Once Upon a Time

by LA Knight

Wolves in human skin. A Beast and a lost maiden. A sanctuary in a storm. A prince of Elven blood. Sacrifices, debts, honor, & oaths. Ten long, beautiful years, and all the stories that fall within. A collected fic series; currently on book 13. Updates when I can because hey it's a pandemic. Early access available on Patreon.

131. We Will Not Bow

Author's Note: hey, everybody! I apologize for the long delay. There was a death in my family, my health issues, and my computer wasn't working right so I could only work on the chapter on my phone, which made it slow going. To reward you, I made this chapter a bit longer than usual; so thank you very much for your patience. My hope is to have the next chapter up in the next 30 days. I've already started on it, but as I say, my computer isn't the easiest writing tool. But I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

Reminder: Tiana is the little girl who first debuted in chapter 32 and who is currently being stalked by some of Bres' men on the suspicion of being Nuada and Dylan's daughter.

Last Time on Once Upon a Time: although Prince Zhenjin and his mad brother Shaohao believe they've exterminated the human bandits plaguing the northern villages of Bethmoora, it's revealed that only one of their camps was destroyed. In the aftermath of that attack, the bandit captain Sreng mac Umhor attacks the village of Lallybroch, revealing he survived and that he has a mysterious connection to King Balor. Thanks to the timely arrival of some of Dylan's non-fae allies and Nuada's friends, the bandits were driven off without much bloodshed. But a faerie child was caught defending herself against a human bandit, and despite interference from other royals, was sentenced to be flogged.

Thinking quickly, Dylan and her sister Pauline conceive of the plan to have Pauline become Nuada's vassal, thus giving her the legal right to take the faerie child's punishment. Although their plan works, King Balor is enraged at their attempts to manipulate him and decides that Tsu's'di, already to be flogged for killing two bandits, will receive double punishment. He also reveals to Nuada that Lady Naya, his friend from court, is to be executed for treason.

Meanwhile, Balor remains unaware that Nuada and Dylan have arranged the secret marriage between the young gancanaugh Liam Ui Niall and his Elven sweetheart, Iuile ingen Barinthus, to prevent Balor from giving her back to her abusive father...

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Once Upon a Time

Chapter One-Hundred-Thirty-One

We Will Not Bow

that is

A Short Tale of Sisters and Treachery, Sisters and Punishments, Sisters and Obligations, Black Ravens and Gold Trinkets and White Snow, a Prince's Offer, the Wolf and the Kids, the Meddling Owl, the Frightened Mountain Lion, a Mortal Lady, a Child We Haven't Seen in a Long While, Sand Rubies, the Owl Again, Finders Keepers, the King's Justice, a Mortal's Defiance, Nuada's Punishment, Tsu's'di's Punishment, Dylan's Punishment, the Dragon's Aid, a Mother's Love, Intruders in a Familiar Room, What Magic Has Preserved, the Last of Pauline's Punishment, the Whistle Song and the Warning In It, Twins Taking a Moment, a Mortal's Embrace, Throwing Caution to the Wind, a the Promise of a Prince's Kiss, and an Unexpected Voice

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Nuala's forehead fell with a soft thump against the icy window pane and she closed her eyes. A single tear rolled down her moon-pale cheek as she watched the snowflakes flurry beyond the chilled glass. She'd thought she'd been so strong, so stoic about everything…until the snow began to fall, tiny blasts of white crystals falling from a velvety black sky embroidered by wisps of cirrus clouds, studded with diamond stars. A thin crescent moon lit up the night even as it slowly sank toward the horizon.

The moon, the snow, the night sky, the stars…it all made her think of Naya. No, not Naya. Ledi Polunochnaya iz Lisaya Gora. She could not be Naya any longer, not after what the Elf of Zwezda had tried to do. Not after what Nuada's demons, his darkness, had forced her to attempt in a vain hope of stopping his cruelty.

Thinking of her fosterage-sister's betrayal hurt, like an iron dirk in her heart, but Princess Nuala knew who was truly at fault for her oldest friend's treachery.

Nuada. Her own twin brother.

If Nuada hadn't been so consumed with his own hatred, his own pride, his insistence that humans were nothing but vermin…if he hadn't fought to undermine their father's rule at every turn, fought to turn the royal council and the kingdom itself into a war-machine that would chew up the humans and spit out their bones like some ravening beast intent on slaughter…if Nuada had simply learned to forgive, to let go of his hatred…none of this would be happening. Naya wouldn't have felt the need to betray him, to arrange for the death of a human woman. Nuada would not have lost Dylan to death and bandits. He would not now be insane, and she wouldn't have to work so desperately hard to block him from her mind.

Because of Nuada's own sick, twisted heart, he had lost Naya's loyalty and his own beloved's life and now…soon…her father would execute him. Would she die then? Would she feel it? Before his departure, Balor had woven every spell he knew around his daughter to protect her from the link binding her to her twin. Bres had already gifted her with protective magics after the assassination attempt at midwinter, as a courtship present. Would they be enough?

"Have you been to see her, sister of my heart?"

Na'ko'ma's soft, feathering whisper brushed against Nuala's ears and she let her eyes drift open once more. Where Polunochnaya was bright and vibrant and full of chatter—always had been—Na'ko'ma was soft-spoken, though she chattered just as much when she liked a person, just quietly. Her voice was always soft, a means of keeping her vast power in check. She was a thunderbird—not, she'd once told Nuala, a real thunderbird, the great winged spirit beings of storm and power sacred to her people—but a fae shadow, a shapeshifter with her own gifts of weather magic that humans outside of Na'ko'ma's own tribes, the colonizers that had come to the lands of Elphame, mistook for those glorious, sacred creatures.

Na'ko'ma had come to Bethmoora long before mortal colonizers had come and attacked the indigenous humans of Elphame's mundane counterpart, but she had gone back for several decades a few centuries ago. She did not speak of what she witnessed or what she did there, not even to Nuala or Naya, but it had softened her intense dislike of the crown prince…a fraction.

Nuala knew her best friend despised Nuada, though, for many reasons. Did she agree with what Polunochnaya had done?

She shook her head. "I cannot bear to even look at her," Nuala confessed. "She…she betrayed us. All of us. I…I cannot…" Another tear rolled down her cheek. She dashed it away. Firmed her voice. "And you? Have you been to see her?"

Na'ko'ma was silent for a long while before she finally said, "It is not my place to extend even that much forgiveness."

Which meant, Nuala knew, that if Naya were to see either of them before her execution, the princess would have to be the first to set foot in the dungeons. And that, Nuala thought, she could not and would not do. To forgive Naya was to forgive Nuada, and she could not offer such sentiments to either of them. They'd both betrayed her. Both broken her heart. Perhaps in time, she could let the pain of that go. But for now…no.

Let the traitor rot in her cell.

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Dylan watched Nuada disappear into their private tavern room and hated that she couldn't follow after him, but too much needed to be done and he needed time to process. Naya had been the noble working with the bandits. Naya had tried to have Dylan killed in an attempt to…what? Force Nuada to kill the bandits who would have murdered her, no doubt. Who did murder her, temporarily. And if he'd killed them, avenged her death, then what? Balor had come prepared to execute his only living son, the heir to his throne. Dylan had no doubt Naya had known the king would react that way. Nuada couldn't doubt it either.

But she had things to do. She'd seen to Liam and Iúile, and they were busy upstairs figuring out creative ways to make sure their union was entirely consummated and legal. Becan, inestimable treasure that he was, had care of their baby. The wounded were seen to, the sick were recovering. 'Sa'ti and A'du were holed up in the stables with Amaryllis and her eerily silent toddler sister—whose name Dylan still didn't know—and the unicorn foals and Eímh and Sétanta. Dawn was coming, though, and she had to deal with Pauline now because their plan had just blown up in their faces.

"Pauline?" Dylan ventured. Her second-eldest sister had sunk into a chair in the mostly empty common room. Now she stared, vacant eyed, at the wall, rubbing the right side of her chest absently. When Dylan moved to stand in front of her, her sister's gray eyes flicked up to her face. "Are you…"

Angry? She wanted to ask, because this whole thing about taking the bean sídhe child's punishment was supposed to have been safe for her, she shouldn't have been punished, that was the whole point, but their cousin Renee's ideas had been wrong, Dylan had been wrong to trust Balor would play fair. But she didn't ask if her sister was angry; it seemed like such a selfish question. Okay? Inane. Meaningless. Dylan floundered; she had no idea how to finish the question.

"I know what stocks are," Pauline murmured softly, studying Dylan's pale face. "But what did he mean about shaving? The only shaving punishment I know of is for someone with balls, so…"

"I know what you're talking about, but I don't think they do that in Bethmoora." Dylan sighed. Torture was used in Bethmoora sometimes, as a punishment for a particularly heinous crime. Did full castration fall under the list of accepted methods? Something to ask Nuada later. "In this case, it means he's going to have one of the guards publicly shave your head before he has you put in the stocks."

Pauline blinked. "Uh…that's it? Why?"

"It's considered a form of public humiliation for a woman," Dylan explained. "Or for fae warriors of any gender from species who traditionally wear their hair long, like the Tuatha de."

"But that's it?" Pauline asked. "He's just going to shave my head and put me in the stocks?"

Dylan eyed her. "Yes…?"

All the tension drained out of her sister's body. "Oh, geez. I thought it was going to be something horrible, like…like cutting off my nipples or something—"

"What? What on earth made you think that?"

"I don't know," Pauline said with a grin. "You seemed so freaked out, I thought I was in for something out of Braveheart. You need to relax, kid. If it's a toss up between some old fart shaving me bald and a little girl being literally whipped? I can rock the no-hair thing. Trust me. I've done it before."

"You…you have? When?" Dylan asked when her sister nodded.

"Couple times. When you were in college and a few years ago. Don't sweat it. Seriously, hon, it's fine. Well, the stocks sound…not pleasant. But I won't lose any limbs or anything, no blood involved?" Dylan nodded and Pauline let her head drop back against the back of her chair. "Fine, then. I can handle whatever King Dicks-for-Brains tries to dish out."

When the laugh squeaked out of her, Dylan clapped a hand over her mouth while also trying to shush her sister. "Watch what you say. Insulting the king in public is a crime."

Pauline rolled her eyes. "Ohmigawd. You know, Remy came home from school a few weeks ago and told me that James Madison or John Adams or one of those other chuckleheads had made it illegal to make fun of him and I thought, 'Who does that?' Now I know."

The mention of her niece sobered Dylan. "What are your kids going to say about your hair?"

Her sister shrugged. "I'll just tell them I needed a change and decided to shave my head. They'll think it's awesome. But I need to go change my clothes. If I have to stand out in the snow for half a day," she said, lifting her slippered feet, "I'm going to need better shoes. And I have to warn Petra and Mary so they don't absolutely freak out. You going to be okay?"

