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FOR THE NEXT three days, Willow drew a living creature from the pond each morning—once a possum, once a dog, and once another goat.

All of the animals were from Lost Souls, she was certain of it, though how that worked, she didn’t know.

Perhaps the pond pulled from wherever she had been most recently. Perhaps it pulled from her heart.

Willow tried not to think about Lost Souls.

Not the clean green scent of the forest. Not Brooxie’s full-bodied laugh nor the fond smile Ruby saved for Cole alone.

And certainly not Cole himself, with his maddening smirks and sweet determination to protect her, as if she were incapable of taking care of herself.

Willow also refused to think about the animals once she handed them over. She didn’t want to know how they were killed or cooked or served. Blood no longer held her fascination the way it once had.

And so, for a time, her life unfolded like a delicious dream.

Willow woke to the scent of fruit and toasted tipaninnies, the morning light spilling into her chamber through panes of colored glass.

Each day brought a new garment folded at the foot of her bed, a new ribbon braided into her hair, a new meal arranged like art on a plate of hammered silver.

She moved through the palace like a beloved guest in a storybook—expected but not imposed upon, smiled at by all.

Poppy fussed over her endlessly. Her favorite hobby was experimenting with Willow’s hair, twisting it into ever more elaborate shapes and anchoring it with beaded combs and—once, disastrously—tiny silver bells. They had chimed with every movement, and Willow had yanked them free.

“Sorry, Poppy,” Willow had said. “They’re just not for me.”

In the evenings, Jace appeared with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. She never stayed long—just enough to lean against the doorframe and exchange a few wry observations about court politics or the latest spectacle in the plaza.

“Did you see the goose parade this morning?” she asked one evening. “Eight geese in formal waistcoats. I’m worried they’re becoming more fashionable than I am.”

“Wouldn’t take much,” Willow observed.

Jace snorted and lobbed a tasseled pillow at her head.

One evening, Willow caught sight of Jace with Maeve in the hallway. They stood close together, whispering. Jace was tapping her spoon against her palm, nodding intently, and Maeve’s eyes shone with something that looked almost like hope. The moment they saw Willow, they straightened.

“Miss, this is Maeve,” Jace said, shoving her spoon back behind her ear. “Maeve, this is...” Jace bit her lip uncertainly, as if unsure whether she was allowed to speak Willow’s name.

“Willow,” Willow said, sticking out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Maeve.”

Maeve’s hand was cracked and red from dishwater—or maybe from something worse. She shook Willow’s hand warily. “Miss,” she said, dropping her eyes.

Afterward, to distract herself, Willow asked Poppy to lounge with her in front of the fire.

Not long after the day of the first goat, Poppy had been assigned to serve Serrin in addition to Willow.

Just for a few hours a day, so that Serrin could grow accustomed to Poppy and vice versa.

Both she and Willow hoped this meant that Poppy would be accompanying Willow when she went to live with Serrin.

“Oh, miss, I feel so lucky!” Poppy had exclaimed.

“Poppy, please. I’m the lucky one,” Willow had replied.

Even so, Willow bristled at the knowledge that Poppy’s presence wouldn’t wear Serrin out or mess up the fragile alignment of stardust that had to remain just so if all was to move forward according to the grand plan.

But Poppy wasn’t Willow. Willow was Willow, and Willow was part of the grand plan. She knew she shouldn’t complain.

“So. Serrin,” Willow said once she and Poppy were settled before the fire with twin mugs of hot chocolate. “He’s better?”

“Ever so much,” Poppy said. “And with the Mating Ceremony fast approaching, he’s been speaking more and more about his role as the future king.” She laughed. “He says his mind is on the realm. I think his mind’s on his future queen.”

Willow blushed happily. “Tell me about his plans. I want to know everything!”

“Oh, he wants to rebuild the Gardened Court, for one thing. Says he’s tired of tally posts, tired of mark-ranks at the gates. He wants everyone judged by merit, not by what family they’re from.”

Willow nodded. “I agree. Tell me more.”

“And he says that something must be done about the mordreks, though he has yet to come up with a solution.”

The mordreks. Yes. Willow was fairly certain they were nothing but mosquitoes—annoying but harmless. Why did the fae fear them so?

“There have always been mordreks in Eryth,” Poppy said, watching Willow’s face and seeming to divine her question. “But it used to be you never saw them. Lately, they’ve begun to multiply. No one knows why. In the olden days, dragons kept them in check, but now...”

Poppy shrugged, as if Willow already understood.

She didn’t, but the word dragon stirred something in her chest. She thought of the creature from the pond, all muscle and shimmer, teeth and tail.

