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“And the Ring of Earth?” Marlowe asked, before Mircea could prompt him. Not that the master had been vocal lately.

In fact, he hadn’t heard from him since the dance, which had made Kit feel unusually grateful to the man. Mircea could be overbearing at times, so focused on some scheme of his own that he forgot that others had ambitions, too. It was something that most people ignored or simply didn’t notice, with that winning smile and pretty manners disguising the streak of ruthlessness below.

Kit ignored it because said ruthlessness was usually in a good cause, and because he had no choice. There were masters and then there were masters, and it was clear to him that Mircea was on the fast path to success. If Kit wished to survive at the cutthroat Paris court, he needed such allies.

But it was nice to have him respect Kit’s privacy for once, even if the only reason that such a thing was needed was because he had invaded it in the first place! But Kit would take his wins where he could get them. And repay the debt by finishing the task he had been given.

But Rilda shook her head at his latest question. “I am not sure. It should have been Agatha Lisle, of the Coventry witches, but her entire coven was destroyed shortly before the storm, and I do not know to whom she willed it. Or if she had a chance to do so. I do not even know if it was used that night, as they were fighting ships at sea.”

“Where the element Earth would have had limited utility,” Kit said.

Rilda nodded, but she could tell him little else. The rings had disappeared after the storm, and not been seen since. They were thought to have been lost or possibly confiscated by the Circle, who would likely not understand their use. And could not wield them if they did, having little knowledge of coven magic.

Kit thanked her for the information, which won him another of her piercing glances, before she turned to talk to Gillian.

He found himself faintly relieved.

It was too pretty a day to be reliving horrors in any case. The rows of poplars lining the path had yellow leaves, which had left a scattering of gold across the dark soil. They bucked the pattern of the wind in places, swirling up around people’s waists and tickling their noses, even when there was no reason to do so.

It was likely a remnant of the witch’s animation spell, and made them unpredictable. But nobody seemed to mind. If anything, the children clutched at them excitedly, laughing when they caught one, and the adults smiled to see them dance past.

Some of the leaves became stuck in the unbound hair of a few of the women, who like their hostess, were tucking it back under caps and coifs, trying to make themselves presentable. It had come tumbling free during the dance in some cases, while others had deliberately released themselves of the restrictions that no longer applied here. Still more had taken the opportunity to wash their hair in the creek after supper despite the slight chill in the air, as a source of good running water was not to be wasted.

They hadn’t had time to fully dry it, nor the clothes that some of the other women had brought with them, and beaten out on the rocks. The new, freshly washed pieces had been bundled into sacks and baskets still wet, to finish off back home in front of the fire. Men had gathered what fallen wood they could find to assist with that, because it was dear these days, like everything else.

Yet despite being all packed up, with bundles of sticks and small water barrels on the men’s shoulders, and the women carrying laundry and baskets of scraps, their feet dragged.

Kit had been told that only some of the street’s residents were able to come here at a time, as the fey could provide for only so many visitors. So, they rotated the opportunity, to be fair to all. This visit would have to last these people all week, along with the provisions that would stretch their daily fare to something that would sustain life.

But he didn’t think that it was merely the food and merriment that they were loath to leave.

The heart feasted here as well, in a bucolic environment that must have reminded many of the farms they’d left behind. Beams of late afternoon sunlight speared through the trees, lighting up the pollen blowing in the wind and making it glow. It also gilded the leaves, the hair of the children running past, and the smiles on lover’s faces, leaning on each other as they slowly made their way back to their world.

Because the little men didn’t allow anyone to stay.

They shouldn’t have allowed anyone to come at all, as there were treaties against that sort of thing. But the treaties had been made with the Circle, not the witches, who had always communed with the fey. And they saw no reason to change that now, although “fey” had a slightly different meaning for them.

The treaties had been signed by the more human-looking variety, who Kit had heard resembled very tall, pointed eared humans with odd languages and customs. But they had extensive political systems, armies, and palaces—all the trappings of power that he was used to and could understand. And which were far more normal to the eyes than the tiny creatures with their fruit press.

But the small men were the original inhabitants of Faerie, who had lived there long before any invaders came. And who had fled to their mountains when the old gods began to rule, and to greatly change their world. They were the ones who had first taught the covens to do magic, and who helped them now, in defiance of powers far greater than their own.

They would do it secretly and carefully. But they would do it, nonetheless. Not because they had to, although centuries of friendship bound them and the covens together, but because they chose to. It was their small act of defiance in the face of the rules imposed on their world by outsiders.

They would not be told what to do with their own fruit, their own grain, their own lands. They simply would not. The great powers could put out all the laws and treaties and restrictions they wanted, but people, regular people, would always find a way.

“What do you mean, it wasn’t the Circle?” Gillian asked, her voice rising in the conversation that Kit had been only half listening to. “They killed almost everyone who was there! My coven, yours, most of us who remained in England—”

“Yes, that is the story, isn’t it?” Rilda asked, poking her walking stick into the dirt of the path. “That we fell to their magic on the cliffs that night, and fell hard. And it is true enough, on the face of it. And yet, it lies.”

“Lies how?” Gillian asked, her color high. She looked annoyed with her friend, with her gray eyes angry and her hair a crackling nimbus around her head. “Are you trying to say that we had another enemy?”

“In a way.” Rilda shot her a look. “There’s always more to the story, girl.”

“And what more could there be to this story?”

“Nothing that ye want to hear, nor that I want to tell.”

“Yet I have a right to hear it,” Gillian said, her hand clutching her friend’s arm to stop her. “My coven died that night! My husband was cursed with a wasting disease that slowly ate him alive. While his child grew in my belly, he faded in front of my eyes, over the next year. He died before Elinor was born; he never held her, never even saw her, and it was the Circle’s fault.”