The next night, Jude waited until all the household was asleep. Then she snuck out of her room, climbing down a handy vine and jumping the last few feet to the ground.
She hit hard, and took a moment to catch her breath. Her head was spinning, her stomach roiling. It had been such a long day. She'd spent most of it socializing with Taryn and Vivienne, while Oak and Philomel chased each other around the house, shrieking. There were no classes at the palace school in these last few days before the abdication, but Madoc was still setting her exercises in strategy and battle tactics, so she'd had to work on those. Add that to another round of ingesting poisons—and worrying about Cardan—and Jude was utterly exhausted.
But she had a duty, one she would fulfill.
Jude set out into the night, setting a steady pace. This was something the Court of Shadows had taught her: she couldn't slip noiselessly through the shadows like a faerie, but she could camouflage herself by seeming unremarkable. Just a mortal, heading someplace on some faerie's orders. Not worth thinking about.
The Roach was waiting for her in the wood, leaning against a tree whittling a piece of wood in his hands, his ugly form lit by a hovering glow-light. He straightened when he spotted her. "Jude."
"Roach." She approached, wincing inwardly at how loud and clumsy her footfalls were in the nighttime woods. If only she could float soundless, like a faerie…
"You infiltrated Hollow Hall successfully." It was not a question. "Did you find anything?"
Wordlessly, Jude handed him the paper on which she'd copied the odd letter about blusher mushroom. The Roach read it, grunted, and tucked it away. "Anything else?"
"Nothing." Jude didn't think the Roach would be interested in Cardan's copy of Alice in Wonderland, or the paper tucked inside it. No, that was entirely Jude's problem.
Though there was one thing…Jude remembered going through Balekin's desk. The odd little silver box she'd found in one of the drawers. And inside it, a rattle. A little silver rattle shaped like a horse, with a long handle made of amber. Amber set with the marks of tiny teeth.
A teething rattle. A baby's teething rattle, hidden away in Balekin's desk. And, engraved on the inside of the box's lid, a single name: Rhion.
For a moment, Jude teetered on the verge of telling the Roach about it. But then she shut her mouth. She'd been sent to find something treasonous among Balekin's possessions, and she couldn't fathom that a child's teething rattle might be treasonous or incriminating, even at the High Court.
And besides, she was not feeling entirely in charity with the Roach at the moment. He knew what Dain had done to her, how she'd come by the cut in her hand, and he'd said nothing. He hadn't even acknowledged it. If a baby's rattle was so damn important, let the Roach find it for himself.
The Roach sighed. "No, I suppose there wouldn't be," he said. "Balekin is a careful man. I thought Dain was being overly optimistic when he sent you to find incriminating papers." The goblin paused. "Balekin has been spending much time in the mortal realm of late," he murmured thoughtfully, more to himself than to Jude. "But then, he always has."
Jude said nothing to this. She knew Prince Balekin often walked the human realm. It was how he'd discovered her parents, and reported Eva's continued existence to Madoc—and her infidelity.
The Roach's eyes snapped back onto Jude. "I hear your sisters are back at Court for the abdication," he said. "Are you all prepared for the ceremony?"
"Yes," said Jude, surprised at his interest. "The dressmaker's supposed to come tomorrow with our outfits." Oriana had taken Brambleweft to the Ironside weeks ago to get Taryn and Vivienne's measurements, and even Lysander's. Philomel, of course, was too young to attend the ceremony, but Oriana was still making a little dress for her. "I don't think I'll be able to sneak away again, though."
"It's only two more days," the Roach shrugged. "Two more days, and our futures are assured." His grin, spiky with crooked teeth, flashed in the dark. "Go home and get some rest, Jude. You've done well."
This praise didn't bring quite the glow of joy it might have done only a few days ago. Jude merely nodded and turned to head back.
Halfway back to the house, she had to pause, heart pounding. She braced her hands on her knees, breathing hard. Maybe it's time to cut back on the poisons. After all, she was no use to anyone if she was ill.
She pushed the thought away. The only way out is through. Ingesting all those faerie poisons would make her immune to them. Make her stronger. The thought brought a surge of hope and determination. Strong. How she longed to be strong. To be powerful. It's worth it.
She started again for the house. Her mind drifted, going back to the teething rattle she'd found in Balekin's desk. What a strange thing to find in the prince's desk. Why would Balekin keep a child's rattle, of all things, in his private office? And who was Rhion?
Jude pulled up short, her thoughts interrupted. A figure had just stepped out of the woods, a tall, green-haired, familiar figure.
Lysander peered at her through the starlight. "Jude?"
There was no use pretending. "Good evening, Lysander."
"What are you doing out here, Jude?" Lysander came closer, flitting in the soundless way of faeries. The flowers and stalks of grass he passed seemed to reach after him, their stems and leaves and petals stretched yearningly, but he paid them no heed.
He came to a halt before Jude. His gaze, fastened on her face, was altogether too penetrating for her comfort.
"Jude," he said at last, "are you feeling all right?"
"Yes," Jude said automatically. "What are you doing out here, Lysander?"
Lysander didn't respond. Instead, he took hold of Jude's wrist, putting two fingers to her pulse. Jude was too surprised to resist, or draw back when he felt her forehead.
"You're all sweaty," he murmured. "And your heartbeat is slightly irregular." He gave her another searching look. "How's your stomach feeling?"
"Fine!" Jude yanked away at last. "Why are you asking all these questions, anyway?"
