagger. How these sisters loved one another, when he had no love at all. "I heard Vivienne quarreled with the General before she left," he said. "Why would she do that?"

Jude stared at him as though she'd never heard anyone say anything quite so idiotic. "Vivienne hated Madoc," she said, very slow and clear, as though speaking to a mentally unsound child. "She always did."

Cardan blinked in astonishment. "Really? Why?"

Now Jude was really staring. "Because he killed our parents right in front of us," she said, still slow and clear. "Vivienne swore then that she would hate him forever. She thinks Taryn killed herself, and it was Madoc's fault for taking her here to Faerie and making her miserable. That answer your question, faerie-boy?"

"Yes," Cardan managed, and sat back as Jude stalked off. He felt he wanted time to think.

Cardan's mind was still in something of a whirl a few nights later, when he stepped into the carriage with Jude, Madoc and Oriana, and they all trundled off to the Palace of Elfhame.

They were heading to a palace reception. It would be Cardan's first social event since Balekin threw him out, but he found he wasn't so concerned about that. There was another drama, closer at hand, that was far more absorbing.

He killed our parents right in front of us. Cardan had known the story, of course, but somehow he'd never thought of it in quite those terms. Maybe because if some kind person had come from another world to slaughter his parents and brothers and whisk him away from Elfhame forever, Cardan would have been absolutely delighted. Or maybe because every time he had ever thought of the Duarte sisters, his thoughts were always blotted out by fierce bitterness and jealousy. But now that bitterness had been wiped away, and his jealousy, for the first time, was starting to seem not only misplaced but deeply foolish.

He studied Jude and Madoc sidelong. They were both dressed up for the reception, Jude looking quite fetching in a gown of gray storm-silk decorated with gleaming raindrops. She was talking quietly with her stepfather, and when he was still living with Balekin, that was all Cardan would have seen: a girl talking to her father, as he was never able to do with his. But now he could see definite signs of discomfort in them both: the wary way they angled their bodies toward one another, the conversation that was just a touch too polite, too serious. Neither of them seemed aware of this awkwardness, and Cardan realized it must be habitual in them both.

Well, of course. Of course they were uncomfortable, and of course it was habitual. Madoc's previous actions sat between them like a stone they barely noticed anymore, even as they stumbled and tripped around it constantly. The carriage also rang hollow with the absence of the other two sisters, with the question of what had happened to Taryn. For the first time ever, Cardan looked at Jude and her family and saw, alongside love and concern, violence and death and accusation and overwhelming guilt.

He also felt, for the first time ever, a tiny wriggle of shame. His previous vicious bullying of the Duarte sisters was starting to seem more and more stupid and pointless. Jude and Taryn hadn't asked to be taken to Faerie; if it had been up to them, they never would have come here at all. So what right did Cardan and the other courtiers have to take umbrage at their presence?

And, on a more personal level, what good had bullying the twins done Cardan? It might have given him a nasty pleasure to make them as miserable as he was himself, but it hadn't solved a single one of his problems. It certainly hadn't made him any friends.

They pulled up outside the glowing entrance to the ballroom. Madoc handed Oriana down from the carriage. Cardan stepped down after them, and turned to hold out a hand to Jude. She took it, somewhat hesitantly, and let him help her down.

"You're being very polite tonight, Your Highness," she said, eyes hard with suspicion.

"So are you," he pointed out. "You haven't called me Your Highness in weeks."

"Well, it's a bit difficult to keep up that level of formality when you're actually living with someone. What are you doing?" She stiffened as Cardan wound her arm around his.

"Oh, Great Trees, relax. You have to admit, we'd look singularly foolish just walking in side by side like we hardly know each other." Cardan flashed her a grin as he started to escort her in, still hanging off his arm.

She gave him a surreptitious kick to the ankle under her long skirt, but didn't pull away as they entered the ballroom.

It didn't look anything like it had for the New Year ball anymore. It now resembled a gorgeous, intricate cave, with wavering stone formations and sparkling gems, but it still brought back some uncomfortable memories. Cardan thought again of Taryn, of the bleak blankness behind her drunken expression as Balekin dragged her off. At his side, Jude had gone quiet, and he knew she was thinking of her sister too.

Around them, faces turned in their direction, and eyes flashed. Snickers rose, and ladies whispered to avid-eyed lords behind their fans. The whole Court was delighted by this new scandal: the Greenbriar prince brought so low as to need a mortal's charity. Cardan held his head high, making himself meet the courtiers' gazes until they turned away. They could only embarrass him if he let them; and their good opinion wasn't worth having.

Still, he found himself holding his breath as they approached Eldred's throne, and he kept his head bent as he made his bow, not wanting to see his father's reaction. Would Eldred be ashamed? Would he blame Cardan for his own fall?

"Good evening, General," said Eldred, sounding bored and tired as usual. "You've brought your family, I see."

Cardan couldn't help it: he looked up, and it was worse even than he'd expected. There was Dain, smirking in smug triumph at how far Cardan had fallen. Around him, a coterie of senior courtiers tittered.

But it was Eldred's reaction that was worst of all. For the King of Elfhame ran exactly the same bored, jaundiced eye over Cardan as he did over Jude. Eldred wasn't angry or ashamed of Cardan's current situation, the prince realized in a tide of ice: Eldred didn't care enough to be angry. Cardan, and whatever living situation he might be in, meant absolutely nothing to his father.

