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I squinted, trying to see past the glamour. “A large tent. An encampment.”

“Whose encampment?” Sir Oswain asked, shading his eyes against the sun.

“Hope no one’s stolen our horses,” muttered Jack. “Thought none but the queen’s folk could ride them.”

“Then it must be the queen’s camp,” said Sir Oswain.

“Oh dear.” I sighed. “We may be in trouble.”

“We shall have to go down there,” said Sir Oswain. “We cannot get home on foot. ”

“With any luck we’ll find the camp empty,” said Jack optimistically. “And we can take our horses and be gone.”

“They are not our horses,” I reminded him. “And we are not supposed to be here. We were told to go directly to the border.”

But there was nothing for it. We cautiously approached the camp.

“Sure it’s a tent?” asked Jack. “Looks like a big white rock to me.”

“It’s a tent,” I assured him. “A white pavilion. Squint and look out of the side of your eyes.”

He did so, his face contorting comically. “Well, I’ll be jiggered! ’Tis a tent! A whopper of one!”

“Keep your voice down,” I urged. “The fae can hear us long before we hear them.”

We continued our apprehensive approach.

“Think our luck’s in after all,” whispered Jack. “There’s our horses, grazing at the back of the tent. We can get away without anyone seeing us.”

“It all seems too easy,” said Sir Oswain.

I thought the same.

“We’ve got the prince,” Jack said in a buoyant whisper. “We’ve got the crown, and the treasure, and the princess is home safe and sound. Our luck is turned good and proper.”

But as I neared the horse I had ridden that morning, a deep voice rang out.

“ Halt !”

And I knew our luck had not turned ‘good and proper’ just yet.

The soldier stepped into view, a drawn sword in his hand.

“Greetings,” I said, trying to sound confident. “I am a Rose Daughter, under the protection of Her Highness. We require the horses assigned to us.”

The guard gave me a cursory glance. “I see no royal rose,” he said, then let out a high-pitched call, sharp and piercing, like a bird’s cry. Four more soldiers appeared. “They attempted to steal Her Highness’s steeds,” he informed them.

“We did not attempt to steal,” I argued. “We were loaned the steeds by order of the queen.”

“The queen can confirm your word,” said the soldier, seizing my arm. His grip was firm, though not as bruising as the dwarf guards’ had been.

Inside the pavilion the queen stood in consultation with her general. She looked magnificent and fearsome in her silvery armour, her eyes as hard and green as emeralds.

I bowed with the utmost gravity and thought it wisest to wait for her to speak first.

“What have we here?” she queried, her gaze shifting past me to Beran.

Sir Oswain rose from a deep bow. “We have recovered the stolen crown prince of Westshires, Your Highness.”

“We were preparing to ride home,” I added quickly. “Just as you ordered.”

The queen ignored my words. “My general found the dwarf lord slain,” she said. “Which of you mortals has dared to slay a lord of Faerie?”

Her voice was edged with danger. I faltered. Beran tried to speak, but his voice emerged in a low growl, his words incomprehensible.

“The prince was himself slain by the dwarf lord’s blade,” said Sir Oswain. “They struck one another a fatal blow. ”

“A fatal blow?” The queen’s sharp eyes flicked to Beran. “Yet he stands before me.”

“I revived him,” I said. “With a wish.” My fingers brushed the lamp hanging from the strap of my sack, which Jack bore.

Jack gave a little groan and let all three sacks drop with a heavy thud, rubbing his sore shoulders.

The queen’s gaze flickered to the red scar visible beneath Beran’s loosened cloak and the remains of his bearskin. Her expression hardened.

“It is a transgression punishable by death for a mortal to slay one of the fae,” she pronounced.

“It was in defence of his own life, Your Highness,” Sir Oswain protested.

“He is a faeslayer,” she declared. “The law is the law.”

At her words, the soldiers standing at attention drew their swords.

I instinctively stepped in front of Beran. “He was not a mortal man when he slew the dwarf lord, Your Highness!” I said quickly.

Beran growled and tried to push me behind him. His dark, glittering eyes were fixed on the soldiers, his stance showed him poised for a fight despite his weakened state.

The queen raised a hand, staying her guards. “How so?” she asked.

A sudden understanding struck me: the queen was bound by the strict laws of Faerie—this was not necessarily her will. She needed a way out that would satisfy the law.

“He was not a mortal man,” I repeated, forcing my voice to sound clear and steady. “He was an enchanted bear, cursed by the sorceress Amara at the dwarf lord’s command .

