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“Do you think there’s an enchantment on it?” Jack asks, fascinated, squatting to look at his reflection.

“I think it’s where the sea folk come in,” says the knight grimly. “Swim too far, and you will find yourself in the Undersea, where they have little love for lake dwellers.”

I kick my skirt ahead of me. My fingers dig deep into my pockets, running over what I stuffed into them. The sharp scissors I stole from Habetrot, the matchbook, the fox figurine, a single licorice jelly bean. I hate the idea of my things remaining in the room and being pawed over by inquisitive servants, inventoried for the queen.

Three more turns, and then I hear strains of music. We pass a smattering of guards, one that smacks their lips at me.

“Did they let you see Hyacinthe?” I ask Tiernan, matching my step to his. I do not like the thought of the former falcon being confined when he was already desperate to be free. And I am worried over Queen Annet’s plans, no less her whims.

Tiernan seems surprised I have spoken to him voluntarily. “He’s well enough.”

I study the knight. His expression is stiff, his broad shoulders set. A thin dusting of stubble darkens his jaw. His short black hair appears unbrushed. I wonder how long he remained in the prisons and how quickly he had to dress because of it.

“What do you think Queen Annet will do with him?” I ask.

Tiernan frowns. “Nothing much. The prince has promised—” He bites off the end of the sentence.

I give him a swift, sideways look. “Did you really trick Hyacinthe into being captured?”

He turns toward me sharply. “He told you that?”

“Why shouldn’t he? Would you have used the bridle to keep him from speaking had you known what he would say?” I keep my voice low, but something in my tone makes Jack of the Lakes glance my way, a small smile at the edge of his mouth.

“Of course I wouldn’t!” Tiernan snaps. “And I am not the one with command of him anyway.”

That seems like splitting hairs, since Oak must have told Hyacinthe to obey the knight. He’s issued plenty of orders in my hearing. Still, I hate the reminder that the prince is the one who owns the bridle. I want to like him. I want to believe that he’s nothing like Madoc.

Up ahead, Lupine is telling Oak something about the crystalline structures, how there are rooms of ruby and sapphire near the prisons. She points toward an arched doorway, beyond which I can see steps down. The prince bends to say something in return, and her face changes, her eyes going a little glassy.

Love-talker.

“Is that where he’s being held?” I ask, angling my head in the direction that Lupine indicated.

Tiernan nods. “You think I am terrible, is that it? Hyacinthe’s father was a sworn knight of Lady Liriope—Oak’s birth mother. When she was poisoned, he killed himself out of shame at having failed her.

“Hyacinthe swore to avenge his father. When Madoc proved to him that Prince Dain was responsible, he declared that he would be loyal thereafter to the general who caused his death. And Hyacinthe was fantastically loyal.”

“That’s why he chose to be punished rather than repent?” I ask.

Tiernan made a motion of uncertainty. “Hyacinthe had heard awful things of the new High King—that he pulled the wings off of Folk who wouldn’t bow to him, that sort of stuff. And Cardan was the brother of Prince Dain. So yes, his loyalty to Madoc was some of it, but not all. He can’t let go of his desire for revenge, even if he’s no longer sure whom he blames.”

“Is that why he’s wearing the bridle?” I ask.

He frowns. “There was an incident. This punishment was better than the others.”

This is the most Tiernan has ever spoken to me, and even now, I suspect he is mostly talking to himself.

Still, if he expects me to believe he bridled Hyacinthe for Hyacinthe’s own sake, I will find that hard to do. In the Court of Teeth, everything terrible that happened to me was supposed to be for my benefit. They probably could have found a way to slit my throat and call it a gift.

We pause at the edge of the great hall.

“Allow me to escort you in?” Oak asks me, offering his arm.

Lupine sighs.

Awkwardly, I place my hand over his, as I see others doing. The pressure of his skin against my palm feels shockingly intimate. I note the three gold rings on his fingers. I note that his nails are clean. Mine are jagged in places or bitten.

I am unfamiliar with Faerie Courts in times of peace, and yet I do not think it is just that which makes me sense the pull toward violence that is in the air. Faeries spin in intersecting circle dances. Some are in garments of silk and velvet, leaping along with those in gowns of stitched leaves or bark, others in bare skin. Among the petals, grasses, silks, and embroidered fabrics are human clothes—t-shirts, leather jackets, tulle skirts. One of the ogres wears a silver-sequined gown over their leather trousers.