Dylan nodded, and Pauline kissed the top of her head—a very rare gesture of affection from Pauline indeed—and went upstairs. Dylan sighed. Relief made her limbs momentarily weak. She'd expected Pauline to be furious over the punishment, since Dylan had assured her nothing beyond possibly being sent home was a danger to her for this plan. Her sister's calm response was…rather unprecedented. Out of all the Myers siblings, the only one who could be harsher, colder than Pauline in a rage was Simone. If Dylan hadn't known how adamantly Pauline abhorred narcotics, she almost might have suspected her sister of being high, she was so calm about everything.

Thank You, Heavenly Father, Dylan offered up a quick prayer of thanks. She had enough on her plate, she appreciated every small mercy He would give her.

But now she had to go and speak with Tsu's'di.

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Simone Myers didn't really like children. Actually, she did like children, as long as they were normal children. She didn't like abnormal children. She didn't like abnormal people in any way, shape, or form. It was why she didn't really get along well with her younger sister, Francesca, who found it impossible to act like a regular adult human on any day ending in Y, and why she despised her youngest sister more than probably anyone else she knew on the face of the Earth. Her youngest sister, Dylan, was most certainly abnormal.

Unfortunately for Simone, so were her sisters Petra and Pauline's kids, and it was her job to babysit them while the eldest two Myers sisters were off doing…something. Hopefully working on having Dylan recommitted so she'd stop getting into trouble all the time and interfering in everybody else's lives. The entire group of Myers siblings—minus Dylan and her twin brother, John, of course; John couldn't be trusted where his twin was concerned— had discussed it numerous times since Dylan's most recent extended disappearance in October, when even John hadn't known where she'd waddled off to. Hopefully that's what Petra and Pauline were working toward now.

It was for Dylan's own good, of course. And everyone else's. She was just…too much for normal people to be expected to handle.

But the kids. Simone, leaning one hip against her kitchen counter, eyed the infestation of adolescents cluttering up her tiny dining room. There were seven of them in total. Petra's three—Ariana, a teenager, and Russell and David, the twins—looked way too awake this early in the morning. Wasn't natural. Simone wrinkled her nose. Pauline's four, though—double twins; six-year-old Remy and Collette and nine-year-old Maggie and Wendy—were the laziest bunch of kids Simone had ever seen. Collette had stayed up late reading some book and now was nearly nodding off over her oatmeal. She only jerked awake when Remy elbowed her in the ribs whenever her nose got too close to the bowl.

Couldn't her sisters have had normal kids? Kids who didn't stay up late reading books about who knew what, but also kids who acted like kids and didn't seem excited to see the butt-crack of sunrise? And the night before, Simone had overheard Russell, Petra's boy, telling the other kids some weird story about winged people. Fairies. Fairies weren't allowed in any Myers house. When Simone informed Petra, Petra would ground the kid for life.

The alarm on her phone dinged. She checked the time. Ugh, she had to get to her outdoor yoga class. It was her turn to teach. The kids hadn't finished their breakfast; oh well. They should've eaten faster instead of dawdling like lazy slugs.

"All right, come on!" She clapped her hands; it worked on her twin sister Gardenia's dogs, so why not the kids? "We have places to go. Move it. Haul ass, losers."

"M'not a loser!" Remy cried from the table.

Simone rolled her eyes as she grabbed her purse. "Ohmigawd, shut up and stop whining. Let's go. If I'm late to work, you kids are in trouble. Move it!"

If only Gardenia were here. She didn't like kids, either, but she handled them better. The brats never seemed to whine at Gardenia. Just her.

Biting back her frustration at the whole situation, Simone herded the little mutants out the door of her apartment and they headed for Central Park and her early-morning outdoor yoga class.

They ended up being five minutes late because Russell, the little cockroach, stopped to pet every dog he saw. He finally stopped when Simone grabbed him by the back of the shirt and dragged him away from a slobbery, spotted mutt with a face like soggy pizza dough.

She couldn't wait for Petra and Pauline to get back.

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In the thickest part of the faerie forest outside the village of Lallybroch, a sleek raven croaked and ruffled its feathers, fluffing up to fight the chill. She didn't mind cold too much, but it was early morning, the sun barely poking at the horizon, and it had snowed the night before. She just needed to find something to eat—or something to trade for food—and then she could go somewhere else, somewhere with thicker foliage on the trees and less wind.

With a long-suffering croak, the raven looked around, scanning for nibbly bits. The village with all its two-leggers and livestock was close enough that sometimes, two-legger fledglings came out to leave food for the feathered folk. Not so often these last moons, but…

Something glinted against the snow as the first tiny trickle of dawn-light stretched across the snow. The raven cocked her head. A shiny? Shinies were good! Shinies could be traded to other feathered folk for nibbly bits, if it was nice enough. She spread her sable wings and glided down to the snow.

Her feet curled up tight at the shock of bitter cold. Snow did not feel good against raven claws, oh no it didn't. But she crunched her way across the snow, turning her head this way and that to study the shiny. When she'd gotten close enough, she pecked at it with her wicked sharp beak. Tasted two-legger magic in it.

The yellow shiny that tasted of magic was easy to dig out of the snow, but the raven had to keep shifting her weight from foot to foot and curling her toes up against her warm feathers to stave off frostbite. Eventually she managed to excavate the thing and cawed in exultation. A shiny! A yellow shiny, and it had rock-shinies all over it! And it tasted of magic, and love, and dreaming, and the hope of nests and eggs in springtime! A very, very good shiny.

Hoop-shaped, the yellow shiny fit easily over the raven's clawed foot to settle around her ankle. With one last croak and a flap of her wings, she took off from the snow, soaring to warmer places where other birds might be willing to trade some delicious nibblies for the beautiful, golden ring studded with rubies that she'd found in the snow outside of Lallybroch.

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Petra Myers didn't panic when her identical twin sister informed her that the king of the fairies or whatever he was had decided that, on top of his apparently typical dictator-behavior, he was going to shave Pauline's head as a form of sexist, archaic humiliation and then put her in the stocks for twelve hours. Mary nearly broke down crying out of sheer nerves over the idea. Petra merely excused herself from the room after hugging her sister, and strode off down the hallway.

She had no idea where she intended to go, what she was looking for. For a split second she considered tracking down Dylan and demanding to know what the hell she'd gotten them into, but pushed the impulse aside. This wasn't Dylan's fault. None of it was Dylan's fault. It had become habit over the years to blame her little sister for everything, but she wouldn't do that now because it was the king's fault and everyone with any common sense knew that. And it would save that poor little girl from being mutilated as part of the king's skewed sense of justice.

This wasn't Dylan's fault. She wouldn't go yell at her baby sister for something that wasn't even her fault.

She couldn't go yell at the king, though. Who knew what he might do to Pauline then? Or to Dylan, or to any innocent person whose face irritated him? And she wasn't going to go find the prince and chew him out, either. It wouldn't help anything. Should she go downstairs and get drunk? The bar was still open. It might dull some of the jittery energy sizzling under her skin. But it was almost dawn, and she had rules about not consuming alcohol after midnight. What then? She had to work off some of this tension. Had to find something to do.

"Lady Petra?"

She stopped walking—stalking, really—through the halls at the sound of Crown Prince Dastan calling her name. The "lady" threw her off a little bit, so she almost stumbled with that that's me—no it's not—wait, yes it is! moment of confusion, but got her feet straightened out and turned to the prince.

"Your Highness," she said, giving a bobbed sort of curtsy-bow. She was pretty sure you were supposed to curtsy to a crown prince. "What can I do for you?"

"Is everything all right, my lady? You seem…" He hesitated.

Petra studied his face: the strong features and golden-brown skin, the dark hair swept back into a long horsetail, the lean jaw and obsidian eyes. Oh, wait. She was staring into his eyes. Crap. And he was looking into hers, which meant he'd caught her staring. Double crap. Was staring considered taboo in Faerie? Dylan hadn't said. They abhorred lying. She knew that much. They liked games and subterfuge, but not outright lies. But they also didn't appreciate having their secrets ferreted out of them. Did staring count? Shoot. Was Dastan mad at her now?

She was too tired and too frazzled to be dealing with all of this.

"You seem troubled, Lady Petra," Dastan said gently. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

An image of Dastan, shirtless and ripped as Conan the Barbarian wielding a massive sword and yelling at Balor that he challenged him for Pauline's fate on behalf of the Lady Petra filled the eldest Myers sister's mind and she couldn't help the wry smile and soft huff of laughter that escaped. Dastan smiled back, a little confused.

"I don't think so," she said. "It's…" If she told him, then what? How would that help anything? He was crown prince of another kingdom. Nuada's dad was the king of this country. He absolutely outranked Dastan. Dastan couldn't do anything. "I…" Just like she couldn't do anything. Not for Pauline, not for the furry teenager working for Dylan, not for that little girl the king had planned to flog, not for the pale boy with the removable head that had attached himself to Francesca, not for those poor people who'd been trapped in the burning field…

She had no idea she'd started crying until Dastan cupped her cheek, his palm warm as summer sun against her skin, and brushed a tear away with his thumb.

"Petra…" No lady this time. No honorific, no distance commanded by royal rank or whatever. Just her name. "Whatever you need…if it is mine to offer, then I offer it to you."

"I just…" She turned her face away to scrub at it with the back of one fist, but didn't step away from him. "Sorry. It's not your problem, you don't need to worry about me." Geez, she wanted to tell him. Why did she want to tell him? Because he was kind. Because he was honest. Because he respected her. Because he was hot. All of those things. "I don't need any help or anything. I'll manage. Honest. It's just…" Holy hell, there went her mouth again, trying to pry her secrets off her tongue. "My sister…"

Dastan frowned. "Lady Dylan?"

"No, no," Petra hastened to correct him. "My other sister. The one that looks just like me. Pauline. She…she and Dylan had this idea and…"

And the story suddenly started to spill out of her. Pauline agreeing to take the little faerie girl's punishment so the kid wouldn't be whipped, how Pauline was supposed to spend half a day in the stocks out in the snow, how that poor boy that Dylan loved so much was going to be flogged and he was just a kid, how she and her sisters had all agreed to come help Dylan and Prince Nuada help these people because yes, what the king was doing to them was cruel and unfair and just plain wrong and yes, the Myers siblings wanted to help but it was all just so much…

She couldn't stop the tears. She hadn't let herself slow down much since this whole thing had started, and so many terrible things had hit her one right after the other. The butchered unicorns, arriving in the stricken village, seeing all the sick and wounded, being back in a battle zone and having to pull that trigger again and again, the field fire and the screaming. All of it crashed around in Petra's head and suddenly she was just sobbing into her hands, feeling like a complete idiot.

Warm, gentle hands cupped her shoulders. Somehow she found the strength to lift her head and look up into Dastan's face. She couldn't quite read his expression. She saw sorrow, and anger, and sympathy, and pain, and other things. Alien, feral things that she'd seen before—on Nuada's face, when he'd borne witness to all the pain in the last several days.