She thought of the dragon in her dreams—half-remembered shapes with melted coin eyes.

And further back—so far it felt like another life entirely—she remembered a night in the normal world when a streak of fire arced across the lavender sky, too slow for a plane, too fast for a star.

“Tell me about them, the dragons,” Willow said. She refilled Poppy’s hot chocolate. “Do they still exist?”

“Gracious, no!” said Poppy. “But they were a big problem once.” She widened her eyes and lowered her voice. “Fire breath.”

Willow’s thoughts slid sideways toward Maeve with her raw and glistening skin. Her hand, when Willow had shaken it, had felt like a melted candle.

“What about the Blighted?” Willow said. “Does Serrin believe they’re born wicked, the same as everyone else?”

“Oh, he’s a young man with a young man’s fanciful dreams,” Poppy replied.

“What does that mean?”

“He knows Blighted babies come from rebel families. That’s just the pattern, isn’t it? Rebellion in the blood. Resistance in the womb. And the wyrms... they smell it.” Poppy tapped the side of her nose. “But Serrin—bless him—he thinks the babies shouldn’t suffer for their parents’ sins.”

“I agree,” Willow said at once. “They shouldn’t.”

“I told him that, I did. He took your words to heart.”

“You did? He did?”

“He wants to please you, miss. And he’s got a tender heart, same as you, same as Jace.

Told me to tell you—now, how did he put it?

” She frowned. “He said that ‘helping the Blighted constitutes the central tenet of his future stewardship.’” Poppy nodded, pleased with getting those tricky words out in the right order.

“That’s wonderful!” Willow exclaimed. “And he means it? You think he really means it?”

“He means it, all right.” Poppy thumped her chest. “Serrin’s a fine lad. He’s got a big old soggy heart. He’ll move earth and sky to help the Blighted, but it won’t do any good, now, will it? Oh well. At least you’ll be by his side to comfort him when he fails.”

“When he fails!” Willow huffed a laugh and shoved Poppy’s shoulder. “He won’t. I won’t let him.”

Poppy arched her brows. “You’ve got a secret way of communicating with the duskwyrms, do you?”

“Well, no.”

Poppy clicked her tongue. “As I said, then. Can’t help the Blighted if you can’t control the wyrms. And there’s nobody, ever, who’s learned to control the wyrms.”

“I don’t understand,” Willow said.

“Well, sure. You’re just a mortal.”

“Yes, Poppy. I know. But you’re not. Could you explain it to me? Please?”

Poppy sipped from her drink. “Just—the queen doesn’t blight the babes. Only the wyrms have that power. Only the wyrms.”

“So if Serrin wants to help the babies, he’ll need to rid the realm of duskwyrms.”

“And how would he do that?” Poppy demanded. “Duskwyrms are fast. Quick. You might catch a glimpse of one every now and again, sure. But has a faerie ever caught one?” She snorted and shook her head. “Get rid of the duskwyrms—honestly!”

Willow’s spirits sank.

“Oh, don’t take it so hard,” Poppy said. “Our Prince Serrin—he has lots of ideas rattling around in that brain of his. He has a different approach, he says. Do I think it’ll work? No, can’t say that I do. But you might find it cheering.”

“What is it?” Willow asked.

“He’ll help the Blighted babes by guiding the parents back to the light,” Poppy said proudly. “‘If we fix the root, the fruit won’t rot.’ That’s how Serrin put it.”

“I see,” said Willow uncertainly.

“Do you?”

“Kind of, I suppose. Just—not all bad fruit comes from a bad root, does it? And not all good roots guarantee sweetness. Sometimes fruit spoils because of the weather. Or rots in the soil. Or insects get to it, and no one knows until it’s too late.”

“So you’re a fruit expert now,” said Poppy with a chuckle. “Or do you think such things because you grew up in the mire?”

Heat crept up Willow’s neck.

“I’m not blaming you for it,” Poppy added quickly. “You weren’t in charge of where you were born. But it proves Serrin’s point, doesn’t it? Mortals grow up tainted, and they don’t even know it.”

“Poppy . . .”

“Not you. You’re different,” Poppy said staunchly. “You’re the best mortal I’ve ever known.”

“I’m the only mortal you’ve ever known.”

Poppy shrugged, as if to say, See?

“But blame is slippery,” Willow continued, “don’t you think?”

“Not really, no.”

Willow sighed. “Parents shape their children, yes. But they’re not the only thing that does. Doesn’t it scare you, the idea that if you don’t fall in line, your baby might suffer?”

“Only there’s a simple fix, miss, isn’t there? Stay in line.”