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I nod. “I mean, it’s not a properdoor. There’s an arched opening in one of the towers, and flying things come in through it.”

“Like birds,” he says. “Hyacinthe might have mentioned that was what he used.”

“There were guards at all the gates but that one,” I say. “Mostly huldufólk then. Maybe stick creatures now.”

Tiernan nods encouragingly, and I go on. “The foundation and the first level of the Citadel are all black rock. The walls beyond that are ice, translucent in some places—often closer to transparent—and opaque in others. It’s hard to be certain there will be anywhere to hide where your shadow won’t give you away,” I say, knowing this fact all too well. “The prisons are in the black rock part.”

Tiernan fishes a piece of lead from his pocket. “Here, see what you can draw with this.”

I sketch out the garrison gate and the courtyard in the center of the Citadel in dull marks on the wood deck.

I know the Citadel, know where Lady Nore sleeps, know her throne room and banquet hall. Hyacinthe might have been better suited to explain its current defenses, but I know the number of steps to the top of every spire. I know every corner that a child could hide in, every place she could be dragged out from.

“If I could get into her chambers, I could command her,” I say. “Lady Nore won’t have many guards with her there.”

What Lady Nore will have, though, is ferocity, ambition, and no hesitation about spilling an abundance of blood. She and Lord Jarel hated weakness as if it were a disease that could be caught.

I imagine the bridle sinking into Lady Nore’s skin. My satisfaction at her horror. The moment before she realizes the trap is sprung, when she still wears her arrogance like armor, and the way her face will change as panic sets in.

Perhaps I am more like them than I would care to believe, to find the image pleasing.

At that upsetting thought, I rise and go to the prow of the boat, where Oak sits, wrapped in a sodden cloak.

Wet locks of hair kiss Oak’s cheeks and are plastered to his throat and the small spikes of his horns. His lips look as blue as mine. “You should put on dry clothes,” he tells me.

“Take your own advice, prince.”

He looks down at himself, as though surprised to find himself halffrozen. Then he looks over at me. “I have something for you.”

I put out my hand, expecting him to return my hairpin, but it’s the bridle that he places in my palm.

“Why?” I ask, staring.

“One of us has to hold on to it. Let it be you,” he says. “Just come to the Citadel by our side, and try to believe, whatever happens, whatever I say or do or have done, that my intention is for us to all survive this. For us to win.”

I want to trust him. I want to trust him so much.

My hand closes over the leather straps. “Of course I’m coming to the Citadel.”

His eyes meet mine. “Good.”

I let myself relax into the moment, into friendship. “Now what about my hairpin?”

He grins and hands it over. I smooth my thumb over the silver bird, then use it to pull backhishair, instead of mine. As my fingers skim over his neck, threading through the silk of his locks, he shudders from something I do not think is cold. I am suddenly too aware of the physicality of him, his long legs and the curve of his mouth, the hollow of his throat and the sharp point of his ears, where earrings once hung. Of the hairs hanging loose from my pin, falling across one light brown horn to rest on his cheekbone.

When his eyes meet mine, desire, as keen as any blade, bends the air between us. The moment slows. I want to bite his lip. To feel the heat of his skin. To slide my hands beneath his armor and trace the map of his scars.

The owl-faced hob takes off from the mast, startling us. I stand up too quickly, jolted into awareness of where I am. I have to grab the wooden wings of the cormorant to keep from pitching into the sea.

Tiernan is perhaps twenty feet away, his gaze on the horizon, but my cheeks heat as though he can read my thoughts.

“Wren?” Oak is looking at me strangely.

I head to the cockpit, ducking under the boom as I go. But even with distance between us, the longing to touch him persists.

I can only be glad Oak does not follow me but heads below to put on dry clothes. Later, when he makes his way to the stern, he wordlessly takes the tiller from Tiernan.

The faerie boat, blown by unseen winds, flies across the sea. We catch sight of mortal schooners and tankers, pleasure barges, and fishing skiffs. Heading north, we skim the edge of the Eastern Seaboard, passing Maine on one side and the isles of Elfhame on the other. Then we sail farther north, through the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the Labrador Sea.