Dastan sighed softly. "I am sorry such things have burdened you, Lady Petra," he said. He didn't hug her. Didn't stroke his hands down her arms the way another man might have. He simply laid his warm hands on her shoulders and looked at her with such sympathy and understanding. And then he very slowly, moving as if afraid of startling a faun in the woods, reached up and brushed back a lock of hair from her forehead.

Heat flooded her cheeks. Why was she such a sucker for the little things?

"I'm sorry," Petra said again, ducking her head and wiping at her flushed face. In the pit of her stomach, a sudden bout of panic coiled like icy snakes. She wasn't good at politics. What if she'd just accidentally spilled something to Dastan she shouldn't have? What if she hadn't noticed because he'd been doing the hair-touch-romance-novel thing? "I'm sorry, I should go."

But she didn't want to. If she left, it meant walking back into a world full of war and death and she wasn't quite ready for that yet.

Dastan pulled a square of cream-colored cambric from his pocket and offered it to her. She took it, wiped at her eyes. Stared at it. People she knew didn't typically carry handkerchiefs. What did you do with them once your face was dry?

"Keep it," the prince of Shahbaz said. He hesitated, then said, "Lady Petra…would you welcome my presence at your side come the dawn?"

She eyed him, uncertain what exactly he was asking. Dawn was maybe thirty minutes away. A lot could happen in thirty minutes. So was he coming onto her or something? That didn't really seem like Dastan's way, but…

"By my side?"

"For the…punishment." He said the word with a sour twist of his mouth, as if it sat bitterly on his tongue. Petra suddenly understood, in one of those swift flashes of insight she sometimes had, that Dastan despised King Balor almost as much as Dylan did. "As a friend. To lend my support to your family."

She blinked. "I…you shouldn't feel obligated, Your Highness—"

"I do not," he said. "Truthfully, it would be an honor. To show that I am allied with a strong, courageous woman and her kin, that I too disapprove of the wrongs being done them. I would feel ashamed not to offer some protest; what Bal—" Dastan cut himself off. Clenched his jaw. Petra understood what he'd been about to say. What Balor is doing is wrong. But he was a prince, and this was Balor's kingdom, so he didn't say that. Instead, through stiff lips he said, "What is to happen come the dawn is badly done. There is no justice in it. As a prince in a foreign kingdom, I cannot offer official protest, for the sake of politics. But as your friend…as I said, it would be my honor to stand at your side."

Petra Myers had few friends. One reason was that she had three children, four nieces and nephews, seven sisters, and a brother who all needed various forms of looking after (especially, she'd thought until recently, her children and her youngest, mentally ill sister). Another reason was that she worked like a dog to feed, clothe, and entertain three kids on a single income; child support was a pathetic help considering she'd had to hire a lawyer to get her divorce and had accumulated a disgusting amount of debt. A third reason was that most of her adult friends had been Warren's friends, and once Warren had turned his back on her and started badmouthing her to anyone who would listen—Petra was a terrible mother, Petra was an enabler, Petra was reckless with the kids' safety, Petra was such an awful person—most of their friends had become solely his friends, turning their backs on her, as well.

She was friends with Mistress Stooree, the leprechaun woman she'd met at the fields the previous week. And now…now Dastan was extending his hand to her in real, tangible friendship.

"You don't even know me," she murmured.

She'd told him the same thing the night before, before the horrific fire and the screams and the second bandit attack. Like that time, Dastan offered her a wistful sort of smile and canted his head.

"I see you, Petra Myers," he said. "I see your heart. I see it in the things you've done since coming to Lallybroch, in the way my friend who trusts very few people and only one human until now trusts you to guard his back. Only a truly remarkable mortal could earn any measure of Nuada's trust. All this, I told you before. But there is something else." His smile turned a bit rueful, edged with just a touch of self-deprecation. "I have a gift, of sorts, for understanding people. Sometimes, in a person's presence, I simply know if they are good or bad, trustworthy or false. It has never come to me with a human before, but I know, Lady Petra. I know you. I see you. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to stand by your side as your friend? It hurts me," he added, "to see such sorrow in one such as you. If I cannot erase it, I would ask that you allow me the honor of enduring it with you."

Petra drew in a long, slow, shuddering breath. Carefully folded the slightly damp handkerchief and put it in her pocket. Tucking some of the hair that had come loose from her braid behind her ears, she nodded without meeting Dastan's eyes. Every time he spoke, he caught her off guard. Every time he said something kind to her, something to praise her, it surprised her.

It would be nice, she thought, not to have to stand strong alone. Mary would be a mess. She did not handle her sisters being hurt in any way that could be described as "gracefully." When Dylan had gone missing for those three months where she'd been in Prince Nuada's care after the attack in the subway, the Myers siblings had been frantic, yes, but Mary had been devastated, by turns despairing, enraged, and terrified. Pauline was identical to Petra but both they and Mary had been born at the same time—a very rare occurrence of mixed fraternal and identical twins. Mary hated seeing anyone hurt. It was one reason she'd agreed to come on this trip. The cat-kid and Pauline? She'd be a mess, and worried Balor would pull something else besides. It would be nice for Petra that while Mary leaned on her, she could lean on Dastan if she needed to.

"Thank you," she murmured, still not looking at him. His eyes held such kindness and she didn't want to cry again. Her face had the tendency to go all blotchy and she didn't want Balor or his goons seeing her upset. She wouldn't give that to them. Forcing lightness into her voice, she added, "Afterward, you wanna get a drink?"

Dastan chuckled ruefully. "I'll likely need it."

So would she. That was one good thing about this trip—there was no shortage of booze.

.

The wolf watched the little girl seat herself on the swing and push at the ground with the toe of her Mary-Jane. Geri had been stalking the little blond halfling for weeks now, ever since he'd teamed up with that nuckelavee that claimed to be working for some Old World prince. Rumor had it, the half-Elven kid might have been the bastard daughter of the legendary Silverlance and his mortal…wife? Girlfriend? Geri didn't know, didn't care. Personally, he didn't care if the kid was the famed warrior's daughter or not. He just wanted to grab her, get her to that nuckelavee so he could cash in on the reward, and then eat the kid after the other fae's boss was done with her. But so far, the kid never went anywhere without…

A woman in a business suit, sleek black pants and a black blazer, hair tied back in a thick, short braid, came over and gave the little girl an encouraging push. Geri curled his lips back over his fangs. The mother-hen. Wasn't the girl's mother, he knew from the stink. Some mortal government watchdog or something. Geri wanted to taste her, too, in all kinds of ways. But she carried a really big gun and stank of wariness and danger.

The woman said something to the tidbit, but Geri didn't bother trying to eavesdrop. He just watched, trying not to salivate, while the kid dropped her forehead against one of the swing's chains and heaved a melodramatic sigh.

You think you've got problems? Geri wondered. Nah. He had problems. A tasty-looking kid he hadn't had the chance to eat. A hot human babe he hadn't had the chance to eat. A gorgeous rhinemaiden whose lips smelled like blood and roses who kept playing hard to get, no matter how often he paid a visit to her tavern. A huge silver cave troll moving in on the rhinemaiden he desperately wanted to take a bite out of, a cave troll rumored to be the Silverlance's right-hand fae. Whatever was bothering the appetizer over there, it was nothing compared to what he had to put up with.

The scent of other tidbits drifted over to him. Saliva pooled in his mouth, dribbling over his lips. Kids. Why did it have to be kids? They didn't take much prep. Snap the neck, drag them into the woods, and presto. Dinner, served rare. And they were easy to procure…but he was supposed to be watching the halfling.

A group of about six kids—two boys, four girls—shuffled over and plopped their skinny butts on random available surfaces all over the playground, looking bored out of their skulls. Nearby, a gaggle of mortal women set up mats on the frosty ground for what he'd seen advertised as the "Polar Bear Dawn Yoga Class for Ladies" on a sign post nearby. Who did yoga outside in New York in January? It was unseasonably warm, yeah—hadn't snowed in weeks, it was about as warm as October—but still.

One of the new kids—a boy wearing a peach-and-scarlet baseball cap and wearing a backpack shaped like a really weird, multicolored flamingo—walked over to Geri's prey and stuck out his hand. After a minute of eyeing him like he might bite, the blond morsel took the kid's hand and shook.

Huh. Cute. Making friends and crap.

Maybe he'd have the chance to snag and snack on them both.

.

The raven did not get a chance to trade her yellow shiny for nibblies. The labyrinth-owl saw to that.

Labyrinth-owls were not like regular owls. They could turn their heads almost completely around like mundane owls, and they flew almost silently the way standard owls did, and they tended to eat the same things and cough up the same bone-and-hair pellets and they hatched their owlets in tree-nests lined with moss and down like normal owls. But they also had an unholy penchant for grabbing magical items, crashing headlong through the barriers between the realms, and dropping said magical items where they most certainly did not belong in the hopes of causing chaos that resulted in mortals and unrealized changelings popping back into the Twilight Realm.

The owl crashed down from the branches overhead, talons extended, screeching like someone being murdered. The raven cawed in shock and tried to dodge, but the owl raked her wing with its claws. The sudden flare of pain and the owl's sleek bulk slamming into her knocked her sideways. Her claws spasmed and the ring slipped off her foot.

Focused on the ring, the owl swooped down on the bit of flashing gold and ruby spiraling toward the snow. Snatching the ring in its talons, the owl winked out of reality, leaving the bleeding raven shrieking avian curses after it.

.

There was no hiding Tsu's'di's fear, and it made Dylan hate Balor even more. The cougar youth sat on the edge of a narrow bed, hands braced one either side of him, staring at the floor. His fur bristled and his tail, fluffed out to three times its usual size, lashed back and forth with his agitation. Dylan stepped into the room and quietly shut the door. Tsu's'di looked up and the terror in those smoky gray eyes threatened to crack her heart in half.

"A'ge'lv…" He bit his lip. Curled his fingers into the mattress. "It's going to hurt, isn't it?"

She'd been flogged. Only once, but Sreng had not tried to keep it gentle, had not tried to avoid inflicting real damage. He'd wanted to torture her. Nuada would do everything in his power to keep the damage as minimal as possible. But she nodded, because it would hurt, and he deserved honestly.

"It's only fifty, though," he said, trying to smile. "Not so bad, right?"

She winced. "The king…the king raised it to one-hundred." She explained what had happened with Pauline offering to take Siobhan's punishment and how the king had lashed out at them.

Tsu's'di stared at the floor for a long time and didn't speak. Dylan simply waited. Eventually, he said, "He hates you, doesn't he? That's why he's doing this. He might think it's about being king, but it's because he hates you and the prince. Because you're doing the right thing, and he knows it, and he's not, and he knows that."

Dylan slid an arm around the cougar youth and half-hugged him.

"You are very wise, Tsu's'di Ka'ta."

"I don't feel wise," he mumbled. "I feel like I'm gonna puke."

She squeezed him harder, and he dropped his head to her shoulder. They sat that way for a time and said nothing further. She hoped just being beside him would give him a little comfort. It seemed to. His tail-lashing slowed and his grip on the edge of his mattress loosened a little.