"You still haven't found your daughter?" Eldred said now to Madoc.

"I'm afraid not, Your Majesty," said Madoc. "I'm still looking, however."

"Well, the very best of luck to you. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help." Eldred's eye landed on Cardan at last, and his stomach clenched. "And do keep the boy out of trouble."

And with that Eldred dismissed them all with an enervated flick of his hand.

"I need a drink," Cardan muttered to Jude.

"Oriana will kill you," she returned in an undertone.

"Just one drink." Cardan disentangled himself from Jude and set off for the drinks table. There he saw Balekin, drinking red wine in a crowd of his friends. The other faeries were laughing about something, but Balekin wasn't joining in. He wore a deep, pensive frown, and sipped his wine in a brooding manner.

"Good evening, big brother," Cardan called lightly. "Is a certain mortal still preying on your mind, perhaps?"

"Go hide behind Jude's skirts again, Cardan," Balekin sneered, and his friends guffawed.

"Yes, well, at least I know my mortal's exact whereabouts," Cardan said, still smiling. "Yours, on the other hand, is proving remarkably elusive. Quite impressive for a human girl all on her own, wouldn't you say? Or maybe you're not such a great hunter after all."

Balekin choked in fury, and Cardan found himself grinning widely as he sashayed off to the opposite end of the table.

He inspected the array of alcohol. He'd promised Jude he'd only have one drink, so he wanted the absolute strongest beverage on offer. He finally selected a mug of mead and, sipping in bliss, began to turn from the table.

"Hello, Cardan."

Cardan almost dropped his mug. He turned slowly, careful not to let any of his surprise show.

Princess Nicasia stood before him, twisting her fingers in her skirt. She was wearing a gorgeous gown of shifting water, all flashing lights and mysterious depths, but it did nothing to make her look any less nervous. "Are you enjoying your evening?" she asked quietly.

Cardan took a long, leisurely sip of mead. "Well, I've had better," he said at last. "Though I did enjoy the look on Balekin's face earlier. Are you having a good evening, Princess?"

Nicasia flinched a little at his use of her formal title. "Cardan, I—I wanted to talk."

"No point, Princess." Cardan hadn't realized the truth of his words before he said them. "There is nothing to say."

Nicasia looked down. "I understand if you're angry with me," she said. "But—do you think we could ever move past what happened? If we could ever—"

"No, Princess." Cardan felt like the distance between them grew every time he said the word, and he welcomed it. "We tried that when you betrayed me with Locke, remember? It didn't work last time, and it wouldn't work again."

Nicasia gave a childish little pout. "What do you mean, we tried? I asked you to come back to me, and you wouldn't."

"Because I didn't want to, Princess. But we kept pretending to be friends and, frankly, I don't want to try that again. I am tired of pretending, with you or anyone else."

Nicasia's eyes flashed. "And what are you doing with Jude, exactly?"

"Not pretending." Cardan drank more mead. "It's quite a refreshing change, really, an honest relationship. You should try it sometime, Princess. But not with me." Cardan finished off his drink. "Oh, and do try to avoid Valerian. I've recently discovered that he's a complete lunatic."

"I haven't spoken to Valerian in weeks." Nicasia fidgeted. "My mother…sent me a message. She might be calling me home soon."

"Really? Well, safe travels, Princess." Cardan set aside his mug and, with a flowing bow, began to move away.

"People are laying bets, you know." Nicasia's voice rose, sharp with spite, behind him. "On how soon you and Jude go to bed together. Not if you go to bed. When."

"Are they, Princess?" Cardan drawled, not looking back. "Well, it's their money, I suppose." And he sidestepped into a nearby crowd, neatly losing himself.

Cardan sauntered across the ballroom, nodding at courtiers and smirking whenever they looked away. Let the self-important popinjays be uncomfortable. His thoughts had turned in a most unexpected direction.

He looked across the room for Jude, and saw her talking to a group of knights. Cardan hung back, observing them. He thought of Nicasia's words, toyed with the news she'd given him, not without some pleasure.

An affair with Jude. Actually, it wasn't a half-bad idea. It might restore some humility and respect to Madoc and Oriana, not to mention their followers, if he reminded them all of his royal rights as a Greenbriar. And the indignity of being dependent on Jude's goodwill would be lessened if he was also sleeping with her. It might equalize their relationship somewhat. And the courtiers would laugh and gossip and exchange betting money, but so what? They already held him in complete contempt.

Jude threw her head back, laughing at something someone had said, and her hair cascaded down her back, a waterfall of dark curls. Cardan took half a step forward, wanting to feel that mass in his hands.

He drew back, heart thudding a little. And he wondered if all his reasoning was nothing but an excuse for his real desires.

A slow smile grew on Cardan's lips. Well, perhaps he could find out.

He headed over to take his place at Jude's side.

Present Day

All of that, and far more, flashes through Cardan Greenbriar's mind as he watches the sisters' reunion. What an impact the Duarte sisters have all had on his life. But—he smiles at Jude's shout of joyous laughter—he can't say it's an altogether bad one.

Still, he feels a pang of presentiment as Taryn ushers her children forward to be introduced. For something tells him that this girl—this silent, timid, powerless mortal girl—is about to work yet another drastic change on his life.