"I've been healer to many mortals," said Lysander. "I can tell when one is not the best of health. And you are not. How long have you felt like this, Jude?"
"You were a healer to mortals?" Jude asked in surprise.
"I've lived on the Ironside for many centuries," Lysander shrugged. "I've played many roles in that time. Jude, tell the truth: how is your stomach?"
"I told you, it's fine." Jude could hear the tinny, defiant note in her own voice.
Lysander's eyes narrowed. "All right, I don't know what game you're playing," he whispered at last, "but you're coming back to the house with me. Right now." He took hold of her arm and started hauling her toward the house. "And tomorrow I'm making you a medical potion."
"I told you, I'm fine!" Jude struggled, yanking on her arm. "I don't need any potions!"
Lysander paid no heed whatsoever, continuing to haul her back to Madoc's stronghold. Jude stopped protesting and stopped struggling: it was clearly useless. She let him pull her along like a naughty child.
"What were you doing out here, anyway?" she demanded sulkily.
"Visiting an old friend," said Lysander. "Does Oriana know you're ill, Jude?"
"I keep telling you, I'm not ill—" Jude broke off.
They were close to the house now, Madoc's great brooding mansion, with only a few windows lit at this time of night. They were approaching a discreet side door, suitable for two night-wanderers to sneak back inside. But it had opened before they could reach it, and a most unexpected figure had stepped out.
Prince Balekin Greenbriar stood and blinked at them in the starlight. He was dressed in his usual finery, though no crown or circlet adorned his head. Diamonds glowed in his ears. His pale eyes flicked between Jude and Lysander.
"Well," he said, "what have we here?"
"Prince Balekin." Still holding Jude's arm, Lysander bowed, and she followed suit. "My apologies for disturbing your night. My sister-in-law was out wandering, and I was bringing her back home."
"Indeed." Balekin's gaze was calculating. Jude tensed. "Now is not a good time for wandering alone, Jude Duarte," the prince said softly. "You should return to the house and stay there."
Jude bowed her head and said nothing. Inside her chest, her heart rattled. What was Balekin doing at Madoc's house? Does he know I was trespassing…?
To her relief, Balekin turned his attention back to Lysander. "How are you these days, Lord Lysander?"
"I am well, Your Highness." Lysander's voice gave nothing away.
"And your family?" Balekin's gaze was penetrating.
"Also well." Still Lysander's voice was smooth and bland, a mask.
"Good." Balekin nodded, sounding genuinely pleased. "Well, good night to you both." His glare razored in on Jude again. "Don't wander again, Jude. If I catch you at it, you won't like the consequences."
And with that, he was gone, striding off into the night. Soon he had disappeared.
Jude watched him go. "What was all that about?" she asked Lysander, hoping she sounded innocently surprised. "What was he doing here?"
Lysander too was staring off into the darkness after Balekin. She wondered if the faerie could still see him, striding off into the night. "I don't know," Lysander said, sounding oddly absent-minded. He shook his head, coming back to himself. "He's right about one thing: you shouldn't be wandering alone. And you should stay in the house. Come along." He glanced down at her arm, her bandaged hand. "I'll get you something for that cut as well."
"It's almost healed," Jude protested automatically, but without real force. Her mind was racing. Balekin was right: with the abdication approaching and the High Court buzzing with intrigue and conspiracies, now wasn't a great time for sneaking around, for anyone. Unless they were spies or secret agents, of course. So what was Balekin doing sneaking around himself? And in Madoc's stronghold?
Does he know I was sneaking around Hollow Hall? Perhaps he did: that last comment might have been some oblique threat. But somehow, Jude didn't think he knew. Prince Balekin would not have hesitated to mete out punishment himself, on the spot, if he knew Jude had been spying on him. He would have hauled her back to Hollow Hall to interrogate her himself, probably accompanied by torture.
A bizarre thought occurred to her: could the prince possibly be conspiring with Madoc? But whatever for? Madoc's position as Grand General was secure, no matter who got the throne. And everyone knew Eldred was leaving his crown to Dain, not Balekin. What possible reason could Madoc have to plot with Balekin?
I need to report this to Dain. Jude ached with longing at the thought: this was just the sort of thing Dain wanted her to find out. But, looking up at her brother-in-law's grim face, his unbreakable grip, she knew this would be impossible. Lysander wasn't going to let her out of his sight until he, Taryn and Philomel left Elfhame after the abdication. In fact, she'd be lucky if he didn't tell Madoc and Oriana about her little midnight jaunt…
Jude leaned in. "Lysander, are you going to tell my parents where you found me?"
"I'd rather not," he said. He hauled her over the lintel into the house. "Whatever game this is with you and the prince, I'd rather not get involved." He gave her a hard look, green eyes flaring. "But you're not to wander off again, Jude. And you'll take the medicines I give you. Or I will tell your parents."
"All right, Lysander." Jude put on a good show of meekness while inwardly cursing. There was definitely no chance of sneaking off to Dain or his agents now. She'd have to wait until after the abdication.
Still, perhaps that was no bad thing. While Jude had no objections to getting Balekin in trouble—or, even better, executed—she didn't like the thought of incriminating Madoc along with him. A few days of house arrest would give her time to think about exactly what to tell Dain. And Lysander would be gone soon anyway.
Jude let Lysander march her off toward the household stillroom, resigned to enduring whatever medical procedures he deemed necessary. Let him boss and monitor her, at least for now. Soon Dain would be High King, she would be in his favor, and Lysander would mean nothing at all.