"I don't want to embarrass you guys," Tsu's'di said suddenly. Dylan turned to him, baffled. "What if…I mean…what if I cry or something?"

A memory slashed across Dylan's mind: Nuada, hanging limp from ensorcelled chains in the middle of King Balor's Great Hall, his back a bloody ruin, his silvery-gold braid stained and dripping amber blood. When Wink had gone to him, freed him from the chains, Dylan had seen more golden blood dripping down Nuada's chin from where he'd bitten through his lip. Seen tears wetting his scarred cheeks, and felt answering tears stinging her eyes and falling in a torrent because she could've sworn he wasn't breathing.

"A'ge'lv?" Tsu's'di's voice came from far away, but it yanked her from the memory. She shook her head to clear it. "A'ge'lv, are you okay?"

"Yeah," she said. "Yes. Tsu's'di…you're going to cry. It's nothing to be ashamed of," she added when he opened his mouth to protest. "Prince Nuada will tell you the same. I…I've been flogged. So has he. We both cried. It's an autonomic response to pain, Tsu's'di. It doesn't make you weak. Only a jerk would condemn you for it. Okay?"

"I just…" He lifted his face to hers, and she saw tears swimming in his gray eyes already. "I don't want to shame you. Or make this any harder for the prince or…I'm sorry I got us in trouble."

"You," she said firmly, "have nothing to be sorry for. Do you hear me? Nothing." And she hugged him, hard, careful of his still-healing arm. He hugged her back, dropping his forehead to her shoulder and purring loudly—not the purr of a contented cat, but the purr of a terrified kitten trying to comfort itself. Dylan tightened her hold. "I'll be right there, honey," she whispered. "I promise. I'll be right there. I won't leave you. We won't leave you. I promise."

A sharp, impatient knock thudded from the door.

Tsu's'di tensed. Dylan tensed for a moment as well, then forced herself to relax. Even though her knee ached a little, she stood up and moved to stand in front of her guardsman. Hands loose at her sides, feet slightly apart, chin raised and defiance stamped across her face, Dylan put as much chill as she possibly could into her voice when she said, "Who is it?"

The door flew open and smacked into the far wall with a bang. Even with her beaked iron helmet obscuring her features, Dylan recognized Sáruit ingen Cabhan, Captain of the Butcher Guards, standing in the doorway, one elegant hand on her claymore.

"And to what do we owe the intrusion?" Dylan demanded with a deliberate sneer in her voice. She had tried a few times over the months to give Sáruit courtesy, kindness. To make friends. Sáruit had made it clear she hated the human—not for her humanity, but because of Dylan's distrust and dislike of King Balor, to whom the Butcher captain was indelibly loyal. So she would act the haughty courtier with Sáruit now. If the Butcher was here to kill Tsu's'di, she would have to kill Dylan first…if she had the nerve. If the Butcher captain so much as cut a strand of her hair, Dylan was almost positive that in the state Nuada was in, he would cut the woman down in a heartbeat. Maybe that should've worried her, but at the moment it just struck her as incredibly useful.

"Dawn is come. Bring forth the prisoner," Sáruit commanded coldly.

Dylan lifted her chin another fraction. "First of all, you do not give me orders, Captain. Secondly, he isn't a prisoner. Now step back. You're blocking my way."

Sáruit's fingers curled around the hilt of her iron claymore. Dylan arched an eyebrow, daring her. The message on her face was clear: do not test me where this boy is concerned, or I will end you.

Maybe Sáruit realized what Dylan knew, that if Dylan were hurt then Nuada would be unstoppable in his rage. Maybe she remembered that Azrharn, eldest son of Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud, had called her un-sister not even a day ago, and possessed the power to wipe out every living creature in Bethmoora. Maybe she realized she was being unreasonable. Whatever it was, the captain relaxed her grip on her sword and stepped back with a very short bow.

Dylan held out her hand to Tsu's'di. "Come on. I'll be right next to you."

He took her hand. Squeezed it. "Thank you."

.

Russell Bleddyn-Myers liked six things more than anything else: his twin brother, David (most of the time); his mom (most of the time); his sister, Ari (at least half the time); his Aunt Dylan's stories (when she was allowed to tell them, which was almost never); birds (always); and dogs (also always). He loved his cousins but they were all so much older than him. Even the ones his age, Remy and Collette, always acted older than him; they said they had to be grownup if they were going to end up becoming world-famous cooks.

He loved his dad, but…his dad made him feel weird. He definitely loved his mom, but liking her was a bonus. He loved his aunts, even Aunt Simone, although he preferred his Aunt Francesca (all the Myers kids did).

But he was the only one who adored his Aunt Dylan. Even though his dad said it was Aunt Dylan's fault that Mom was sad a lot, and that Rowan had died, and that Mom and Dad had to get divorced, and that Aunt Dylan had turned Russell's mom against his dad. Even with all that—because he was pretty sure his dad was confused—Russell adored his aunt. She listened to him in a way no one else in their family did. She gave the best advice, and she listened when he had a problem. Even Aunt Francesca sometimes blew him off when he wanted to talk, making him sound like a whiny baby. Aunt Dylan never did that. And Aunt Dylan had a cool house. She didn't have a television, which lost her points, and she didn't have any gaming consoles, but she had really cool books and told amazing stories and she lived in Central Park. She'd had to get some kind of special license and pay a bunch of money but still.

He loved Aunt Dylan's stories about faeries, even though she didn't tell them very often (his parents didn't like it). It was those stories that made him notice the little blond girl sitting on the swing looking sad when his Aunt Simone had dragged him, his brother, his sister, and his cousins out to Central Park for her yoga class. It was those stories that made him notice the girl's gold-flecked blue eyes that were just a little bigger than most people's, and the fact that she had a few more teeth than most people when she said hi to him, and the way her ears curved up to very delicate points.

The girl had to be a faerie, and she looked sad, so Russell went over to her and offered his hand.

"Hi. I'm…" He paused. You had to be careful when you told a faerie your name. They could do weird things with it sometimes. And you weren't supposed to ask a faerie for their name, either; they could offer it, but you couldn't just ask them. "You can call me Russell. What should I call you?"

The faerie girl eyed him. The gold flecks in her eyes moved ever so slowly, like the stars cast by Ariana's miniature planetarium projector when she spun it around at night when they were all supposed to be asleep at their dad's house but couldn't relax enough to really manage.

Finally she took his hand. "I'm Tiana."

"Like the Disney princess?"

Her face lit up. "You like Disney princesses?"

Russell grinned, popping onto the swing next to her. "Yeah! My favorite's Mulan, but I really like Kida, too." He noticed the girl clutched a stuffed green frog in one hand. It looked kind of familiar, but he couldn't have said why. "Nice frog."

She hugged it. "Thanks. My doctor gave him to me. His name's Naveen."

"Neat." He looked around quickly, then shrugged off his Kevin backpack. Kevin was his favorite Disney character of all time—a giant tropical bird from South America. Unzipping the plush backpack, he reached inside. "You wanna see something cool?"

"Okay."

Russell pulled out a small, plush pony the color of fresh cream with gossamer wings sewn into her back. Tiana made an ooh of appreciation.

"This is Rosedust," he said softly. "My Uncle John gave her to me when I was born. She's really old. My mom has to hand-wash her and everything."

"Can I touch her?"

"Sure."

Tiana reached out, as cautious as if the stuffed winged pony were a real magical horse, and stroked two fingers down the velvety muzzle. She grinned, delighted by the pony's soft texture. She cocked her head and stared at Russell. One pointed ear stuck through her curly hair. She grinned. Wow. She had waaay more teeth than he'd previously thought. Not sharp teeth, but just a lot of teeth. More than a human person.

"You wanna dig for sand rubies?" He asked.

"Yeah, sure!" She paused. "What's a sand ruby?"

The two children grabbed sticks while Russell explained that when he'd lived out in Texas for a while, at his school kids had gone digging through sand for tiny red jewels during recess and before and after school started, if you didn't feel like playing tag or worrying about hot lava or climbing the slides or playing in a Pokemon tournament on the sidewalk, stuff like that. Since moving back to New York, he'd spent hours trying to find more for his collection. The plan was, he explained to Tiana as they dug through the playground sand, careful to avoid anything remotely gross looking, to get one of those ten-dollar plastic rings from Walmart for his mom, polish all of his sand rubies until they sparkled, and put them inside the ring.

"They're not actually rubies," he added as they sorted through the dirt and, several feet away, his grouchy Aunt Simone called out instructions to her class. "Mom says they're actually teeny-tiny garnets, but she was born in January and it's her birthstone so I want to do it, you know?"

Tiana was very quiet for a long time. Russell let her be quiet. Sometimes he didn't feel like talking either.

"My mommy died," Tiana said suddenly. "And my daddy. A monster got them when we went to the museum."

"Oh." Russell paused in his digging. He had no idea what he would do if something ever happened to his mom. Especially after…after Rowan…and the fire…and the Blackwoods…"I bet they miss you. And you miss them, huh?"

Tiana nodded.

"So who's that lady?" Russell gestured to the dark-haired woman in the suit who was keeping an eye on them and the Park.

"That's Anya. She and Mr. Red are taking care of me right now. They want to make sure the monster can't come back and get me, too."

"Is she a cop or something?"

Tiana shrugged. "I don't know. She has a gun. Hey, what's that thing?" She pointed over his shoulder, and Russell twisted around to see what exactly she was pointing at. His eyes widened.

It looked like a very small barn owl, with a tawny head and white face, and golden-cinnamon and black streaks through its snowy feathers. It perched on one of the wooden pylons ringing the playground, its impossibly black eyes watching them impassively. Its tail didn't twitch, its wings didn't flutter as it studied the two children with unblinking eyes the size of marbles.

Something glittered in its talons.

"I think it's an owl," he said. He liked birds a lot. But he'd never seen a barn owl that size, or heard of one coming out during the daytime unless it was hunting for a roost or the previous night had been too wet to find any food. This one didn't look like it was hunting or looking for a new place to sleep. It was just…watching them.

"Could it have rabies?" Tiana wondered.

Russell considered this. The first stage of rabies, he'd learned from his books on dogs, was docility. Being unusually friendly. Asking for pets, approaching humans when an animal normally wouldn't. The drooling and foaming didn't happen until later, but docile rabid animals would still bite you if they wanted. But…he didn't think owls could get rabies. He was pretty sure rabies could only infect things that had live babies instead of laying eggs or something.

Without warning the owl took off with a screech and a furious flap of its wings. Instinctively Russell and Tiana ducked, covering their heads with their arms. A glittering something landed in the sand between them as the owl flew away.

"Oh, wow," Russell mumbled as Tiana picked up a golden ring etched with flowers and studded with tiny red stones. "That looks expensive."

Tiana turned it over and over in her fingers, squinting at something on the inside of the golden band. "Someone wrote something. I think it's Gaelic."

"What's Gaelic?"

"The language of the Gaels," Tiana replied absently, peering at the words. Russell had no idea who the Gaels were, but Tiana sounded like she knew what she was talking about it. "My daddy was a…was a Gael," she added. "He talked Gaelic to me and my mommy all the time."