“Had the dwarf lord not bound him under enchantment,” I pressed on, “His Highness—” how strange it felt to call him that “—could not have struck him down. In the mortal kingdom, Your Highness, it is a transgression punishable by death to kidnap and hold hostage a prince.”

A long silence lingered over the pavilion. The soldiers waited.

The queen’s eyes passed again over Beran’s makeshift clothing—the ragged bearskin secured by a belt, the bear’s head hanging at his hip like some grisly trophy. She stared at the empty sockets, where once his own eyes had looked out from.

Slowly, she lowered her hand.

Relief crashed over me so powerfully I had to blink back sudden tears. Not now. Do not show weakness now.

“May we ride home, Your Highness?” I asked, then immediately regretted my words. I had asked for a kindness. Irritation flickered across her face.

“You were ordered to ride back to the border at dawn,” she said coldly. “You disobeyed. Your journey here on my steeds was not sanctioned.”

There was little use in begging for clemency. I had to offer something in return.

“Would Your Highness accept a gift in payment for the use of her steeds?” I asked carefully.

“What gift?”

I took up my sack of treasure.

Jack’s face flooded with dismay. But there was nothing else of value I could offer. I placed the sack at the queen’s feet.

The margool circled round the pile of gold and jewels, its scaly skin glowing golden .

“A gift of treasure,” I said. “It is worth the value of many houses and horses in my kingdom.”

Jack whimpered, and Sir Oswain stifled a sigh.

The queen barely glanced at it. “All the dwarf lord’s wealth falls to me,” she said coolly, “for he transgressed against my rule.”

“But this is not his treasure,” I argued. “This was stolen from our king.”

“Then it is not yours to give.”

“The king promised it as a reward to any who recovered his crown. It is mine to give.”

“Very well,” she said at last. “You may redeem yourself with it. But these—” she gestured to Sir Oswain and Jack “—must redeem themselves.”

Jack’s face fell, his mouth opening as if to protest, but no words came.

Sir Oswain squared his shoulders. “I yield to Her Highness my share of the treasure,” he said steadily. “But I am honour-bound to keep the crown I vowed to return to my king. The crown is not mine to give.”

Jack hesitated. He could not withstand the queen’s terrible stare for long. His shoulders slumped, and he mumbled his surrender and dropped his sack at her feet.

“Is that all?” the queen asked. Her green eyes gleamed as they fixed on a glint of gold dangling from Jack’s pocket.

Jack swallowed, mumbled an apology, and miserably emptied his pockets.

A long silence followed. We waited.

“Go,” the queen said at last, with a dismissive wave. She turned back to her general.

Outside the pavilion, Jack sighed deeply. “Should’ve asked for a fourth horse. ”

“I dared not ask for anything more,” I said. “I am sorry you lost the treasure, but we escaped with our lives.”

“Jory will call me a numskull for letting all that slip through my hands.”

“Then Jory is ungrateful. You saved his life. Twice .”

“First time was by accident.”

“The first time was because you have a good and loyal heart, Jack, son of Jago. And that is worth more than any treasure.”

But nothing I said could dispel his disappointment.

“If Your Highness permits it,” said Sir Oswain to Beran, “I offer you a seat on my mount, for it is the largest of the horses.”

But Beran had other ideas. He shook his head and gestured toward me.

“I will ride with him,” I told Sir Oswain. “The margool will help ward him against travel sickness.”

Sir Oswain looked relieved. Clearly, the prince, with his long, unkempt hair, wild beard, and bearskin, was not his idea of an ideal riding companion. And he smelled decidedly of bear.

In truth, so strongly did his bearskin smell that I might not have desired him as a riding companion either, but I knew that once our mounts were at full stretch, my senses would be too overwhelmed by the journey to notice.

What I did find disconcerting, however, was that it was no longer the arms of a bear around my waist. Nor was it the heavy limbs of a beast pressed close against me, but the form of a man. And I had never touched a man before. I had certainly never been held close by one, as I was now.

My back was warm against his chest, my calves, bare where my skirt had rucked up to my knees, brushed against his legs. His large hands settled over mine as he reached around me.

The margool flew onto the strap of my empty sack and settled there. Beran gave a low growl of protest as the margool’s tail brushed against his head, and was flicked away.

I braced myself for the ride ahead and gave the order for our fae mount to carry us to the open border between Faerie and the mortal kingdom.

I only hoped that the border was still open. Time was impossible to track here. If the passage had closed, we would be trapped for another year.