"Can you read what it says?"

"Um…'So…that…we may…al-always find…each…oth-ther.' Huh."

Russell stared at the ring. That sounded romantic. Was it a wedding ring? How had the owl gotten it? It was really pretty. He kind of wanted to give it to his mom instead of the plastic ring full of sand rubies, but then she might ask where he'd gotten it and what could he say? That an owl had dropped it between him and a girl who was probably a faerie? His mom didn't like Aunt Dylan's stories about faeries. He'd probably get in trouble.

"Finders, keepers?" Russell asked, gesturing for Tiana to put the ring on. She nodded with a grin and slipped the ring onto her thumb, but even on the thumb, the ring didn't fit. It was obviously made for a grown-up. Russell reached out, trying to slide it around to see if he could help it fit his new friend's digit better…when something jerked right behind his navel, and he had just enough time to gasp, "Davey!" before he and Tiana both winked out of the human world with twin pops! of displaced air.

Two women, of very different temperaments, screamed in shock. Somewhere in the distance, a hungry wolf howled in rage and disbelief.

.

The sky hung heavy and leaden overhead, ebon-gray with the clinging night even as the sun stretched its first fingers past the horizon. Snow appeared the dull white-gray of old bones in the faint light trying to pierce the clouds and the forest-line. A few torches had been thrust into the ground to light the village square, but their glow was miserly, a rusty color that bathed the surrounding snow in light like old human blood. Besides the faintest breath of winter wind and the crunch of feet, hooves, and claws in the snow, there was no sound in the square as people filled the space.

Nuada knew that in the human world—and in some fae cultures—floggings and executions and other such things were the stuff of entertainment. In Bethmoora, if the one being punished or executed was a heinous criminal of some sort, that too was considered a form of entertainment, although Nuada rarely found any actual entertainment in it. Satisfaction, yes. Enjoyment, no. But this small crowd hadn't come to enjoy bloody fun. They were here to bear witness, once again, to the perfidy of their king.

Balor had made a mistake, Nuada knew. His father didn't see it because his father hadn't been here in the days leading up to this blasted mess.

Tsu's'di was a favorite among the villagers. He'd charmed the sick children with stories, distracted them from their painful wound-tending by allowing them to stroke his soft fur or listen to him chuff like a mortal cougar. He'd saved Amaryllis ingen Gawain, the Acting Steward's daughter, from the human bandits and it was for this that he was being flogged.

Pauline Myers, now Nuada's a vassal, was also a surprising favorite of the village. She'd busied herself tending the sick and wounded, spending far more time than any other attendant in the village. She, too, was a favorite of the village children despite the language barrier between them. She'd helped the old fae of the village, treating them with the respect they were due, aiding them with necessities without embarrassing them or making them feel lesser for needing help. And all in the village had seen the way Pauline had devoted herself to caring for the orphaned bluecap child who'd contracted Cornish croup, nursing her through the worst of the illness that could have killed her if not for Pauline's care.

So the village watched as Pauline was marched out of the tavern between two of the Butcher Guards King Balor had brought with him from Findias, each of them grasping her arms in unnecessarily tight grips as they herded her toward the stocks. She kept her head high, her step steady. Her long braid—nearly to the tops of her thighs—swung like a pendulum behind her. She wore a long, undyed wool dress and sturdy, burgundy leather boots. He knew the dress had been at Balor's insistence, a sign of her disgrace in the eyes of the Crown. The boots, though…those were of leprechaun make. Where had she gotten those? No doubt his father hadn't even noticed them.

Tsu's'di came next. The poor boy looked sick with fear, his fur bristling and his tail a bottle-brush that twitched no matter how hard he tried to keep it still. He wore his own livery that showed him to be in Dylan and Nuada's service. Sáruit ingen Cabhan marched behind him, but Dylan walked next to him. Like her sister, Dylan kept her head up. She did not hold Tsu's'di's hand or link arms with him, but every so often their arms brushed and the youth seemed to take strength from that.

Dylan's family and friends stood with the villagers, Nuada saw. There was Iúile, looking pale and tired, holding her swaddled babe to her heart; Liam stood beside her, looking tense and tired as well. With Francesca and Davio was the dullahan boy, the fallen steward's son, with his toddling, silent sister clinging to his good leg. Uilliam McBás and his three lieutenants stood surrounding the newly married pair, almost like bodyguards. Nuada saw Sorcha shoot King Balor more than one glance that, if looks could have killed, should have struck the old king with a heart attack on the spot. Standing with her arms wrapped tightly around Uilliam was Siobhan, the little bean sídhe child Pauline was protecting now. And arrayed near them…were Dylan's guards, standing at cold attention, their eyes fixed on their charge through the slits of their helmets, never once looking at their king.

Petra Myers, Nuada noted with some surprise, stood at the center of the front line of onlookers. On one side of her stood Mary, clutching Petra's hand. On her other side stood a leprechaun woman with wisping, fire-red curls and her arms crossed over her chest, not bothering to hide her displeasure. Occasionally she leaned over and whispered something to Petra, who offered distracted smiles and nodded. And behind Petra, the most astonishing member of her entourage, stood Dastan, who looked as cold and remote as Nuada had ever seen the smiling prince look. When his friend met the other prince's eyes, Dastan offered an odd sort of smile and a shrug, as if to say, I had no choice, old friend.

Wink and Lorelei, as well as Erik Ashkeson, stood with Dylan's family, as did Dylan's guards, her hounds, and her three monsters. With the monsters, Nuada saw to his horror, stood A'du and 'Sa'ti, with little Amaryllis. The prince's outraged gaze slashed to the king—his father had to be responsible for this despicable thing—Balor raised an eyebrow.

"Let it be known," the king said as people settled into their places, "that all of Broch Toruch and all who claim kinship or friendship with these criminals shall bear witness to their punishment, by order of the Crown."

No. No, this wasn't right. A'du and 'Sa'ti should not have been forced to bear witness to their brother's punishment. This was wrong. Balor had to know that. But when he opened his mouth to say something, Dylan caught his eye and ever so subtly shook her head, looking sick and sorry. He understood what she was saying: they had pushed the king as far as they could. If they were to keep their boy alive, they could push him no further that day. Nuada gave her a curt nod. He did not turn his gaze back to his father.

The prince knew how the punishment would go. First, Pauline would be publicly condemned and shaved. Then she would be forced to watch Tsu's'di's flogging along with the rest of them. Once the lad's punishment was over, she would be locked in the stocks and left there for half a day, to shiver in the winter cold as her muscles and bones stiffened into the painful, bent-over position the wooden device would force her body to take. In most cases where someone was bound or nailed to the pillory or left in the stocks, the townspeople would come and jeer and throw refuse, rotted fruits and vegetables or manure. He'd seen the occasional hurled snowball or ball of ice in winter, or worse—frozen livestock dung. That was part of the punishment of the stocks. But he knew that no one in Lallybroch would throw anything at Pauline today.

Sáruit herself wrenched Tsu's'di away from Dylan. The boy looked back at the mortal woman only once, fear plain on his face. Dylan gazed after him, practically vibrating with the need to tackle the Butcher captain and save the ewah youth, stop this travesty. Instead, she forced herself to be still, and nodded encouragement. She mouthed something; Nuada thought it might have been, I'm right here.

Tsu's'di turned away from her and found Nuada's gaze. The Elven warrior knew his expression could have been carved from winter marble or ice, but he forced softness into his gaze when he met Tsu's'di's eyes. I'm sorry, my lad, he thought as Sáruit shoved Tsu's'di toward the thick, wooden whipping post in the village square. I am so very sorry.

Would the boy ever forgive him?

Sáruit was not gentle when she ripped Tsu's'di's velvet tunic and silk shirt down the back instead of allowing him to remove it. Nuada forcibly swallowed his protests; this was a test, no doubt. A test from King Balor to see if the prince or his lady would try to thwart the king's punishment.

Damn you, Father, Nuada growled silently. The boy had been so proud of his guardsman's uniform, of wearing his liege lady's official colors.

The Butcher captain lashed the youth's hands over his head, forcing his shoulders up high enough that his feline nose pressed against the chilly wood of the whipping post. Though Pauline would see his punishment, he would not see hers, Nuada realized. He wondered if Balor had arranged this on purpose, but decided it didn't matter at the moment.

When Tsu's'di was bound in place, Sáruit turned back to where Pauline stood between the two guards gripping her by the arms. Every move fraught with disgust and hatred, she wrenched her dirk from its sheath.

Pauline, Nuada noted with approval that surprised him, didn't flinch. She leveled her gaze like icy iron at Sáruit and raised an eyebrow as if daring her. There was such cool disdain in the mortal woman's face. As if she didn't care about the stocks, or Sáruit's blade. Perhaps because Pauline was now Nuada's vassal, and knew the prince would not let her come to true, unjustified harm? Or something else?

Sáruit turned her gaze to the king, who sat on a plush armchair his guards had brought out from the tavern. Standing about in the snow was not for the likes of King Balor of the Tuatha de Danaan, Sovereign of Bethmoora, oh, no.

To Nuada's surprise, it was Balor himself who delivered judgment on Pauline.

"People of Broch Toruch, hear Us. This mortal woman, Pauline Myers, kin to Lady Dylan of Central Park, Fionntrá, Éas Ruaíd, Inber Scéne, Macha Chroí, and Luácha Hanráhan, has in her hubris taken it upon herself to thwart the King's Justice."

At his words, the villagers began to whisper amongst themselves. At this point they didn't know why Pauline was out here, only that she was destined for some punishment, but Balor would make it clear, Nuada knew, and dig his own (metaphorical) grave in the process.

"Only last night, the bean sídhe child known as Siobhan ingen Boyne broke the treaty this kingdom has staked its honor upon for two-thousand years. She struck a human, drawing mortal blood, in defiance of the law. His Darkling Grace, Lord Azrharn of Weir," Nuada shivered at the name, wondering how his father could speak it without so much as a hitch, "demanded a suspension of due justice, claiming the laws and treaties between our kingdoms demanded We spare the criminal's life."

Nuada's fingers curled into fists at his sides. Criminal? Criminal? She was a child, stars curse it. Barely old enough to go berry picking by herself. Younger than he and Nuala had been when their mother was murdered. Criminal?

"Selfish, faithless, and unsatisfied with their king's mercy, Crown Prince Nuada, Lady Dylan, and her sister sought to entrap Us by twisting the laws to their dishonorable purpose."

More whispering now. In the crowd, Petra looked icy and remote. Mary looked terrified. Victoria, Francesca, and John looked furious. Near them, Siobhan had her face buried in Uilliam's chest and her thin, bandaged shoulders shook. Like Petra, Uilliam and two of his lieutenants looked blank, uncaring. Sorcha looked murderous.

"Mistress Pauline sought to thwart true justice by taking the criminal's punishment on herself, thinking Us too cowardly to see it through because of her mortal blood. But the Crown is not cowardly. It will not be thwarted by schemes. And so, this common-born human woman sought to pit herself against the Golden Throne and escape unscathed, but she will not. This day, We will see her fully shaved and thrown in the stocks until the sun is at its peak. Let it commence."

The whispers had turned to a roar now as Sáruit approached Pauline and took a rough fistful of her braid. She muttered something in the Butcher tongue to the woman. Nuada didn't hear what it was. Then Sáruit jerked Pauline's head back and slowly sawed her dirk through the thick braid of nearly black hair.

Pauline closed her eyes. She didn't react in any other way to the hissing of the two Butchers holding her, or to Sáruit's yanking. When the braid had been cut through, Sáruit threw it to the snow. It landed in a midnight coil against the ivory drifts. Then the Butcher captain grabbed fistfuls of the now very short, dark hair and began hacking it close to Pauline's scalp. She was by no means gentle as the strands of hair fell in wisps of ebony, midnight brown, and charcoal to the snow or clung in tufts to the undyed wool dress. When the hair was too short to be cut with the dirk, Sáruit sheathed the blade and held out her hand. A tavern worker slowly approached and held out a pair of silver sewing scissors. Sáruit quickly cut what was left of Pauline's hair until it stuck up in wild ragamuffin tufts like some unkempt urchin boy that had been sheared to treat lice.

Nuada scanned the crowd. Many of the fae looked appalled. Some of the older maidens clutched their own tresses, as if trying to shield them from the horror and dishonor of having them cut. Fae warriors, like Liam Ui Niall, ran their hands through their long hair, a mark of their warrior status, and winced in sympathy. Nuada saw that while Petra allowed Mary to clutch one of her hands, the leprechaun woman on her other side gripped Petra's other hand tightly in both of hers, as if offering an anchor.

When the captain was done, Pauline looked much thinner and paler. Her head looked strangely vulnerable with only the short, messy cap of dark hair. Villagers in the crowd, men and women and those who were both or neither, hissed and whispered sympathetically as Sáruit grabbed Pauline's chin and jerked her head up. The villagers shot hot glares at Sáruit, who ignored them in favor of staring directly in Pauline's iron-gray eyes and snarling something. This time, it was in English, and Nuada heard it.

"Know your place, peasant."

Pauline lifted her chin from the other woman's grasp. Baring her teeth, she hissed, "You should figure yours out pretty quick, you cement-gray bitch. It's under my baby sister's foot. Hair grows back. So screw you."

Before Nuada could say or do anything, Sáruit shrieked in outrage and grabbed the front of Pauline's dress, dragging her from the other guards' grasp and hauling her up until her toes barely scraped the snow. Nearly every fae in the crowd gasped. Mary cried out her sister's name. Petra's cheeks drained of color and her eyes glittered with rage. Behind them, Nuada saw young Mistress Sorcha grab one of Uilliam's other lieutenants, the stripe-skinned boy with the sick, golden eyes of a goat and the claws of a tiger, holding him back as he bared his fangs in a silent snarl.

Pauline merely grinned at the Butcher Captain.

"Oh. Don't. Mercy."

"You—" The Butcher captain drew her fist back, ready to smash the human woman's face with her gauntlet-covered fist.

"Sáruit!" Balor snapped. The Butcher Guard hesitated, flicked her gaze to her king. Pauline grinned.

"Looks like Daddy's putting you in timeout."

Sáruit snarled. "You upstart little—"

"Sáruit!" Balor's voice held an edge of eons and thunder. The Butcher captain jerked to attention, dropping Pauline to the snow, and bowed to her king. "Return to Our side immediately. Mistress Pauline, your punishment is not over, but We have other punishments to attend to now. You will sit there and be silent until this sentencing is over."

To Nuada's absolute shock, Pauline offered a sardonic curtsy to Balor, never lowering her eyes from his weathered face. A vein throbbed in the king's temple but he said nothing else as Pauline turned to wink at Dylan, who looked…Nuada couldn't read her expression. Pleased? Impressed? Frightened? Exasperated? Some combination of the four, mixed with love and a look of pleading. The older mortal canted her head and focused on Tsu's'di.

Nuada stole a glance at Petra and Mary. Petra had the same look on her face, for just a moment, that Dylan did. Mary simply looked panic-stricken, as if she expected the king to order her sister's head lopped off at any moment.

"Tsu's'di Ka'ta, of the Children of the Cougar," King Balor said when he'd regained control of his temper. Any emotion other than rage and grief drained from Nuada's body as the youth tensed. Craning his neck, the ewah boy tried to look at the king over his shoulder. It was obvious that he tried to keep his expression neutral; even more obvious, from the bristling fur and twitching tail and quivering whiskers, that he was as far from neutral as one could possibly get."You have been found guilty by the Crown of the double-murder of humans, protected by the laws of Bethmoora. Though you hail from Elphame, you are in service to His Highness Prince Nuada's betrothed, Lady Dylan of Central Park, Fionntrá, Éas Ruaíd, Inber Scéne, Macha Chroí, and Luácha Hanráhan, who is a citizen of Bethmoora. Thus you are bound by Bethmooran law. The rightful punishment for your crimes," and here, Balor fixed his gaze on Nuada's, and the king and the prince stared hard at each other as if no other existed in the world, even as Balor continued, "is execution by beheading."

When Balor didn't continue, the murmurs from the crowd picked up in earnest. A'du and 'Sa'ti gasped in unison, then started to cry. An icy bead of sweat rolled down Nuada's spine as his mind began to process the world around in him in sharp, hot fragments. The Butchers were between him and Balor. The villagers would attack on his order. How many would die to buy him time? Sorcha could speak to the trees; would they help? Would Uilliam command his army of children to fight? By the fates, not that. It would be a massacre. Could Dylan free Tsu's'di before Sáruit came to kill him? Zhenjin. Where was Zhenjin? He was supposed to come forward, protect Tsu's'di. Take him into Dilong service to prevent his murder. Where was—

Zhenjin stepped out of the crowd. Behind him came Gaozu and Hou Junji, looking for all the world as if this were some lark in the woods instead of a potential international incident. Then, Kamaria stepped forward out of the crowd. She moved to stand beside 'Sa'ti and A'du, laying one hand on 'Sa'ti's trembling shoulder. Prince Günther Wolfjarl of Álfheim came with her, dropping one large hand on 'Sa'ti's head in a gesture both affectionate and protective. Taran emerged from the crowd, the crown prince of Annwn taking up a position beside Dastan, Petra, and Mary.

Balor, king of Bethmoora, scanned the royals that had made their presence known, then turned his gaze back to his own son. Nuada bore no sword, no spear. He didn't need one, he realized. Not if he had to kill the king. He could easily disarm a Butcher Guard. He wondered if his father understood just how easy it would be.

"The rightful punishment," Balor said again, "as ordained by the law of Tuatha de Danaan is death by beheading. However, you are young, stupid, led astray by those who should have taught you better. And are We not merciful?"

'Sa'ti picked her head up long enough to hiss, but Francesca shushed her immediately and the cougar cub buried her tear-streaked face in the mortal's side once more. The crowd looked mutinous. But before anyone else could say anything, Tsu's'di cleared his throat.

"Y-yes, Your Majesty. You are."

Bastard, Nuada snarled silently. Bastard. How can you do this, Father?

Balor seemed pleased by the boy's reply. "So, though death is just, We will offer clemency. Instead of beheading, We sentence you to one-hundred lashes with an iron-tipped whip." Nuada flinched at the words, he couldn't help it. He flinched again when the king said, "And they will be administered by Our War Chieftain, Our right hand of justice, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance. Lady Dylan will keep count."

The crowd went dead silent.

Nuada sought Dylan's gaze. He hadn't known, hadn't thought. How could his father make her do it?

The wealth of love and sorrow and sympathy and helpless anger in her rainswept blue eyes was the only thing that allowed him to accept the putrid weapon of torture from one of the Butchers without hesitation, without any telltale tremor in his hand as he curled his fingers around the rawhide haft of the thing. Nuada went to Tsu's'di. Reaching into the pocket of his trews, he withdrew a thick leather bit.

"Bite down on this, my lad," Nuada whispered. Tsu's'di opened his mouth and let the prince slide the thick piece of leather between his teeth. When the lash came down, it would prevent the boy from biting through his lip or his own tongue.

Nuada swallowed hard. Self-loathing churned in his belly like hot acid. He stared into those terrified, smoke-gray eyes and knew in that moment if he'd held a sword, if Balor had made the mistake of drawing near, the Silverlance could have driven it through his father's heart without a qualm.

But he held no sword, no spear. He held only the vile whip hungry for an innocent boy's blood.

I am sorry. Nuada mouthed the words. The lad nodded to him and dropped his forehead against the whipping post. A shaky sigh escaped him.

"Dylan and I," Nuada whispered, "are here with you. It will be over soon."

Tsu's'di nodded and squeezed his eyes shut.

Nuada took up his position behind the boy. He glanced once at the king, who watched with insulting blankness. He looked to where A'du and 'Sa'ti clung to Francesca, who looked so pale her freckles stood out like dun-gray ghosts against her cheeks. Would they ever recover from this? Would they forgive him?

The crown prince of Bethmoora raised his arm.

.

Tsu's'di sank his fangs deep into the leather and squeezed his eyes shut and his hands into fists, wondering when the whip would strike. He'd never been whipped before. A'ge'lv Dylan had said it would hurt, that he would cry, that that was okay. The prince had said he and the a'ge'lv were there with him. He could do this. He could handle this.

He curved his tail down and around his left leg to keep it safe from the lash. He'd broken one of the delicate bones once before, when he'd been attacked by dullahan in the mortal world. Didn't ever want to deal with that kind of pain again.

Had to think about something else. Had to think about anything other than the lash about to come down. Couldn't think about A'du and 'Sa'ti, couldn't think about how the king had forced them to come out and watch this. Something else.

Isabel.

The upper-kitchen maid he'd gotten permission to court had no connection to this nightmare. Tsu's'di thought about her, picturing her face in his mind. The thick, golden hair like deer hide; the silver-edged gold eyes that shone with eyebright when light struck them the right way; her laugh, and how it lit up the-

Crack!

Fire exploded in a vicious, white-hot stripe across his back. His teeth snapped down hard on the leather bit. It didn't stop the scream that boiled up in his throat. He tried to suck in a breath, tried to force his lungs to expand. The fire, the pain, what was-

Crack!

He screamed again. His entire body jerked, spasming as agony scored across his spine. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. Tears rolled down his cheeks and distantly he heard 'Sa'ti and A'du yowling and crying his name. He tried to gulp air around the bit. Couldn't quite get enough air. Couldn't…

Crack!

His knees buckled and he sagged against the whipping post. One-hundred. One-hundred? How? How?

Crack!

.

"Count, Lady Dylan," Balor commanded from behind her. Dylan's gorge rose. "Count, and if you miss a stroke, we will begin again."

She couldn't, she couldn't. Tsu's'di's terrified, agonized screams echoed in her head. What number were they one? What number? She'd already lost count, no, no-

My moonlight, a soft, gentle voice full of love.

Zhenjin?

It has been four strokes, my beloved, Zhenjin whispered into her mind. You must be brave. You must be strong. It has been four strokes. Keep the count.

Somehow she managed to croak, "Four!"

Nuada's arm came down. The whip cracked. Tsu's'di, her friend, her charge, the boy who called her "milady mother," screamed and sobbed, his words slurred by pain and the bit.

Heavenly Father, Dylan gasped silently. Do something. Help him. Stop this, I can't-

Dylan, Zhenjin in her head again. You must keep the count. You can do this. You are strong, my lady. Five.

"F-five," Dylan gasped. Another snap of the whip. "Six!" Tears dripped over her cheeks, freezing to her skin. "Seven…eight…" There were tears on Nuada's cheeks, too, she saw. And on A'du and 'Sa'ti's poor, traumatized faces. On Pauline's face, on Petra's, on Mary's. On Francesca and Victoria's faces. John wept openly, one hand over his mouth. Kamaria and Gunther wept, the slow and silent weeping she'd seen soldiers do at funerals or when witnessing or recounting tragedies. So did Lorelei; the rhinemaiden's tears glittered like tiny gold coins when they caught the light. Beside her, Wink's long black spines drooped. The tiger-striped boy who'd been so ready to defend Pauline now had his face buried in young Sorcha's hair.

Tsu's'di's back was a sheet of amber gore and blood-spiked fur by the time they made it to twenty-five. He leaned heavily against the whipping post, young legs shaking. Somehow Dylan managed to keep the count as they made it to thirty, then forty, then forty-five. When Tsu's'di suddenly collapsed at forty-nine, his feet sliding out from under him, the ropes jerking his arms up high over his head, Dylan couldn't take it anymore.

"Stop!" The word tore from her throat. She whirled to Balor. "Please! He's fainted, just stop for a minute. Wait!"

"We have decreed the punishment is one-hundred—"

"Okay!" Dylan screamed, rage and fear twisting together until she didn't care what she sounded like, looked like. Did she sound enraged? Desperate? Terrified? Ready to rip out Balor's throat? She was all of those things. "Okay, fine! But just give him a minute! Just give us a minute, please!"

Balor cut his gaze to the royals, to the crowd of villagers, to Dylan's family. To 'Sa'ti and A'du screaming, "Don't kill Tsu's'di! Please!" and sobbing, held back by Francesca and Davio so they didn't run toward their brother. He looked to Nuada, and something crept into his tired amber gaze. Dylan couldn't name it. She'd only seen it in him a few times before, always when talking about Nuada. Cold dread curled its fingers around her heart.

But then Nuada's father nodded to her. "Five minutes."

Oh, my goodness, she thought, and ran to the cougar youth, cradling his face in her shaking hands.

"Tsu's'di? Tsu's'di!" She pulled the bit from his mouth. It bore the indentation of an impressive set of incisors and was slick with spittle and a little golden blood where Tsu's'di had pinched his lower lip until it bled from the tension in his jaw.

The ewah's dark lashes fluttered upward and his eyes, bleary and unfocused, drifted in the vicinity of her face. He groaned softly. Dylan stroked the long tufts of fur back from his sweat-damp forehead, murmuring his name, whispering soothing nonsense as he slowly came back to consciousness.

"Tsu's'di?"

He gasped once, a huge rasping breath like someone who'd been trapped underwater without air. Dylan realized he hadn't been able to regulate his breathing because of the pain of the lash. She remembered, distantly, the struggle to breathe through the pain when Sréng had been torturing her.

The teenager's vision cleared and he focused on her face.

"M-Mom?"

She nodded, crying hard now. He was confused, the pain fuzzing his mind, but it didn't matter. He was awake. So she just whispered, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm here. I'm here. I'm here, baby."

"Is…is it…over?" He wheezed. Hating Balor, hating herself, hating all of this, she shook her head.

Two minutes remaining, Dylan, Zhenjin said apologetically. She shot him a quick glance and saw that he had his eye on the rising sun. Dylan turned back to her boy.

Tsu's'di blinked hard. Got his feet steady beneath him. Then he said, "Okay. I'm…I'm okay." Even as he said this, fresh tears of pain wet the fur on his cheeks. He let his head loll for a moment in the direction of his panic-stricken siblings. They still threw themselves against Francesca and Davio's grips. If they'd been any bigger, the mortal and her boyfriend might've been in some trouble.

"Hey!" Tsu's'di croaked. Cleared his throat. "Hey! Stop it! I'm not…m'not dead!"

A'du and 'Sa'ti stopped screaming; they didn't stop crying, but they sagged in Francesca and Davio's arms, reaching for their brother without the frantic violence from before.

"Guys," he croaked, somehow forcing a smile to his lips. A'du covered his face with his hands and 'Sa'ti scrubbed at her spiky-furred cheeks. "M'not dead. 'Kay? Just got a little sleepy, that's all. It's okay." He managed to fix his pain-filled gaze on Dylan once more. "D-don't cry…M-Mom."

Dylan's heart knifed sideways in her chest. Maybe…maybe he wasn't confused. Maybe…

A memory flashed in her mind: kissing a sleeping A'du and 'Sa'ti on the foreheads after storytime was over, and hearing those sleep-muffled voices whisper, Mama.

"Tsu's'di…"

Forty seconds, beloved. I am sorry.

"M'okay," Tsu's'di whispered. "M'okay." Using the ropes, he hauled himself upright, groaning against the pain. "M'okay," he mumbled. "M'not dead. M'okay. Okay." Jutting out his chin, he opened his mouth for the leather bit again. With shaking hands, Dylan slid it between his teeth. She swallowed a sob. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to Tsu's'di's forehead.

"You," she whispered, "are very brave, Tsu's'di Ka'ta."

Somehow, he managed to give her a smirk, as if to say, Yeah, I know.

When she'd taken up her position again, Dylan looked to Nuada. Anyone might have thought he didn't care a whit about what had just happened, but Dylan saw the anguish in his xanthous gray gaze. She nodded to him. He closed his eyes and let out a breath.

The flogging continued.

.

Russell and Tiana surged to their feet, staring around them. They were…in a room. The playground had disappeared, and they'd somehow popped up in a cozy, stone room. There were two doors on either side of the fireplace and there was a tiny well in a corner. There was a stone fireplace, above which hung a small painting of a very white blond lady in a blue dress, with pointed ears and a fancy, curling scar across her nose and cheeks and orange smears around her eyes.

Both children took in the table with two chairs, and several cabinets and trunks stuck against the walls. The bed, with a thin mattress and one pillow, stood near one of those trunks. An old, golden quilt and a newer, blue and gold quilt covered the bed. A small, carved wooden box sat on the table.

"Where…are we?" Russell wondered.

Tiana didn't answer, she just moved to the box on the table. It wasn't even locked. She flipped open the lid and gasped. Russell hurried over to see what she was looking at.

A pink flower with hundreds of small petals sat on a scarlet silk cushion. The air around the flower shimmered a little, like the air over the street in the middle of a hot summer. When Russell lightly touched the flower, it didn't feel like a flower. It felt like something made of lukewarm Jello that wouldn't fall apart.

"It's magic," Tiana said.

"Magic?"

She nodded. Glanced shyly at Russell. "My daddy used to…p-perserve things with magic. That's what this is."

"So…is this a magic place?"

"I think so," Tiana said. "Do you think anybody's here?"

There wasn't, which filled them both with relief. Russell decided this was like in the storybooks, like in Beauty and the Beast—not the Disney movie, but the story Aunt Dylan told him. This was like…a magic hotel. So they ate some of the yellow apples in one of the trunks against the wall and drank some of the sweet well water, and jumped on the bed—after taking off their shoes and moving the quilts so they didn't mess them up. They didn't just make a mess, though. They also retrieved some of the wood to stack by the fireplace, refolded the quilts and made the bed when they were done jumping, and wrote a thank-you note on a piece of paper from Russell's Kevin backpack, which had traveled with them. Russell also left behind some of his sand rubies, and Tiana left a snip of her golden hair, as payment for the apples.

"So…should we go somewhere else?" Russell asked when they were finished. He really didn't want to go back to Aunt Simone, who'd probably yell at him, maybe even spank him. He was six, how was he supposed to know touching the ring would make them travel magically? But she'd yell and she'd almost definitely "tan his hide," something his dad threatened a lot. Going somewhere else sounded way better. This had turned out okay, after all. And he hadn't had a chance to jump on a bed in a while.

Tiana nodded, grinning. "Sure. Grab onto me, okay?" Russell grabbed her and held on tightly as she repeated the words she'd read off the ring before back at the playground and turned the ring around on her thumb.

The two children vanished.

At that point, the fae servants in Prince Nuada's underground healing sanctuary crept out of hiding and began fretting to each other just what they were supposed to tell their prince.

.

Tsu's'di fainted again, near the end, and King Balor allowed Dylan to soothe him, help him back to his feet, and even give him a little water. Zhenjin helped the mortal woman to keep the last count. Nuada took care to do as little damage as possible…but it was still enough. When it was finally over, Zhenjin and Dylan together helped cut Tsu's'di down. He collapsed into Zhenjin's arms, barely conscious.

"You are a true warrior, Tsu's'di Ka'ta," the dragon prince whispered as he slid his shoulder under the boy's torso and heaved him face-down onto the broad, silk-clad shoulder. The Dilong Elf didn't even seem to notice the blood rolling over the youth's ribs to stain the dark green silk coat he wore.

Silently, Zhenjin said, I will see him settled, my moonlight. You wish to stay with your sister and the little cubs?

For a few minutes, Dylan replied, never taking her gaze from the woozy, half-dead cougar boy. I'll be along to tend his wounds soon. Thank you, Zhen.

It is always my pleasure to help you.

The people of Lallybroch watched the crown prince of Dilong carefully carry the young man into the tavern. Watched as Crown Prince Nuada stared down at the blood-stained whip, its iron tip dripping gore, before hurling it viciously at the king's feet. The people saw the condemnation, the rage on the prince's face when he met his father's eyes. The Butcher Guards standing near the king tensed. The villagers saw them reach for their blades. Saw the way Lady Dylan came to stand beside the prince, never once taking her glacial sapphire gaze from King Balor's face.

The villagers saw a great deal in those moments where no one spoke, where no one dared to even breathe loudly. How Mistress Stooree, headwoman of the Wisdom Circle of the village, slid her arms about Lady Dylan's sister, Petra. How her other sister, the wild one with the waterfall of midnight curls, shielded the two cat-children and the last three children of the late steward with her own body from the king's eye. How the mortal lady's brother came to stand with Prince Nuada and Dylan, a few paces behind but still a very clear declaration.

Finally, Balor dropped his gaze from the prince's face and focused on Pauline.

"And now, the stocks for you, mortal woman. Let it be a lesson unto you, never again to challenge Us."

Pauline offered another of those curtsies dripping with sarcasm and allowed the Butcher Guards to drag her to the stocks. They shoved her into a bent-over position, slamming her wrists into the appropriate depressions, fitting her neck into the center. The top came down with a heavy thonk of winter-hardened wood. Pauline barely batted an eyelash.

"People of Broch Toruch," King Balor said, "We give this criminal to you. Break not the laws of this kingdom, but otherwise, she is yours."

No one moved. Nuada knew the king hadn't expected silence and stillness. When some cast judgment, placing someone in the stocks, and then said they gave the criminal to the crowd, usually that was when people started throwing rotten cabbages and tomatoes. Likely, Balor had expected something similar. So long as Pauline came to no real harm—no scratches or abrasions, no blood spilled, that sort of thing—he would've let the villagers do as they wished. Likely, he'd expected them to try to push beyond what he would allow. After all, Pauline was a human, and humans were the enemy according to Prince Nuada and the people who called him lord.

But nobody moved. Balor frowned. Opened his mouth. Snapped it shut with an audible click of teeth when a strange humming drifted up to his ears.

"Hmmm, hmmm, hm-hm-hm-hmmm. Hmmm, hmmm, hm-hm-hm-hmmm! Hm-hm-hm-hm-hmmm-hm-hmmm, hm-hm-hm-hm-hmmm-hm-hmmm."

Nuada frowned and slowly turned away from Balor and the village crowd to the stocks. He blinked, positive he was seeing things. But no, he wasn't. Pauline ticked her index fingers back and forth as if conducting a symphony, humming a jaunty but strangely eerie tune.

And then Mary joined in.

"Hmmm-hm-hmmm-hm, hmmm-hm-hmmm-hm, hmmm-hm-hm-hm-hmmm!"

Movement dragged Nuada's attention back to the king as Balor straightened in his seat, scowling at Pauline, but the Petra began to hum as well, and then Francesca and Victoria. John actually began to whistle.

Beside him, Dylan laughed ever so softly. Nuada took her hand.

Dylan? What is this?

Essentially? A mortal-style, Myers-family "screw off" to your dad. This is called "The Whistle Song." It's from a movie called Kill Bill. About a woman who's betrayed by someone she loves, and after biding her time, she tracks down and kills almost everyone who had anything to do with the moment he betrayed and tried to kill her.

Interesting. My father won't understand the reference, though.

She offered a mental shrug; she didn't want to give away that they were talking while people were watching and Balor looked so unsettled and angry. He doesn't need to. He just knows this is some weird human thing done in defiance of him, even though it breaks no rules. He doesn't like it, but there's nothing he can do about it. What can he do? Cut out Pauline's tongue? She's human. He wouldn't dare. The villagers would mob him in an instant.

True enough, Nuada said with grim satisfaction. Go to your sister, and the children, and I will go to Tsu's'di. Will you be the one tending him?

It's illegal for him to have magical healing, since this was a legal punishment, so yes. I'll be there in a few minutes. She squeezed his hand. I love you.

I love you, mo duinne, mo crídh. You have made me proud this dawn.

Nuada left to follow in Zhenjin's footsteps and Dylan went to comfort A'du and 'Sa'ti.

.

Petra let out a shuddering breath and bent to examine her twin sister's bruised face. They didn't need words to communicate; not because they had the level of telepathic connection John and Dylan did, or that Simone and Gardenia did, but just that they'd been around, on Earth and around each other, long enough to read each other's silences. So Pauline knew Petra was ready to scream, cry, stab someone, or get very drunk, and Petra knew Pauline's scalp hurt like blue fire from the hair-pulling and her back was starting to ache and she would've rather died than show either fact to anyone.

"Go inside, Pet," Pauline muttered. "Pretty sure nobody out here's going to hurt me or they would have by now. I'll be fine."

"You're going to give me gray hair," Petra replied, and pressed a kiss to her twin's fuzzy head.

Pauline snickered. "I think I see one right there."

She growled back against the dark fuzz, "I will end you and make it look like a bloody accident, you absolute dipstick."

"Doorknob," Pauline sighed.

"Trainwreck."

"Math tutor," with a catch in Pauline's voice.

Petra swallowed, ignoring the sting of tears in her eyes, and grumbled shakily, "Near-sighted gynecologist."

"Get out of here, Pet. If you cry, I'm going to cry. I'm fine, really. It's all fine. Go get drunk or something."

She wasn't going to get drunk, Petra decided as she made her way back into the tavern and up the stairs toward her room. Maybe she would sleep. Maybe she would pace like Lady Macbeth and try not to stress out anymore. Maybe she'd curl up under the blankets and try to shake off the chill that had taken up residence in her bones ever since last night, when the screaming had begun and she'd seen that hideous inferno raging in the—

"Petra?"

Dastan, she thought wearily. He'd been behind her and she'd forgotten and she'd offered to buy him a drink but now she just did not have the energy for that. She turned to him, ready to give her excuses, ready to beg off, take a rain check…but she saw in his eyes that he understood how exhausted she was mentally and emotionally. How little energy she had for social niceties.

With a shaking hand, she pushed at her hair where it flopped into her face. Sighed. "I…yeah? What?" Ooh, that had sounded better in her head. Out loud it just sounded rude. Ugh.

He hefted a bottle of something that kind of looked like green champagne but with a lot less bubbles. "I took the liberty of procuring this for you. It's pear cider; virgin pear cider, although I can enchant it so it actually contains alcohol if that's what you prefer. I remembered you had a fondness for it and thought it might…ease some of your sorrow."

She sighed again. "I don't even know why I'm so upset, you know? It's a freaking haircut. Who cares?"

"She is your sister," Dastan murmured. "Your twin. I have a twin, too, you know. Yes," he said at her surprised look. "Dinarzadi. Quite the pest but…she is my heart. If I had to see her treated as your sister was treated, with such disrespect, such cruelty, I would feel as you do, I imagine. Shall we drink and talk? Or simply drink? Or would you prefer that I leave you to your own company? I shall not be offended if you wish to be alone, my lady."

She had no idea what made her do it. No idea whether it was a good idea, or socially acceptable, or anything. But she closed the few feet between herself and Dastan and threw her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest.

Petra hadn't hugged someone like this since her daughter had been murdered. It was the last time Warren had embraced her without the encounter turning rough, greedy, demanding. Dastan was not rough or greedy or demanding. He paused for a moment, probably surprised, then set the bottle of pear cider on one of the wall alcoves usually reserved for lit candles and enfolded her in his arms.

She didn't cry. She just pressed her forehead into the notch of his sternum, closed her eyes, and breathed. His hands were warm against her back. After a long moment, he laid his cheek against her hair. The rough stubble along his jaw caught at the strands, a light tug that didn't bother her at all.

"Thank you for being so kind to me," she whispered in Farsi.

"It was my honor."

He smelled…very nice, she thought. Sandalwood, patchouli, and cedar, and somehow the fragrance of sun-baked stone. His shirt was impossibly soft under her forehead. She could feel the thud of his heart against her brow.

Oh…screw it. He was hot, she was a mess, he was nice, and she was a grown woman. A bit of a fling never hurt anybody, right? It wasn't like she was going to sleep with the guy; he was a prince and she wasn't an idiot. But to just enjoy his charm and his kindness and his smile and possibly some kissing? Why not? Why the heck not?

"Hey, uh, Dastan?" Petra ventured.

"Hmmm?"

She wasn't sure how to explain herself, so she just plowed forward. "Look, um…you're really nice. And you're very handsome. And I…I kind of really like you. So I was thinking maybe we could—"

He drew back from her, and panic coiled in her gut. Never mind. Why had she said anything? He wasn't into her just because he was nice. Guys weren't into her; if they were, her marriage wouldn't have imploded so spectacularly and she wouldn't have had someone like Warren—a man who'd been a good father, a good husband—end up warped into some rotten monster just by virtue of marrying her, right?

Dastan set one finger very lightly under her chin, tilting up her head so she was forced to look into those impossibly warm, obsidian eyes.

"You are giving me permission to…court you?"

Was that what she'd said? "Uh, yeah. Sure." Maybe. What did courting mean around here exactly? Ugh, she should've talked this over with Dylan first. Crap.

A warm smile spread across Dastan's face. He looked…genuinely pleased. Like Christmas had come early or something.

"My lady…you honor me."

"Oh." She did? "Um…I'm glad. I…" She hadn't expected him to be this happy about it, to be honest. Like, down for it, yeah. But he seemed…more than that. If she'd offered to sleep with him, then maybe, although she'd seen some of the sex workers living in the village and they were way prettier than she was, in her opinion.

Did he…like her? He'd said they were friends, but this was very different from Dylan's story of how she and Prince Nuada had ended up together. The other prince had been so cold and aloof toward Dylan but Dastan was the total opposite.

"You must have seen how high my regard is for you," Dastan added softly. Moving slowly, giving her time to protest, he cupped her cheek. His hand was warm, rough with calluses, but gentle. He was, she realized, a gentle man at heart. "It has not been very long that we've known each other, and I do not claim to love you as Silverlance loves your sister, but—"

"But you most ardently admire and like me?" She ventured, paraphrasing one of her favorite movies with a wry smile. Her smile widened when Dastan canted his head.

"I would like to court you," he added. His thumb smoothed over her cheek and she couldn't help but melt a little. "Court you in earnest. Would you allow it?"

Somehow she managed to mumbled, "Okay."

His dark gaze slid from her eyes to her half-parted lips and something flared to life there in those obsidian eyes. Petra swallowed. She hadn't kissed anyone—a man or a woman or any adult of any kind—in more than three years. Did she still remember how? She forgot to keep worrying about it as Dastan framed her face between his hands. He was going to kiss her; awesome. She deserved something nice out of today.

"May I?" The prince of Shahbaz whispered, pulling her just a little closer, settling one hand against her lower back.

She knew what he was asking. "Yeah," she mumbled, letting her lashes drift down. His breath was warm against her lips as he bent his head to her. She slid her hands up over his shoulders before tunneling her fingers into his thick, dark hair.

This, Petra thought, was going to be awesome.

It was not awesome. Mostly because it didn't happen. Just as Dastan's lips drew so close she could almost taste them, a horrifyingly familiar, adolescent voice shattered the moment.

"Mom?!"

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Author's Note: so, what do you guys think? I'd love some reviews, reviews are great. Like I said, I'm going to try to get the next chapter up in the next 30 days. Hope you guys are having a great September so far and that things are going well for you. Hugs and well wishes for everybody!

References Made in This Chapter:

- "We Will Not Bow" is a line from a song by Breaking Benjamin

- Russell's backpack is modeled after the character Kevin from Disney Pixar's UP

- The labyrinth-owl is modeled after Jareth's animal form in the film The Labyrinth

- Geri and Anya are both the creations (used with permission) of OceanFire9

- The Whistle Song is whistled by Darryl Hannah in the film Kill Bill

- Some of the insults Petra and Pauline exchange are from the banquet scene in the film Hook, spoken by Peter Pan and Rufio

- I can't think of anymore right now but if I do, I'll come back and list it